“I understand. Of course you must assist your family, and your work with Les Éclaireurs Israélites du Sud, the Jewish Scouts of the South, is important. But you are much needed here in Paris. Do you understand?”
“I understand. I will come as soon as I can.”
He was silent. She knew that he could not say more. They had been warned that even calls on their own clandestine line might be intercepted. Claude’s reticence was self-explanatory. She was urgently needed for a specific secret project.
“Á bientôt,” she said softly and replaced the receiver.
She wondered then why she had not told him how much she herself needed him, how she missed him.
“Claude, my friend, mon cher ami, my very dear friend, I miss you. I need you.”
She sighed and repeated to herself the words she had not spoken. She would give them voice one day. Yes, of course she would.
* * *
Because she knew how urgently she was needed in Paris, Madeleine raced through the days that followed, working tirelessly to complete the projects she had set in place in Toulouse. She assisted her father in the organization of a clinic and dispensary, organizing programs for newly arrived Dutch and Belgian Jewish children. She met with the scout leaders dispatched to Toulouse by Robert Gamzon. The Union of French Jews was sponsoring his efforts to create a network of children’s homes and workshops in southern France. They achieved their goals with astounding swiftness. Plans discussed at an evening meeting were executed the very next morning.
It was now common knowledge that the Vichy government was openly and unashamedly allied with Nazi Germany, which meant that time was of the essence. The Jews in France were in the same mortal danger that German Jewry had already suffered. Dread words were uttered in somber tones. Drancy. Pithiviers. Beaune-la-Rolande—internment camps from which Jews who were arrested in indiscriminate rafles—sudden, unprovoked roundups—were sent eastward. There were whispers of the existence of “concentration camps” and speculation about their locations and what happened within their dark confines. “Slave labor” was one ominous murmur, “death camps” another—words too dangerous to be given full voice.
Madeleine moved through the marketplace of Toulouse, amazed by the stunning swiftness with which France had become a divided nation. Shoppers avoided each other; merchants declined the custom of those who did not share their views. Sides had been chosen. Résistants who supported de Gaulle and the Free French were pitted against Fascist collaborators. Neighbor suspected neighbor. Families were sundered. Scouts from the south told Madeleine that the populations of the smallest hamlets, the most isolated market towns, were divided by deceit and distrust.
She and her brothers stood on a street corner and watched a brigade of acne-pocked teenagers, wearing bottle-green uniforms and armed with clubs, march across the Grand Boulevard.
“Le Garde Française Jeune Front,” Etienne said derisively. “Such a long name for a group of copycat thugs, stupid imitators of Hitler Youth.”
“Dangerous imitators,” Madeleine retorted worriedly.
It was known that the Fascist youths rampaged through the streets of the city, attacking refugees, bullying school children, overturning vendors’ carts, and scrawling Entreprise Juive across the windows of Jewish-owned businesses. It was said that these youths were encouraged to betray their own parents, their neighbors and relations, bribed with small amounts of francs, tin medals, and abridged copies of Mein Kampf, translated into crude French.
Pétain had decreed that the French motto of Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité be replaced with Travail, Famille, Patrie—Work, Family, Country! The new slogan was printed on posters, blared from the radio, and shouted by the Vichy-backed gendarmerie as they strutted through the streets.
“The Nazi lexicon translated into French,” Madeleine’s father said bitterly. “Travail—Arbeit. It is said that the words Arbeit macht frei—work will make you free—are inscribed on the gateposts of Auschwitz. Perhaps Pétain wants them etched across the Arc de Triomphe.”
The entire Levy family accompanied Pierre Paul to the banks of the Garonne River on the day that Vichy officials declared the Francisque, Battle Ax of Gaul, engraved on the medals he and those who had served with him had earned during the Great War, was now the official insignia of their rogue Fascist government. Dr. Levy had worn that medal with pride, but he would never wear it again. He stood with a group of other veterans as they tossed their beribboned medallions into the slowly flowing waters, after which they stood in military formation and sang “La Marseillaise.” Madeleine was proud to see a group of Jewish Scouts adding their vibrant young voices to the patriotic chorus.
The Éclaireurs Israélites du Sud, Scouts of the South, worked closely with the highly organized Résistance. They joined units trained to rescue downed RAF pilots and guide them to safety. They attended workshops on the workings of explosives, the construction of incendiary devices. Acts of sabotage were acts in defense of freedom. Madeleine added attendance at such workshops to her harried schedule, cycling furiously from one demanding meeting to another, yet managing to deliver the needlework her mother crafted to the small boutiques that sold it. The family’s funds were dwindling, and they needed the francs such small sales earned.
Claude phoned yet again.
“When?” he asked, the question now a plea.
“Soon,” she promised, her answer a pledge.
But doubt plagued her.
“Who will sell Maman’s work when I return to Paris?” she asked her brothers one evening.
“We will,” they replied in unison.
“No boutique owner could resist us,” Jean Claude added, winking at Etienne, who bowed with pretend elegance from the waist.
Madeleine laughed. Her brothers, as always, delighted her. The war had spurred Etienne into new and charming maturity, and it had not hampered Jean Claude from pursuing his medical studies, mentored by their father. Both of them were talented and dedicated scouts. She knew that they could assume many of her own obligations. Yes, it was time to return to Paris. But she could not leave the south without traveling to Grenoble and seeing Simone. She smiled at the thought of her sister. Was it possible that they shared one soul? She laughed at her own foolishness and made plans for the journey.
A request from Jeanne altered her arrangements.
“My mother insists that she go to Marseille so that she might spend a few days with Pierre and his family before they leave for America. Could you arrange to travel back to Toulouse with her?” Madeleine’s mother asked hesitantly.
“Of course,” Madeleine replied, struggling not to betray her annoyance at the request. Her reaction shamed her. Of course she would always do whatever she could for her beloved Grandmother Lucie. Family first—a Dreyfus credo.
Ten
Madeleine’s journey to Grenoble was difficult and exhausting. There were military checkpoints, at which she had to produce her carte d’identité, state the reason for her journey, and confirm her sister’s address and the names and addresses of every member of her family.
“Why is such information important?” she asked one young gendarme.
“We are at war,” he replied indignantly.
“Of course,” she replied apologetically and wondered if the war would be hampered or helped by the knowledge that her brothers were named Jean Claude and Etienne and her mother was a housewife.
But it was wonderful to see Simone, wonderful to sit beside her in the garden, wonderful to play with Frederica, now a cheerful, red-cheeked toddler who babbled incessantly as she chased butterflies in her grandmother’s garden. Happily, she plucked a bouquet of wildflowers and presented them to Madeleine.
“Fleurs, Tante Madi,” she chirped happily, and Madeleine held her close and tickled her neck with a long-stemmed bluebell. The child erupted into laughter.
“Chantez! Sing!”
she commanded.
Madeleine nodded and sang the lullaby that had been her grandfather’s favorite.
“Entends-tu le coucou, Malirette?” Pursing her lips, she imitated the call of the cuckoo bird until her small niece clapped her hands and dashed off to chase a rabbit who had wandered in from the meadow.
“You are so good with children. You will make a wonderful mother, Madeleine,” Simone said.
“Do you think so?” her sister asked wistfully and turned away.
Simone’s words filled her with the sadness that often came upon her as she lay in bed alone, reflecting that she had not yet known tender intimacy, a lover’s breath mingling with her own, his touch, sensual and soothing, upon her body. The war had delayed her entry into fulfilling womanhood. Marriage and motherhood seemed distant and, perhaps, unlikely. Inevitably, when she descended into such a mood, her thoughts flew to Claude. Inevitably, too, thoughts of him deepened her dangerous melancholy.
Fighting that threatening sadness, she asked Simone if she might see her basement studio, which Anatol’s parents had made available to her. In that windowless area, at an improvised worktable covered with boxes of paper, neatly arranged pots of ink, pens with a variety of nibs, tubes of glue, and tablets of watercolors, Simone forged the documents so essential to the Résistance. Her calligraphic talent was a vital weapon in the war against Fascism.
Simone proudly explained the intricacies of her work. A Résistance member who owned a stationery supply company provided her with stressed paper. Photos for forged passports and identity cards were easily obtained from Photomaton machines but she had not yet found the chemical immersion that would render the photos blurred but passable.
Simone opened a locked cabinet.
“Here are the documents I prepared for you,” she said. “There are also papers for Claude and the Hofbergs. Passports, identity cards, health certificates, ration cards, all with Christian names.”
“But surely the names can be traced,” Madeleine said, examining her sister’s handiwork.
“Not very likely. Groups of scouts go to church graveyards and copy down the inscriptions on tombstones. Those are the names I use. The Christian dead are saving Jewish lives.”
“But don’t you have papers for Jean Claude? Etienne? And our parents?” she asked.
“Their names are not on the list I received from Robert Gamzon’s headquarters,” Simone said regretfully. “I must follow instructions.”
“Of course.”
She understood that Simone had been instructed to prioritize documents for those who would soon undertake the mountainous treks to freedom. For the very first time, Madeleine felt a flicker of fear. Would Anna and her brothers have the stamina to endure such a dangerous and arduous trek? If Claude led them, would he return safely? She shivered at the questions she dared not ask.
Riffling through the documents, she took note of the variations in ink and the quality of the paper. She frowned. An astute border guard might examine them too closely and become suspicious.
Simone sensed her uneasiness.
“I know that my work is not perfect,” she said apologetically. “I do my best, but I need more training. There are chemical techniques for altering ink and creating stamps that I must learn. I want to go to Paris for a workshop being conducted by Adolfo Kaminsky, a master forger who shares his secrets. Anatol’s parents will care for Frederica, but I don’t know how to make travel arrangements.”
“I do. We will go to Paris together,” Madeleine said and her spirits soared.
“When?” Simone’s excitement matched her own.
They laughed with anticipatory pleasure. For the briefest of moments, the war was forgotten and they were simply two young women planning a holiday in their country’s capital.
“I must first to go to Marseille,” Madeleine said. “I promised Maman that I would see Grand-mère Lucie safely back to Toulouse. When I return, you must meet me in Toulouse and then we will travel to Paris together.”
“Excellent,” Simone agreed.
That night the sisters sat together, ripped open the hem of Madeleine’s coat, and fashioned pockets in her camisoles, in which they hid the forged documents.
“It is fortunate that Grand-mère taught us to sew,” Simone said wryly as they stitched the seams with double thread.
Madeleine left the next morning, covering her small niece with kisses and embracing Simone. The sisters were, as always, the closest of friends, readers of each other’s dreams. Tears streaked their cheeks as they clung to each other, but the knowledge that they would soon walk the streets of Paris together sustained them.
Eleven
Madeleine reached Marseille and saw at once that the port city was in turmoil. Throngs of refugees crowded the streets and stood impatiently in queues to purchase small amounts of food, desperate mothers breaking a single baguette into small pieces to be fed to hungry children too weak to protest. Families slept in parks, in squares, on the steps of buildings, heads resting on valises and rucksacks. Crowds gathered outside the Hôtel Splendide, clamoring for admission to the offices of the American Relief Center whenever it was rumored that visas might be obtained. Wails of disappointment resounded down the street when the doors were slammed shut. Madeleine winced at the choruses of pain and sorrow, resonant enough for her to hear them clearly.
Would that I were totally deaf, she thought bitterly as she rushed to the small flat near Montredon that Pierre had managed to rent while he and his family waited for the ship that would carry them to the United States.
Her uncle was delighted to see her and was oddly imbued with optimism. Lucie watched as he showed Madeleine the sheaf of letters he had received from America. His sponsors in the Jewish community there were eager to welcome him and his family. An apartment in New York City had been rented for them.
“We hope it will suit the family of the great Alfred Dreyfus,” a sponsoring philanthropist had written.
Madeleine refrained from asking why such a powerful philanthropist did not advocate more strongly for the Jews of Europe, who wept at the doors of the American consulate in Marseille.
Invitations to speak had come from every city, Pierre boasted. He and Madeleine studied a map of the United States, frightened by the vastness of its territory, although the names of the cities amused them. Milwaukee. Walla Walla. Peoria. They struggled with pronunciation, laughed at each other’s efforts. Their laughter masked their fear; it was an anodyne to their sadness, their uncertainty.
Pierre had written to the New York Times and other newspapers suggesting feature articles on the desperate situation of European Jews but had received a reply only from the editor of a Jewish journal who had asked him to contribute an eyewitness account of the impact of the Nazi occupation of France.
“‘It is hopeful that such an article, with the byline of the son of Alfred Dreyfus, whose story is well-known in America, will influence our Congress and President Roosevelt to take a more active role in fighting Hitler,’ the editor wrote. ‘At the very least, we think that it will convince the State Department to issue more visas to endangered Jews.’”
“But every Jew in Europe is endangered,” Madeleine observed wryly. “Will the United States issue six million visas?”
“To be hoped for but unlikely,” Pierre replied. “Although look at this map. The country is so vast that it could without difficulty absorb every applicant.”
He pointed to the State of South Dakota and read its coordinates aloud.
“Look, Madeleine, South Dakota measures 77,000 square miles and has only 600,000 residents. It has room for the entire Jewish population of France.”
“Especially since its capital is already named Pierre,” Marie Dreyfus observed and they laughed.
Madeleine and her cousins reminisced about the happy times they had shared as children. They were resigned to the knowledge that
they might never see each other again, but they struggled to contain their sadness, offering one another wistful assurances that all would be well.
“Perhaps you will indeed be instrumental in influencing President Roosevelt, Pierre,” Lucie said.
As always, her faith and confidence in her son never faltered.
“Of course you will, Papa,” his children shouted.
Madeleine and her cousins clung to fragile threads of hope, even as the muffled voices of the Radio Anglaise newscaster reported an increase in rafles. The brutal and random roundups of Jews by the Gestapo throughout northern France were now a daily occurrence. A Jewish man might leave for work in the morning and never return home. Women were arrested in markets, wrenched away from their children at playgrounds. Children disappeared, their whereabouts unknown, their parents bewildered and bereft. There were mothers who committed suicide, fathers who went mad with grief.
“You dare not venture into Paris,” Pierre warned his mother and Madeleine.
Lucie nodded but Madeleine said nothing. She would not tell her uncle that she and Simone would soon travel to the occupied city.
The day of departure dawned with a teasing brightness. At the pier, Lucie bravely struggled to conceal her anguish as her grandchildren and her daughter-in-law, Marie, kissed her.
Pierre held her close.
“Ma mère,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “My mother.”
“Mon fils, mon coeur. My son, my heart.”
Madeleine read the words on her grandmother’s lips. She struggled to hold back her tears as she embraced her uncle, her aunt, and her cousins.
“We are young. We are strong. We will be together again, Madeleine,” Pierre’s oldest daughter, Françoise, assured her.
“Of course we will. That is why we say au revoir,” she replied. “Revoir. We will see each other again.”
The words rang hollow even as she uttered them. They defied belief. Anything might happen. Anything would happen.
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