The Paris Children : A Novel (2020)

by Goldreich, Gloria

  He laughed, the contagious laughter of a boy young enough to be amused by magic tricks and old enough to know that such tricks might save lives. Madeleine watched as he showed the small gathering how a steam iron could be passed across sheets of covering to stress the vellum, how quills could be sharpened and photos treated. By blending chemicals heated to boiling on an electric hot plate, he demonstrated how brown became black, how green became purple. He showed them the bicycle wheel he had transformed into a centrifuge machine that altered the texture and color of parchment.

  His students clapped. His skills became their own. They would carry the tricks he had taught them back to their Résistance cells in Lyon and Lille, in Rouen and Avignon. Simone would practice them in the basement of her in-laws’ home in Grenoble. Lives would be saved by the magic of colors altered, paper transformed.

  Madeleine swelled with pride at the skill and courage of the small cadre of forgers, all of them so diligent and heroic, all fired by the knowledge that the documents they prepared would rescue men, women, and children they would never know. Their selflessness astonished. She realized with surprise that the odors of the chemicals no longer sickened her.

  She watched Simone step forward, take a document across which the word JUDE was scrawled in huge, ugly letters, and erase them with a brush heavy with a mysterious oil. There was a small round of applause, and Simone smiled proudly and wiped her ink-stained fingers on her smock, portions of its fabric already eaten away by acid.

  The groups of acolytes dispersed, clutching bags of the chemicals and other supplies offered by Kaminsky. He waved them out but scarcely looked up from the small pile of papers he was busily doctoring. Word had come that documents were urgently needed for a small group of Jewish children who had been hidden in a convent and were in danger of being sent to Drancy. He would, he explained, have to work through the night. The documents had to be ready by dawn if the children were to be saved.

  Simone left for Grenoble late that afternoon, foregoing the brief Paris vacation she and Madeleine had planned because of her eagerness to practice her new skills. She and Madeleine embraced.

  “My very first project will be to create a new photograph for Adele Valheur,” she told Madeleine laughingly. “Unless of course you wish to choose a new name.”

  “No. I will remain Adele,” Madeleine replied. “I would not want to waste all those beautiful ration cards you created for her.”

  The sisters laughed. They did not dare to weep. Tears were a luxury.

  Fourteen

  Claude waited for Madeleine in the garden café, and she saw at once from the seriousness of his gaze and the rigidity of his posture that their mysterious instructions had arrived. He managed a thin smile as he motioned her to sit beside him. Aware that they were being watched by a Vichy police officer who nursed an absinthe at a neighboring table, she flashed Claude a demure look and kissed him on both his cheeks.

  “Have you been waiting long, mon cousin?” she asked, her voice pitched high.

  The officer frowned. A meeting of two cousins did not interest him, but he remained in his seat, lifted his glass lazily, and moved his chair closer to their table.

  “Not too long,” Claude said, and now his smile was wide and welcoming. But when he spoke, he kept his voice low, even as he passed an envelope to her.

  She nodded and opened it, removing several Photomaton snapshots of small boys and girls.

  “My mother wanted you to see the newest pictures of my brothers and sisters,” he said, and now it was he who spoke loudly enough for the Vichy officer to hear. “Leonie has lost a tooth. Marc has a new haircut.”

  “Oh, how sweet they are,” Madeleine said, spreading the photos across the table.

  The officer yawned, placed a franc note on the table, and left the café. Photographs of small children with missing teeth interested him not at all.

  “We have our instructions,” he said quietly. “What we must do is not as complicated as I had feared. There are five children, Jewish children from Poland, their parents seized in a rafle, who are now hidden in a small convent near the Palais Royale. They speak no French; they have no documents. The nuns learned from their own informant that a plumber they had hired, a man dependent on the Gestapo for small bribes, revealed the children’s presence to the Germans. The nuns believe that they are to be removed from the convent tomorrow morning and sent to Drancy. We are assigned to rescue them, and that is what we must do,” Claude said.

  “But how?” she asked. “Five children. Without papers. Where will we take them?”

  “They will have papers,” he assured her. “Whatever is needed. Cartes d’identité, ration cards, even travel permits. The documents are being prepared, and the nuns arranged to have their pictures taken at Photomaton so that we can attach them.”

  “Ah, the photos that you showed me,” she said and thought of Adolfo Kaminsky, bent over his worktable. She understood that, by odd coincidence, he had been preparing the documents for the very children she and Claude would, somehow, in some way, spirit to safety.

  “Yes. Those photos. We are to be the convoyeuses, the escorts of those poor children. We will arrive at the convent before dawn, carrying the documents. I have been given a list of addresses of householders who will each hide a child in the city as well as two farmers who will shelter able-bodied boys in the countryside,” he explained.

  She sighed.

  “Five separate journeys. Five dangerous journeys.”

  “We are Parisians,” he countered. “We know the city well. We will follow the pathways beneath the bridge. We know every alley, every vacant field. I have directions to each address in the city, and we will have access to a car when we travel to the countryside.”

  “And if we are stopped, how do we explain what we are doing with five children?” she asked.

  “That is the sweetest deception of all. We explain that we have been asked by the Vichy government to train them to be members of Le Garde Française Jeune Front, the Hitler Youth of Paris. I even have badges for each of us identifying us as leaders of the movement. A good idea, isn’t it?” he asked proudly.

  “Only if it works,” she replied, but her smile of agreement matched his own.

  “It will work,” he said.

  At midnight, there was a knock at the door of Madeleine’s hotel room. She opened it, and a youth thrust a large manila envelope into her hand and scampered away.

  “The documents,” Claude said and smiled. “All goes according to plan.”

  “Yes,” she agreed and wished she shared his certainty. His courage and his certainty. But that would come, she assured herself as she helped him sort through the documents, both of them marveling at Kaminsky’s expertise.

  It was still dark when they made their way across the city to the Palais Royale. The convent was without light, but at their approach, the heavy door opened and a young nun beckoned them to enter. Five children, three small girls and two boys, huddled in the vestibule, gripping each other’s hands, their faces pale masks of fear. The Mother Superior stood beside them, speaking softly, and Madeleine realized that she was praying and that the murmured Latin comforted the terrified Jewish children.

  “Thank you for your prayer and your concern,” she told the nun, and her words were rewarded with a weary smile.

  The children were introduced, and she and Claude, using the fixative Kaminsky had included, busied themselves attaching the photographs to the requisite documents. They then pinned the badges of the Garde Française to their jackets. Madeleine cringed as her fingers traced the red and black swastika on the cheap pieces of felt.

  “I shall burn this as soon as I can,” she said.

  “Keep it. You may need it again,” the Mother Superior said, smiling although there were tears in her eyes as she embraced each child in turn.

  “Stay safe,” she instructed them. �
�Remember that God is with you.”

  “Your God or ours?” the taller of the two boys asked in broken French.

  “We have only one God,” she replied. “And He is with all of us.”

  They left then, Madeleine walking ahead of the children, Claude behind them, convoyeuses committed to the safety of the youngsters in their care.

  They navigated their way through the darkened streets, selecting little-used roads and obscure pathways. Before the sun rose, they had managed to escort all three of the little girls to the families who had volunteered to keep them safe. The sweet-faced children did not weep as Madeleine kissed them goodbye.

  “They have no tears left,” she said sadly to Claude as they hurried to the dirt road beneath the Pont de l’Alma that led to the deserted street where a Résistance car awaited them.

  “It is only an hour’s drive from the city to the farm,” Claude assured her as the boys scrambled into the back seat.

  “I’m all right,” she said.

  Claude nodded, his gaze fixed on the road. He took her hand in his own and held it for the briefest of moments, a silent acknowledgment that the most dangerous stretch of their daring enterprise confronted them. Gestapo troops were stationed at every entrance and exit to the city, and they would have to drive through every checkpoint without arousing suspicion. The two boys, as though sensing their tension, clung to each other, not even daring to stare out the window.

  They drew up to the exit that led to the road that would carry them southward to the farm located near Sainte-Savine. As they had anticipated, a Gestapo guard blocked their way and ordered them to pull over.

  “Papiers,” he demanded.

  Claude handed him the driver’s license Simone had prepared so carefully, including at least one citation for speeding. (“To lend it authenticity,” she had said laughingly. “No self-respecting Frenchman has a totally clean license.”)

  “Carte d’identité,” the German barked.

  Claude smiled, searched through the glove compartment, and smiled again as he held it out.

  “Couldn’t remember where I’d put it. You would have had a problem,” he said apologetically.

  “No,” the guard replied. “You would have had a problem.”

  He studied the document carefully, turning from the photograph to Claude, looking straight at his face and then studying his profile.

  “And your girlfriend? Where are her papers?”

  Madeleine shrugged impatiently, undid the buttons of her blouse, and withdrew the carte d’identité of Adele Valheur from her camisole, aware that it carried with it the warmth of her breasts, the scent of her skin, and noting that the German sniffed it appreciatively.

  “And the boys?”

  “Scouts. New to my Garde Française troop.” He touched his badge, and Madeleine giggled flirtatiously and lifted a finger to her own. “We are taking them to a training camp. Do you want to see their parents’ permissions?”

  “No need,” the guard replied briskly, and still holding their papers, he went to the pill box and conferred with another officer, both of them gesticulating and nodding.

  Madeleine’s heart sank.

  “He doesn’t believe us. He is going to arrest us,” she muttered.

  “Quiet,” Claude ordered. “Put on lipstick. Smile.”

  Obediently, she did as he said, thinking that her face might freeze.

  The officer returned. He handed them their papers and added a small package.

  “Two knives for your new recruits,” he said. “My own son is in Hitler Youth, and it is good to see French youngsters eager to help Germany. This is their reward.” He smiled broadly.

  “Merci,” Claude said, accepting the package. “How good of you. We wish your son well. Our boys will put these knives to good use.”

  “Tell them to use them slice a few Zhids,” the German said and waved them on.

  Madeleine sat back. The smile left her face, her heart beat less rapidly, and her breath came with ease. They had passed through. They were safe. The small boys laughed and clapped. Claude stepped on the accelerator, and within an hour, they had reached their destination. The farmer and his wife welcomed them warmly.

  “Are you hungry? Will you stay for breakfast?” the motherly woman asked, her arms already resting on the shoulders of the boys.

  Madeleine glanced at Claude. Of course they were hungry. They had eaten nothing since the previous evening. Nor had they thought about food. She laughed.

  “Not just hungry, madame,” she told the smiling woman. “But famished.”

  The meal they ate at the scrubbed wooden table in the farmhouse kitchen was, she thought, the most delicious petit dejeuner of her entire life.

  Fifteen

  Claude suggested that they celebrate their safe return to Paris with dinner at a bistro. It would be a defiant gesture of normalcy, he explained laughingly. Entering the small eatery, Madeleine was surprised to see German officers mingling freely and easily with French patrons. The uniformed soldiers spoke politely to waiters, rose to offer seats to the elderly, and smiled benignly at the few small children. Commandant, his epaulettes emblazoned with the death’s head symbol of the SS division, opened the door for a pregnant woman.

  “Paris is suffused with a surreal calm,” Claude explained wryly. “Everyone is playacting. Germans and French alike. A halcyon time, but the storm is just over the horizon. The Nazis move slowly. They are courting the French, but very soon the honeymoon will end. Today they warned that anyone associated with the Résistance will be executed. Slowly, they are making their power known, unmasking their cruelty, reminding us that we are a captive people. They smile in our bistros and then issue our death warrants in their headquarters. Next winter, all of Paris will shiver because French coal is being shipped across the border to warm homes in Berlin. And every day we see new threats to the Jewish community. They have created what they call un Commissariat Général aux Juives, an agency to deal with Jewish affairs. All Jews are required to report there and register.”

  “Register?” Madeleine asked. The very word confused her.

  “Yes. An order of André Tulard who has created what we call the fichier Tulard, a filing system that lists all Jews by profession and includes their addresses and other details. If you are to remain in Paris, you too must register. I have already done so. And when I completed the process, I was given this obscene badge and told that I must wear it,” he said.

  He glanced nervously around the smoke-filled room before opening his jacket to show her the felt yellow Star of David pinned to his shirt.

  “I do not wear it on my outer garment, but if I am stopped, I can open my jacket and show that I am obeying their hateful law. It is my silent and foolish protest,” he said ruefully.

  “But such a file, such registrations, will make it easy for the Nazis to find Jews and arrest them at will,” Madeleine protested.

  “That is their intent, of course. We know that, but we must comply. Failure to register is a crime punishable by hanging. And such a punishment has already been enacted. A father and his young son, one of our very own éclaireurs boys, were hanged right next to the Arc de Triomphe. A symbolic warning, we know, and one which we take seriously. We scouts cannot take the risk of failing to register.” He fell silent and lifted the menus.

  “So much for this surreal, superficial calm,” she said bitterly and watched a Gestapo officer spring to his feet and open the door of the bistro for an elderly French couple.

  “But remember, our compliance is also superficial. We wear the yellow star, but we also wear the blue-and-white bandanna of the Jewish Scouts. We register but we plan. We comply and we resist.”

  He smiled and showed her his own bandanna, tucked beneath his collar.

  “I am too modest to show you mine,” she retorted teasingly.

  As always, the so
ft blue-and-white cotton square was nestled between her breasts, in the folds of her camisole.

  He grinned.

  “One day you will be immodest and daring enough to show it to me,” he teased.

  “I think we will have to wait for peace to be restored,” she said, a tacit reaffirmation that their feelings remained hostage to the clear and present danger that dominated their lives.

  Not fair, she thought angrily, childishly, even as Claude nodded and ordered two glasses of vin ordinaire. They toasted each other, their glasses clinking.

  “L’Chaim,” they whispered. “To life.”

  “À France,” they said together in full voice, impassioned and audible.

  The pledge to their country was heard through the bistro, and other patrons echoed them in a proud and defiant chorus. The German officers sat in a brooding silence, all pretense of courtesy abandoned. Madeleine and Claude smiled at each other. A very small battle in an overwhelming war had been won.

  The next morning she accompanied him to the offices of the Commissariat General Aux Juives so that she might register, obedient as Claude himself had been to the repellent mandate of the repellent German occupiers of their beloved city.

  As they walked through the second arrondissement, the streets grew more and more familiar. She stared up at a street sign.

  “La Place des Petits,” she said. “Of course. I came here often as a child.”

  “The Germans requisitioned that building to house their damn Commissariat,” Claude said, pointing to an imposing redbrick edifice in the center of the street.

  “How ironic,” Madeleine said. “This building belonged to our family. The Dreyfus name is on the facade.”

  They drew closer, and she traced her finger across the letters of her family name, elegantly carved onto a marble pillar.