Their hearts were heavy but their voices gathered strength. They continued reading the Haggadah. They laughed as the Hebrew was mispronounced, as red wine formed circles of stains on the white cloth, as serious answers were given to foolish questions. They grimaced as they ate the bitter herb. They swirled sprigs of parsley in salt water and fed them to each other. The food was served and complimented. “Such wonderful soup.” “Such delicious chicken.” “Such succulent duck.”
Madeleine ladled the compote onto Claude’s plate.
“The food of your childhood,” she reminded him and he, tasting its sweetness, slowly emerged from his melancholy. He smiled.
“Do not be frightened,” he said. “We will prevail.”
She read his lips, she touched them, as though each word he uttered might be imprinted upon her fingers. What she could not hear, she could feel.
“The Jews of Warsaw are very brave,” she murmured.
“As are the Jews of France,” he agreed. “As is my Madeleine of Toulouse.”
She looked across the table, her eyes resting on Serge, who sat back, his large hand stroking Simone’s slender wrist. She thought it wondrous that in this death-haunted world, on a night when the wails of Jewish infants trebled through the Warsaw ghetto, Simone and Serge, daring and optimistic gamblers, awaited the birth of their child with loving tenderness.
Sitting beside Claude, Madeleine willed herself to be a secret sharer, a committed chaser of their dream. Yes, she dared to believe, to dream, that her sister’s unborn child, conceived in a time of raging war, would grow up in a world of peace.
She sipped the last glass of wine and joined in the singing of the final blessing.
“May God who makes peace in the firmament grant peace unto his people. Amen.”
Their voices swelled as the candles flickered and slowly burned down, dropping waxen tears onto the wine-stained cloth, canopying the room in a soothing dimness.
Twenty-Eight
Claude left Toulouse. Their precious week of togetherness was over. He had managed to find new routes, to recruit a new cadre of Spanish guides. He was now assigned to an operation in a distant city, he told Madeleine.
“Where?” she asked although she understood that he could not, would not, tell her.
“But in France?” she persisted.
He did not answer. He lit a Gauloise and blew a smoke ring. He twisted a ringlet of her dark hair about his finger.
“Not Poland?” Her voice trembled.
“No. Not Poland.”
That much he could tell her. She breathed a sigh of relief. The scraps of news that drifted in from Warsaw continued to be disheartening. The BBC reported that the ghetto battle against all odds still raged and would, in all probability, continue for several weeks. The Germans were intent on murder and destruction but Jewish resistance continued. Madeleine had heard rumors that Jewish French Résistants might be smuggled into Poland to join the ghetto fighters.
“That is what they say,” she told Claude.
“Such rumors are ridiculous,” Claude replied tersely. “French Jews are not going to Poland. Robert Gamzon himself has said that it is not our duty to go to the slaughterhouse. It is our duty to escape it. We did not join the Résistance, we did not become éclaireurs, to die. We joined to save lives.”
She nodded, prepared a packet of food for his journey, and leaned into his embrace as they stood in the doorway of her parents’ apartment. He touched her hair, pressed his lips to one cheek and then the other, rested them on the yielding softness of her mouth.
“I will write,” he promised.
She did not reply but placed his hand upon her breast, felt its tender pressure, the tactile pledge of his love and her own.
She did not weep until he left the building, until she heard the muffled roar of the engine as he drove the Citroën down the rue de la Dalbade. She did not see which way it turned. It did not matter. Danger lurked in every direction. She allowed her tears to run their course and then returned to her work. There were forms to be filled out, children to be spirited to hiding places. Life would go on. Of that much, at least, she was certain.
April drifted into May. The days grew longer. Warm winds rustled the golden wands of budding forsythia. Madeleine gathered the graceful sprays and bought bouquets to her mother, her grandmother, to Simone. Flowers, as always, brought her comfort, a small relief from the oppressive sadness she felt as the news went from bad to worse.
The uprising in Warsaw ended. The ghetto was in ashes. Seven thousand Jews had been murdered; seven thousand Jews had been deported to Treblinka. The numbers overwhelmed. Memorial candles for the martyrs of Warsaw flickered in the homes of the Jewish Résistance fighters of France.
“Sept mille, seven thousand,” Simone murmured as she lit a candle, careful to place it out of view of the window. “One memorial candle for seven thousand lives.”
“We would need a forest of flames to honor them all,” Madeleine said sadly.
She imagined a huge expanse of fire, a conflagration that would incinerate all evil, all hatred. She sighed and saw that a troop of Vichy shock troops, the dread Milice force, was marching robotically down the narrow street. Evil persisted; hatred endured. She stared at the bravely flickering flame of the memorial candle and braced herself for the dark days to come.
And they came. In May. In June. The sunlit days of spring brought only news that grew increasingly dark. As the Germans suffered continual losses, they increased the arrests and deportations, an odd and distorted compensation for their defeats on the battlefield. Venomous attacks assailed the Jews of France. The Résistance responded.
The Jewish leadership in Paris formed an umbrella organization, the Jewish Union for Resistance and Support, which would operate throughout the country. Madeleine and Serge were named leaders of the Toulouse unit. Recognizing the imminent danger to Jewish children, they increased their efforts to spirit the youngsters to safety.
“We must do even more,” Serge insisted.
She agreed. Three groups of Jewish youngsters in her roster had already crossed the Pyrenees, following the new routes Claude had mapped out, guided by Basque mountaineers and éclaireurs with whom she had worked. She yearned to lead the next such group, which would include Anna Hofberg, who had survived a bout of pneumonia during the chilly days of early spring and was now recuperating. Madeleine was determined to save the small girl, the surrogate sister of her fantasies. But Serge voiced valid objections.
“Anna is not ready,” he said. “Her health is too fragile. The other children in her group need more preparation. And you are needed here. Your cover as a Vichy employee is important. No other Jew can cycle through the south with impunity. Your skills are vital. The Résistance family relies on you, Madeleine.”
He paused.
“As does your family,” he added.
She heard the plea in his voice and knew she had no choice. Of course she would remain in Toulouse. Because of her family. Because Anna was not strong enough for the arduous trek. Because the Toulouse Résistance needed her. And, she admitted, because it was in Toulouse that Claude would find her. It was from Toulouse that he and she, working in tandem, would lead her small group of children across the Pyrenees to freedom. That had been his promise to her. She invoked his words, however tentative, at moments when she felt herself sinking into melancholy.
I will try to be with you, he had said.
“Of course I will stay in Toulouse,” she told Serge.
“You are very brave, Madeleine,” he said.
“Do I have a choice?”
The bitterness in her voice startled him. He stared at his young sister-in-law and saw the sadness and yearning in her eyes.
“Nor do I,” he replied. “Resistance is our only option. There is no other choice. Not for you and me. Not for Simone.”
“Or
for Claude,” she added. The very mention of his name comforted her.
Serge nodded.
“Or for Claude,” he agreed.
“You remember that we go to Lyon next week,” Serge reminded her and she understood that he wanted to distract her, to prevent her from sinking into the quagmire of dangerous sadness. How kind he was, her gruff and daring brother-in-law, her sister’s loving and beloved husband.
“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” she assured him.
The Lyon meeting involved all regional leaders. It would be a dangerous gathering, made even more dangerous because it had been initiated by Jean Moulin, a Free French official. His courage was legendary. He was Charles de Gaulle’s own special envoy, endorsed by Britain’s special operations executive, and had been smuggled into France in a covert high-risk operation. His vulnerability made all who met with him vulnerable. The Lyon meeting, fraught as it was with peril, evoked a visceral fear which Madeleine fought with determination. She knew that the journey itself would be hazardous, but her attendance was mandatory. As Serge had reminded her, they had no choice.
Cycling to a safe house beneath a starlit sky, she wished herself away from danger and sacrifice. With the soft night wind brushing her face, she imagined herself safe in Claude’s arms.
“Why can I not have even one hour of happiness?” she shouted into the darkness as she cycled ever more swiftly. A light spring rain began to fall, the soft, cool drops brushing her cheeks as though in answer to her plaintive plea.
* * *
Their journey to Lyon was, surprisingly, without incident. The meeting convened in the basement of a church, and Madeleine, glancing around the dimly lit room, realized that she and Serge were the only Jews present.
“It does not matter,” she told herself. “We are all Résistants, Jewish and Gentile alike.”
She tried not to think of the stories that had emanated from Warsaw of non-Jewish partisans who had refused to assist the Jewish ghetto fighters. The French were not Poles, she assured herself and concentrated on Jean Moulin’s words.
He was a ruggedly handsome man, charismatic and soft-spoken, at once authoritative and reassuring.
“My base will be the Southern Zone,” he said. “But my aim is to unite all Résistance forces throughout France. All. Jewish units and non-Jewish units alike.”
His gaze rested deliberately on Serge and Madeleine. There was a murmur of agreement, of approval.
“Les juives. Les Juives. Nos camarades.”
Serge and Madeleine relaxed. Jean Moulin nodded, smiled approvingly, but all pleasantness vanished when he spoke of the Nazi regime. He made no effort to conceal his fury at the Nazis’ cruelty, his contempt for all they represented.
“They are cowardly, those doryphores.” He spat the word out, and the assembled leaders laughed at its aptness.
A doryphore was the green and greedy potato bug, hated by French farmers because it devoured their crops. Yes, Madeleine thought, the Nazi occupiers in their despised green uniforms did resemble the vermin of the fields. They would devour all who loved freedom. Thinking of the Nazis as vermin diminished the fear they inspired. She added her voice to the chorus of Résistance leaders.
“Doryphores,” they shouted and snapped their fingers as though to crush the disgusting beetles that haunted their land.
“Our weapon against the doryphores is sabotage. We will exterminate them, deny them life and power, by cutting their communication lines, derailing their supply trains, blowing up their ammunition stores. We will destroy bridges, railroad tracks.”
He unrolled one topographical map after another, spreading them across a trestle table. With a pointer, he specified targets in each area of the Southern Zone. When he reached the Toulouse area, Madeleine and Serge leaned forward, their eyes never leaving the unfurled map. Jean Moulin spoke tersely.
“The Toulouse train station must be hit. The police headquarters. But most important of all, the bridges must be destroyed or, at the very least, rendered impassable.”
His pointer rested on the Ponts Jumeaux, the three bridges that spanned the banks of the Garonne River—the Pont St. Pierre to the north, the Pont St. Michel to the south, and the Pont Neuf at the center.
Serge and Madeleine nodded. They understood the strategic importance of the bridges. They were essential to German troop movements, the conduit for the convoys of trucks that transported Jewish prisoners from Brens and other internment centers to the cattle cars at the Bobigny depot, that rattled their way to Treblinka and Auschwitz. The destruction, even the partial destruction, of the bridges would deter and, hopefully, terminate the deportation of French Jews to the killing fields of Poland. But they understood, too, how hazardous and fraught with danger any attempt to sabotage the bridges would be.
Serge stood, bent over the map, sighed deeply, and turned to Moulin.
“An attack on those bridges will be difficult, perhaps impossible,” he said. “Our city is riddled with collaborators,” he continued. “There is a huge Vichy and Milice presence. Informers are everywhere. Our Résistance fighters have little training in sabotage and limited access to matérielle. The risk is too great, the outcome too uncertain. I am not sure we can proceed.” He spoke slowly, every word etched with regret.
“I know all that, of course,” Jean Moulin said. “But you will be well trained. All that is needed for successful demolitions will be supplied. The risk may be great but the outcome will, I assure you, be certain. We, in the Free French, have faith in you, Serge Perl. In you and in Madeleine Levy. You must have faith in yourselves.”
He lit another cigarette. Madeleine watched as he blew a smoke ring. The wispy halo drifted lazily through the windowless basement. That playful exhalation relieved her fear. Moulin’s confidence, his ease, reassured her. She relaxed, calmed by the certainty he exuded.
“Are you and Mademoiselle Levy prepared to undertake this project?” he asked.
He spoke loudly, clearly, his loudness and clarity aimed at Madeleine, who nodded.
The assembled leaders stared at them expectantly.
Serge glanced at Madeleine. She met his gaze.
“Oui,” she said, her own voice loud and clear.
“Oui,” Serge echoed, and Jean Moulin smiled.
“Bon. While you are here in Lyon, you will be well trained in the techniques of demolition, the intricacies of explosives. This is knowledge you will share with your comrades in Toulouse, but experience has taught us that an act of sabotage, such as the one we envision for the bridges, is safest when only two well-trained and committed volunteers are involved. You two will coordinate the operation. You will appoint two operatives for each of the other bridges. Not now. Not yet. You will know when to act.”
Serge nodded. Moulin’s message was clear, his perception accurate. Serge and Madeleine were the designated leaders. Moulin understood that they represented an ideal partnership. They shared a mutuality of commitment. They were brother and sister, their bond sealed by both marriage and affection, their loyalty inbred.
The meeting continued, and when it drew to an end, Jean Moulin approached Madeleine. He leaned toward her, facing her so closely that she read his lips with ease. He enunciated each word clearly. Of course he knew about her hearing deficit. She wondered what else he knew about her.
“Please, Mademoiselle Levy, be assured that you will have everything you need for this important mission. Everyone will be of assistance. We are all dedicated to putting an end to the deportations of your people. The Free French stand firmly with the Jewish Union for Resistance and Support.”
He turned to the others in the room, all of whom had heard his words. Heads nodded. Assent was murmured. Smiles flashed. Madeleine felt a rush of gratitude. They were not alone. The Jews of France had comrades in arms. Jews and Gentiles together, all loyal to the patrie, jointly bound by the ideals of liberté, égali
té, fraternité.
The meeting was at an end. They dispersed slowly to avoid suspicion. Serge and Madeleine were the last to leave, followed closely by Moulin. He touched her arm, drew her aside.
“I bring you greetings from your friend Claude Lehmann. He is safe,” Moulin said.
She trembled. Questions raced through her mind, but she knew that they could not be asked.
“Merci,” she murmured and followed Serge out. A faint light was trained on the street sign that read rue Juiverie. She smiled bitterly. They stood on a thoroughfare named for a synagogue and a community that no longer existed. How long would any juiverie endure in France? she wondered as they walked on.
* * *
The next several days in Lyon were spent with a pale engineer. Smuggled in from England at considerable personal risk and speaking in oddly accented French, he taught them the intricacies of booby traps, the advantages of long fuses and short sticks of dynamite, the virtues of petrol and glycerine. They learned the most effective methods of destroying iron rails, of bringing down great spans of bridges. He cautioned them not to be afraid of what he called “collateral damage.” There was no guarantee that lives might not inadvertently be lost, but he assured them they were mandated to proceed.
“But we may be killing innocent citizens,” a timorous Résistante from Avignon protested.
“Yes, there may be unfortunate deaths, but in the end you will be saving lives,” he replied. “It happens in war that a few may be sacrificed to save the many. Compassion is a luxury we cannot afford. Conscience must be shelved until we win the war.”
They were not surprised when the Avignon volunteer disappeared from the course.
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