by Debra Barnes
This didn’t sound like such a terrible punishment. ‘Where will I get the stones?’ I asked.
‘You’ll make them by breaking the big rocks in the yard using a mallet… with your left hand. That will help you to remember your left hand is for work and your right hand is for God. Pray that the Lord will help you with your task.’
I had my doubts about the Lord helping me.
‘You will also clear the trash outside the school kitchen every evening after supper. And, before you ask, you will have the use of a shovel for this purpose.’
It could be worse, I thought, remembering the poor boy from yesterday evening who had the buckets of cold water poured over his naked body. I had looked out for him in the chapel that morning, but I hadn’t seen him. He was probably in bed with pneumonia.
‘You will give me your shoes now.’
‘But, sir.’
‘Silence! Take off your shoes.’
By now everyone else had left the chapel. There was no one to help me, but I wouldn’t have given him the satisfaction of seeing me ask for help. I bent down to take off my shoes and handed them over. I had only had them for a few months since I grew out of my last pair. Mine had been handed down to another boy and my new pair had holes in the soles when they were handed down to me. Luckily, I attended leatherwork classes and had patched the holes.
Now I had no shoes, only socks which were threadbare and offered no protection at all. The stone floor of the chapel froze the soles of my feet which, at least, protected me from the pain of walking on the gravel once I got outside.
It was Sunday, the day of rest, so I was not expected to work on the volleyball court that afternoon, but I did have to go and clear the trash after supper that evening. The priest was there to check that I was still barefoot, and I suppose he had something to do with the broken glass on the floor by the trash bins. I had to move slowly to avoid stepping on the shards of glass; I managed to miss the large pieces, but I did cut my feet on some of the smaller pieces. After I was excused, I went straight to the leatherwork classroom and made myself a pair of sandals. I made a pattern drawing around my foot, cut out double soles and straps and sewed them together. They were so good some of the other boys wanted a pair too, so I made some more for my friends. Those sandals saved my feet.
****
The Kohn brothers and I went into Toulouse as usual one Saturday afternoon. As we turned a street corner towards the town centre we noticed German troops and Milice had blocked off the street ahead with their trucks. We stopped to watch from a safe distance. A group of men walking past were called over and the Germans barked something to them, but we were too far away to hear what they said. The group of men stood for a moment, we couldn’t see their expressions, but they appeared confused as to what to do. Then the German soldiers pointed their rifles at the men. We thought they were going to shoot, but they just took aim while the officer shouted again. The men unbuckled their belts and lowered their trousers and underwear. The Milice approached them, bending down to look at their private parts. I guess all was in order as the men were allowed to dress themselves and walk away. No papers were shown. We didn’t need to watch anymore; we knew we couldn’t go any further. Between us and the roadblock was the La Variétés cinema.
‘Let’s go see what’s on,’ Marcus suggested.
‘Are you crazy?’ I said. These days it was only permitted to screen Nazi propaganda films.
‘Can you think of anything else to do? I don’t want to go back to school so soon. It’s well before the roadblock so we should be fine, but we’ll need to act really normal walking down the street, so we don’t attract any attention.’
‘Samuel and I will be fine but acting normal could be a challenge for you!’ said his brother, receiving a thump on his arm in return.
The Kohn brothers kept me sane during the war even though their sibling rivalry made me miss my brothers desperately, especially Claude. We walked back around the corner so we could practise our ‘normal walking’ and when we thought we had got it right we turned around and casually strolled down the street. The cinema was hosting a Milice recruitment drive. Many Milice recruits had come from the jails so they were, in fact, dangerous criminals with weapons; that’s why we usually avoided them. Now they needed more men to sign up and fight on the Russian front. There were posters on display with the Milice emblem, the Greek letter Gamma stamping out the Communist red hammer and sickle symbol of the Russian flag with the words: Milice Française. Contre le communisme. French Militia. Against Communism.
We went in and up to the front desk.
‘We want to join and fight for our country!’ we announced.
‘How old are you, boys?’
‘Fourteen years old, sir.’
‘Still a little young to fight, but I admire your spirit. Come back in a few years, or at least when you’ve grown a bit taller!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Would you boys like to watch our information film? You could learn something they won’t teach you at school.’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Go right in. The film is about to start.’
We entered the cinema. It must have been smart in its day but, like most of France, it was now rundown and in need of repair.
In the semi-darkness we could see a few of the seats were already occupied by a group of young men, so we sat as far as possible from them. Suddenly a white light beamed through the centre of the room, bringing the screen to life with a fast-moving display of black lines and blurred circles. Der ewige Jude. We knew immediately what it meant, but for the benefit of the others in the audience a Milice officer stood at the side and translated: ‘The Eternal Jew.’
‘Is this a Charlie Chaplin movie?’ joked Marcus in a whisper. Powerful, dramatic music filled the room and our translator explained we were now watching ‘dirty Jews’ in the ghettos of Poland. I was instantly interested! My parents were born in Poland and I might have distant relatives there still. I wondered if I could recognise anyone, maybe someone with the trademark Hofman almond-shaped eyes that me and my siblings had inherited from Maman. I watched intently the images of the streets crammed full of Polish Jews hustling and bustling, while listening to the make-do translator telling us Jews are bartering traders who don’t want to do honest work, and are like rats and parasites who benefit from the hard work of others and live in filthy homes despite their wealth. I thought about Papa and Zayde, who had both been traders, so I couldn’t argue with that fact. But I also remembered Maman scrubbing our home to keep it spotless, and I was furious this film dared suggest that Jews choose to live in filth.
The next scene was in some sort of nightclub in Berlin. I was fascinated! These Jewish people were so glamorous, wearing fine clothes and having dinner in a fancy setting. I could imagine my beautiful mother wearing an elegant dress and drinking expensive wine in a nightclub like that. I realised this was not a newsreel; this was a film made a few years before and the Jews I was watching probably did not live in such luxury these days.
Next the film jumped to New York and reeled off a long list of Jews who were running Wall Street. This was great news for my aunts and uncles who had gone to New York, and it was also good to know that Jews were so important in America. But if they had as much power as this film said, then why weren’t they helping us in Europe?
Next Leon Blum popped up on the screen; the Jewish former Prime Minister of France was in New York? Then Marcus, sitting to my left, knocked me sharply in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Did you see that?’ he whispered, not taking his eyes off the screen. Our translator now said some rubbish about art while images of naked bodies appeared in front of us. These were sculptures and paintings by Jewish artists being described as ‘degenerate and disgusting’ – but not in our eyes!
Next were examples of ‘filthy pornography’; oh, why did it have to leave the screen so abruptly? Then theatre and film stars, all Jewish. How fantastic! And Charlie Chaplin being greeted by a rapturous
crowd when he visited Berlin. Marcus was right, this film did have Charlie Chaplin in it! Could it get any better? Yes! Now we were celebrating Purim at the home of a family in Warsaw. Our translator explained with disgust how this festival celebrated the slaughter of seventy-five thousand Persians, but I was more interested in how the Jewish family were eating, drinking, singing and laughing together at the dinner table and exchanging gifts. It looked wonderful. The next scene was in a synagogue and showed the rabbi carrying the Torah scrolls around for the congregation to kiss. It brought back memories of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur in Sarry when Rabbi Epstein had given Papa the Torah scrolls to bring to our house for the High Holy Day services. That was nearly three years ago now. Bittersweet memories. Finally, back to reality with a final scene of Hitler ranting about the destruction of the poisonous Jewish race in Europe.
The film ended and a light came on at the back of the room. Marcus, Rudy and I sat in silence trying to make sense of what we had seen. Parts of the film had been wonderful, others terrible. We weren’t stupid; we understood it was meant to fuel Jew hatred and I had to admit it was cleverly done. Those suffering from hunger and the misery of war would be furious at the sight of Jews enjoying positions of power and luxury. I hoped they had the sense to realise this was mere propaganda; old bits of film put together to make it seem like the Jews were to blame. This wasn’t even our war. The Jewish people hadn’t chosen to go to war, so why were we being singled out as the evil ones?
Marcus was the first to speak and, when he did, I realised the other people in the room had already left.
‘Shall we go and see if the roadblock is still there?’
The film had lasted for around an hour and it was worth taking a look, so we sent Rudy to check things out but he quickly came back to report the Germans and Milice were still blocking our path into town. Making sure we were still alone we talked about what we had watched. We all had similar thoughts. Like me, Marcus and Rudy had relatives who had gone to New York. They could remember celebrating Purim with their families, their father getting drunk ‘on the rabbi’s orders’ and their mother preparing a wonderful meal. We longed for those days again. We boasted to each other about how clean our mothers had kept our homes and how wrong the film was saying that Jews live in filth, then we fell silent, remembering the happy times.
More men and boys came into the room, filling up the seats. A different Milice came to serve as the translator. He didn’t know we had already seen the film once or, if he did, he didn’t care. And so we watched it again. Thankfully, after the second time, the roadblock was cleared and we were free to leave.
****
My life at the Centre Mercier continued under the protection of Monsieur Fournier. I would carry messages between my cross-eyed friend Monsieur Blanc (for he did become a friend) and Monsieur Fournier. I helped my German Jewish friends to improve their French, and we all successfully hid our Judaism from the other Catholic boys and priests next door. I attended chapel services and crossed myself with the correct hand. I gave no reason for one anyone to punish me. That’s not to say I didn’t have a few hairy moments.
Toulouse was a popular target for Allied bombing. The Germans stored anti-aircraft artillery near the railroad yard, close to our school, so we survived many air raids. Hundreds of Allied planes would fill the sky above us and shrapnel from the German anti-aircraft artillery would rain down; chunks of steel with razor-sharp edges.
I was running an errand one day, collecting supplies with a small cart, when the air raid siren sounded. I was next to the railyard, too far from Centre Mercier to make it back safely, so I crouched in the gutter behind the cart. The shrapnel was constantly bouncing and ricocheting off the wooden edges; I don’t know how I managed to not get hit. That air raid was a short one; the siren sounded again, and I carried on my way, miraculously unhurt.
Pierre
Argenton-sur-Creuse
June 1944
I had been on the farm for a year. I had never worked so hard in my life, which was a relief because I didn’t know what else to do. It was impossible for me to travel to Paris to visit Claude, Henriette and Georgette at the orphanage, but I wrote to them once a month and received a couple of replies from Claude saying they were all well. Samuel moved around a bit during the year, but he also seemed to be well looked after. In his last letter, written in May, he told me he was staying on a country estate near the Pyrenees with some other Jewish boys and they were having a great time with no classes and only a few chores. There was still no word from our parents, but it now seemed certain they had been deported to one of the Nazi work camps, probably in Poland. I heard stories of the terrible conditions but no one knew for certain, and while there was uncertainty, there was hope.
The romance between Aimee and I fizzled out. Once the initial spark died we agreed we were more suited as good friends rather than sweethearts and that is what we became. Monsieur and Madame Masson still treated me as one of the family, a surrogate son in the absence of their own. I rarely did anything except work or sleep, which was the easiest way for me to survive, as it deprived me of the time or energy to think of much else. Occasionally I would dream about my family but, thankfully, I was usually too exhausted to even dream.
Every week there was another rumour about the progress of the war. The Germans had been defeated in Italy. The Russians had defeated the Germans. The Germans had suffered terrible losses at the hands of the British. But nothing changed until June. It was a Tuesday and I was working in the fields when I heard excited shouting coming from the farmhouse.
‘Come, everyone! Great news!’ We dropped our tools and ran over. ‘It has just been confirmed on the radio. The Allied troops have landed in Normandy. It’s only a matter of time now. They will run the Germans out and the war will be over!’
At last the rumours had come true. We’d all been thinking about this moment every day for the past four years, but the news still came as a shock. We hugged each other joyfully.
****
‘With your permission, Monsieur Masson, I’m going to join the Free French Forces,’ said one of my fellow workers, a chap called Henri who was only a bit older than me.
I didn’t hesitate. ‘I would like to go with him,’ I said.
‘Of course, you must both go,’ agreed the farmer.
Henri said we should go to Argenton-sur-Creuse, some forty kilometres away, where the Resistance were stationed.
We packed our belongings and said goodbye to the Masson family.
‘Thank you for everything,’ I said to these people who had been so kind to me. ‘I hope to come back one day with my family so we can all celebrate our freedom together.’
‘That would be wonderful, Pierre. I look forward to meeting your mother and sharing some recipes with her,’ said Madame Masson, enveloping me in a big hug.
I took Aimee aside. ‘I’ll miss you,’ I whispered in her ear.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ she replied softly. ‘You’ve been a great friend but there are more important things to concentrate on now… so go, help get rid of the Germans, and be safe.’
****
Henri and I arrived in Argenton-sur-Creuse late in the evening; the town was buzzing with people like us looking to join the freedom fighters. As new arrivals we were directed to a barn where we could get food and shelter for the night and told to meet in the town square early the next morning. I had no trouble falling asleep on my bed of hay; staying awake during the night only invited bad thoughts and it was better to sleep, even if that meant having nightmares because you could always escape them by waking up. On this night though the dreams were good ones, of victory and freedom.
****
We were woken at dawn by the crowing of a cockerel and the smell of toasted barley and chicory, the poor excuse for coffee we had been drinking since the beginning of the war; I don’t think any of us could remember how real coffee smelt. There was eggs and bread to eat, then we moved to the town square where the Fre
e French forces had set themselves up behind a table and were welcoming anyone who wanted to join. There were no Milice or German soldiers in sight; the Resistance were in charge in this town. We waited in the queue until it was our turn to sign up.
‘Name?’ asked the man behind the table.
‘Pierre Laskowski.’
‘Age?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Papers?’ I took my papers out of my jacket pocket to show him; the Star of David and ‘Juif’ clearly marked in red ink. He made a note against my name on the list he was compiling.
‘Have you ever fired a gun?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Join the group to the right. Next!’
I instinctively looked to the left and saw a group of men and women being handed guns of various types and sizes. Damn, I thought. I should have lied. Now I’ll surely be given some unimportant job to do.
Reluctantly, I moved to the right. My companion Henri also joined my group and we chatted while we waited to be told what to do next, both regretting our choice to be honest. When the tenth person was sent to join us an armed Free French fighter appeared.
‘Welcome to freedom!’ he announced. ‘Come with me and we’ll show you how to fire a gun. Then we’ll send you out to round up the Milice and Nazis and to claim back France!’