“We leave you here,” Madame Montand said. “Your comrades in the Jewish Résistance will arrive as planned. They know where to park their vehicle. Our hearts are with you.”
“And our prayers,” André added, even as he removed the priestly vestments and stood before them in the shabby uniform of the bus company, careful to tuck his faded scarf with the Résistance symbol of the Cross of Lorraine beneath his collar.
“We will never forget all you have done for us,” Claude said, grasping his hand.
Madeleine embraced Madame Montand and kissed her on both cheeks, and then she and Claude hurried across the cobblestoned street and into the courtyard of the building she had once called home.
She glanced at the stooped apple tree whose bruised fruit she had gathered during hunger-haunted days, remembering how her mother had cooked them into a sauce that emitted a bittersweet fragrance. She looked up at the grime-encrusted windows of their fourth-floor apartment and was assaulted by memories. In her mind’s eye, she saw Simone and Serge, joyous bride and groom, her brothers mock-wrestling, Claude sitting beside her on their battered sofa, her father and mother talking softly, her grandmother Lucie crocheting in a circlet of lamplight. Scenes of domestic tranquility cruelly shattered by the winds of war. She shivered and thrust all memories aside. She and Claude hurried to the concierge’s doorway and prayed that Madame Leonie would be there.
Madeleine knocked and waited. One minute passed, then another. She knocked again, waited again. Terror gathered. She gagged on her fear. Was it possible that Madame Leonie, a long-time Résistance member, had been arrested? Had she fled Toulouse?
“Simone saw her only days ago,” Claude whispered.
“That means nothing,” Madeleine said despairingly.
She knew that a single hour, a single day in occupied France was an eternity. Anything might have happened since Simone’s visit.
“What should we do?” she asked Claude, but even as she spoke, the courtyard gate opened and Madame Leonie, shrouded in an oversize black, hooded cape and carrying a string bag of groceries, stared at them. She paused, momentarily overtaken by surprise, then moved swiftly. Without uttering a sound, she unlocked her door and motioned them to enter. Hurriedly, they followed her inside. Only when she had fastened the bolt and lowered the window shades did she turn to them.
“Can it really be Madeleine Levy?” she gasped, her voice tremulous.
She shrugged out of her cape and held Madeleine close in her painfully thin arms. Her lips grazed Madeleine’s cheeks, and Madeleine, in turn, kissed her on the forehead. She inhaled the remembered scent of the rouge the widowed concierge always used to mask the pallor of her skin and felt the metallic pressure of the heavy key ring at the concierge’s waist.
“Cher Madame Leonie,” she murmured.
The concierge’s reply tumbled out in a meld of gladness and fear, welcome and warning.
“I never thought to see you again. Every collaborator in Toulouse, the Milice, the Vichy police, the Gestapo, they are all looking for you. They have been here, each of them, all of them. They searched your parents’ apartment and went from floor to floor throughout the building. They ransacked my rooms and the basement. And they will be back. Oh, how glad I am to see you, Madeleine Levy, but it is not safe for you to be here.”
“We will not be here long, madame,” Claude said.
“Ah, Monsieur Lehmann. I remember your visits to the Levy family. I remember that you were a very special friend to our Madeleine.”
She smiled at him and held her hand out.
“And now, I see, you are her protector,” she added.
And so he was, Madeleine thought. He was her protector, her protective lover. Her mind closed over the word, claiming it, welcoming it. Lover. Amant.
She wondered who might have been Madame Leonie’s protector through the long years of her widowhood. Had she had a lover after her husband’s death? Surely her mother would know. Jeanne Levy had a talent for ferreting out secrets and delighted in sharing scraps of romantic gossip with her daughters. The random, irrelevant thought, fluttering through her mind at such an unlikely time, amused and soothed Madeleine. An odd normalcy was restored. With a new calm, she turned to the elderly concierge.
“We are here because it is important that we enter my parents’ apartment. We must have access to the storage closet. We are in urgent need of the items my mother collected. Can you help us?” Madeleine asked.
Madame Leonie nodded. She had often accepted the donations of clothing and footwear and trudged up the stairwell to deliver them to Jeanne Levy, often helping to thrust them into the closet. No questions had been asked because the answers were known. She had not hesitated then. She did not hesitate now.
“Of course I can help you. I have the keys to the apartment, the key to the padlock on the closet.”
Her arthritic fingers fumbled with her key ring, and at last she released the large brass key to the apartment door and then a smaller one for the padlock. She handed both to Claude.
“There is something more I must ask you to do for us,” Madeleine began, but before she could continue, Madame Leonie shook her head and spoke in a whisper.
“Quiet. Do not speak. There is someone in the courtyard. They come at all hours. Spies everywhere,” she hissed bitterly.
They crouched behind the sofa as Madame Leonie knelt beside the window and peered through the slit of light beneath the black shade.
“No. It is all right. It was only the bin collector, and he is gone. I am sorry to have frightened you, but since the bombings and the assassinations, the Gestapo and the Vichy police are everywhere. The Milice are the worst. They were in the market this morning, demanding to see papers, confiscating cartes d’identité and making random arrests. I know they will come here again. Toulouse is very dangerous today and especially dangerous for you. I do not know what you plan, but would it not be safer if you wait until things are calmer?” she said. “Perhaps a few days, a week. I can arrange for a hiding place.”
“It will be a very long time before things are calmer,” Madeleine replied. “We cannot wait. Tomorrow will be as dangerous as today, only colder and darker. So it is today that we must have your help, dear Madame Leonie.”
“Of course you will have my help. I understand.”
She lowered her head, reluctant but accepting. She understood that the warm clothing and boots that Jeanne Levy had gathered would outfit Jewish children in their desperate odyssey across icebound mountain trails. The little ones, les petits, would need the protection of thick wool and soft fleece, of sturdy boots and thickly soled walking shoes. Oh, they would need so much more than that. They would need the protection of God Himself. Her heart broke for the children, for Madeleine Levy and Claude Lehmann, who would, against all odds, try to rescue them, and for the broken world of her old age. She thought to pray but could not find the words.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked instead.
“We want you to stand in the stairwell, perhaps pretend to be mopping the steps. We will rely on you to signal us if the gendarmerie or the Gestapo arrive. Do not shout if they should enter. Just sing ‘Alouette, gentille alouette.’ There is an exit in the storage closet that accesses the fire escape. If we hear your song, I will have time enough to dash down that ladder and out through the rear door of the building,” Madeleine replied.
She sighed. It was a flimsy plan, but at least it was a plan. She could move more quickly than the pursuers, who would have to climb the four floors.
“I understand. But how will you carry all that you need out of the building?”
“That will not be a problem,” Madeleine assured her. “I alone will collect what is essential and bundle everything into sheets, which I will toss from the window. Claude will remain below to retrieve them, and then I will race down and join him. The Jewish Résistance will have a car
waiting for us, and we will be gone. All will be done quickly. It will not be difficult. Not unduly dangerous.”
The words came easily, but she was undeceived by her own facile assurances.
Madame Leonie smiled wryly and shook her head.
“It will be difficult, ma cherie. It will be dangerous. But then everything is difficult. Everything is dangerous. It is dangerous to breathe. It is dangerous to buy a baguette. It is dangerous to listen to the radio. So difficulties must be overcome, dangers must be ignored, and we must do what we must do. I have helped other Résistants escape from this apartment. You must do what I advise.”
She turned to Claude.
“Thick vines grow on the outside wall, just beneath the windows of the Levy apartment. You will stand behind them and remain hidden by the leaves. Your view of the street will be clear enough to see the car sent by the Jewish Résistance when it approaches. Dash out only to snatch up what Madeleine tosses down to you and throw it into the car. Then you will leap into it, Madeleine will follow, and with God’s help, you will be on your way,” she said breathlessly.
They nodded and moved silently, swiftly. Claude passed the keys to Madeleine. Clutching them, she raced through the dark and narrow entry of the building and climbed the four flights of stairs to the apartment she remembered so well. Madame Leonie stationed herself at the bottom of the stairwell with her mop and pail. Claude dashed outside and concealed himself in the thicket of overgrown vine leaves.
Madeleine inserted the heavy key in the lock and pushed the door open. The room was dark, the flimsy furniture shrouded in layers of dust. A necrotic odor emanated from the kitchen and a sickening stench from the water closet. She gagged against her rising nausea and hurried into the larger bedroom where her parents had slept. She saw at once that the padlock on the storage closet was rusted. A difficulty, she knew.
She inserted the key. It did not turn. Trembling, fighting a wave of panic, she tried to pull it out, but it remained in place. Fearful that it would snap, she manipulated it slowly, and at last it was released. She inserted the key again, trying a different angle. The lock clicked and she flung the door open, perceiving at once that all was just as her very organized mother had left it. Outer garments were in one pile, sweaters in another. Scarves and mittens were in large hatboxes embossed with the monogram of Lucie Dreyfus’s Paris milliner, Chapeaux de Madame Désirée. Madeleine smiled wistfully. Yes, there had been a time when her elegant grandmother had spent happy hours trying on fashionable hats in front of a gilt-framed mirror.
But this was not the time for nostalgic reverie. She rummaged through the hatbox, selecting the thickest knits, happy to find the blue scarf and mittens that she was certain would match Anna’s eyes. A fortunate omen, she thought. She tossed them onto the sheet she had pulled off the bed, adding jackets, sweaters, woolen hats, and boots, blessed thick-soled boots. She filled one sheet and then another, tied each to form a clumsy sack, and pulled them both over to the window.
Peering out, she was relieved to see Claude crouched in the labyrinth of vines directly below her. As she opened the window, a battered automobile turned the corner and parked in front of the building. She recognized the driver, David Sorel, a gaunt and dedicated leader of the Jewish Résistance, known for his courage and daring. She breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was proceeding according to their plan; everything would be all right.
Summoning all her strength, she forced the window open, lifted one unwieldy sack, and tossed it down. Claude sprinted forth, seized it, and ran to the car, thrusting it into the boot. She shoved the second bundle over the sill, and he retrieved that one as well, sprinting to the car.
Exhausted and exhilarated, Madeleine knelt for a moment beside the open window, filling her lungs with the fresh air. There, it was done. Their mission was accomplished. Against all odds, they had succeeded. She now had only to dash down the stairwell and jump into the waiting vehicle and into Claude’s loving embrace. Before that day ended, they would reach the children who waited for them at Lézignan-Corbières. She imagined Anna’s happiness and the excitement of the other children. Their dreams of rescue and freedom now becoming a reality.
Both exhilarated and weak with relief, she turned away from the window. She gasped. Within seconds, exhilaration morphed into shock, shock into dismay, relief into terror. Two burly Milice officers stood in the doorway. They stared at her, sneers distorting their faces, the one brandishing a pistol, the other a truncheon. Slowly, menacingly, they moved toward her.
“Madeleine Dreyfus-Levy, Jewess, we arrest you with the full authority of the National Revolution. Acting as a terrorist agent of the Résistance Intérieure Française, you have broken the laws of the Vichy government,” the officer holding the pistol bellowed.
He seized her wrist and pulled her toward him. She smelled the sour wine and garlic on his breath, the stink of his sweat. Gasping for air, she broke free and rushed to the open window. The street was deserted, the car gone. David Sorel had driven away. Claude had escaped.
Good, she thought. C’est assez. It is enough.
Claude was safe. He would take the clothing to the children and guide them across the Pyrenees to freedom. That was enough. That would have to be enough.
Once again, her wrist was in the officer’s grip, her arm then twisted painfully behind her back. Unflinching, she stared defiantly at him.
“Vive la France. Vive liberté, égalité, fraternité. Vive de Gaulle. Vive les Éclaireurs Israélites,” she shouted defiantly, her voice vibrant, her gaze steady, her saliva spraying his face.
He raised his truncheon and brought it down with great force against her cheek. She staggered and he pushed her toward the stairwell, his knee pressed against her back, his thick fingers gripping her breast.
“Whore. Jewish whore.” He spat the words out, and she felt his fetid breath upon her neck.
Madame Leonie, tears streaking her cheeks, stood in the doorway.
“I sang, Madeleine. I sang to warn you, but I had forgotten that you have difficulty hearing. I did not sing loud enough, and my warning was lost to you. How could I have forgotten? Oh, how sorry I am. So sorry.”
“You will be sorrier still, you Résistance bitch!” the officer shouted as he struck her across the shoulders with the butt of his pistol.
“Leave her alone. She is an old woman. Do you not have a mother?” Madeleine shouted at him and was surprised to see his face flush with shame.
She turned to Madame Leonie.
“Do not distress yourself. You are not to blame. It does not matter. Nothing matters,” she said as she was shoved out of the darkened entryway into the brightness of sunlight.
She closed her eyes against the sudden brilliance, and opening them, she gasped and bit her lip hard to make certain that she was not dreaming. She tasted her own blood and knew that she was awake and that her eyes had not deceived her. Claude stood beneath the dwarfed apple tree, his arms pinioned by two green-uniformed Vichy officers.
“Did you think I could leave you, my Madeleine?” he called as they dragged him into a prison van.
“No more than I could ever leave you,” she shouted back as she, too, was shoved into the vehicle.
Its barred windows were grime streaked; its siren screamed as the driver sped wildly away from the rue de la Dalbade, skidding against curbstones and shouting obscenities at the frightened pedestrians who scrambled out of his path.
Madeleine and Claude crawled toward each other, indifferent to the oily filth on the floor of the van and the stink of sweat and fear that hovered in the stagnant air. They huddled together in silence, aware that they were heading to the Gestapo headquarters on the rue Maignac. But where, she wondered, would they be sent from there?
Claude’s hand rested on her head. He lifted strands of her thick hair, stroked her back, her shoulders, willing her to calm. She leaned into his embrace and
prayed silently, reverently, that no matter where they were sent, they would not be separated. Not again. Not ever.
“Claude,” she whispered.
His reply was the soft press of his lips upon her own.
Thirty-Nine
Drancy. They were both to be sent to Drancy, along with all other imprisoned Résistants. Drancy. The word was whispered, passed from cell to cell of the Gestapo headquarters on rue Maignac. A prisoner in the interrogation chamber had overheard the guards talking. Another inmate had found a crumpled newspaper in a refuse bin. Rumor was confirmed and became fact.
Klaus Barbie, the infamous Butcher of Lyon, had decreed that all Résistance members imprisoned in Toulouse were to be sent to Drancy, the transit camp from which they would be transported to Auschwitz.
Claude waited. Madeleine waited. Separated and bereft, they each feared for the other. On a cold, stormy morning, their cell doors were opened, their names were called, and they were herded outside, commanded to stand in formation, drenched by the pouring rain. Shivering and fearful, they sought each other out. Their eyes met. Slowly, furtively, they glided toward each other until at last they stood side by side. He draped his ragged anorak over her quivering shoulders. His hand found hers. They dared to smile. He was alive. She was alive. They were overcome with gratitude.
They had not seen each other since their arrest days earlier. She did not know how many days. Three, perhaps. Or four. There were no windows in the cells of the grim Gestapo fortress. Night and day had merged. There were no clocks. No hours. Only questions and beatings and more questions.
“They say we are being sent to Drancy,” he murmured, gently touching the bruise on her forehead.
“Drancy. Yes. I heard that. I was once in Drancy, you know.”
She spoke with difficulty. Her throat was dry, but she had grown used to thirst. Her neck was bruised because her interrogators had lashed it with a short whip during sessions that had lasted hour after hour. Yes, she had screamed. Yes, she had writhed in pain. But she had not begged for mercy, nor had she revealed a single name, a single contact. She blessed her deafness. It was a relief to be unable to hear their questions. Their failure to obtain answers, their reluctant recognition of her disability, had ignited their cruelty, but in the end, they had only wished her away because they despaired of receiving any information from her. They surrendered her to Drancy and wished her well on her way eastward to Auschwitz, the kingdom of death.
The Paris Children : A Novel (2020) Page 32