‘Say, what have you done, you who come here, with your youth?’
I explained to him how I had wasted it. And then I talked to him about my impatience: at an age when others were planning their future, I could think only of ending things. Take the gare de Lyon, for example, under the German occupation. I was supposed to catch a train that would carry me far away from misfortune and fear. Travellers were queuing at the ticket desks. I had only to wait half an hour to get my ticket. But no, I got into a first class carriage without a ticket like an imposter. At Chalon-sur-Saône, when the German ticket inspectors checked the compartment, they caught me. I held out my hands. I told them that despite the false papers in the name Jean Cassis de Coudray Macouard, I was a JEW. The relief!
‘Then they brought me to you, Herr Kommissar. You decide my fate. I promise I will be utterly docile.’
The Komissar smiles gently, pats my cheek and asks whether I really have tuberculosis.
‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ he says. ‘At your age, everyone is consumptive. It needs to be treated, otherwise you end up spitting blood and dragging yourself along all your life. This is what I’ve decided: if you’d been born earlier, I would have sent you to Auschwitz to have your tuberculosis treated, but we live in more civilised times. Here, this is a ticket for Israel. Apparently, over there, the Jews . . .’
The sea was inky blue and Tel Aviv was white, so white. As the boat came alongside, the steady beat of his heart made him feel he had returned to his ancestral land after two thousand years away. He had embarked at Marseille, with the Israeli national shipping line. All through the crossing, he tried to calm his rising panic by anaesthetising himself with alcohol and morphine. Now, with Tel Aviv spread out before him, he could die, his heart at peace.
The voice of Admiral Levy roused him from his thoughts.
‘Good crossing, young man? First time in Israel? You’ll love our country. A terrific country, you’ll see. Lads of your age are swept up by the extraordinary energy that, from Haifa to Eilat, from Tel Aviv to the Dead Sea . . .’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Admiral.’
‘Are you French? We have a great love of France, the liberal traditions, the warmth of Anjou and Touraine, the scents of Provence. And your national anthem, it’s beautiful! “Allons enfants de la patrie!” Capital, capital!’
‘I’m not entirely French, Admiral, I am a French JEW. A French JEW.’
Admiral Levy gave him a hostile glare. Admiral Levy looks like the twin brother of Admiral Dönitz. After a moment Admiral Levy says curtly:
‘Follow me, please.’
He ushers the young man into a sealed cabin.
‘I advise you to be sensible. We will deal with you in due course.’
The admiral switches off the electricity and double locks the door.
He sat in total darkness for almost three hours. Only the faint glow of his wristwatch still connected him to the world. The door was flung open and his eyes were dazzled by the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Three men in green oilskins strode towards him. One of them held out a card.
‘Elias Bloch, Secret State Police. You’re a French Jew? Excellent! Put him in handcuffs!’
A fourth stooge, wearing an identical trench coat, stepped into the cabin.
‘A very productive search. In the gentleman’s luggage we found several books by Proust and Kafka, reproductions of Modigliani and Soutine, some photos of Charlie Chaplin, Erich von Stroheim and Groucho Marx.’
‘Your case is looking more and more serious,’ says the man named Elias Bloch. ‘Take him away!’
The men bundle him out of the cabin. The handcuffs chafe his wrists. On the quayside, he tripped and fell down. One of the officers takes the opportunity to give him a few swift kicks in the ribs then, grabbing the chain linking the handcuffs, dragged him to his feet. They crossed the deserted docks. A police van exactly like the ones used by the French police in the roundup on 16 July 1942 was parked on the street corner. Elias Bloch slid into the seat next to the driver. The young man climbed into the back followed by three officers.
The police van sets off up the Champs-Élysées. People are queuing outside the cinemas. On the terrace of Fouquet’s, women are wearing pale dresses. It was clearly a Saturday evening in spring.
They stopped at the Place de l’Étoile. A few GIs were photographing the Arc de Triomphe, but he felt no need to call to them for help. Bloch grabbed his arm and marched him across the place. The four officers followed a few paces behind.
‘So, you’re a French Jew?’ Bloch asked, his face looming close.
He suddenly looked like Henri Chamberlin-Lafont of the French Gestapo Française.
He was bundled into a black Citroën parked on the Avenue Kléber.
‘You’re for it now,’ said the officer on his right
‘For a beating, right, Saul?’ said the officer on his left.
‘Yes, Isaac, he’s in for a beating,’ said the officer driving.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘No, let me! I need the exercise,’ said the officer on his right.
‘No, Isaac! It’s my turn. You got to beat the shit out of the English Jew last night. This one’s mine.’
‘Apparently this one’s a French Jew.’
‘That’s weird. Why don’t we call him Marcel Proust?’
Isaac gave him a brutal punch in the stomach.
‘On your knees, Marcel! On your knees!’
Meekly he complied. The back seat made it difficult. Isaac slapped him six times.
‘You’re bleeding, Marcel: that means you’re still alive.’
Saul whipped out a leather belt.
‘Catch, Marcel Proust,’ he said.
The belt hit him on the left cheek and he almost passed out.
‘Poor little brat,’ said Isaiah. ‘Poor little French Jew.’
He passed the Hôtel Majestic. All the windows of the great façade were dark. To reassure himself, he decided that Otto Abetz flanked by all the jolly fellows of the Collaboration were in the lobby for him, the guest of honour at a Franco-German dinner. After all, was he not the official Jew to the Third Reich?
‘We’re taking you on a little tour of the area,’ said Isaiah.
‘There are a lot of historical monuments around here,’ said Saul.
‘We ’ll stop at each one so you have a chance to appreciate them.’
They showed him the buildings requisitioned by the Gestapo: Nos. 31 bis and 72 Avenue Foch. 57 Boulevard Lannes. 48 Rue de Villejust. 101 Avenue Henri-Martin. Nos. 3 and 5 Rue Mallet-Stevens. Nos. 21 and 23 Square de Bois-de-Boulogne. 25 Rue d’Astorg. 6 Rue Adolphe-Yvon. 64 Boulevard Suchet. 49 Rue de la Faisanderie. 180 Rue de la Pompe.
Having finished the sightseeing tour, they headed back to the Kléber-Boissière sector.
‘So what did you make of the 16th arrondissement?’ Isaiah asked him.
‘It’s the most notorious district in Paris,’ said Saul.
‘And now, driver, take us to 93 Rue Lauriston, please,’ said Isaac.
He felt reassured. His friends Bonny and Chamberlin-Lafont would soon put an end to this tasteless joke. They would drink champagne together as they did every night. René Launay, head of the Gestapo on the Avenue Foch, ‘Rudy’ Martin from the Gestapo in Neuilly, Georges Delfanne from the Avenue Henri-Martin and Odicharia from the ‘Georgia Gestapo’ would join them. Order would be restored.
Isaac rang the bell at 93 Rue Lauriston. The building looked deserted.
‘The boss is probably waiting for us at 3 bis Place des États-Unis for the beating,’ said Isaiah.
Bloch paced up and down the pavement. He opened the door to number 3 bis and dragged the young man inside.
He knew this hôtel particulier well. His friends Bonny and Chamberlin-Lafont has remodelled the property to create eight holding cells and two torture chambers, since the premises at 93 Rue Lauriston served as the administrative headquarters.
They went up to the fourth floo
r. Bloch opened a window.
‘The Place des États-Unis is quiet this evening,’ he said. ‘See how the streetlights cast a soft glow over the leaves, my young friend. A beautiful May evening. And to think, we have to torture you. The bathtub torture, as it happens. How sad. A little glass of curaçao for Dutch courage? A Craven? Or would you prefer a little music? In a while, we’ll play you a little song by Charles Trenet. It will drown out your screams. The neighbours are sensitive. They prefer the voice of Trenet to the sound of you being tortured.’
Saul, Isaac and Isaiah entered. They had not taken off their green trench coats. He immediately noticed the bathtub in the middle of the room.
‘It once belonged to Émilienne d’Alençon,’ Bloch said with a sad smile. ‘Admire the quality of the enamelling, my friend, the floral motifs, the platinum taps.’
Isaac wrenched his hands behind his back while Isaiah put on the handcuffs. Saul turned on the phonograph. Raphäel immediately recognised the voice of Charles Trenet:
Formidable,
J’entends le vent sur la mer.
Formidable
Je vois la pluie, les éclairs.
Formidable
Je sens bientôt qu’il va faire,
qu’il va faire
Un orage
Formidable . . .
Sitting on the window ledge, Bloch beat time.
They plunged my head into the freezing water. My lungs felt as though they might explode at any minute. The faces I had loved flashed past. The faces of my mother and my father. My old French teacher Adrien Debigorre. The face of Fr. Perrache. The face of Colonel Aravis. And then the faces of all my wonderful fiancées – I had one in every province. Bretagne, Normandy, Poitou. Corrèze. Lozère. Savoie . . . Even one in Limousin. In Bellac. If these thugs spared my life, I would write a wonderful novel: Schlemilovitch and the Limousin, in which I would show that I am a perfectly assimilated Jew.
They yanked me by the hair. I heard Charles Trenet again:
. . . Formidable.
On se croirait au ciné-
Matographe
Où l’on voit tant de belles choses,
Tant de trucs, de métamorphoses,
Quand une rose
est assassinée . . .
‘The second dunking will last longer,’ Bloch explains wiping away a tear.
This time, two hands press down on my neck, two more on the back of my head. Before I drown, it occurs to me I have not always been kind to maman.
But they drag me back into the fresh air.
Et puis
et puis
sur les quais,
la pluie
la pluie
n'a pas compliqué
la vie
qui rigole
et qui se mire dans les flaques des rigoles.
‘Now let’s get down to business,’ says Bloch, stifling a sob.
They lay me on the floor. Isaac takes a Swiss penknife from his pocket and makes deep slashes in the soles of my feet. Then he orders me to walk across a heap of salt. Next, Saul conscientiously rips out three of my fingernails. Then, Isaiah files down my teeth. At that point Trenet was singing:
Quel temps
pour les p’tits poissons.
Quel temps
pour les grands garçons.
Quel temps
pour les tendrons.
Mesdemoiselles nous vous attendrons . . .
‘I think that’s enough for tonight,’ said Elias Bloch, shooting me a tender look.
He stroked my chin.
‘This is the prison for the foreign Jews,’ he said, ‘we’ll take you to the cell for French Jews. You’re the only one at the moment. But there will be more along soon. Don’t you worry.’
‘The little shits can sit around talking about Marcel Proust,’ said Isaiah.
‘When I hear the word culture, I reach for my truncheon,’ said Saul.
‘I get to deliver the coup de grâce!’ said Isaac.
‘Come now, don’t frighten the young man,’ Bloch said imploringly.
He turned to me.
‘Tomorrow, you will be advised about the progress of your case.’
Isaac and Saul pushed me into a little room. Isaiah came in and handed me a pair of striped pyjamas. Sewn onto the pyjama jacket was a yellow star of David on which I read Französisch Jude. As he closed the reinforced door, Isaac tripped me and I fell flat on my face.
The cell was illuminated by a nightlight. It did not take me long to notice the floor was strewn with Gillette Extra-Blue blades. How had the police known about my vice, my uncontrollable urge to swallow razor blades? I was sorry now that they had not chained me to the wall. All night, I had to tense myself, to bite my hand so as not to give in to the urge. One false move and I was in danger of gulping down the blades one by one. Gorging myself on Gillette Extra-Blues. It was truly the torment of Tantalus.
In the morning, Isaiah and Isaac came to fetch me. We walked down an endless corridor. Isaiah gestured to a door and told me to go in. Isaac thumped me on the back of the head by way of goodbye.
He was sitting at a large mahogany desk. Apparently, he was expecting me. He was wearing a black uniform and I noticed two Stars of David on the lapel of his jacket. He was smoking a pipe, which gave him a more pronounced jawline. Had he been wearing a beret, he might have passed for Joseph Darnand.
‘You are Raphäel Schlemilovitch?’ he asked in a clipped, military tone.
‘Yes.’
‘French Jew?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were arrested last night by Admiral Levy aboard the ship Zion?’
‘Yes.’
‘And handed over to the police authorities, to Commandant Elias Bloch to be specific?’
‘Yes.’
‘And these seditious pamphlets were found in your luggage?’
He passed me a volume of Proust, Franz Kafka’s Diary, the photographs of Chaplin, von Stroheim and Groucho Marx, the reproductions of Modigliani and Soutine.
‘Very well, allow me to introduce myself: General Tobie Cohen, Commissioner for Youth and Raising Morale. Now, let’s get straight to the point. Why did you come to Israel?’
‘I’m a romantic by nature. I didn’t want to die without having seen the land of my forefathers.’
‘And you are intending to return to Europe, are you not? To go back to this playacting, this farce of yours? Don’t bother to answer, I’ve heard it all before: Jewish angst, Jewish misery, Jewish fear, Jewish despair . . . People wallow in their misfortunes, they ask for more, they want to go back to the comfortable world of the ghettos, the delights of the pogroms. There are two possibilities, Schlemilovitch: either you listen to me and you follow my instructions, in that case, everything will be fine. Or you continue to play the rebel, the wandering Jew, the martyr, in which case I hand you over to Commandant Elias Bloch. You know what Elias Bloch will do with you?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘I warn you, we have all the means necessary to subdue little masochists like you,’ he said, wiping away a tear. ‘Last week, an English Jew tried to outsmart us. He turned up from Europe with the same old hard-luck stories: Diaspora, persecution, the tragic destiny of the Jewish people! . . . He dug his heels in, determined to play the tormented soul! He refused to listen! Right now, Bloch and his lieutenants are dealing with him! I can assure you, he will get to experience real suffering. Far beyond his wildest expectations. He is finally about to experience the tragic destiny of the Jewish people! He asked for Torquemada, demanded Himmler himself! Bloch is taking care of him! He’s worth more than all the Grand Inquisitors and Gestapo officers combined. Do you really want to end up in his hands, Schlemilovitch?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well then, listen to me: you have just arrived in a young, vigorous, dynamic country. From Tel Aviv to the Dead Sea, from Haifa to Eilat, no one is interested in hearing about the angst, the malaise, the tears, the hard luck story of the Jews. No one! We don’t want to
hear another word about the Jewish critical thinking, Jewish intelligence, Jewish scepticism, Jewish contortions and humiliations, Jewish tragedy . . . (his face was bathed in tears.) We leave all that to callow European aesthetes like you. We are forceful people, square-jawed, pioneers, not a bunch of Yiddish chanteuses like Proust and Kafka and Chaplin. Let me tell you, we recently organised an auto-da-fé on Tel Aviv main square: the works of Proust, Kafka and their ilk, reproductions of Soutine, Modigliani and other invertebrates, were burned by our young people, fine boys and girls who would have been the envy of the Hitlerjugend: blond, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, with a confident swagger and a taste for action and for fighting! (He groaned.) While you were off cultivating your neuroses, they were building their muscles. While you were kvetching, they were working in kibbutzim! Aren’t you ashamed, Schlemilovitch?’
‘Yes, sir! General, sir!’
‘Good! Now promise me that you will never again read Proust, Kafka and the like or drool over reproductions of Modigliani and Soutine, or think about Chaplin or von Stroheim or the Marx Brothers, promise me you will forget Doctor Louis-Ferdinand Céline, the most insidious Jew of all time!’
‘You have my word, sir.’
‘I will introduce you to fine books. I have a great quantity in French! Have you read The Art of Leadership by Courtois? Sauvage’s The Restoration of the Family and National Revolution? The Greatest Game of my Life by Guy de Larigaudie? The Father’s Handbook by Rear-Admiral Penfentenyo? You will learn them by heart, I plan to develop your moral muscle! For the same reason, I am sending you to a disciplinary kibbutz immediately. Don’t worry, you will only be there for three months. Just enough time to build up the biceps you sorely lack and cleanse you of the germs of the cosmopolitan Jew. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You may go, Schlemilovitch. I’ll have my orderly bring you the books I mentioned. Read them while you’re waiting to go and swing a pickaxe in the Negev. Shake my hand, Schlemilovitch. Harder, man, for God’s sake! Eyes front! Chin up! We’ll make a sabra of you yet!’ (He burst into tears.)
La Place De L'Étoile Page 9