A Fateful, Final Convergence

Rowan G. Tepper

Paris was by turns seemingly empty and teeming with refugees; empty when the din of sirens and
explosions tore through the stillness of the June sky, a teeming hive of the displaced and desperate
whenever a temporary peace descended. That day, a Sunday, the city was particularly deserted, being under
almost continual bombardment and with the enemy mere kilometers from the city limits. During the brief
silences that periodically interrupted the sounds of war in the air, masses surged toward the Gare de Lyon,
d'Austerlitz, and Montparnasse, stations from which trains were departing for the relative safety of the
south. In two days D. and I would also be abord one of the same trains leaving the Gare de Lyon,
assuming, of course, that the Germans had not by then invaded the city proper. (It so happened that we
left with three days to spare.)

Sitting in a hotel room that day, I thought « C'est l'apocalypse et rien d'intelligible n'a lieu. »

Earlier that week, I had seen B. twice, on Tuesday and Friday to be precise. On both occasions we
spoke at great length and discovered that, in spite of his exacting and critical disposition, we were more
often in agreement than not. At last, I believe I had earned his friendship and trust; the latter, most
certainly, for otherwise he would not have asked of me what he had, during the course of our second
conversation. On Sunday I was to meet with B. in the privacy of the Bibliothèque Nationale to which I,
since I worked there, could still gain entrance. As I took leave of the room I temporarily inhabited, I
recalled our last conversation.

On the occasion in question, B. had sought me out (more often it was I who sought out his
company). He found me in my temporary quarters where I was alternately writing fitfully and passing time
in idleness, for in such circumstances one need not show up for work. Seeing his moustached face and
piercing eyes at my threshold took me by surprise; I thought that he, knowing the particular danger with
which he was faced, would have already fled the city. He entered silently, while I could not help but inquire
« Pourquoi reste-toi ici si tard? Peut-être c'est dèjá trop tard! »
He responded, « Je reste ici jusqu'à ajourd'hui parce que tout ce qu'il attendait de la France et que nul autre
pays ne pouvait faire et nulle défaite ne saurait supprimer. »

Incredulous at his insistence, I continued, « Comment pouvais-toi reste au l'hasard de ton vie? »

« Je pense, » he sighed wearily, « que le temps est venu de quitter Paris, mais mon oeuvre, mes papiers, mon
tableau precieux... » Scarcely had he uttered these words, he breathed deeply and asked « je sais langtemps
que tu oeuvrais à le Bibliothèque Nationale, est-il possible pour toi à dissimuler ces choses là? Je te
demande parce que tu sais combien d'importance ces choses ont pour moi. Ils faut rester sûr et tu pouvais
ce faire»

Without hesitation I replied, « je pouvais rien d'autre faire. » Hearing these words, B. was visibly relieved, as
though a great weight had been removed from his shoulders. We agreed to meet two days later, so as to
allow him time to ensure that nothing of value would be accidentally left behind.

That Sunday we scurried together through the streets and back alleys toward the Bibliothèque
Nationale, each of us bearing an impossibly heavy briefcase, the two of which containing all of B.'s
precious few material belongings. We darted silently through the heart of Paris en route to the shuttered
and empty library, where I would carefully conceal the contents of the briefcases.

At some point I must have inquired as to their contents, to which B. responded simply « mes manuscrits le
plus precieux, quelques lettres le plus important, tout de mon oeuvre littéraire de le dernière ans, et mon
tableau de Paul Klee. Ces faut rester en le securité qui tu pouvais les donner. »

Entering the Bibliothèque Nationale by means of an entrance known only to the librarians, we
arrived at the reading room where I had so often seen B. at work. This was where I last saw and spoke with
him, in the same place where I had first made his acquaintance and where, over time, our friendship slowly
grew. During the years which had passed since I lost L. to death, the same years during which those close
to B. successively fled Europe, his initial mistrust gave way to genuine friendship and true communication
between the two of us. I had already tried everything in my power to assist him, I thought – I truly could
do nothing other than to acquiesce to his final, modest request. Now, in stark contrast to the sounds and
sights of scolarly toil, the reading room was dim, still and silent. In the midst of war descending, we had
found ourselves in a zone of uncanny peace.
 We set the briefcases down on a reading table in front of us and B. opened each carefully, showing
me their contents, caressing every leaf of paper lovingly, as if he knew that he would never touch them
again. I saw traces of tears cloud his eyes for a moment, but he immediately regained his customary
composure and measured demeanor. We talked late into the night; I do not remember precisely what was
said, however, I can say with certainty that his profound words that night altered me irrevocably. It was as
though he, that night, bequeathed to me certain tendencies of thought with the result that I have never
been able to write in the same manner as I had prior to that night. When the night grew old and our
conversation had run its course, B. closed the cases, leaving them where we had set them down.

Under cover of darkness, he departed alone. For some time after, I remained standing in that same
dim, shuttered reading room in which I had so often seen B. immersed in his work. Standing there, the two
briefcases entrusted to me still on the table before me, one thought haunted me, and I must have
whispered aloud: « B. au moment où je pense la mort s'approche de lui, c'est vraisemblable. » I hid his
belongings well, for when I retrieved them some five years later, I had difficulty locating the precise place
where I had hidden them. It was not for him, however, that I retrieved these almost overflowing briefcases.
He had come within inches of escape and survival; the thought which had haunted me after last I saw him
was prescient, if not entirely precise, for it should have continued to say « la mort l'atteignit – il se la donna
– quelques mois plus tard. » Three months later, he had in despair taken his own life in a tiny border
village, where no one knew his name. The cause of his death remained a secret as well kept as mine until
M. contacted me concerning the location of B.'s papers; B. had insisted upon this secrecy and I
understand why: I too know well the courage and dignity of disappearance.