Asylum

by Moriz Scheyer

  Paris in the last days before the Germans: a pale ghost on the brightest of days, in the midsummer sun. It seemed shocking that the sun was still shining… the flowers still blooming… the birds still singing. This peace was more like a paralysis, creeping slowly, unstoppably over the body, freezing the blood, numbing the limbs, one by one.

  Just peep round the corner and–one street further on–the illusion, this phantasm of an enchanted city, dissolves into the mad frenzy of the Exodus.

  And, curiously enough, the experience of this violent contrast feels like waking up out of a nightmare. The chaos of vehicles and pedestrians is more bearable than that still, silent brooding. A raging torrent of suffering–but life, at least, in some form. The desperation was at least accompanied by a desperate response; and flight after all involves the notion of refuge. And fear, that of hope.

  Whereas back there, back in the lonely, abandoned city–all you could do there was wait. Wait helplessly, powerlessly, for some monstrous, inescapable fate.

  8

  Paths of the Exodus

  ON 12TH JUNE 1940, at six in the morning, we left our apartment with a few bags and packages, containing only the most basic necessities, and put ourselves in the hands of a friend, Mr C., who had access to a car and had offered to take us as far as Poitiers. From there we would do our best to reach Albi: there we had a friend, Kofler, who had already left Paris, at the end of May.

  As we walked out of the block we were greeted by a striking sight. All around us were people looking up at the sky, seeking the explanation of a strange phenomenon.

  The sun was already high in the sky. But its glow was dull and murky, like that of a funeral lantern which has been veiled in black crepe. Everything seemed to have been enveloped in a haze of smoke.

  My wife looked at me, puzzled, and said: ‘What have you done to your face? You’ve gone black!’ And at the same moment I realised that her face, and Sláva’s, were completely covered in small black dots. I drew my finger along my cheek: it, too, became black from the soot.

  A passing soldier gave us the answer to the riddle. The Germans–already quite near Paris now–had engineered this artificial darkening of the city. Not so much for strategic reasons as to unnerve the people.

  We carried on. Our amazement had given way to a kind of vagabond’s indifference and fatalism. We no longer had a roof over our heads; we carried our belongings with us. We had already become a tiny particle of that vast, anonymous mass whose fate was known as the ‘Exodus’. Whether our faces were clean or not had ceased to be important.

  The next problem was to get into the metro: to succeed in pushing oneself forward for long enough to be pressed into a carriage by the mass of the people behind one. Our new life began with dirty faces and several torn-off buttons.

  When I look back on the first stages of our Exodus, all I see is a confused series of pictures, like takes from a film which seem to have been shot in the wrong order, to be put in sequence later on.

  First of all, there are roads leading out of Paris. Roads in the suburbs; roads dotted with grand houses; country roads; village roads; tracks between fields. Yet all these roads now had only one, identical, distorted face: the face of flight.

  A grotesque mish-mash of vehicles: luxury limousines alongside lorries; sports cars alongside farmers’ carts; removal vans, mail vans, caravans, three-wheelers, motorbikes–everything from the giant to the miniature. And all of them teeming with people using every possible available seat, standing place or indeed crouching place; all of them crammed full and piled high with the items that each person considered the most vital–from beds and ovens to chicken cages and dollhouses. Every vehicle was driven by individuals who seemed eager to set off at the greatest speed, as if in a race. The intensity of their facial expressions contrasted absurdly with the snail’s pace at which the endless caravan, cluttered with bicycles and foot passengers, actually proceeded, metre by metre, constantly stopping and then stumbling on again. Those on foot actually made the quickest progress, even though they had to carry all their baggage with them. Some of them had piled their belongings on to any wheeled contraption they could lay their hands on: toy vehicles, dolls’ prams, even scooters.

  With the idea that it might somehow expedite our progress, we sometimes left the route nationale and went by minor roads. The result was that in the first two days we had managed to put a total of forty kilometres between ourselves and Paris.

  Before my eyes I can still see people collapsing with exhaustion. A woman–a mother–whose knees suddenly gave way. But who still had the strength to raise the sleeping child in her arms aloft, so as not to wake it.

  I can see a blanket, too, laid out in a meadow by the roadside–a brand new, white blanket. Beneath it, though, could be seen the contours of a body. A foot stuck out. It was the first death. For this man, the Exodus was over.

  Early on the morning of the fourth day we stopped on the road going alongside the Loire, directly opposite Blois. It was impossible to go any further. An innumerable mass of people, sticking closely together, waiting for this particular knot to be somehow loosened; during the night there had been heavy rain.

  Suddenly a number of black dots appeared high above us, and at the same time we heard a shrill whistling sound–up and down, up and down. Aeroplanes. They came lower and lower, the whistling reached a spectacular, ear-splitting level. Someone close to us shouted: ‘On the ground!’

  By this point the heroes of the Luftwaffe had come so close that the insignia on the aircraft could be clearly distinguished. We all threw ourselves down, some of us in the mud of the road, some on the embankment. Then: two explosions, and the rattle of machine-gun fire.

  And suddenly everything was quiet again–so quiet that you could hear the distant song of a lark. We got up. The air was thick with the smell of fire and gunpowder. On the other side of the river, in Blois, great flames shot up to the sky.

  The great mass of people began to set itself in motion. But after one great heave everything came to a standstill again. A few hundred metres away, a bomb had produced a crater. The machine guns had done their work, too: I cannot say how many dead, lacerated bodies lay around us–men, women and children. I do know that among the thousands on that particular road–playing out just one in the countless series of episodes of the Exodus–there was not one single combatant. Goering’s noble warriors had quite calmly and deliberately carried out a massacre of unarmed refugees. And, just to add a little spice to their pleasure, these happy murderers had attached special sirens to their planes, which had produced that ghastly whistling sound, so like a mocking laugh.

  A few hours later we were subjected to a second bombardment, at Tours. This time we were able to get to a cellar. A third bombardment found us again on the open road. On that occasion some Italians joined in the fun. The bizarre range of vehicles which we had encountered on the road so far might have seemed pretty well exhaustive; but in Meung-sur-Loire we came across something new. A beautiful hearse, fitted out with little black columns, ropes, wreaths and a grieving angel–the type of vehicle used for the highest-class funerals in Paris.

  Taking the place of the corpse on this occasion were: a family of six, a fox terrier (yapping away happily), three hens and two rabbits.

  What lay beneath the closed lid of the coffin, on the other hand, I never did find out.

  In Cléry we had our first encounter with troops. The army, we gathered, had been mustered here to defend the Loire line. The small market town was overflowing with soldiers–soldiers, soldiers everywhere. The odd sergeant or cadet–perhaps even a lieutenant. But above that rank, not an officer in sight. Where were they?

  In the main street of the town a very smartly dressed old man suddenly came up to me. He raised his hat politely and, rather in the manner of a local who wishes to show a foreigner the chief attractions of his home town, asked me: ‘Monsieur, would you like to see an army in the process of dissolution?’

  I was a littl
e taken aback; but as I looked at him, the man took a step back and, as though he was being crucified, stretched his arms out to either side in a devastating gesture of desperation. ‘Voilà.’ He then greeted me again, very politely, and went on his way.

  Exactly eight days after we had left Paris, we arrived finally at Poitiers. Mr C., who had taken us with him in his car, left us at this point. Our intention was to continue, via Bordeaux, to Albi.

  The railway station was closed; but a rumour was going round that a train might leave at five the next morning for Bordeaux. Since Paris we had spent every night–six of us together–in a small car. A bed would have represented the pinnacle of our desires. But at Poitiers any such thought was ridiculous. We spent the night in the square in front of the station, which was finally opened at four. At five an air raid took place while we were actually on board the horribly overcrowded train. It left an hour later.

  The normal journey time was six hours: it took us thirty-six. We ran out of food and drink, and there was none to be had in the stations. Whenever the train stopped at some point in the open country, everyone ran like crazy to see if they could beg anything at the nearest farm. Most of the farmers took a great deal of persuasion to part with anything, at enormously inflated prices. I remember one who charged ten francs to fill a water bottle.

  Finally we reached Bordeaux. It was scorching. On the walls were posters advertising a concert by the tenor Thil.* Music–human beings–concerts… did all that still exist?

  We were too exhausted to proceed. But where could we find a roof for the night? Eventually we were directed to the Centre d’Accueil, in Quai de la Patugade. This ‘Centre’ consisted of a few hundred straw beds in a warehouse. We were given a bowl of soup and a piece of bread, before sinking into the straw.

  Four o’clock the next morning: alarm bells, explosions, an air raid. One hour later we are on the road again. Back to the station, which is now surrounded by a huge throng of people.

  Two hours to fight our way into the ticket hall. A train to Toulouse? There might be one… or there might not be one. Finally (at about four in the afternoon) an empty train comes in. Uproar. Chaos. Our chief concern at this point is not to become separated from each other. We are lucky: a sudden surge pushes the three of us into the luggage van. It is nearly evening when the train finally moves. But for Bayonne, not Toulouse.

  Toulouse, Bayonne–what does it matter. As long as we are free of the Germans. And as long as we get to somewhere where we don’t immediately have to move on again. The possibility of a wash, maybe… even a change of shirt…

  Late that evening we were taken off the train at Dax and brought in buses to the refugee camp of Basta-les-Forges, about ten kilometres away. Our dream seemed to have come true: we could stay here. The camp consisted of huts, each of them accommodating about sixty people. There were mattresses and bedclothes. There was running water. And a separate hut for meals. Not to mention covered toilet facilities with separate cubicles.

  We were almost happy.

  9

  ‘Armistice’

  WE WERE ALMOST HAPPY. A retired Belgian general shared our hut with us, along with his wife and daughter. This man had assured us–in a tone of authority which would not admit of the slightest doubt–that, even in the very worst case, the Germans would never be able to reach this point, almost on the border with Spain.7

  The physical location of the camp, moreover, hidden between the spreading pine forests, gave us the sense of having said goodbye to that world. And then that lovely breeze, redolent at once of the Harz mountains and the ocean; and the calming effect of that peaceful landscape. And, of course, the knowledge that we had a roof over our head and two hot meals a day. We began to breathe again. Perhaps fate would be kind enough to forget about us, here in this secluded corner. At least for a while.

  One day one of our comrades in the hut–an old Parisian metal-worker–went for walk to the village of Buglose, roughly three kilometres away. On his return, we learned that France had abandoned any further resistance and that Marshall Pétain* had signed the Armistice.

  The old working man delivered the news in the manner of someone who knows he has a sensational piece of news, and wants to communicate that; he did not appear to think that it was of great importance to him personally. He ended his report with the words: ‘At least the War is over, as far as we are concerned.’ He then moved on to a different subject: his discovery, in Buglose, of an inn where one could get really first-rate bacon.

  The next day, we had to put an end to our isolation: we went to Buglose ourselves.

  The news–the catastrophic news–was true. That became evident to us before we even exchanged words with anyone. In the main street of the village a group of youths had gathered, who were shouting and gesticulating in excitement. Were these young people protesting at France’s capitulation? Were they giving vent to their horror at the appalling fate of their native land? Of course not. There was something quite different at stake. On that day, as a sign of national mourning, the government had declared the closure of all inns and restaurants and a strict alcohol ban. These French youths were up in arms for one reason only: that they had to go one day without their apéritif.

  The fact that France had fallen into Hitler’s lap, like an overripe fruit, after a few short weeks, was a terrible disaster. But this reaction which we saw on the part of young people in the main street of Buglose brought certain truths home to us… We hurried back to Basta.

  What was to become of us?

  A representative of the subPrefecture in Dax came to inspect our camp. He was in an excellent mood, and told us that the Germans would never take possession of Dax, even though we were on the wrong side of the Demarcation Line. Then he went on for a short stroll with the general’s wife.

  I waited for the man, and requested a few words with him before he got back into his car. I then explained to him the special nature of our situation: we were in fact the only foreign refugees in the camp; all the others were simply people who had left Paris in the Exodus. For us three, falling into German hands would mean the greatest danger. I appealed to the fellow’s humanity, and begged him to help us get a car to take us to the zone libre.

  The officer placed his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of well-meaning condescension. ‘I’ve already told you all,’ he said, ‘that the Germans want nothing here. We have our official sources. But quite apart from that, as an émigré, as a political refugee you would have nothing to fear. Don’t forget that you are under France’s protection.’

  ‘But it is reported that Marshall Pétain…’

  The officer interrupted me indignantly.

  ‘Marshall Pétain would never–no Maréchal de France would ever–allow the slightest infringement of the right of asylum.’

  And with that he drove off.

  That night it rained buckets. Around 1 a.m. I heard the sound of a car. The general’s wife rose immediately and ran out of the dormitory on tiptoes. About ten minutes later she returned. Noticing that the three of us were awake, she went up to my wife.

  ‘Swear,’ she whispered secretly, ‘not to say a single word of what I am about to tell you to anyone.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what has happened?’

  ‘Do you swear? Good. Well–I have just been informed that the Germans will be here in a matter of hours. Panic must be avoided at all costs. We must receive them as politely as possible, then they will not harm us. Now–pretend to be asleep, otherwise the whole hut will know.’

  Another night that we shall never forget.

  At last–at last–it was day. The Germans had not come. Everything in the camp carried on as normal. Even the general’s wife behaved just as before: she seemed to have forgotten the whole night-time episode. The only thing out of the ordinary was that she complained of a bad headache.

  Usually we took our meals together. On this occasion the general’s wife said that she was still suffering, and preferred to remain in the hut. The
general and his daughter insisted on keeping the invalid company. We thought nothing of this, for although the general was an impressive fellow with a white, military moustache, it was definitely the wife who was in charge.

  When we returned from our half-hour’s lunch-break, however, lo and behold: all three of them had vanished without trace. A van sent by the officer had come by while we were out and discreetly picked them up. We, on the other hand–well, we were under the protection of France. We would have to rely on Marshall Pétain.

  A few days later the camp of Basta-les-Forges was dissolved and its inmates split up between various places in the neighbourhood. We were taken to Thétieu, a village about eight kilometres from Dax, where we were put up in a school classroom. We were, however, also given the option of finding ourselves a place to rent in the village. In the end we took a room with a fine woman, Madame Darricau, who lived on her own, and who also allowed us to share use of her kitchen. The problem of our impermanent existence seemed to have been solved for the moment.

  But the Germans were already in Dax. And, almost immediately, a number of them moved into Thétieu, too. The Swastika had caught up with us. That cursed symbol, those uniforms, those faces. For us, seeing them again was like a sudden relapse in the course of a serious illness.

  And so, once again–as in Vienna–the sense that one was defenceless, that one was exposed to any outrage. Once more the helpless waiting, in a ghastly uncertainty–but at the same time also certainty–for the moment when, in spite of emigration and Exodus, the Monster would once again stretch out his claws towards us. This awareness flowed in our blood like a poison, at once paralysing us and driving us into a fever of unrest. Wherever you went, wherever you stood, whether you hid in your room or sought distraction in the forest, you were still banging your head against the bars.