The Young Survivors

by Debra Barnes

  I was confused. As the voices got louder, it sounded like they were singing in Polish which I recognised because my parents sometimes spoke it to each other, usually when they didn’t want us to understand what they were saying. We heard marching too. There was a bend in the road so we couldn’t see them yet but the French soldiers who were still in the trench seemed to know who was coming. They picked up their guns and ran away. You could hardly blame them; their officers had already left. The French army was clearly in bad shape.

  The singing soldiers marched into sight along the main road from the opposite direction in which the French soldiers had only just disappeared. When they reached the railway station, just before the school building, they were ordered to halt and stand to attention while one of the officers made an announcement in badly spoken French.

  ‘The village of Sarry is now under the occupation of the German army,’ he bellowed. An orderly nailed a document on the outside wall of the railway station’s ticket office, then the officer shouted another command and they marched off down the road. A handful of locals came out to witness the occupation of their village, though most chose to watch from inside their homes, through the curtains. Sarry was so small there was no reason for the soldiers to hang around for more than a few minutes and then continue their ‘occupation march’.

  When the soldiers were out of sight, Claude, Little Louis and the other younger kids came out. Little Louis’s father had seen the soldiers and come up to meet him. Meanwhile, I grabbed Claude and we ran home to tell everyone what we had seen.

  ‘Maman, Papa. There were German soldiers in the village, but they were singing in Polish!’

  ‘So, they’re here already. We know what they think about us Jews, so we must be careful,’ warned Papa.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Claude said. ‘They’ve gone! They only stopped in the village for a few minutes and then they left.’

  ‘That, at least, is good news,’ said Maman. ‘Hopefully they’ll leave us alone. We don’t look any different to the gentile families in the village. No one is going to know we’re Jewish just by looking at us so, as long as we don’t give any German soldiers reason to question us, we shouldn’t have any problems.’

  ‘But why were they singing in Polish?’ I asked.

  ‘They are Volksdeutsche,’ explained Papa. ‘There were many people from German families living in Poland. Since the Nazi occupation last year they have been forced to join the German army.’

  ‘They are forced to fight for the Germans who are destroying their homes in Poland. That is madness,’ said Pierre, who seemed to better understand what was going on than I did.

  ‘What’s madness is anyone wanting to go and live in Poland!’ said Bubbe from her seat in the corner of the room.

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ agreed Papa. ‘I think now would be a good time to tell the boys what happened when I went back to Poland for my father’s funeral.’ He looked at Maman, who nodded in agreement. ‘Do you remember that I went by myself? It must have been three years ago now, before the war started. After the funeral, a policeman grabbed me and told me I had to join the Polish army.’

  ‘What did you do, Papa?’ We were all fascinated.

  ‘I told him my home was in France now and I was going to join the French army. Well, he didn’t much like that answer and started to lead me away.’ He paused for a moment.

  ‘Don’t stop now! What happened then?’ we all shouted.

  ‘I kicked him in the shin and then hit him with all my might, in the stomach and the chest and the face. I hit him as hard as I could, as if my life depended on it. I guess I did a good job of it because he fell to the floor.’

  ‘Did you kick him when he was down?’ I asked, with a cheeky grin.

  ‘No, Son. I turned and ran away as fast as my legs could carry me. Sometimes you have to fight and other times you have to run.’

  ‘Thank goodness you got away!’

  ‘Of course he did. No one is stronger than Papa!’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Papa, smiling, ‘but perhaps I escaped thanks to my strength and fast thinking!’

  ‘And your modesty?’ added Maman who had been sitting quietly, watching us as we listened to our father’s great adventure.

  ‘Modesty won’t save your life,’ said Papa, turning serious.

  ‘Then what happened?’ demanded Claude, desperate to hear more.

  ‘I went straight to the train station and came home. A couple of months later I received a letter from the Polish government telling me they’d taken away my citizenship because I’d refused to join the army. Now that we’re at war it’s important we register to become French citizens. Pierre, you have your citizenship. I will arrange for the rest of us to go to Poitiers to apply.’

  ‘I don’t see why I have to go,’ I said. ‘I was born in France, I speak the language, I go to school and when I’m old enough I’ll fight for France. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ said Papa.

  ****

  We went to Poitiers by train. As we left the station, I could hardly believe my eyes. The town was full of German soldiers. They weren’t taking any notice of us, thank goodness; we were just an ordinary-looking family and they were busy watching the pretty girls walk past as they sat outside cafes drinking coffee and smoking.

  It looked like the German soldiers were enjoying the war. The girls looked happy too. I saw them smiling and giggling and doing that funny walk Pierre had told me about, the one when a girl is pretending to ignore a boy but really wants him to notice her. Maman looked at them disapprovingly and muttered, ‘Shikshas.’ That’s what she called the non-Jewish girls she didn’t like. I wasn’t interested in girls, but I was sure Pierre was. He’ll be sorry when I tell him what he’s missed, I thought to myself. I knew Pierre was suddenly desperate for a girlfriend!

  To apply for citizenship, we all needed to have physical examinations. Papa had asked neighbours for the name of a sympathetic doctor. Doctor Savatier was recommended and we made our way to his surgery. Although they hadn’t said, I knew my parents were worried about my health. If the doctor noticed anything wrong with my lungs it was unlikely he would sign us off as fit and healthy. Why would he risk his own safety for a family he had never met before? Thank God the months we had been away from Metz had been good for me and the doctor didn’t even blink when he listened to my chest. My lungs were clear, and we all passed with flying colours.

  Doctor Savatier made a joke about getting Georgette and Henriette mixed up and Maman laughed nervously. Claude and I had strict instructions to be on our best behaviour. There was a lot of paperwork to fill in and the two of us sat totally still the whole time; my idea for us to play ‘frozen statues’ in the doctor’s office worked well. When the forms were completed, we each had to sign our own. Neither Claude nor I were used to signing our names and we both did so with much care. My brother was jealous because I have a ‘S’ in my name which I was able to loop and squiggle while Claude didn’t have the chance to do anything so fancy with his signature. He complained about his name the whole way home. My little sisters were only two, so Papa signed for them. We were told our forms would be sent off for processing and we would hear back by post.

  ****

  On our way home from school Claude and I passed the house of Monsieur Petis, a friendly old man who waved to us from his garden. He had an old dog called Pippin who would run out to greet us. Claude and I really wanted a dog, but Papa said it was hard enough to get food for ourselves these days without having an extra mouth to feed. We would stop to play with Pippin and Mr Petis would ask us about school. He told us he was a retired army officer who had lived in Sarry for many years, and nowadays he spent his time looking after his fruit trees.

  As the summer approached, Monsieur Petis asked if we could help him pick grapes from his vineyard during the school holidays, which we were happy to do. In return, he gave us some of the fruit to take home, as well as telling us stories from hi
s years in the army. As we walked home with our grapes I had a brilliant idea.

  ‘Claude, let’s make our own wine. We learnt about it at school. Wine is made from grapes. We just need to squeeze the juice out, leave it for a few weeks, et voila! We can give some grapes to Maman and still have plenty left over to use.’

  Claude usually did whatever I told him to, so it didn’t come as any great surprise he thought my idea was a great plan. When we got home we left a couple of large bunches of grapes on the kitchen table for the family, grabbed two empty wine bottles from the cupboard and took them, with the remaining grapes, to a quiet place behind the barn. We set everything down on the ground and started to make our wine. I picked up a grape and squeezed it between my fingers, managing to get one or two drops of juice in the bottle with the rest landing in the dust. It reminded me of my first attempt at milking a cow. Claude picked up a grape and copied me, just managing to collect a couple of drops of juice.

  ‘This isn’t working,’ I said. ‘Let’s put the grapes into the bottle and squeeze them once they are inside. That way we won’t lose any juice.’

  I took a bottle and started to stuff grapes in, one by one through the narrow opening. Claude copied me. When the bottles were full we picked up the cleanest-looking stick we could each find, pushed it inside our bottle and smashed up the grapes. We stuffed a few more in and did it all again. In the end we managed to use most of the grapes and replace the corks tightly in the bottles. We found a corner of the barn to hide them.

  ‘I’m going to stick a stone in my cork, so we know which bottle is mine,’ said Claude. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now we wait for the grape juice to turn into wine.’

  ‘How long does it take?’

  ‘A couple of weeks, then we can taste it.’

  A few weeks later, towards the end of the summer and just before we were due to go back to school, my brother and I returned excitedly to the barn to try the wine. Claude picked up his bottle with the stone in the cork and handed me the other.

  ‘The bottles are really warm.’

  ‘That’s good, it means the wine has been cooking,’ I said.

  We pulled the corks out.

  Claude made a face. ‘What’s that smell?’

  ‘It’s the wine, silly!’ I said as I lifted the bottle to my lips and took a sip. Ugh! The wine was fizzy and tasted awful. It took all my efforts not to spit it out in disgust. Claude watched me drink and then did the same. He grimaced as he swallowed the first mouthful, but neither of us would admit our wine was revolting. We drank a whole bottle each, then lay down on the grass in the sun with our eyes closed.

  A while later, Maman called us indoors. ‘Samuel! Claude! Come and wash before supper.’

  We both scrambled up. The ground was swaying.

  ‘Woah, I feel dizzy!’ said my brother.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Do you think the wine was bad?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We stumbled into the house and managed to get up the stairs, falling over each other on the way.

  ‘What is the matter with you two?’ asked Maman.

  ‘I don’t feel so well, Maman,’ said Claude, on the verge of tears.

  ‘Me neither,’ I said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ we both replied.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘No.’

  Maman was instantly worried.

  ‘Let me feel your foreheads. Hmmm, a little warm but you have both been outside most of the afternoon. Go and lie down for a bit.’

  Maman came in to check on us half an hour later.

  ‘Boys, are you feeling any better?’

  ‘No, my head hurts,’ I said.

  ‘Mine too,’ said Claude.

  ‘Oh my, it must be a virus!’ said Maman.

  ‘It sounds to me more like they’re drunk!’ said Bubbe, who had been listening to the conversation.

  ‘Oh, Mame, don’t be silly!’ replied Maman.

  Neither of us was concentrating on what they were saying. The room was spinning, and our heads were banging. They left us to rest… and then the cramps started. It felt like I was being stabbed in my stomach.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Sam. My tummy really hurts. I need the toilet.’

  ‘Me too. We should go outside.’

  We were unsteady on our feet but helped each other out of bed and down the stairs moments before the diarrhoea started. The stomach cramps were unbearable. There was only one WC and we both needed to go at the same time! We staggered into the woods at the back of the house to relieve ourselves and stayed there for hours until we felt it was safe to go back home.

  We confessed to our parents about drinking the home-made wine, and Maman’s reaction turned from worry to relief to anger to amusement. Claude and I suffered from stomach ache and diarrhoea for several days. We got no sympathy from our family; they laughed at us. We had learnt our lesson; no more home-made wine.

  Pierre

  Sarry

  July 1940

  I had never been to Paris. I had always wanted to go and even planned what I would do there: visit the Eiffel Tower and walk through Montmartre, but now it seemed unlikely a trip would happen any time soon and I stopped myself from thinking of such frivolities. The Maginot Line had proved itself a worthless defence; France surrendered to Germany following a swift and humiliating defeat. On 14 June the Germans occupied Paris. I turned fifteen a month later, on Bastille Day. I was too young to fight for my country, but I would do everything I could to look after my family.

  After the invasion, a large convoy of cars and trucks came through Sarry on the Route Nationale 10, along with French police and military motorcyclists. They drove at high speed straight through the village. It was the French government fleeing from Paris to Bordeaux, and they were not the only ones to leave. There were also civilians, mainly women, children and older folk who arrived but all continued on their way as there was nothing in the village for them. Thousands of people left the capital but only a small number made it this far; some found refuge on the way, others were forced to abandon their cars when they ran out of fuel, and then there were those who fell victim to the German air raids.

  Our radio told us what was happening in the rest of France and Europe. Philippe Pétain, the same World War One hero who had been the innovation behind the useless Maginot Line, was appointed prime minister – prime minister in such important times at eighty-four years old! It was crazy to have such an old man in charge. He wasted no time signing an armistice with the Germans and split France into two with a 1,200-kilometre demarcation line. The northern side was to be under German control and the southern side to be under control of Pétain and his French government, which, after fleeing Paris, had relocated again from Bordeaux to the spa town of Vichy. We were mere kilometres from the demarcation line, but on the German-occupied side. What would this mean for us? Also part of the armistice agreement was that Alsace and Lorraine were now under German administration, so unless the Germans were defeated, we were unlikely to return to Metz.

  Papa and I left our jobs in the foundry when it became clear it would be taken over by the Germans and we helped out a local stonemason instead, but there really wasn’t a lot of work for us. All other Jewish families were in the same situation. Most of the men were tailors or merchants who’d left their businesses in the east of the country. Everyone had brought money with them and received the stipend from the government, used to buy food from farmers, and most of us were also growing our own vegetables which, at least, gave us something to do.

  ****

  A new radio station, Radio Londres, was now being broadcast from the BBC studios in London. It was the talk of the village and we invited neighbours to listen in our house. The station was run by the newly formed Free French Forces led by Charles de Gaulle and opened with the comforting words, ‘Ici Londres! Les Français parlent aux Français…’ ‘Th
is is London! The French speaking to the French…’ I felt proudly patriotic as I listened. They promised to speak to us every day. De Gaulle’s speeches were inspiring; he urged us not to give up and to support the Resistance. When I heard him I vowed to join the Resistance at the earliest possible opportunity. The war for France was not over yet and I would not allow Pétain or Hitler to determine my fate.

  Pétain didn’t waste time in blaming the Republic for the French defeat and demonstrating how he planned to return France to Nationalist glory. At my old school I had been taught the three Republican ideals of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité (Liberty, Equality, Fraternity). Now my younger brothers were taught the Nationalist ideals of Travail, Famille, Patrie (Work, Family, Fatherland).

  In July, Radio Londres reported the Vichy government had passed a law allowing the denaturalisation of anyone granted French citizenship since 1927. Half a million naturalisations would be reviewed. Papa looked crestfallen when he heard the news. No one dared say it out loud, but everyone was thinking the same: how would it affect their applications for French citizenship, and would I have mine taken away?

  ****

  It was time to celebrate Rosh Hashanah, but there was no synagogue in Poitiers for us to celebrate the New Year. Instead the community was offered a room in the town hall to use. This year, more than ever, we wanted to celebrate with our neighbours but due to the size of the room and the number of families now living in the area, only the men would attend. Papa and I went with Uncle Isaac, cousin Gabriel, and Leon, cousin Simone’s husband.

  The service was led by Rabbi Epstein. He stood in front of a small wooden cabinet which served as the ark. The Torah scroll, brought to Poitiers from the synagogue in Metz, had been placed inside. At the beginning of the service the precious scroll was carefully taken out of the ark, the velvet cover and silver breastplate removed, and the delicate paper opened at the correct reading on the table which had been provided as our makeshift altar. During the Rosh Hashanah service the shofar is blown one hundred times. ‘Tekiah!’ called the rabbi repeatedly, as one of the congregation took a deep breath and blew into the ram’s horn, creating long blasts sounding like cries of distress; ‘Shevarim!’ followed by patterns of three shorter blasts to signify wailing; ‘Teruah!’, the call for nine rapid blasts of alarm and, finally, ‘Tekiah HaGadol!’; one last blast for as long as the breath would allow.