by Debra Barnes
We were on the road again, this journey even more difficult than the last, not only because we had Bubbe with us this time but also because we were going much further – six hundred kilometres south-west. But no one complained. We kept our spirits up by singing and playing word games. We took it in turns to tell stories. Samuel and Claude did impressions of their school teachers and made us all laugh. Bubbe chanted prayers and stared at her hands to see if she could see her fingers, something she did often which we all thought strange.
Our journey was hampered by the late December weather. The roads were less busy than when we left Metz, but our progress slowed by having to drive around the abandoned cars we passed along the way. Some had broken down, while many had run out of fuel, forcing the owners to leave their belongings and continue their journey on foot. In different circumstances people might have been tempted to rifle through the cars to see if there was anything worth taking, but everyone on the road was already carrying as much as possible and the only thing that would be of any great value at the time was food, jewellery and money, not the furniture and clothing which was left. People continued their journeys and left the pickings for the locals.
****
We didn’t know the area we were being sent to and so we were pleasantly surprised when we eventually arrived. Sarry was a tiny village a few kilometres outside Poitiers: a line of around thirty houses on either side of the Route Nationale 10, the main highway from Paris to Bordeaux. There was a primary school, a railway station and little else. It took a while to find our new home as it was one of few houses which were not on the main road. It was set apart from the rest of the village and could only be reached by turning down a dirt track. Maybe living in a remote house might not be such a bad thing, almost hidden from anyone who might want to find us. We were at war and I was learning that we should plan for the worst.
Apart from the day my twin sisters were born, this was the only time I heard my father thank God. During the last part of our journey he kept an eye on the fuel gauge. It was unreliable at the best of times and had showed empty since Châtellerault, some forty kilometres away. Had it not lasted, we would have had no choice but to walk, carrying our belongings with us. If there is a God he was looking down on us that day and it wasn’t until we turned into the gravel driveway that the engine began to splutter and then cut out. Papa coasted the car into the barn next to the house.
We shared the house with Uncle Isaac and his family who travelled by train – sixteen of us in total. It was an old farmhouse without running water or electricity, built on two floors, each split into two rooms: a bedroom and a kitchen which also had a couple of beds. Kitchen furniture was limited to a table and chairs, a dresser, which thankfully contained some crockery and cooking utensils, and there was also a chest of drawers in the bedroom. Our cousins took the downstairs which had a fireplace in the kitchen, while we went upstairs where there was a wood-burning stove. My parents, Samuel and my sisters shared the bedroom while Bubbe, Claude and I slept in the kitchen. At night we heard the rats running around above us in the attic. It was basic, but more comfortable than what we had in Behonne, and we were grateful to the French authorities for providing for us.
****
Papa had bought two bicycles and we rode side by side down the gravel path away from our new home and towards the Route Nationale 10. It was early morning and we were on our way to work, having both found jobs almost immediately in a nearby foundry making casings for aerial bombs. I was happy to go to work, especially doing something to help the war effort. After what I saw at the airfield near Behonne, I knew France would need all the aerial bombs we could make.
This was my first paid job. It was hot, hard work, but Papa would have gone stir crazy if he had been idle for more than a couple of days. The salary wasn’t much, but any extra money coming in was put to good use, giving it all to Maman to manage the home. More valuable to me was the time I got to spend with my father: cycling to the factory; sharing our packed lunch; and then coming back home together in the afternoon, chatting about our day. It seemed crazy that it took a war to make me feel so… contented. I had never been happier than during those first months in Sarry. My brothers were also happy: when we first arrived at the house they couldn’t believe what they found.
Samuel
Sarry
January 1940
After two terrible days crammed in the car, Claude and I couldn’t believe our luck. This was going to be so much more fun than living in an apartment in Metz! There was a barn, and space around the house. There were fields too, and we could hear a stream nearby. I couldn’t wait to explore, but the first thing I had to do on that cold day was find some milk for my sisters.
Back in Metz I bought the milk from the grocer and would hope the Jew-haters didn’t steal my money before I got to the store. But, driving through the village, we hadn’t seen a grocery store.
‘Go and find the dairy farmer,’ said Maman, as she handed me a can and some coins. ‘And be careful of the traffic on that busy road!’
I walked up the path and turned into the main road. At first there was no one around, but then I saw an old man walking towards me. ‘Excuse me, sir. Do you know where I can get some milk for my young sisters?’
He looked confused, as if he didn’t know what I was saying. I couldn’t understand what the problem was, so I repeated the question slowly. He said something which I didn’t understand but I smiled and went in the direction he pointed. I found the farmhouse and knocked. The farmer’s wife opened the door. I showed her the can and explained that my mother had sent me for milk.
‘The cow is in the barn at the back.’
‘What do I do?’
‘You look like a smart boy. You’ll figure it out,’ she said, grinning at me and holding out her hand for the coins. Then she shut the door.
I went round the back of the house. In the barn there was a cow tied up and a milk churn behind her. Great! I thought. I fill up my can from the milk in the churn. I walked around the cow, giving her a wide berth, and prised the lid off the churn. It was empty. Next to it was a bucket and a three-legged stool. I had hoped it was going to be easier than this. I had never milked a cow before, but I had seen people do it when I stayed on the farm in Condé-Northern. I knew what to do, I just didn’t know the technique. How difficult could it be?
I grabbed the stool and my can and sat down at the back end of the cow. I took off my woollen gloves, wrapped my fingers around one of her udders and closed my eyes. I summoned up the courage to pull gently downwards towards the milk can in my other hand. Nothing! The cow was still and silent. She wasn’t giving me any clues. I looked around for someone who might help but I was alone. There was no one to show me what to do, but no one to laugh at me either. I tried again a few more times, changing the position of my fingers and squeezing rather than pulling and eventually managed to get some milk. I was giddy with success although I soon realised it was such a small dribble I must still be doing something wrong.
I put down the can and took the bucket from next to the churn. I placed it between my legs and wrapped each hand around one udder. I remembered the farmer in Condé-Northern milking the cow with two hands, pulling one and then the other. I tried to copy what I had seen, and it worked. After a while, the bucket was half full. I poured it into the milk can and took it home to Maman. The farmer’s wife was right – I had figured it out!
****
Papa and Pierre found work soon after we arrived in Sarry. Maman was busy as usual, doing the household chores and looking after Georgette and Henriette, while Bubbe would sit downstairs with Aunt Dora, leaving Claude and me free to explore our new home.
‘Sam?’
‘What?’
‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That, in the ceiling.’
‘I don’t know. It looks like a door.’
‘Where does it go?’
‘To the attic, I suppose.’
/> ‘What do you think is up there?’
‘Rats!’
‘There might be a dead body!’
‘If there was a dead body then blood would be dripping through the ceiling.’
‘Oh yeah. Maybe a pit of snakes?’
‘Then we would hear them hissing.’
‘That’s true. Maybe pirate treasure?’
‘Maybe.’
‘If it is pirate treasure, we could give the jewels to Maman. That would make her so happy.’
‘Yes.’
‘So?’
‘So, what?’
‘So, shall we go up and see what’s there?’
‘OK, but we’ll need a ladder.’
‘There’s one in the barn.’
Claude and I brought the ladder in from the barn, struggling between us and giggling as we almost knocked each other out. It made us think of the Charlie Chaplin movies we saw at the picture house in Metz, which made us laugh even more. We set it against the kitchen wall and climbed up into the attic. When we opened the door we heard the rats scurrying away to the far corners. Let’s hope they stay there, I thought to myself. It was dark except for a few shafts of light coming in through the gaps in the roof.
‘We were right. Look over there, a treasure chest!’ shouted Claude.
We scrambled over to the wooden chest in the corner and dragged it over to the light. Luckily it wasn’t locked because I think Claude would have exploded if he’d had to wait a moment longer. Inside the chest we discovered something better than either of us could have imagined, better even than pirate treasure: a gun and two dusty old military uniforms complete with white trousers, waistcoats and navy-blue jackets with red tassels on the shoulders.
We somehow brought the chest down from the attic and showed the others what we had found. Papa told us the uniforms were from the Napoleonic war, over one hundred years old, and must have belonged to whoever lived in the house back then. He made sure the gun was safe, which it was because it had no ammunition and was rusty, and Maman checked the uniforms for fleas, then took them outside to beat the dust out. Then they were ours to use as playthings.
Claude and I spent the rest of the day dressed up and marching around the house, taking turns to hold the gun. So far, our new home was turning out to be splendid!
There was plenty of fun to be had outdoors too, but first we needed to take care of our chores. As there was no running water in the house, it was my job to make sure the water barrels were kept at least three-quarters full. Carrying two empty buckets down the path to the nearby stream for the first time, I tripped over a tree root I hadn’t spotted, too busy looking around for good branches to come back and climb later with Claude. When I got to the stream I thought, Wow, this will make a great place for swimming in the summer. But now it was freezing cold and I wanted to get back to the house as soon as possible. It was difficult to walk quickly with the heavy buckets of water, but I went as fast as I could, thinking ahead to games of hide-and-seek and looking for places where Claude wouldn’t find me. It had rained the night before and the path was slippery. I hadn’t learnt my lesson on the way there and I stumbled over roots and rocks on the way back. When I got to the house most of the water I collected at the spring had spilt out. I poured the remainder into the barrel but it hardly lifted the water level at all. Everyone in the family thought that was funny, and I loved to make them laugh so I didn’t mind too much, but after that first journey I took more care walking with the full buckets. Over time the trips got easier as I got stronger. The air in the Poitiers region seemed to agree with me; my chest stayed clear of any infection.
Claude and I joined the local school. I was happy to see a few Jewish children from Metz, who had also come to live in the village. School was a short walk from our new home up the steep hill of the Nationale 10. There was just one classroom, and the teacher, Madame Noyer, lived at the school. We made new friends: Claude with the youngest kid there, Louis Klein (everyone called him Little Louis), and me with a boy around my age, Ernst Rubin. I was pleased that Claude had his own pals now, although he would always be my best friend. Madame Noyer, who was kind and patient, gave us lessons in the local dialect, Poitevin, so we could go home and teach our parents, to help them fit in with the locals. I soon realised that was why I couldn’t understand the man I asked about the dairy farm the day we arrived in the village.
****
In spring the cherry tree in front of our house blossomed with pale pink flowers. Claude and I picked some from the lower branches and Maman, having left her vases back in Metz, arranged them in an old jam jar on the kitchen table. There was a bench under the sweet-smelling tree where Bubbe sat happily all day long. Maman and Aunt Dora liked to sit there too and the twins played in the shade, their fair skin protected from the sun by the blossoming branches. Sometimes a neighbour, Madame Klein, would come to sit and chat with Maman and bring her two boys, Little Louis and Victor.
Papa and Pierre were still working at the foundry. The hours weren’t as long as Papa had been used to as a travelling merchant. Moving to Sarry hadn’t been our choice, and the house wasn’t as comfortable as our apartment in Metz, but the first months living there were happy times. I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t bullied at school, Claude and I had lots of places to explore, and Papa was at home much of the time. Life was good.
In his new spare time Papa got involved with village life. The first thing he did for the community was to arrange for the electricity company to bring the supply to Sarry. We were used to electric light and listening to the radio and we were excited to get these back into our lives. I couldn’t wait to listen to my favourite programmes again, but Papa said the radio was particularly important as it was our way of finding out how the war was progressing and what was happening outside of the village. Not everyone had a radio and my parents welcomed our neighbours to come and listen to ours. Soon the other Jewish refugees in Sarry considered my father their leader. He didn’t seem to mind this unelected role; he enjoyed organising and telling people what to do!
****
It was the last lesson of the week and I looked forward to playing football with my friends after class. It was only going to be a quick game as we had to get home to do our chores; I would need to fetch water so Maman could prepare the Shabbat dinner.
I can’t remember what Madame Noyer was saying. I had given up trying to concentrate and was daydreaming while waiting for the bell to ring. I noticed more traffic than usual that day along the main road in front of the school building, but I hadn’t thought much about it until a gendarme came into the classroom. Something was going on; Sarry was too small for a police force. I hadn’t seen any policemen since we arrived, and here was one now right in front of me.
‘Good afternoon, boys and girls.’
We stood up. ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur.’
‘You may sit down. I am here to tell you that the German army has invaded France today.’
A gasp went around the room and some of the girls burst out crying. We all had questions. ‘What does that mean?’ ‘What will happen to us?’ ‘What should we do now?’
The gendarme called for silence and continued: ‘We don’t know what will happen, but you should go home directly after school and be with your families. Tell your parents as they might not know yet.’ Then he left as abruptly as he had arrived, no doubt to pass the news on to others.
A boy put his hand up. ‘Madame?’
The colour had drained from Madame Noyer’s pretty face. ‘No questions please, children. I don’t know anything more than what we just heard. We will finish school a little early today. Class dismissed and make sure you take your gas masks with you. Please be careful if you need to cross the road to get home, there has been a lot of traffic today.’
‘Does that mean no school on Monday?’ asked one of the boys.
‘No, it does not. I will see everyone here as usual on Monday,’ came the reply, to groans from the class. ‘Go home safely and may God look
after us all.’
When Claude and I arrived home we were happy to see Papa and Pierre were already safely back from work. The factory had also sent everyone home early. They were both sitting in front of the radio with Uncle Isaac and my older cousins.
‘What news, Papa?’ I asked.
‘There are reports of German troops in France and some air battles, but nothing around here, thank goodness. We need to remain alert and make sure we do nothing wrong and we should have no problems, don’t you think, Isaac?’
‘Yes, of course. They won’t want anything from us. We’ll be fine,’ agreed Uncle.
The weekend was quiet. Maman asked that I stay near the house. On Monday, Claude and I went back to school as usual. The day passed without incident to the disappointment of some of the children.
As we came out of school at the end of the day, one boy shouted excitedly, ‘Look!’ and pointed up the road. A line of French soldiers marched down the Nationale 10. They looked worn out. A little way past our school they were ordered to stop and took it in turns to dig at the side of the road. They only had a couple of spades which they passed from one soldier to the next. After a while they had dug a trench and set up their machine guns.
Madame Noyer told the smaller children like Claude and Little Louis to go back into the school building but Ernst and I and some of the others stayed outside and settled down to watch the action, peering over the top of the thick stone school wall. We whispered between us, wondering what would happen next. Were the Germans coming? Should we run home, or wait? One of the boys told us to be quiet, he thought he could hear something… I shivered as I heard singing in the distance. When it reached the French officers they climbed out of the trench and ran off, shouting orders at their soldiers, who were left alone.