Fritz and I were in the same boat: he was unable to procure an exit visa. Without permission to leave France, every other jewel—a Portuguese transit visa, an American entry visa—was worthless. Arthur had had all kinds of adventures since leaving Paris. His English girlfriend had managed to board a ship leaving Bordeaux for Portsmouth. Between them, they filled me in on the rumored fates of various friends and acquaintances: one had left for America, another had committed suicide by swallowing veronal in Paris, another still slit his wrists in a prison camp near Avignon. One poor fellow swallowed strychnine, and another disappeared from a camp in Savoy and hadn’t been heard of since.

Poised precariously between hope and despair, we settled into our temporary lives as the world we’d known became unrecognizable to us. The newspapers and radio became infected by a new kind of language. In the name of national renewal, they preached the virtues of collaboration and authoritarianism, the corruption of trade unions and treacherousness of the Jews. As France’s humiliation was deemed to be a moral failure, the remedy would be a moral revolution. The windows of Jewish shops were smashed. The words liberté, égalité, fraternité, which had recently adorned the entrances of state buildings, were replaced with a new trinity: work, family, fatherland. Labor camps became mandatory: every nineteen-year-old boy would have to work six months in a camp. Monthly food rations were reduced to a pound of sugar, half a pound of pasta, three and a half ounces of rice, four ounces of soap, and seven ounces of fats. It was impossible to put a telephone call through to Paris or send a letter there. Packs of officials roamed the streets day and night, throwing anyone they considered suspicious in prison. Without money for a bribe or a lawyer, anyone snaffled in one of these roundups was destined for a camp.

The American delegation at the Splendide granted me an American visa, but my efforts to procure an exit visa met with disappointment at every turn. I needed a certain stamp, and I didn’t have the certificate required to obtain it. I went through the motions all the same, hoping to be the beneficiary of an error, an oversight, an act of mercy. I joined the throngs waiting from morning to night at the Bureau des Étrangers. When, after a month, I received the final, definitive refusal, I staggered from the préfecture and wandered aimlessly until I reached the waterfront of the Old Port, entering a bistro simply to escape the blinding sun. I ordered oysters out of grief. They were one of the few things that were not rationed.