The Last Days (11 page)

On occasion, she felt like her lungs were wholly devoid of air. She would worry that she would die of asphyxiation and feel herself being dragged into an abyss. Sometimes she could distinguish words of reassurance through her confusion. Her brain and blood were starved of oxygen and her body oppressed by pain. Her mind had lost all grip on reality.

Sometimes, while she lay at the bottom of the dark lake of suffering, she felt on the verge of deliverance. Liberated from the burden of her body, she would experience a sort of euphoria. Alas, every time she woke up, she was back in her body. She would get back on her feet, recover the use of her limbs and be able to see colours once more. She would reacquire sensation in her fingertips—and the man by her bedside would smile at her.

That morning, they had received another threatening letter, the third in ten days. “We’ve found you. We’re going to kill you and that Jewish bitch of yours.” Those words plunged him into fear. He knew that Rio was a veritable nest of German spies. The hotels were teeming with Gestapo agents. A few days earlier, the newspapers had run a story about the murder of an exile. Arthur Wolfe, a member of the old German Communist Party, had been found on the quay with a bullet in his head. Photographs of the body had made the front page.

The names of high-profile exiles had been disclosed. The morning papers had confirmed that he was on that list. Would
he be next? They had managed to find him on the other side of the world. It seemed Petrópolis wasn’t far enough removed from Berlin. Where could he possibly go? Should he disappear into the jungle and go to live with Amazonian tribes? Would Hitler determine his fate until the end of time?

Someone in town must have spotted him and divulged his address. He distrusted everyone. Everywhere he looked he saw informers skulking around each street corner. The baker’s “Good morning” had a certain pointedness to it, the greengrocer had sold him rotten guavas, a new employee at the post office had insisted on being given his full address, the housekeeper’s brother had been spotted near the house on the pretext of having come to see his sister, the woman who worked at the library had asked him why his books were no longer being published in German, while the waitress who worked at the Café Élégant never looked him in the eye. Was he being watched? One day he’d had the feeling he was being observed. On another occasion, he’d heard the sound of footsteps behind him throughout his walk. He had stopped walking and the sound of footsteps had also stopped. He hadn’t turned around. What would he have seen if he had? A local or a blond giant in a trench coat and leather hat? He pictured himself making the headlines:

“Author of
Brazil, Land of the Future
killed.”

He imagined the photo that would accompany the article. The sight of his corpse haunted him.

So long as he was in the house, he feared nothing. He always carried a vial of barbitone on his person. They would never catch him alive. They would never mutilate his body. He refused to bestow a picture of his bloodied face to posterity. The barbitone would work fast, before the assassins would have the chance to aim their guns, before they’d hear the door creak. Barbitone
was the ace up their sleeve. It was their last line of defence. Walter Benjamin had had his vial, as had Ernst Weiss and Erwin Rieger—and countless others, all his Viennese cousins and his friends in Berlin, people whose last wish had been not to fall into the hands of the Nazis, and who had sought a farcical victory over the forces of barbarism. All the exiles whispered in hushed tones about this friendly vial, their fellow sufferer, their exit visa. The last journey.

Stefan had long hesitated paying a visit to Bernanos, who was now living in Barbacena, a few hours’ train ride from Petrópolis. He had wanted to spare the Frenchman his inconsolable grief and heavy silences, in other words, his presence. Yet he wanted to see a writer, to reawaken the feeling of sharing life with a kindred soul—to meet with another author who had opted for life in exile. He longed to be able to speak French once again, to discover a corner of Paris deep in the heart of the Brazilian jungle. Who knew? Perhaps his host’s enthusiasm would prove infectious and he would finally find the strength to start writing again.

Bernanos had taken a path parallel to his own, and like Stefan, he had left Europe, despairing of all those who’d given way to Hitlerism, and had been lured away by the allure of Latin America. The Frenchman had pushed even farther into the country, winding up in a desolate region of barren hills three hundred kilometres to the north of Rio, a place called Cruz das Almas. Aside from a shared passion for Brazil, Stefan and Bernanos were equally fascinated by the Fall, the longing for a paradise lost—for Stefan it was
fin de siècle
, cosmopolitan Vienna, while for Bernanos it was the old Christian France. They also bonded over their
abhorrence of fascism and communism. As far as literature was concerned, the chronicler of human passions felt a kinship with the “prophet of the sacred”. Just like Bernanos, Stefan considered Balzac’s
The Human Comedy
as the most successful work of literature ever composed and saw Dostoevsky as an undisputed master. He had read Bernanos’s
Under the Sun of Satan
and
Diary of a Country Priest
. He had adored the fiery urgency of his scenes, his fragmentary aesthetic, how those books grew increasingly insular until they opened onto vast abysses. Bernanos’s characters were all a little unhinged, full of a sense of their own heroism. Then there was their cosmic dimension. Stefan admired the manner in which his host explored the notion of despair. Nevertheless, he feared meeting Bernanos as much as he desired it. It wasn’t the author’s anti-Semitic past that frightened him. Bernanos’s fight against Franco, his immediate denunciation of the Vichy regime—and Stefan’s reading of
A Diary of My Times
—had allowed him to forget all about
Right-Thinking People’s Greatest Fear.
He didn’t know whether or not people had the capacity to change, but he was willing to give this devout Catholic the benefit of the doubt. Redemption by way of exile. After all, Bernanos had a long track record of making a break with the past. He’d broken off all ties with Action Française, Maurras and the Vatican. He might very well have rid himself of his hatred of Jews. Bernanos’s fiercely anti-Semitic past was of little import. Something else held Stefan back, and made him postpone the date of his visit week after week. First of all, there was Bernanos’s unwavering love of the motherland, and his quasi-mystical belief in God. Stefan abhorred nationalism and did not believe in God—neither the Jewish God nor the Christian one. He no longer held out any hope for man and feared the excesses prompted by political convictions. Every time Stefan had taken part in anti-Nazi demonstrations, he
had done so half-heartedly. Although it was a difficult stance to defend, he believed that Jews shouldn’t concern themselves with anti-Semitism, which only brought dishonour on people who subscribed to that idea. Stefan hadn’t done anything wrong and didn’t need to defend himself. He only cared about one thing: to safeguard his freedom. Alas, these days his inner world was a heap of ruins.

Physically exhausted and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Stefan feared a confrontation with Bernanos, a highly opinionated man who was prone to flights of anger. Stefan dreaded being flattened under Bernanos’s rock of faith. He didn’t want to justify his pessimism, defeatism and weaknesses in front of the French national bard and Christ’s Messenger. Although he didn’t want to admit it to himself, he was also afraid that Bernanos might read his mind and glimpse into the recesses of his soul, just like his hero, the Abbé Donissan. That he would only have to look at him to discern the “black disease” that was gnawing at him, his cowardly actions, or, worse still, that he might even look upon him with pity.

Nevertheless, one day he forgot about all his apprehensions. He wanted to talk literature with an actual writer—when journalists like Feder and editors like Koogan spoke about literature they only really talked about books. When Lotte suggested they go to Cruz das Almas, he consented, especially after she had assured him they would take come back the same evening.

The farther they left Petrópolis behind, the more the landscape shed its colours, revealing a post-apocalyptic terrain with endless peaks and parched valleys. After an hour in that lethargic train compartment, Stefan already regretted his decision. Why did he feel like he was a student undergoing a process of self-examination in front of a professor of moral theology?

The trip seemed to last for ever. Once they’d arrived, he got up, bone-tired, stepped out of the compartment and examined his reflection in a mirror. He was tempted to jump on the next train and go home. However, he was met by a man on the platform who claimed he had been sent by Bernanos and who led them to a car. After a half-hour drive through a desolate landscape, they entered a forest and found themselves on a deserted road. Bernanos was waiting for them at the end of it, holding the reins of a horse. The car came to a stop. Stefan got out. Bernanos embraced him as though they’d been old friends—they had never crossed paths hitherto—and kissed Lotte’s hand. They then crossed a field and stepped inside a rather austere stone house.

“Welcome to my palace,” Bernanos said, smiling. Some children came to greet the guests, then quickly ran outside. Bernanos’s wife suggested some refreshments and brought biscuits and fruit. They sat down. They drank. Stefan forced himself to answer the questions regarding his life in Brazil enthusiastically. He asked after his host’s writing projects and tried to keep up with the latter’s zest. There were awkward silences. Bernanos stood up and headed over to the wireless on the table, which a friend from Syria had recently dropped off on one of his visits. Bernanos enthused about being finally able to hear news from around the world, and suggested they tune in to the daily bulletin. His suggestion elicited no response.

They swapped stories about other writers living in exile. Jules Romains was in Mexico, Roger Caillois was in Buenos Aires, while all the rest lived in New York. Caillois had offered Bernanos an opinion column in the pages of
Les Lettres françaises
.

“You would do well to write for them too… an article penned by you would be highly prized. A dispatch by Stefan Zweig from South America, where you’re admired and celebrated, would be
like a message in a bottle that would wash ashore in France, where you’re also widely loved, that would be something!”

Stefan didn’t want to hear about politics, nor about writing appeals to South Americans asking them to join the war effort. He was only interested in one thing. Roger Martin du Gard had confided in him that Bernanos was prone to fits of despair. He would have loved to question his host on the veracity of these allegations. Could it be that such a giant might also suffer from pangs of solitude and the privations of exile? But he gave up on the idea of broaching the subject: the man in front of him seemed to him to sleep the sleep of the just.

“I know,” Bernanos carried on, “that you’re a humble man and that you wish to ignore just how widely influential you are. Plus, we feel so far removed from everything here, where sadness constantly hangs over our heads and saps our strength. But we must find the courage to react. One must have faith, and I’m not talking about having faith in a god—in fact being an atheist seems far more rational to me than believing in God as an engineer. No, we must have faith in our inner strength and our purpose. As writers and vagabonds we possess a most formidable weapon. We must prove ourselves worthy of this gift for writing, worthy of this divine blessing. Your pen and your name constitute a formidable sword that can smite all the Goebbelses and Lavals, as well as all those other cowards and idiots. Preach and practise what you preach. The columns of the
Jornal
and
Correio da Manhã
are ripe for the taking, as are the hearts and minds of all Brazilians. Join me. It’s now or never. All will be decided today. As we speak, the International Union of American Republics is meeting at a summit. Its leaders are going to choose which side they’re on. You know as well as I do that President Vargas has been on the fence and that at one point he preferred Mussolini to Roosevelt. It was a close call
and we have Minister Aranha to thank for that. The leaders of other South American countries haven’t yet broken off ties with Germany. Imagine if they decided to align themselves with the Axis Powers. That would be the end of all our hopes. Write then and throw your hat into the ring. An article bearing your name might help sway public opinion and touch the hearts of people in Argentina and Uruguay. You’re a real moral authority. I know how highly you value your freedom. We both detest partisan hacks. We don’t serve the interests of any ideologies. Above all, try not to see me as an evangelist or a soldier for Action Française. I’m a just a simple cattleman, but like you I remain a stalwart defender of liberty. This gift that weighs so heavily on our shoulders and is such a source of happiness can sometimes overwhelm us since it comes with responsibilities. We are missionaries. All those do-gooders and right-thinkers have turned the writer’s mission into a joke. Must we really remain above the fray? I was right in the thick of the fray in 1914 and the fight I’m proposing now pales in comparison. This struggle is about hanging on to hope, to our purpose, to pride, to courage, this fight will warm our hearts. There’s no worse torture than boredom and despair. The world we hold dear will be saved by writers and poets. Ever since Munich, democratically elected leaders have been skirting around the issue in fear. Fear is the Devil’s work. We who live on the other side of the world can no longer stand on the sidelines. Needless to say, we can’t defeat the Devil on our own. Yet if we don’t take a heroic stand, we’ll never be able to live with ourselves… please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t say all this lightly, it wasn’t easy for me to lend my pen to the cause of the Free French. I’m no pamphleteer. God knows how much it’s grieved me to be unable to write novels. Yet, between you and me, is it even possible to write novels in dark days such as these? Does the light that illuminated our works still survive in
our hearts? No, this isn’t a time for fiction. So long as there are enough of us and if we show ourselves resolved to continue the struggle, Marshal Pétain’s France will be a thing of the past and Clemenceau will come back. The Seine will run red with the blood of traitors. For the moment, alas, the Nazis are marching up and down the quays of Paris while idiots line up to cheer them on. This is the sort of clamour we have to pierce through in order to make ourselves heard. We are novelists walking through the shadows guided only by our instincts. We must emerge out of this darkness with clean consciences. United we stand, divided we fall. The world needs to hear your voice, my dear friend.”