The Young Survivors

by Debra Barnes

  ‘Hello, Isabel. Welcome to our home. My name is Sister Marie.’

  ‘I have a sister. Her name is Henriette.’

  ‘No, Isabel does not have a sister or brothers. You must remember that. You are Isabel now.’

  ‘But where is Henriette? I want Henriette!’ I started to cry. I felt weak from the long day of travelling. I wanted to see my sister. Where was Jacqueline? Where was Claude?

  ‘Everything we do is for your safety,’ explained Sister Marie gently, kneeling down to my height. ‘You must pretend now that your name is Isabel. It is very important. Your name is Isabel. You have no family. We are your family now. Remember that and everything will be fine.’

  ****

  I shared a bedroom with other young girls at the convent. No one ever spoke of their families or where they came from. I thought about Henriette and Claude many times a day, and I wondered where they were, but I never mentioned them. I wished I was with them and I thought of running away and going back to the orphanage, but I wouldn’t know how to get there. All I could do was wait for someone to come and find me: Maman or Papa, Pierre, Sam, Claude or Henriette, or maybe even Jacqueline. But was anyone even looking for me?

  Our bedroom was simple but none of us were used to anything better. The only difference from the orphanage was the crucifix and picture of the Virgin Mary that hung above our beds. On the one table was a copy of the Holy Bible, but most of us were too young to read. Within days of arriving, I was baptised. This seemed to give the sisters much pleasure, so I was happy to go along with it. I had no idea about religion. I didn’t know that not everyone had the same beliefs. Since my parents had been taken away I’d spent one year with a Catholic neighbour and one year in a Jewish orphanage where we weren’t allowed to celebrate any of the Jewish customs. The nuns had no interest in playing with us or making sure we had fun like Jacqueline had. We prayed seven times a day. I soon picked up the psalms and hymns which were sung daily and I enjoyed joining in. We learnt Bible stories and memorised our prayers. We recited the Holy Rosary together. I was taught of Saint Isabel of France, my patron saint who had spent her life looking after the sick and poor. I was told I would celebrate her life on 26 February; birthdays were not acknowledged at the convent. There wasn’t a lot of food to eat, even less than we had been given at the orphanage. The sisters believed this was the key to a good religious life, as eating too much took one’s mind off prayer. ‘Hunger is an excellent reminder of the sacrifices that Christ our Lord had undertaken for us.’ Despite there being little to eat we still had to say prayers before and after each meal, to thank the Lord for providing the few scraps given to us.

  On Sunday morning we would line up in the chapel and receive Holy Communion: a papery wafer and sip of wine ‘to symbolise receiving the flesh and blood of Christ into our bodies’. Oh, how we prayed we could do that every day! In our hunger we considered the thin, bland host a feast. We learnt how to bless ourselves with holy water and the correct way to cross ourselves (forehead, tummy, left shoulder, right shoulder). I became a good Catholic and was rewarded with a safe place to live. In time I didn’t think of who and when my family would come rescue me, I simply forgot.

  After over a year at the convent, I was alarmed to one day be called to the office of the mère supérieure.

  Pierre

  Paris

  August 1944

  ‘Brave Free French fighters! We move out tonight to assist in the liberation of our capital city. Victory is near!’

  We cheered as the officer gave us our orders. We were a short distance outside Paris, having spent the last few weeks successfully sabotaging the movement of German troops travelling by road. The Allies were close and now almost all of Paris had joined the struggle to take back control from the invaders.

  I wondered if I could go to Louveciennes to check on Claude and the girls, but as we approached the centre of Paris it was clear I wouldn’t get away. The entire city was on strike, including the transport system. Our job was to defend the barricades which had been set up all over, and to prepare for a siege.

  We were there for five days, battling against the last German troops until the Allies marched in and the Germans surrendered.

  ****

  Once Paris had been liberated, I asked my officer for permission to travel to Louveciennes. I was told to wait while he tried to arrange transport for me – the city was still in a terrible mess. He came to find me later and said, ‘Son, I’ve asked around about the orphanage. It’s not good news, I’m afraid.’

  Samuel

  Pyrennes

  August 1944

  After the Allies had taken Italy and were advancing into France, Monsieur Fournier took all twenty Jewish boys from the school to his country estate near the Pyrenees. We stayed for three carefree months until liberation came in August. We would fish and swim in the lakes, hike in the hills and walk into the village to meet the local girls! Any Germans were long gone from the area, although there were plenty of locals who were Jew-haters, so we tried to keep a low profile to avoid discovery. Not everyone was unsympathetic though: it was rumoured some had helped Jews cross the Pyrenees into Spain.

  The estate had a traditional two-storey stone farmhouse with small shuttered windows. The low ceilings were not a problem as none of us had grown particularly tall in the last few years. We divided ourselves between the rooms and each of us had our own sleeping space. The lucky ones were in a bed but most of us were on make-shift mattresses on the floor. It didn’t matter though: we were young and free and there were no Catholic priests to rap our knuckles or German soldiers to run from. The house had a stone patio around it and beyond that there was just grass and trees and lush countryside, mostly unspoilt by war.

  Monsieur Fournier had arranged for a neighbour to help with the cooking and washing. He would come himself every second weekend to see us. When he did, he would bring newspapers and tell us what was happening outside of our idyllic little world. On 15 August the Allied forces landed in the south of France, and by the end of August southern France was liberated. The Germans in Paris were defeated on 25 August. I was so happy when I read that last piece of news! My younger brother and sisters would be allowed to leave the orphanage, and my parents would be let out of camp. But I was worried about Pierre. I’d written to him at the farm but I hadn’t heard back for a long time.

  ****

  The season passed, but with war always on our minds we barely took notice of rich greens transforming into stunning autumn colours. The lakes became too cold for swimming, so we spent our time fishing and laying crude, but occasionally successful, hunting traps for rabbits. On our return from one such hunting trip we were surprised to see Monsieur Fournier.

  ‘Hello, boys!’ he greeted us. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Hunting.’

  ‘Did you catch anything?’

  ‘Not today. Potato soup for dinner again!’ We all groaned and laughed.

  ‘Listen, boys, I have some news for you. The Jewish agencies are setting up homes for young people like yourselves who have been separated from their parents. They are going to begin the process of reuniting families now the Germans have been defeated. You are all to go to a place called Perreux. It’s not too far, just north of Toulouse.’

  ‘Why can’t we stay here until our parents come back?’ asked one.

  ‘If they come back, you mean,’ said another, which was what most of us were thinking even if we didn’t care to admit it.

  ‘Thousands upon thousands of people within France have been displaced by the war. It is going to be a long process, putting families back together again. Most of you will have brothers and sisters who are elsewhere so it would be to everyone’s advantage if you go to Perreux. That way the Jewish agencies will know where you are. I have been told it is a nice place to be, although maybe not as nice as here!’

  The thought of leaving the freedom of the Pyrenees for another children’s home was grim, but the prospect of reuniting with o
ur families was too good to pass up. We left to pack our few belongings right away.

  Pierre

  Paris

  October 1944

  As I approached Boulevard Saint-Germain, I noticed the lines of people outside the large corner building that was the Hôtel Grande. Even now, bearing the scars of war, you could see it had once been an upmarket establishment. At the beginning of the German occupation it had been used as a refuge for bohemians and intellectuals but then it was taken over by the German military intelligence as somewhere to wine, dine and entertain their officers. Now the German troops had fled, and the hotel was used as a repatriation centre.

  I joined the queue. In front of me were people of all ages – some women with young children, a few teenagers around Samuel’s age, but mostly older people looking for their own children and grandchildren. Almost everyone held precious photographs tightly in their hands. It was a warm day, but a few wore jackets and if you looked closely you could see where the yellow star had been only weeks before; on some it had been unpicked carefully so as to minimise damage to the garment, while on others it had been ripped off in a hurry.

  I worried about what the commander had said. As the queue slowly worked its way forwards we moved from the street into the lobby of the hotel. I had been waiting for a few hours now and had got to know some of the people around me in the queue. Everyone had a story to tell, each one more heart-breaking than the last. Once inside it was a pleasure to have something else to focus on. The interior of the building was, without doubt, the most luxurious place I had ever been in, even in its current condition. I knew little of art at the time, but I admired the art nouveau decor and wondered if I might one day create something as beautiful.

  To distract myself, I thought about my future during the long wait. I had left the Free French forces following the liberation of Paris. Now I needed to find work. I had become a decent farmworker but that was not something I wanted to do forever. I had no desire to return to Metz; our apartment, which I hadn’t seen since war broke out, had been rented and I wasn’t aware of any other family property that needed to be reclaimed. Should I stay in Paris? I had heard stories of Jews leaving for Palestine, London and New York. Who could blame them, not wanting to stay in this country that had turned its back on us in our time of need? But, first things first, I had to reunite with my family before deciding where to go next.

  I reached the front of the queue, marked by a bank of desks with chairs on either side. Behind the desks was a hub of activity. Dozens of people answering ringing telephones, taking notes, typing lists, and hurrying in and out through doors to makeshift offices all over the hotel. There was a sense of urgency in everything they did; no one sat around idly chatting. Finally, it was my turn to be seen.

  ‘How can I help you?’ the lady behind the desk asked wearily when I sat down in front of her. In all the hours I had been waiting I hadn’t seen any of the people behind the desks leave.

  ‘I’m looking for my brothers and sisters and parents.’

  ‘Tell me about your brothers and sisters first.’

  ‘Our family name is Laskowski. I have five-year-old… no, wait, six-year-old twin sisters. It’s been so long since I’ve seen them, they must be six now. Their names are Henriette and Georgette. Their date of birth is 9 April 1938. I also have a brother named Claude – oh my goodness, he is twelve now! His date of birth is 12 April 1932. All three were born in Metz. The last time I saw them was last year in the summer at the Jewish Agency orphanage in Louveciennes. I tried to get them released but the director, Monsieur Denis, assured me they would be safe and refused to hand them over. I couldn’t get them out.’ As I was saying these words, I realised how pathetic they sounded. Why had I left my siblings in that place? Would it really have been so difficult to get them out? After all, Samuel managed to escape from the trade school easily enough.

  The lady behind the desk waited patiently for me to stop speaking and then she asked kindly, ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Pierre.’

  ‘Pierre, I know this because others today have asked me about children who were in one of the Jewish Agency homes in Paris. I’m sorry to tell you that all of the children’s homes were emptied on 22 July.’

  ‘Yes, I was already told that,’ I said. That was what my officer had found out after the liberation of Paris. ‘Do you know where the children are now?’

  ‘They were taken to Drancy.’

  ‘That’s where our parents were taken, so hopefully they’re all together?’

  ‘Many people were sent from Drancy to other camps, and the reports coming through are not positive,’ said the woman gently. ‘I hate having to tell you this but I don’t want to get your hopes up.’

  Her words filled me with dread. I realised that for some time now I had felt deep down that my parents were dead, but I had never allowed myself to believe it… until now. I felt sick with grief. But what of my brother and sisters?

  ‘And the children from the homes? Where are they now? Surely they were freed as soon as Paris was liberated? That must have been a top priority – to save the children,’ I said, my voice trembling while I held back tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry but we don’t know where they are. Some Jewish children were placed with other families or in convents or boarding schools. We have lists of some of those children and we are getting more information every day. Let me look on those lists now and see if I can find out anything. Here is a pen and paper. Write down the names and dates of birth for your brother and sisters.’

  ‘I have another brother, Samuel. He is fifteen.’ My heart was racing as the hopelessness of it all sunk in.

  ‘Put his name down too,’ said the lady. ‘You said you’re also looking for your parents?’

  ‘Yes. They were both arrested in 1942. First my father, and then my mother. And also my aunt and uncle, my grandmother, my cousins…’

  ‘Let’s start with your immediate family. Write down the details of your parents and siblings please.’

  My hand shook as I wrote down six names and dates of birth on the piece of paper. My entire family was missing. Were any of them looking for me in another repatriation centre somewhere else? Or maybe they had even come to this same centre on another day? The lady behind the desk took the list and told me to wait as she went off to check the documents.

  ‘Pierre?’ The voice calling my name rescued me from the dozens of possible scenarios I was working through in my head.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pierre. I can’t find anything about your family. Our information is currently very limited and disorganised. We are learning more all the time; be patient and come back regularly to check again. It’s still early in the process but it has been estimated there are many thousands of people missing. Many of the missing are immigrants from Poland and traditional Polish names are being misspelt which makes our job even more difficult, but I promise you we are making progress.’

  My head was spinning as I finally accepted that I might never see any of my family again.

  ****

  I decided to stay in Paris for the time being and was given a room in a small hotel arranged by the Jewish Agency. The entire building was filled with waifs and strays like me, all still reeling from the effects of war; as was the whole city. There were other repatriation centres apart from the one at the Hôtel Grande run by different Jewish and Red Cross aid agencies, but it was the same story at each one.

  ‘Please be patient and come back regularly to check.’

  ‘It is still early days.’

  ‘The information is coming through, but slowly.’

  The queues only seemed to get longer as more people came to Paris to search for news of their loved ones. I felt I was wasting my time, convinced that my family would never be found, but then news of a success story would circulate, someone would be reunited with their brother or sister and my resolve would be renewed.

  And then one day, my cousin Georges Hofman contacte
d me. His father was one of my mother’s brothers and he was considerably older than me. Georges had fought in the French army and been a prisoner of war in Germany. On his return to Paris he continued his career as an upholsterer and he offered to take me on as his apprentice, teaching me the trade. I was grateful for the opportunity. Georges was good company and helped the days pass quickly with stories of his experiences during the war. I had met other POWs who had returned broken men, but at least they had returned. Georges was a lucky one who came out intact. He told me that it was hope that got him through the terrible times, which made me realise hope was what I needed now – hope that I would reunite with my family.

  ****

  Those of us who had survived the war told ourselves our missing loved ones would want us to enjoy life and make the most of every moment, but it was difficult to do so. On my days off, I would join the queue at the repatriation centre as usual. As I approached the desk on one particular day I allowed myself a renewed sense of optimism. Months had passed and there had been more and more stories of reunited families, so why shouldn’t it be my turn now?

  ‘Good morning. Who are you looking for?’

  I passed over the piece of paper which I now carried with me all the time, with the names of my lost family members.

  ‘Let’s see what we can find…’ And they went through the now-familiar routine of trawling through the lists. Over time they had become more organised and now information could be checked quickly from each desk.