“Wasn’t it generous of my great-uncle to erect a building for the use of the Gestapo?” she asked and laughed.
Her question was edged with sarcasm, her laughter laced with fury.
Hand in hand, they entered the building. The bloodred Nazi banner, a black swastika in its center, hung over the heavy walnut reception desk that dominated the ornately paneled lobby. The hem of its cheap synthetic fabric brushed the Dreyfus name so expertly etched into the dark wood.
Madeleine took her place in a line of elderly Jewish men and women who clutched worn leather portfolios that contained the documents that validated their very existence, certificates that proved that they had indeed been born, deeds that confirmed their ownership of a home, certificates for grave sites that assured them a resting place in death. Perhaps diplomas. Perhaps professional certifications. All that defined their lives. As French citizens. As Jews.
A white-bearded man, leaning heavily on a cane, had pinned the Croix de Guerre to his suit jacket. She remembered Frau Hofberg telling her how the Iron Cross she had placed in the window of her home on Kristallnacht had been stolen and thought to warn the old man of the futility of his gesture but she remained silent.
Her turn came at last. Claude stepped aside as she stood before the harsh-voiced, overweight Frenchwoman who wore the bottle-green uniform of the Vichy police. The interrogator’s thick fingers stroked the swastika pin on one lapel and then moved to caress the Vichy medal engraved with the Battle Ax of Gaul, the Vichy emblem plundered from the brave veterans of the Great War, on the other. She barely glanced at Madeleine who leaned toward her, the better to read her lips as she asked her invasive questions in staccato spurts.
“Name?”
“Madeleine Levy.”
“Place of birth?”
“Paris.”
“Religion?”
“Jewish.”
“Are both your parents Jewish?”
“They are.”
“How many of your grandparents were or are Jewish?”
“All four of them.”
Madeleine hesitated, then daringly amended her answer, choosing the condescending tone which her grandmother reserved for rude tradesmen.
“You may know the name of my maternal grandfather, Alfred Dreyfus. He was a Chevalier de la République, a hero of the Great War, as was my uncle, Pierre Dreyfus. Our family name is famous in France. In fact, it is on the facade of this very building and carved into the wood just above your own desk,” she said.
The Vichy policewoman shrugged indifferently. She did not look up. The name Dreyfus was foreign to her and of little interest. She had never noticed that it was etched above the desk at which she sat each day. Reference to the Great War was lost on her. It belonged to a vanished era. She merely lifted her pen, filled out a series of forms, and shoved a new carte d’identité, a pamphlet of regulations, and a yellow felt Star of David at Madeleine.
“Given that all four of your grandparents were Jewish, then under the Statut des Juifs, the statute relating to Jews, you are a Jew,” she muttered.
“Of course. I am proud to be a Jew,” Madeleine replied, maliciously pleased to note that the woman’s pen had leaked and her meaty fingers were ink-stained.
“Take careful note of the entry on page six of the regulation pamphlet. It tells you that as a Jew, you are forbidden to work in the fields of education, civil service, and military communication. There is a quota system limiting the number of Jews who are allowed to practice law or medicine.”
She spoke robotically but with sadistic pleasure.
“Do you understand, Mademoiselle Levy?” she asked, spitting out the patronym contemptuously.
“I understand,” Madeleine replied.
She glanced at the card that identified her as a Jewess, resident in the fourth arrondissement of the city of Paris, and slipped it into the waterproof envelope in her purse that contained her own documents and those of the nonexistent Adele Valheur. Both sets of papers would be within easy reach should she need them, as she knew she would. She wondered how she might transmit the new registration card to Simone so that copies might be forged, but she reminded herself that of course the shrewd teenaged master forger Adolfo Kaminsky had probably done that already.
“Do not forget to wear the Star of David on your outer garment,” the officer barked as Madeleine turned to leave.
She turned and smiled laconically.
“I certainly will. I will wear it with pride,” she said, but her words went unacknowledged. Her interrogator was already spitting her questions at an elderly woman who answered in a voice that quivered with fear.
Walking swiftly, Madeleine and Claude left the building.
“At least Jews are not barred from social work,” she said bitterly.
“It is fortunate that you were certified before the occupation,” he said. “The reason why your return to Paris was a matter of urgency is because you are a trained social worker. Madame Danier will explain the details tomorrow. You are fortunate. My situation is very different. Jewish students are no longer welcome at the Sorbonne. A reasonable act, I suppose. If Jews are forbidden to work as lawyers, why should they be allowed to study law?”
“Oh, Claude. I’m so sorry.”
She knew how much he had sacrificed in pursuit of his law degree.
“What will you do?” she asked.
“We have brave professors at the Sorbonne. They hold secret seminars for Jewish students and smuggle law texts to us. There are Frenchmen who still believe in liberté, égalité, fraternité,” he said.
“Of course there are.”
When she had an address for her uncle Pierre, she would write and tell him of the efforts of the Sorbonne professors, of the goodness of the farmer who had welcomed two Jewish boys into his home, of the nuns who sheltered Jewish children in their sequestered convent. She wanted Pierre to know that not every Frenchman had capitulated to Pétain.
Pierre Dreyfus had sent no word since his arrival in New York, a silence the family attributed to his overwhelming schedule of writing and speaking. It was possible, of course, that he had indeed written but that his letters had been in the mailbags of international liners torpedoed by German U-boats. It was another worry that Madeleine hugged to herself, fearful of frightening her parents and her grandmother.
She sighed and wondered why it was so important that she meet with Madame Danier, although she was pleased that she would see her wise and compassionate mentor again.
* * *
The dean of the Institute of Social Work was delighted to welcome Madeleine back to Paris. She greeted her warmly, happily recognizing that her former student, once so shy and hesitant, had blossomed into a confident and beautiful young woman. Madeleine’s brown hair, thick and silken, fell smoothly to her shoulders. Her dark eyes were flecked with gold, her smile generous. The dean speculated that Madeleine Levy’s new confidence and self-assurance had in all probability been forged by her experiences as a Jew in Nazi-occupied France.
She motioned Madeleine to a seat and poured coffee for both of them from the carafe always present on her desk.
“More chicory than coffee,” she said apologetically. “Most of our good coffee seems to have found its way to the dining quarters of German officers who have developed a fondness for our café au lait.”
She waited for Madeleine’s smile and continued.
“I am so pleased to see you. You have been much missed. We feared you might be unable to return, given these absurd restrictions against Jews,” she said.
Her mentor’s choice of the word absurd pleased Madeleine. She sipped the bitter brew and nodded.
“Yes. Absurd,” she repeated. “And wicked.”
“We are living in an era of absurdity and wickedness,” the dean agreed, and she added a spoonful of sugar to her cup as though to sweeten the bit
terness of her utterance.
“But we must each fight wickedness and absurdity,” she continued. “We at the Institute of Social Work are committed to undertaking projects that are modest in nature but important to those they benefit. I think of such projects as lighting small candles against the darkness of the Occupation Authority. Many small candles can give forth a mighty glow. Do you agree?”
Madeleine turned the words over in her mind.
“But a single small flame is easily extinguished by the slightest wind,” she replied.
“Does that mean we should cease lighting it?”
“No. Of course not.”
She waited, growing impatient with the circuitous introduction to the agenda she knew the dean would soon propose, but she was aware that this was Madame Danier’s pedagogic method. Her social work students had always been taught to weigh assignments for their abstract worth as well as their immediate practicality.
“I am prepared to light a candle, however small,” Madeleine added.
“Excellent. That was what I hoped to hear. Your comrades in the éclaireurs assured me that you would say just that. That was why it was important that you return to the north, despite the danger. Such a small candle has presented itself. And we hope you will agree to light it. The Institute has received a grant from an anonymous Résistance supporter to organize an educational and recreational program for the children of conscripted workers in an armament factory in Gentilly. It is a cruel situation.
“The Nazi authority has forcibly recruited men and women, most of them Jewish. They have uprooted entire families and resettled them in a crude barracks near the plant. It is part of the program that they call Service de Travail Obligatoire, Obligatory Work Service to the State. To the State of Germany, of course, not the State of France. The children of those workers have been deprived of both education and recreation. There are no facilities for them, no health care, inadequate food. They are malnourished and depressed. They rarely see their parents. As social workers, we understand the impact of the trauma of separation on youngsters. We cannot ignore such a situation.”
She spoke with the certitude and conviction of a professional pledged to respond to an urgent need.
“Of course not. It cannot be ignored,” Madeleine echoed.
“We know that you have a special talent for working with young children and a gift for organization. It was an official of the Jewish Scouts who suggested that you be placed in charge of our program in Gentilly. We want to establish programs for the children. It is our wish that you agree to undertake this operation.”
“I do agree,” Madeleine said without hesitating.
“Excellent. Public transportation to Gentilly is a problem, but I have been told that the Jewish Scouts can arrange that. Am I correct?”
She flashed Madeleine a complicit smile, and Madeleine nodded. The dean obviously knew that the Jewish Scouts, with the support of the Union of French Jews, had managed to commandeer an odd armada of vehicles—ancient cars, rusted lorries, battered vacation caravans. They did not rival the German tanks and the Vichy police cars, but they were carefully maintained and easily available.
“I will have no difficulty traveling to Gentilly,” Madeleine said.
Claude would arrange it, she knew. She herself was a novice driver, although among Simone’s forged documents was a license for Adele Valheur. She had assured her sister that, because of her hearing deficit, she would only drive in an emergency. Claude would take the wheel, she decided, and felt a guilty thrill of pleasure. Their togetherness on the journey to the suburb would be an unexpected gift of precious shared time.
Madame Danier handed her a folder.
“This is a roster of the children who will be in your charge. I think you will be relieved to see that little Anna Hofberg and her brothers are listed. I know you have a special affection for her.”
“I do,” Madeleine said.
She did not add that she had in fact planned to seek out Anna, her fantasy little sister, that very day. “The situation of the Hofberg family is worrisome,” Madame Danier said. “Not only are they Jewish, but they are refugees without any legal status in France. No documents of any kind.”
Madeleine was silent. She longed to tell Madame Danier that she carried with her Simone’s forged documents for the Hofberg children, but that knowledge could not be shared. Like all scout leaders, she had taken an oath of secrecy. What was not known could not be revealed.
“Is the Vichy government aware of the Institute’s efforts in Gentilly?” she asked.
“We sent a memo to what they call their Social Service Bureau. Since such a bureau is almost certainly nonexistent, we can be certain that it was never read, but the copy in our file may offer us some protection.”
Her answer did not surprise Madeleine. It was necessary that the Institute shield itself with a wall of pretense. Robert Gamzon had impressed upon scout leaders that their courage did not mandate suicide.
“I assume that my name did not appear on that memo,” she said.
“Of course not.” The reply was indignant. “We are careful, not stupid, Madeleine.”
“I just wanted to be sure that danger will be minimal,” Madeleine said defensively.
“These days we awaken with danger and await danger even in our sleep. I can offer you no guarantee of safety. But of course you are free to decline the assignment,” Madame Danier said.
It was Madeleine’s turn to be indignant.
“It has not occurred to me to decline,” she replied, and they smiled at each other in mutual understanding of the risks and obligations they shared.
Madame Danier walked to the door with Madeleine and took her hand.
“Adieu, ma fille,” she said softly.
“Au revoir, ma maîtresse,” Madeleine replied.
With those words, so somberly uttered, with that touch so tentatively offered, they acknowledged that it was entirely possible that a revoir, a reunion, might never occur. The war had robbed every leave-taking of the certainty of return.
Sixteen
Claude commandeered an ancient sedan, and on a bleak October day, they drove southward from Paris to the industrial compound in Gentilly. Madeleine, her heart pounding, presented her credentials as an accredited social worker to a gruff Milice officer. The Milice was a Vichy French police force, partnered with the Nazi SS, sharing both their toxic prejudices and their vicious methods. She was relieved that the officer barely scanned her documents and ignored her proffered explanation that she was on official assignment to assist “the children of the patriotic workers in the Führer’s industrial operation.”
Madame Danier’s words were both false and well chosen. A more accurate description would have been “the children of the Führer’s slave laborers,” Madeleine thought caustically as the officer tossed the papers back to her.
“Those children are delinquent scum. Jewish trash,” he muttered. “Your driver?” he asked, barely glancing at Claude and not bothering to question him or ask him to provide documents. He was an important man with no time to spare for underlings like drivers.
“Yes, my driver,” Madeleine said, and she and Claude followed him to a dilapidated outbuilding.
Its windows were broken, the rough floor encrusted with filth. Spiderwebs dangled from a cracked and weatherworn ceiling, and the stink of animal excrement fouled the air.
“You may have the use of this building,” the Milice officer barked. “Good luck to you. You will need it. You are trying to tame wild animals. Lepers. Untermenschen.”
He left, slamming the door behind him.
Madeleine trembled, although neither his words nor his attitude surprised her. The hostility of the Milice to the Jewish community was common knowledge. She surmised that large bribes had been paid to the Milice commandant for the modest program she was organizing.
Claude placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and ran his fingers through her dark hair, brushing away the ash-colored grains of asbestos that rained down upon them.
“Forget about the bastard,” he said. “Let’s start to clean this place up before we are asphyxiated.”
With his usual prescience, he had thought to fill the trunk of the car with cleaning supplies, and they went to work at once, mopping the floor, washing down the walls, and covering the broken windows with slabs of cardboard. As they worked, small groups of children wandered over and watched. One by one, the boys and girls began to help. Within minutes, the Hofberg children appeared.
“Madeleine, is it really you?”
Anna rushed up to her, thin arms outstretched, her face aglow with sudden happiness. Madeleine hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks, relieved to see that despite her pallor, the child did not appear to be ill.
“And is it really you, my Anna?” she asked in turn and was rewarded with a giggle.
“It is really me,” Anna replied. “We hate this terrible place, but at least our family is still together.”
Samuel and David held out their hands in welcome. Their éclaireurs training had transformed the shy and frightened boys into confident troop leaders. They looked at her gratefully, and she understood that her very presence offered them a modicum of hope.
They swiftly organized the assembled children into units with defined tasks. One group helped Claude cover the windows, while another rid the area of accumulated rubbish. A contingent of girls joined Anna in fashioning decorations using the crayons and construction paper Madeleine had scavenged from teacher friends. Swings of rough wood were attached by frayed ropes to the leafless branches of deadened trees. With effort and energy, a playground was created, and the joyous shouts of children swinging through the air and bouncing on improvised seesaws shattered the somber silence. By the end of the day, the grim and forbidding area had been transformed into a welcoming space. The parents of the children, wearied by their long hours of hard labor, smiled gratefully to see their children restored, however briefly, to happiness as they trudged back to their barracks.
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