Cheating; extortion; behaviour of the most unscrupulous and vicious kind. And all conducted in the confidence of total impunity.
When shall we see the ‘Exposition Juive’ that would show–or, indeed, that could show–the level of the crimes perpetrated against Jews, even in this one area?
13
Stay of execution
SO FAR IT HAD BEEN POSSIBLE for a Jew at least to remain within the four walls of his own home; he had even been able to show himself on the street, albeit at certain prescribed times of day. This situation, however, represented merely a stay of execution. An unspecified–and for that reason all the more dreadful–threat was closing in on us, like a bird of prey, circling ever nearer. Life became a waiting game–waiting for bad to turn to worse, and then finally to worst.
Each morning we would look anxiously through the paper, to see if it contained any actual new measures, alongside the usual anti-Semitic filth. In October 1940 the Statut Juif appeared. On the day of its proclamation, I met H.-R. Lenormand,* the well-known dramatist. Lenormand had always counted Jews among his closest friends; and indeed it was Jewish critics, more than any, who had praised and valued his plays. He was enormously indebted, among others, to Max Reinhardt.*
‘What do you think of this Statut Juif?’ Lenormand asked me. Without waiting for my reply, he continued: ‘I actually think that it’s fairly mild.’
So mild, in fact, did he find it that, in gratitude for this mildness on the part of the Germans towards his Jewish friends, he began to publish article after article in the most viciously anti-Semitic French Nazi papers.
Perhaps Lenormand was right. Up until now it had been possible for a Jew to hide in his own house, at least, and to sleep in a bed at night.
How long would that last? The ban on using the railways, and on changing one’s address; the repeated censuses of the Jews: what was the final purpose to which all these measures pointed? We tried not to spend our entire time thinking about it.
One day an inspector from the Prefecture of Police appeared at our door. He checked our papers, and asked a series of questions. He was polite, and made a pleasant impression. It seemed, too, that he had no particular enthusiasm for the task.
As he turned to go, I asked him: ‘Please tell me honestly: what was the purpose of this visit? What do they intend to do with us?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘How would I know that? You’d have to ask the Germans. I have been given the task of checking your papers, as those of other israélites. Which is exactly what I have done.’
I tried again. ‘We hear so much about concentration camps for Jews, at least for foreign Jews…’
Another shrug. ‘Who can tell what the Germans are planning? We may all end up in the concentration camp, all of us–me included.’
And with these words of comfort he left us.
14
‘For examination of your situation’
TO ALL OUTWARD APPEARANCE we carried on–like automata. We went about our daily tasks mechanically, talked about any subject which was actually of the greatest indifference to us; tried to read. The fears were ever-present. And yet, in a small corner of our hearts, we maintained a glimmer of hope.
This trace of hope, which actually derived from nothing except survival instinct, was the only weapon left to us in this battle–this battle with our own selves. Without it we would not have been able to put up with the constant attrition.
And so passed the first winter of the Occupation, 1940–41. The worries of everyday life; the bitter cold in an unheated apartment; the difficulties in getting food–all the things that other people made such a fuss over–seemed to us mere trifles compared with the great, menacing question mark to which the life of a Jew (especially a foreign Jew) had been reduced. At that time the French Jews seemed still to enjoy at least a vestige of personal security.
Then, late in the evening of a beautiful spring day (it was about ten o’clock on 12th May 1941), the doorbell of our apartment rang. We started; and I went to open.
Outside stood a policeman, who handed me a green sheet of paper, with the following words: ‘It is absolutely essential that you come: otherwise you will be arrested.’ And before I could even say a word, he had gone.
It was a formal, printed ‘invitation’ from the Prefecture of Police. In it I was directed to attend on 13th May–the next day–at 7 a.m., not at the Prefecture itself, but at the police station of my own arrondissement, in Rue Lecourbe. The same place, that is, where I had spent the night of my arrest as ‘ressortissant hitlérien’…
Added in hand, underlined in red ink, was the phrase ‘Pour examen de votre situation.’ For examination of your situation. Another phrase, too: ‘Accompanied by a family member or friend.’
The very next day… 7 a.m.… examination of my situation… accompanied by a family member or friend… What did it all mean–what lay behind it?
I said to my wife and to Sláva: ‘I don’t know what they want from me, but, this time tomorrow, I can hardly imagine I will still be with you.’
The poor women of course tried to comfort me. Soon, however, the three of us were sitting there in silence. And at last we went to bed–as though we really imagined we might sleep.
And this night too went by, a night which seemed endless, like an agony of uncertainty; but then again far too short, like a leavetaking.
At 7 a.m. we presented ourselves at the police station: my wife and I.
An official demanded my identity card and noted down the details; he then returned it. Trying to sound as calm as possible–though that last glimmer of hope was making it hard to breathe normally–I asked him, ‘Can we go now?’ For a fraction of a second he turned to me, with a look that was half pity and half amazement. He then gestured with his pen in the direction of a door, behind his shoulder, and answered: ‘Go in there.’ And, turning to my wife: ‘You stay here.’
I entered the room he had indicated. In front of a table were two inspectors in civilian clothes; on the other side, two individuals whom I instantly recognised as my comrades-in-destiny. One of the officials gave the order: ‘Hands up!’
The other undertook a thorough body search. On the table I noticed the haul of material confiscated thus far: a small penknife and an even smaller nail file. Hardly deadly weapons, but still, I suppose one could probably do oneself some mischief with them. Pas d’histoires…
They then gestured to me to line up with the others and not to talk. We had walked into the trap. I now understood the true significance of ‘examination of my situation’.
But what did they want with my wife?
Periodically the door would open and yet another man would enter, ‘for examination of his situation’. No trace of shame from the two officials…
When at last the number had reached about a dozen, the two inspectors were relieved by a couple of armed policemen, who came and stood in front of us.
The first issued a curt instruction not to smoke; but the other said, appeasingly: ‘Oh, let them–while they still have something to smoke.’
I addressed myself to this one–in spite of the ban on speaking–and said: ‘Please can you just tell us what is going to happen to us?’
He hesitated for a moment, looked at his colleague, then said, in a half-whisper: ‘They are saying that you are going to go to a concentration camp for Jews. We are still awaiting instructions. All we know is that a minibus is coming from the Prefecture to collect you.’
I asked again: ‘Will I be able to see my wife again?’
‘Yes. But now no more talking.’
After an hour or so we were led out into the office again. In front of the door stood a minibus.
All the family members or friends were gathered in the office–women sobbing in distress, and each holding a bundle. Now I understood also the significance of that considerate instruction, ‘Accompanied by a family member or friend.’
As soon as we had walked into that despicable trap, the accompan
ying person had been given a piece of paper, listing the items of bedlinen and clothing which–as well as a blanket–they were to fetch from home; and which they were now to hand over to us.
The policeman who had earlier shown some human fellow-feeling came up to me discreetly and whispered: ‘You may tell your wife that you are being taken to the concentration camp of Beaune-la-Rolande in the Loiret département.’
We took our leave. The policemen hustled us: quick, quick. The vast majority of us would never see our wives or children again. Of the twelve of us taken into captivity at Rue Lecourbe, I may well have been the only one to survive.
Now the women were required to leave. They tried to stay outside, near the door, so as to be able to see us one more time. They were pushed away. We were then taken by the arm, each by one police officer, and led to the bus. We drove off, accompanied by four men.
In the doorway of a house, pressed into the corner, stood my wife. I drove past her. Once more she gazed at me, with a look… a look…
I shall never forget that look.
We were taken to a concealed side entrance at the Gare d’Austerlitz, where other vehicles were already unloading their cargo: adolescent boys, exhausted old men, deaf mutes, cripples, the sick and the blind. Jews.
Quick! Quick! was the command; it was not always followed. Many were scarcely able to carry their bundles.
The delightful spectacle was observed from a window on the first floor by two female German officers in smart uniform. The look on the faces of these two women is another which I shall never forget; a look of inhuman pleasure. How incredibly entertaining it was, the silent anguish of these Jews.
On the platform we were taken in charge by a unit of Wehrmacht commanded by an elegant officer. They were wearing combat helmets, these great heroes, and were armed not only with rifles but also with machine guns.
The officer began to roar at us; all I could make out was the refrain with which he ended each command: ‘… will be shot… will be shot.’
We were then loaded on. In front of each of the locked cars were posted two soldiers with a machine gun. They were safe now, the brave Germans–safe from all possible Jewish assault.
We drove off.
At three in the afternoon we arrive at Beaune-la-Rolande, a small town about twelve kilometres from Orléans. The camp was about three kilometres from the town itself; so at least we were spared the experience of being paraded through the streets of Beaune.
Once again our escort consisted of German soldiers.
Two rows ahead of me a diminutive, emaciated old man was gasping for breath. One of the soldiers suddenly barked at him: ‘Get lost!’
I confess that in his place I would have had just as little idea as he had as to the meaning of ‘Get lost.’ He looked about him in confusion.
The next moment the Aryan superhero had inflicted a terrible kick on the frail little man–a kick in the middle of the face. The victim collapsed. And before we could even attempt to help him up again, his tormentor had leapt upon him and was belabouring him with his boots, rhythmically, and with a rhythmic vocal accompaniment: ‘Jewish pig, dirty yid, Jewish pig, dirty yid…’ The heels of his boots were red with blood.
We finally managed to raise him up again and helped him on his way. A few days later he died.
The other soldiers in the escort had watched the whole scene with enjoyment, as if it had been a particularly successful practical joke.
We had reached the front of the camp, and stood facing rows of high barbed-wire fences. A division of the gardes mobiles with their captain awaited us.
The Germans left us.
There was a definite sense of relief when they did so, and we saw the French uniforms. These gardes mobiles were not exactly soulmates, to be sure–but to be free of the sight of the Germans was some comfort in itself.
We staggered through the gate with our bundles. Now the barbed-wire fence was behind us. It was as if a heavy gate had fallen shut. We were now worse off than the worst common criminal: he at least has some rights enshrined in the law. For us there were no rights, and no law. We were only Jews.
We stood in the forecourt in front of the reception building housing the office of the camp commandant and the accommodation of the gardes mobiles until ten at night.
We were finally allocated to different huts, behind a further barbed-wire fence. There were 180 men to each hut. During the journey I had already made the acquaintance of an Austrian, Ernst Friedezky, and through him of his friend Alois Stern, a Czech who had lived for a long time in Vienna. We managed to stay together, and were allocated to Hut 8. We groped our way into it in the darkness. That first night there was no light, and no straw.
I had thought that I was too tired to feel anything. But in the darkness I suddenly saw my wife’s face clearly in front of me, as it had looked as she stood in the doorway of that house on the Rue Lecourbe, gazing at me as I drove past.
15
Hut 8
ON AVENUE DES CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES in Paris, there used to be a shop window displaying a wonderful sort of miniature kennel designed for the lapdogs of the upper classes. It consisted of three storeys of dainty, beautifully upholstered bunk beds, in which the precious creatures could live a life of undisturbed pleasure.
Of course, our existence was very far from that of the spoiled lapdog. And yet somehow that window in the Champs-Élysées, with its cosy kennel and the exclamations of delight from the genteel ladies admiring it, kept coming back to me. We too had been put into a structure consisting of three storeys of beds, with one man to a bed and each bed measuring 160 centimetres in length by 60 centimetres in height. You had to crawl into the straw on all fours, and then undress–if you could still be bothered to undress–lying down. If you attempted to sit up straight, you would bang your head on the planks of the bed above. Only those on the third storey were lucky enough to be able to sit up in comfort; on the other hand, they had to be skilled climbers in order to get there in the first place. I preferred to stay on terra firma.
The day after the glorious episode of the ‘Examination of Our Situation’, an article appeared on the first page of Paris-Midi under a headline which proclaimed in massive letters: ‘La France se libère du joug juif’: France is freed from the Jewish yoke. In this article–which a garde mobile actually showed us–the people were given the comforting reassurance that the France had finally roused herself to shake off the Jewish yoke. A start had been made, with the arrest of 5,000 foreign Jews between the ages of 18 and 45, and their removal to the concentration camps of Pithiviers and Beaune-la-Rolande. All these Jews, without exception, were dangerous, active ‘trafiquants du marché noir’, illegal traffickers on the black market, who had become incredibly rich overnight–parasites, who had finally received the proper (though far too lenient) punishment for their crimes against the long-suffering Aryan people.
Well, at least I knew, now–as far as my own case was concerned–what profession I had been practising, and what crime I was now paying for. The fact, which I mention only in passing, that I was already 55 at the time, was of course irrelevant. When one is talking about criminals who constitute a public menace, one cannot afford to be so particular.
But what of the others? If we take the inmates of Hut 8 as an example, the overwhelming majority were manual labourers or factory workers; in addition to these there were a few tradesmen; an ex-bank clerk; an engineer; a language teacher.
There were two deaf mutes; one mentally retarded person; one man with a wooden leg; a large number of serious invalids. As for age, the youngest amongst us was 14, the oldest 67.
Most of the younger inmates had fought for France–as volunteers–during the War; a number had been seriously injured; two had received the Croix de Guerre.
Such, then, was the band of desperadoes from whose yoke France had finally begun to free herself.
The manifestations of hunger can be quite diverse. Apathy verging on paralysis; dizziness that causes one to
stagger as if drunk; trembling similar to a violent shaking fit. I also saw youngsters who suddenly went for each other like mad dogs and bit each other till they bled. Two of the very youngest crouched down on the ground behind the hut, held each other’s hands and sobbed with tears.
I can also see myself, standing outside one day in the pouring rain, leaning against the hut wall. The clayey soil had turned into thick mud. In my hand I held a small piece of bread, but my fingers were shivering so violently that I dropped it. Without hesitation I retrieved the delicacy from the slime and gobbled it down.
The daily bread ration was 175 grams; but sometimes this was reduced, by way of ‘punishment’, by 25 or even 50 grams. As, for example, on the occasion when the prisoners in the camp of Pithiviers, thirty kilometres from ours, ‘mutinied’–which is to say that they had thrown out the totally inedible bits of mangelwurzel that had been given to them in their soup.
Every week a German officer from Orléans came to inspect us, accompanied by an official of the Gestapo in civilian clothes. The camp commandant, who the rest of the time vaunted himself like an all-powerful god, shrank to the status of a miserable worm in the presence of the two Germans.
On one such inspection the German officer discovered that at 6 a.m. we were given a black liquid which was described as coffee. He flew into a rage. ‘What? Coffee–for these Jews?’ He then turned to the commandant: ‘Captain, these Jews are here to perish, not to fatten themselves. Is that understood?’
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