At first glance, Mr. Crabtree’s office was much like Mr. Musgrove’s: a broad, dark-stained desk; a plush carpet in a golden hue that matched the name on the door; and a tall window that looked out into the blue sky, far above the buildings below. But where Mr. Musgrove’s office was dominated by a Matisse odalisque that he had bought from the artist himself, this office was a Wunderkammer devoted to the American West. On one wall, a tableau of cowboys on horseback raced at a breakneck pace among a horde of long-horned cattle. The stuffed head of a thick-tongued bison hung above the door. A console table supported a shirtless, breechclouted Indian who knelt before a sacred fire while bronze smoke wrapped its fingers around him. And on the credenza behind Crabtree’s chair, a war bonnet adorned the head of a blank-faced mannequin. With its spiked plumage and riotous tail of black and white feathers, it looked like a demon bird perched above the shoulder of its captor, Mr. Crabtree.
Lilly began by explaining her predicament and the promises made by Mr. Musgrove. Didn’t the Foundation, with its money and its board of directors whose names were cast in solid-gold letters, have the power to make calls, to pull strings, to grease wheels, to cut red tape, to employ any of the metaphors Mr. Musgrove had used in reference to his efforts to extend her visa and allow her work to continue? He had even said it would be possible to bring Josef to America, because wasn’t Josef—a champion of the downtrodden and an enemy of the occupation—equally deserving of the Foundation’s largesse?
Invoking the name of Mr. Musgrove and the promises he had made did not endear her to Mr. Crabtree. At first he smirked, as if wondering what else Mr. Musgrove must have pulled, greased, or otherwise employed on her behalf. Then he explained to Lilly that European art was not his bailiwick, and that he was generally opposed to the idea of expending the Foundation’s munificence on living artists. It made them soft, he believed. Complacent. And as for the program run by Mr. Musgrove, there had been discovered certain improprieties—financial in nature—in addition to the air of moral perfidy that now hung about the whole operation. Despite his expansive vocabulary and the frequent digressions in Mr. Crabtree’s disquisition, the message was easy enough to grasp: Lilly’s connection to Mr. Musgrove had been transformed from lifeboat to lead weight.
Still, she invited Mr. Crabtree or whoever replaced Mr. Musgrove to visit her studio and see her work firsthand—to see that he and the people he represented had gotten their money’s worth. She had spent the days since her last visit to the Foundation organizing her studio in preparation for just such a visit. She should have been packing but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. To box up this life here would be to admit that she was really leaving, and that her plan to use New York as a refuge had failed.
Mr. Crabtree glanced at the address listed in her file and startled, as if some stench had risen up from the pages. “That is not a respectable neighborhood,” he said. And then: “You simply cannot live there.”
But that was exactly what she had been doing for the past three months: living in her studio, taking pictures of strangers, walking the streets of this glowing coal-dark city. Meanwhile back in Prague, Josef existed in some half-state, wondering when the next directive would come from the Castle. Would he be forced to move again? Where could he go? And where could he not go? One landlord had already asked him to leave. He was becoming too outspoken, too notorious. In his last letter, written almost a month ago, he had begged her to stay in New York. Save yourself from this madness, he had written. Allow me to know that you, at least, are safe. She didn’t even have a reliable address for Josef, yet she continued to send letters, sometimes three or four a week. Lilly had placed her hopes in some imagined neighbor at Josef’s old flat, someone who would see the pile of feathery blue airmail envelopes with their eagle clutching a cracked bell and would know how to reach Josef. It was a fantasy, she knew, but believing in this kindly neighbor was easier for her than not writing at all. That would have been to admit more than could be spoken. And now as the weeks wore thin and the date on her return ticket became more stark (less than a week!), contacting Josef became a practical matter as well. Where was she to find him? What would she do when she returned home? Was it still her home?
She reached again for something Mr. Musgrove had told her, though she knew better than to attach his name to the thought: Hadn’t the Foundation had great success these past five years in bringing to safety in the New World people like her, like Josef—artists, writers, public figures facing persecution by the enemies of culture?
Mr. Crabtree rubbed his eyes wearily. “Have you been the victim of persecution, Miss Bloch?”
“My country was invaded by—”
“But do you have reason to believe that you will be persecuted on your return?”
“The whole country is being persecuted,” she said.
“We can’t exactly relocate all of Czechoslovakia to the United States.” He chuckled, amused by the thought. “Where would we put it?”
Lilly had a notion about where he could put it, but a daughter raised by Madame Bloch did not say such things aloud.
“Miss Bloch, the government of the United States does not grant visas lightly, and we at the Foundation need to keep our powder dry, so to speak, for those truly deserving cases. At the current time, we’ve no evidence that you face any direct threat upon your return.”
“Mr. Crabtree,” she said, almost in shock; how plainly did she need to state this? “I am a Jew, and you’re asking me to return to a city under the control of the Nazis.”
“Yes, and I understand that carries with it certain… complications,” he said, “but are you an activist of some sort? Perhaps a communist, or—”
“I am an artist.”
“Is your art political?”
She shook her head quickly, trying again to find the words to combat this madness. “To ask if art is political—that means everything, and nothing.”
“Cryptic answers aren’t going to help your case. The men the Foundation has resettled can point to very specific instances of persecution. One man was barred from employment at every university in Germany. Another had his laboratory ransacked by hoodlums on the payroll of the party. Another had his home burned. He lost his entire library.” He sat back in the chair, the eagle-feather headdress looming over him. “Has anything like that happened to you or to this Josef?”
“He has been evicted from his apartment. He has lost his job.”
“Times are hard everywhere,” Mr. Crabtree said.
“He did not fail to pay his rent. He was forced out, by the occupation. And Jews have been barred from practicing law.”
“But you yourself—have you faced—”
“I left Prague one week before the Reich invaded.”
Mr. Crabtree squinted, either deep in thought or in search of relief in the painting of the cattle drive. The lead cowboy jutted his chin, one hand squashing his hat to the top of his head. With his other hand he lashed the horse’s shoulder with the reins. “Here’s an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you return as scheduled and reconnoiter the situation?”