Mira's Diary (9 page)

But why the anger? Because the mass of people had turned into a furious mob. They turned their backs to the Eiffel Tower, surging instead toward a big building facing it across a long green. Now they were chanting, pumping angry fists over their heads, mouths twisted in scowls. Some even threw rocks, though what they were trying to hit was invisible to me.

The roar became words and as I understood what they were saying, a horrible dark fear plummeted through me.

“Kill the Jews! Kill the Jews! Kill the Jews!”

This wasn't the right time for the Holocaust, and I thought pogroms were something that happened in Eastern Europe, not France. What horrible moment of the past was I trapped in?

People were pushed up against the gates of the building facing the Eiffel Tower. I frantically made out the inscription along the front—this was the War College the woman had talked about, the goal of the surging mob. Some climbed on top of carriage roofs; others perched in trees, craning to see inside the courtyard. I could hear a military drumroll from the other side of the gate, and I found myself pressed between a large man, his face red with rage, spittle flying from his lips, and a wiry woman, snarling and hooting like a crazy fiend. Squeezed between their sweaty bodies, I was shoved into the barred gate with a view of rows of soldiers, all standing at attention.

A man was led in front of all the ranks, clearly a prisoner even though he wore a uniform. Facing a row of officers, he held his head high, light glinting off his glasses. He looked small and slender, frail in his isolation in front of the massed rows of soldiers. For a second I thought he was the man who'd been with Mom at the racecourse. But I was too far away to really tell.

The officer facing him declared loudly, “Captain Alfred Dreyfus, you have been found guilty of treason and will be punished accordingly. You no longer deserve to wear the rank or uniform of a soldier.”

It was Dreyfus! It was too late to save him and now here he was, being publicly stripped of his rank. The people around me jeered and hissed, drowning out the officer's words.

“Down with the traitor! Down with the Jew! Death to Dreyfus!”

I felt sick to my stomach, forced to witness the exact thing Mom had wanted me to prevent. It was all so ugly! I'd never seen the brute force of a mob before, like an out-of-control fire raging wildly. And I hope I never see it again.

But even as people heckled and spat, I could hear Dreyfus, more forceful than their hatred. “I am innocent!” he yelled. “I am innocent! Long live France!”

Even as a soldier stripped the trim off his hat, ripped the epaulets from his shoulders, cut the buttons from his uniform, Dreyfus held his head up, proudly insisting on his innocence. Then the soldier took the sword from the prisoner's side and broke it over his knee with a loud crack.

“Death to Dreyfus! Death to the Jew!” the mob screamed, driven to a greater frenzy by the echoing snap of broken steel.

The red-faced man on my left pushed me into the screaming woman on my other side. She clawed at me furiously, thrusting me into another man's back. I had to get away, to breathe fresh air, to stop the pawing, mauling hands and elbows, shoulders, and boots. But everywhere I turned there was another furious fist, screeching mouth, stomping foot. I was terrified, alone in the crowd of angry bodies.

Then the drums started rat-a-tat-tatting again. The people around me quieted down as if waiting for something dramatic and awful to happen to the prisoner. I covered my eyes, afraid to look, afraid not to. But the officers were finished. Dreyfus was marched away along the columns of soldiers, back into the depths of the War College. His uniform was in ratty shreds now, but he still held his head high.

Slowly the crowd drifted away. I could go where I wanted to now, but I had nowhere to go, nothing to do. I couldn't stop shaking.

Could I get back to 1894 like Mom had wanted, make it so this horrible scene never happened? Or was it too late and I'd missed my chance? The whole thing with Dreyfus had seemed so distant before, but now I knew he was a real person, somebody with the strength to face viciousness with courage. I would have crumpled onto the ground, like I wanted to do now. I never would have been able to be so defiant. Maybe that's why I hadn't been able to save him. I wasn't brave enough.

I sat down, exhausted, on the grass stretching out from the Eiffel Tower. I was still in the past, so there must be something I could still change. I could still make a difference. I had to!

Maybe I could go back to Mom's first idea and get Degas to support Dreyfus so that there would be a public outcry for a new trial. I wasn't sure what else to do. But I had to try something, so I headed back the way I'd come hours before.

By the time I got to Montmartre, I felt numb and hollow. All I could think of was getting warm. I hurried to Mary Cassatt's apartment, hoping it was still hers, hoping she was home. She wasn't, but the servant let me in. The same servant from before, though older, of course. I wondered if I was older too.

“Mademoiselle! You'll catch your death! Let me draw you a hot bath and you can warm yourself up while you're waiting for the mistress.”

I sank into the water, washing away the mob's ugly hatred. I was so drained that I could barely keep my eyes open, but whenever I closed them, I saw the sneering faces, heard the hoarse screams, only this time the Jew the crowd wanted to kill was me.

I must have fallen alseep after the bath because I woke up to find myself in the familiar guest bed at Mary Cassatt's. Yesterday was a foggy nightmare. Today would be fresh and new, if a day so long ago in the past could be called new.

I looked in the mirror, afraid I'd have gray hairs and wrinkles, but I was still me, exactly the same. This was 1895, fourteen years since I was last in Paris. Would anyone think it strange I hadn't aged? What about Claude? He was probably married with children by now. He would have forgotten me completely. But I would never forget him. Or the kiss I almost got.

I wanted to go see Degas and Claude right away, but I waited until Mary woke up so I could talk to her. There had to be a reason I was here now, why I'd skipped 1894 entirely. Maybe because Morton had been lying. My job had to be meant for this time, so I needed to figure out what that was. All I knew was that it had to do with Degas, the Jews, and Dreyfus. And Zola, whoever that was, since Mom's note said she would “work on him.” How could I ask Mary about that?

“Mira? How extraordinary to see you again after so many years! And you haven't changed a bit. Americans always look younger and fresher than Europeans, but you're exceptional, unbelievable, truly.” Mary poured me a cup of coffee as we sat down for breakfast.

“You haven't aged at all either,” I gushed, though really she had. Her features were softer, droopier, her waist thicker and her hands knottier, but there was also a self-assurance about her that made her more attractive than ever. And looking at the canvases leaning against the walls, the prints framed everywhere, I could see why. Her art was stronger—her pastels as rich as Degas, her lines as sure.

“How are your parents? Your sister? The last time we talked, she was ill.”

I tried to remember her sister's name. Leona? Louisa? Something that started with “L.”

“So kind of you to remember. Poor Lydia died.” Mary dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” I gasped.

“I still miss her, though it's been twelve years now.” Mary sighed.

I stared at my lap miserably, searching for the right thing to say. I couldn't imagine Malcolm dying. Suddenly I missed my brother with a sharp intensity.

“Let's talk about something more cheerful, shall we?” Mary proposed. “Like art. Or better yet, artists.”

“You must tell me how our friend Degas is doing!” I grabbed the chance to change the subject. “And what the news of the day is.” I paused, hoping I sounded natural, not idiotic. “I've been wondering about Zola…and Dreyfus.”

“Degas is much the same, ever the crochety perfectionist. Manet's death hit him hard, but he's doing well. You can see for yourself. We can meet him for tea tomorrow.”

More death! I thought, but I wasn't going to ask for details about Manet's. Instead I asked, “Does Claude still work for him?”

“Claude? Why, of course! He's devoted to Degas.”

I wanted to ask if he was married. If he was a successful painter himself now. If he remembered me at all. But I wasn't here for Claude. I was here for Mom.

“And what about Zola?” I asked, getting right to the point. “And this Dreyfus I've heard so much about?” I wondered what she knew. I couldn't imagine she'd been part of yesterday's savage crowd. Being here with her was like being in another Paris entirely.

“The last thing I read of Zola's was the dreadful novel he wrote skewering poor Cézanne, you know,
The
Masterpiece
. Degas was disgusted that Zola could betray their friendship that way, though secretly I think he agrees with Zola that Cézanne could be a better artist and he hasn't lived up to his promise.”

At least now I knew who Zola was, though I couldn't see what he had to do with anything, why Mom had to work on him. He was a writer of bad books. Why did that matter?

“And Dreyfus?” I pressed.

“Hmm, you know, that name rings a bell, though he's not someone I know. Not an artist, that's certain. I know! I read something recently…It was in the newspaper, today's, I think.” Mary flipped through a pile of magazines and journals on a nearby table.

“Here it is!” She folded back the page and handed me the newspaper.

Next to the article was an illustration of Dreyfus. The artist had sketched him with an exaggerated nose and devil's horns, nothing like the man I'd seen act so nobly the day before. Would the article help me understand why the mob was so furious? And, more importantly, would it tell me what I needed to do next?

My stomach clenched as I read about Dreyfus being found guilty of treason. Then the writer described the ceremony I'd seen. Except according to the newspaper, Dreyfus was barely human, more demon than man. If I was supposed to make Degas like Jews, then I guessed my job was to make Degas help prove he was innocent. But seeing anti-Semitism in person, it didn't seem like changing people's minds would be easy.

These were real people, real lives being ruined. How could people read about such injustice and not be outraged? Even if they believed that Dreyfus was guilty, how could they present him as a demon? To the newspaper writer, he seemed barely human.

If I couldn't clear Dreyfus's name somehow, that would be my job—to show the public that Dreyfus was accused simply because he was Jewish. And that he was a man like any other, not some kind of evil monster. I had no idea how I would do that, but I was so angry I had to figure something out. I didn't care about changing something in the future. What mattered was this right now, this ugly anti-Semitism.

“Of course, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like. It will be nice to have the company.”

I looked up from the newspaper, from the horrible caricature of the demon Jew to Mary's kind face. She'd never said anything about me being Jewish, and suddenly that really mattered to me.

“That's so generous of you!” I said, folding over the paper so I couldn't see the ugly drawing. “You must have thought me rude, leaving like that without saying good-bye or thanking you after all your kind hospitality.”

“Actually I thought you must have run off with a young man. Claude thought so too.”

I blushed hotly. “Nothing like that! My aunt called for me urgently, and I had to hurry to catch a train. I did write to you from Italy, but it sounds like you didn't get my letter. The post can be so unreliable,” I lied.

“Yes, terrible really, since your letter to Monsieur Degas was also lost.” Mary's eyes twinkled. She clearly didn't believe a word I'd said, but she didn't seem to care that I was an ungrateful liar.

I'd dug myself a hole and felt myself falling deeper. What a nuisance this time-travel stuff was! How did Mom handle all the lame excuses and clumsy lies? If I didn't care about these people, it wouldn't matter, but I wanted Mary, Degas, and Claude to like me. Or at least not think I was a horrible person.

I could almost hear Mom's voice in my head saying, “Stop worrying about your reputation. It doesn't matter what other people think of you—it matters what you think of you.” Right now I thought of myself as someone who wanted very much to be friends with Mary. And Degas. I wasn't sure about Claude. After all, I'd disappeared just as he was going to kiss me (wasn't he?). That would be pretty hard to explain away.

Degas had moved to a bigger place, not far from his old apartment, and when I got there he was sketching a woman crouched in a tub washing herself. His marks were looser and thicker than I remembered. I could lose myself in their energy and beating pulse, as his fingers skated over the paper. He leaned into the drawing, peering closely at it as if he needed glasses, even though he was already wearing a pair perched on his nose.

“Mira?” he asked, turning toward me. “It has been years! I thought you had decided to stay in America and abandon your French friends.”

“I'm so sorry that I left the way I did. You must think I'm awful.” I watched the colors bloom under his fingers as if I was in a trance. I'd never seen him draw like this before. It felt intensely private and magical.

“I would say it is good to see you, but as you can tell, I do not see well at all these days. My eyesight has long been poor, and now it is so impoverished that it needs to beg for pennies on the street.” He threw down the chalks. “Enough for today, Mireille. You can dress and go.”

“Please don't stop. I love to watch you draw.” The spell was broken, but the sketch was still there, raw and unfinished but powerful all the same.

“Watch me draw?” Degas barked a short laugh. “Art isn't a spectator sport. It's the finished piece that matters.”

I didn't agree with him and thought the privilege of seeing him create was just as important as the finished drawing itself. Still, I didn't want to be a nuisance. I couldn't sketch if someone was looking over my shoulder. “I didn't want to interrupt you,” I said, sitting down next to Degas, my eyes still on his picture. “I was just eager to see you after so many years.”

“Me? What about poor Claude? He took your leaving rather hard, you know.”

He did? He cared about me? My face flushed pink with embarrassment. And then I felt awful—I'd hurt Claude! He must have thought I had run away from his kiss. I was terrible at this time-travel stuff. Why had Mom called this a gift? It didn't feel like one. I struggled to find something believable to say to Degas to explain my horrible behavior.

“You must believe me that it was urgent, I didn't want to, but I had to go. I had no time to say good-bye.” I could barely meet Degas's eyes. He must despise me. “I wish I could take it all back and do things differently, really I do.” For once I was telling the truth.

“You do not owe me an apology. Your life is yours to do with as you please.”

“But it wasn't as I pleased! I wanted to stay here with you, with Claude!” I tried not to cry, but just then Claude walked in with Degas's lunch and I couldn't stop the tears from gushing.