Paris 1937

A scene from my novel, Smoke: in Paris, 1937.

Like a violin string stretched across the bridge of time, rendering some rare vibrato of tenderness that struck now upon their resonant souls, a note of empathetic enquiry sounded forth. Sandi Leblanc, sitting across the table, a woman whose attentions were continually attuned to affairs of the heart and issues of the spirit, asked carefully, slowly, “What is it, Madame, that you and your family must find—what is it that would require crossing the ocean, going all the way to America—to find? Surely you will not have to travel so far for peace of mind?” Helene wiped the tears from her cheek. “What we seek, Madame Leblanc, is a young man, a good man in the very flower of his youth; but he is locked inside Dachau prison—our son, Heinrich. And now it is so very hard to decide what is to be done. Should we stay or go?” “Even if you must go. . .somewhere. . .must it be to America? Why not wait here, here in Alsace. You are close here, close enough to respond quickly, if Heinrich were to be released. If you were all the way to the United States, your help for him would be almost impossible.” “Our travel visas here are good only for two weeks. But we have relations in New York—they are our people, Jews like us—who are working on our behalf. They are even willing to deposit thousands of US dollars in the banks for us, and send affidavits to endorse for our immigration, so that we can obtain visas to enter the United States and start a new life there.” https://www.amazon.com/Smoke-L-Carey-Rowland/dp/1495330834