We are late by a single day. Had we arrived yesterday, we would have encountered no obstacle. But only yesterday new orders were received from Madrid: all refugees arriving from France without a French exit visa are to be deported, even if they have transit visas for Spain and Portugal, even if they have entry visas for America, visas that have cost them immeasurable time and effort and money. As of yesterday it doesn’t matter how many stamps there are in your passport if it doesn’t have the one stamp that allows you to leave the country that doesn’t want you.

Tomorrow we will be escorted back to the border and handed over to the French authorities. All our efforts have been in vain. I will be thrown into a prison cell while my name is cross-referenced against innumerable lists, and eventually I’ll be sent to a camp.

The others in the group are being held in adjoining rooms. There are two men guarding us in the corridor outside—boys, really, foot soldiers of the Guardia Civil. The mayor has sent the village doctor to check us, although one wonders why, as tomorrow we will be sent to a place where our health can only suffer. The doctor is very young, possibly a recent graduate starting off his career in the provinces. As soon as he entered the room, toting his medicine bag, I sensed a certain contempt. It was in the sharpness of his movements, the curl of his lips, the curtness of his speech. I was writing when the door swung open without a knock, writing these very words (The others in the group are being held, and so on). When he saw what I was doing, he asked me in French why I was writing—not what but why.

“Because there is nothing else to do,” I replied.

He approached the table and picked up the piece of paper I’d been writing on—this very piece of paper you are reading. “What’s this?”

“A novel.”

“You’re writing a novel!” He scanned the words. “What’s it about, this novel of yours?”

I pictured Madeleine’s eyes. “I suppose, above all, it’s about love.”

“Love!” He smiled. “A romance novel!” He shot me a scornful look. “You are a foolish man, señor.” He lowered himself so that his face was directly opposite mine, only inches away. “A foolish Jew,” he added very slowly. I had nothing to say in reply. What can you say to such a person? “How can you waste your time like this, given the circumstances? Don’t you realize you’re going to die?”

“What else can I do?”

“Something! Anything!” he exclaimed, thumping the table. He took a stethoscope from his bag and put its rubber ends in his ears. “The time for novels is through, old man. This is a time for action.”