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In memory of
Héna Sztulman,
my mother and father, Moïshé and Rivelé Sztrymfman,
Léon and Élise Sztulman,
my paternal grandparents, Feiwel and Rachel Sztrymfman,
Uncle Hershel and Aunt Feige, and their sister whose name is
lost to memory,
my maternal grandparents, Yosef and Bina Fuchtel,
Uncles Abbe, Yakov, and Izak,
and my cousin Yvette Nisenman.
Hidden Child is also dedicated to my cousin
Joseph Nisenman
Héna and me, 1948
Approximately 1,200,000 Jewish children were deported and murdered by the Nazis and their collaborators in the Holocaust of World War II. Most of those who survived did so by being sent into hiding. Some were hidden with other Jews. Some went to convents and monasteries; others were hidden on farms or taken in by non-Jewish families and individuals. My name is Isaac Sztrymfman, and I was a hidden child.
Me, winter of 1936
Me in the country, summer of 1939
BEFORE THE WAR
I crawled into Mama and Papa’s bed and snuggled between them. “Good morning, Isaac,” Mama whispered. “Don’t wake up Papa. It’s Sunday.” That meant my father, who was a tailor, wouldn’t be going to his shop that day. “I’ll be very quiet,” I whispered back. Mama kissed me and got up. I lay very still, not moving a muscle, until Papa opened his eyes. Then we stayed in bed a little longer, listening to Mama in the kitchen.
Mama had prepared breakfast and was now busy with the chicken she’d bought the day before. It was in an earthenware baking dish, and she was rubbing oil and garlic over its pinkish skin. She peeled small potatoes and placed them around the plucked chicken, then draped a linen towel over the dish.
“I’m taking Isaac with me!” Papa announced after breakfast as he took the chicken from Mama. “Well, don’t be late,” said Mama. “We won’t,” he answered. Mama laughed because she knew we would be.
Every Sunday, Papa and I followed the same routine. First we left the chicken to be roasted at the corner bakery because we didn’t have an oven at home, just a gas range. Then we walked to the Café Laumière, where Papa’s friends gathered. The café was crowded with customers speaking Yiddish, the language Mama and Papa spoke at home. Papa and his friends liked to talk, mostly about politics, and the discussions often got heated and loud. Papa would forget about the time, and then we’d have to leave in a big hurry to pick up the chicken before the baker closed for lunch. In the afternoon, we would get dressed in our Sunday clothes and go visiting.
Mama and Papa and many of their friends had emigrated from Poland to France. Life was hard in Poland, especially for Jews. Papa, like many political idealists at that time, was a Communist and had spent a year in a Polish jail. In France, he didn’t have to hide his Jewishness or his political convictions. I loved going to political rallies with him at La Place de la République on weekends. My friends were there, too. We raced in and out of the crowd on our roller skates while our dads listened to the long, boring speeches.
Our family was happy in Paris. We lived on the second floor of a six-story apartment building at 60, rue de la Fontaine au Roi, near La Place de la République. It was a neighborhood filled with Jewish immigrants. Many, like Papa, worked in the garment trade.
My friend Marcel Rosenbloom lived on the fifth floor of our apartment house. When Papa and Mama went out for the evening, I’d go up to the Rosenblooms’ to play with Marcel. The green pillows from their living-room sofa became our battleships. We’d slide on the shiny parquet floor astride our pillows and attack each other. “My sub got yours!” “I sank your destroyer!” That was as close as war came to us then. It was a game.
GERMANY INVADES FRANCE
In 1940, the German army invaded France, and life under German occupation began. I was seven years old. Papa had to go to the police station and register us as Jews. Soon the government began imposing restrictions on Jews. When Papa came home one afternoon in 1941, he looked worried. He said that some of his Jewish friends had been arrested.
I began having nightmares. One night I dreamed that the police broke down our front door and dragged Mama and Papa away, leaving me behind. I told Mama about the nightmare. “Isaac,” she said, trying to comfort me, “it’s just a bad dream.”
Not long after, Papa was ordered to report to the police station. That night, he took his green corduroy golf trousers and laid them out neatly with his gray striped jacket, brown cap, and Sunday shoes, as if he was getting ready for an important meeting. He tucked me in bed and kissed me tenderly. “Isaac, be a good boy, and help your mama!” In the morning, he was gone.
Soon, we received a letter from Papa. He was in an internment camp in a place called Pithiviers. A photograph accompanied the letter. “Mama, here’s Papa!” I exclaimed, pointing him out. “And Cousin Joseph!” Mama added. Papa wrote that Joseph and several friends from Poland were there with him. The commander of the camp had given special permission for relatives to visit the following Sunday.
PITHIVIERS
Mama and I left our apartment before sunrise Sunday morning. The streets were deserted as we walked to the Métro at La Place de la République for the short subway ride to the bus station.
We boarded the crowded bus for the three-hour ride to Pithiviers and found seats together. It soon became obvious that most of the passengers on the bus were Jewish families, all going to the same place. I huddled against Mama, shut my eyes, and awoke as the bus pulled into Pithiviers. We walked the short distance to the camp. Mama showed our identification papers to the French gendarmes at the gate. They directed us to the visitors’ center, where Papa was waiting. He swept me up in a big hug and then embraced Mama. We were so glad to be together again.
Papa showed us his living quarters in barrack number 4. Then we sat with Cousin Joseph and Papa’s friends and their families in the visitors’ center. Mama had made a sponge cake and brought a basket filled with some of Papa’s favorite foods. While the grownups ate and talked, the children played. It seemed like a party to me, but when I looked at Mama’s face, I saw that it wasn’t. She remarked on how thin Papa was. “Rivelé, you worry too much,” he said.
Too soon, a gendarme barked an order for all visitors to leave. I clung to Papa and wouldn’t let go. Mama had to pry me loose. Papa tried to keep our farewell normal. “Rivelé,” he said to Mama, “don’t forget to write Abraham and ask for news of the family. And you, Isaac, try a little harder in school!” Outside the camp, Mama and I waved to Papa for the last time. He waved back from behind the barbed-wire fence until we were out of sight.
The men in barrack number 4 at Pithiviers, summer of 1941: (top) my father, Moïshé Sztrymfman, is first on the right in the back row; (bottom) my father is third from the left in the back row
PERSECUTION OF JEWS
We only made the trip to Pithiviers that once
because, soon after, family visits were no longer allowed. In June of 1942, we got Papa’s last letter. It ended with “We’re leaving the camp in eight days. As soon as I know where we’re going, I’ll write. Love and kisses, Papa.”
With Papa gone, things got harder. Luckily, Mama had saved some money, and we survived by living frugally. Mama bought yellow stars symbolizing the Star of David, which we were required to wear when we went out on the street. She sewed them on our coats with very fine stitches.
“Mama, why do I have to wear this star? I’m French!” I said. “You’re also a Jew,” she answered. “All Jews must now wear the yellow star. It’s the law!” I didn’t really mind at first; Marcel and all the Jewish kids wore them. I was eight years old.
But as time passed, the situation for Jews worsened. In early July, school closed for summer vacation. The government issued additional restrictions against Jews. A curfew was imposed and lists were posted specifying items that Jews were prohibited from owning. Mr. Rosenbloom took Marcel’s bicycle to the police station, where it was confiscated. Mama had to turn in our radio.
One day, I asked Mama for money to go to the movies. “Why don’t you go to the park with Marcel instead?” she said. Jews were no longer permitted in movie theaters. Marcel and I went to the small park near our house where we often played. A policeman stopped us. “Can’t you read?” he said, pointing to a sign. “Jews and dogs are not allowed!” And when Mama and I took the Métro, we had to ride in the last car of the train. It was reserved for Jews.
Little by little, more restrictions were enacted. Jews were not allowed to own businesses. Jews were not allowed to shop for food until after five o’clock in the evening. By then, the shelves in the stores were practically empty. But Papa had once done our Christian neighbor a favor, and she did our shopping for us.
Persecution of Jews was now official government policy. The Paris police began mass arrests, sometimes with more zeal than the Nazis. One day, when I went upstairs to play with Marcel, a neighbor told me the Rosenblooms had left. Next, we heard that several Jewish families in our building had been arrested during the night. Mama and I removed our yellow stars and stopped going outside. We hid in our apartment till that frightening morning when Mama, looking agitated, woke me. Men were yelling outside our front door. “Open the door! It’s the police!” Mama put her finger to her lips, signaling me to be quiet. I was shaking with fear but made no sound. They knocked again and again and tried the door. “Open up!” But we didn’t move. Finally, I heard someone say, “The concierge has the keys,” and the men left.
Mama waited till the stairway was quiet before carefully opening the door. Peering out, she pulled me after her into the empty hallway and quietly locked the door behind us. Still in our nightclothes, we tiptoed noiselessly across the way to Papa’s workshop. The police returned soon after, and we heard their angry shouts. “L’appartement est vide. Les juifs sont partis! The apartment is empty. The Jews have left.” Luckily for us, they didn’t know about Papa’s shop.
We waited for evening and darkness before going back to our apartment to get our clothes. Mama took additional garments, her jewelry, and her money, and we returned to Papa’s shop in a hurry. She packed her clothes and mine in two separate bundles and tied them with heavy twine. We slept in the shop that night, which was fortunate, for the police came back in the morning. Finding the apartment empty, they left again.
Our good neighbor brought us food and we stayed in the shop, keeping clear of the windows. After several days, Mama decided to leave. Early one morning, we tiptoed silently through the courtyard and past the apartment of the concierge. We were fortunate that the concierge didn’t see us, for she hated children and Jews equally and would have gladly turned us over to the police.
We rushed across the street to 55, rue de la Fontaine au Roi, where Mama’s friend Sara lived. She was married to a Christian and at that time was not yet in danger of being arrested. She had promised to help us if we needed it. Mama wanted to get to the free French zone, the part of France that wasn’t under German occupation. Sara knew someone who, if paid—for it was dangerous work—would act as our guide. She took the money Mama gave her and left to make the arrangements. When she returned, it was all settled. We would be leaving early the next morning.
My mother and me, summer of 1936
THE PASSAGE
That night, I slept in my street clothes on the living-room sofa. Mama slept in an armchair nearby. When she woke me, it was still dark. Sara was preparing snacks to send with us. I washed my face in ice-cold water at the kitchen sink. We left Sara and went out into the early morning.
The subway platform was deserted except for a cleaning person and two policemen. A train rumbled into the station, and the police watched us go aboard. The doors closed and Mama and I breathed more easily. When we stepped out into the street, it was daylight.
Mama took my hand and we hurried through the crowded railroad station to the spot where we were to meet our guide. Nazi patrols and the police were everywhere, checking people’s papers, but no one stopped us. Then a man came up to us and spoke quietly to Mama. “Are you a friend of Sara’s?” he asked. Mama nodded. “Follow me,” he said.
He opened the door to a train compartment where an elderly couple and a young man were seated. They were making the passage, too. They looked up at us and, without saying a word, made room for Mama and me next to the open window. It was July and the day was already hot. With a sudden jolt and a deafening screech, the train moved forward. It picked up speed and we left the station in a cloud of steam. Soon, our guide and traveling companions dozed. Mama and I were hungry and shared one of the sandwiches Sara had made for us. Then Mama shut her eyes, and I looked out the window at the countryside as the train took us away from Paris.
Four hours later, we arrived at a small deserted station surrounded by farmland. Mama and I and our small group were the only passengers to leave the train. We followed our guide down a dirt road bordered by tall trees, which gave us welcome shade. We walked for a while in silence and stopped within sight of a paved road that ran at a right angle to ours. A short distance away was the line of demarcation. Beyond it was the free French zone.
The guide directed us to lie down in an irrigation ditch by the side of the road while he went ahead to make sure it was safe to proceed. We followed him with our eyes until he reached the line of demarcation. Then he turned the corner and disappeared. We waited in the ditch.
THE ARREST
First we heard shouting. Then we saw our guide running toward us, waving his arms excitedly over his head. Not far behind him came a German soldier furiously pedaling a bicycle, calling for the guide to stop. The soldier caught up with him just as he reached our hiding place. Jumping off his bicycle, the German unsheathed his bayonet, pointed his rifle at us, and ordered us onto the road with our hands over our heads. A second soldier, holding a dog by the leash, quickly joined his comrade, and they marched us to a military post nearby. There we were hustled onto a truck and driven to an ancient prison administered by the French. Orders were barked in German and French for us to climb down from the truck. As we were led through the prison gates, a terrifying vision of falling into a deep, dark hole came over me.
The doors of the prison closed behind us and day turned to night. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that we were in a long, narrow tunnel with light at the end. The prison guards locked the six of us in one small windowless cell. There were no chairs or benches, only the stone floor strewn with straw to sit or lie upon. The straw was damp and sour-smelling. The worn cell walls were covered with scratched inscriptions made by past prisoners.
Mama and I lay down to rest. We were all stunned and no one talked. From time to time I could hear crying in adjacent cells. I lay against Mama sheltered in her arms, thinking of Papa, Marcel, and all my friends. Mama woke me when the guards came with a watery carrot soup.
I don’t remember the length of our stay, but it was a
t least several days. On the last day, I saw Mama take money and jewelry from her handbag and quickly hand them to one of our guards. Then she whispered the name and address of a friend in Paris to him. He wrote it down. I didn’t understand why at the time.
Some time later, prison guards freed the six of us from our cell and took us with our belongings down to the other end of the tunnel and out into an immense circular courtyard, where we joined a long line of people who looked as bedraggled as we did. The line snaked around the courtyard. Shouts and cries came from the far end, and I soon saw what was causing them. Nazi officers and prison guards were separating the men from the women and children as they reached the head of the line. The men went quietly, but the women, with arms outstretched and children crying at their sides, called out hysterically to be allowed to go with their husbands. Mama and I held hands. I was scared, and I could tell Mama was, too, though she didn’t say anything.
Holding a bawling toddler in his arms, the same prison guard whom Mama had given her money and jewelry to approached us. He whispered something in Mama’s ear. She nodded. “Isaac,” she said gently, placing my hand in his, “go with the nice man. And I don’t want you to cry!” I was confused and frightened, but her voice told me that I had to try to obey her. She kissed me and her tears wet my cheek. I went quietly with the guard.
“Why isn’t Mama coming?” I asked. The prison guard said nothing. “Where am I going?” “To a hospital,” he answered. “Why?” “Stop asking questions!” he replied sharply.
An ambulance was parked just outside the fortress. The guard opened the back door and told me to climb in. Two girls who looked like sisters and a woman who appeared to be a nurse sat on one of the benches. After handing the toddler to the nurse, the guard passed along the piece of paper with the name and address of Mama’s friend on it and shut the door. As the ambulance pulled away, I asked the nurse, “When will I see Mama?”
Hidden Child Page 1