In Lyon, the admirable Cardinal Gerlier* had set up a kind of rescue service, which was conducted by one Abbé Glasberg.* Rumour had it that this tireless and fearless priest had already helped a number of the camp inmates at Vényssieux to get away. Edgar Kofler had, besides, been in contact with a friend of Rosa’s in Lyon, Madame Danon. This woman knew a distinguished advocate, who had influential contacts at the Prefecture. As long as Rosa was not yet in the clutches of the Germans, perhaps all was not yet lost. The crucial thing was to get there before the executioners.
But chance, or fate, wished otherwise. Through a disastrous chain of circumstances, all efforts came to nought: Abbé Glasberg was away; and the advocate was busy pleading a case in the court.
It was nearly evening when Edgar Kofler finally succeeded in making contact with the Abbé, who had in fact been at Vényssieux all day and had succeeded in getting a number of women and children to safety. The Abbé promised to go the very next morning and do his best for Rosa. And the advocate agreed to use his contacts at the Prefecture. For an appropriate fee…
But when Abbé Glasberg arrived at Vényssieux the next morning, he found the camp empty. The Germans had learned that prisoners were being saved and had given the order that the victims be brought immediately to the Demarcation Line. They had also threatened Cardinal Gerlier with arrest.
As early as 2 a.m. the prisoners were removed, at great speed, from Vényssieux, in three separate groups: men, women and children. All that we were able to gather was that they were to be taken first to the camp of Drancy near Paris, in order to be deported onward from there. Madame Danon immediately sent a man to Paris on her behalf; but all his attempts to reach them at Drancy were fruitless. The prisoners had remained there a total of two days.
In Voiron we received a devastating couple of lines that Rosa had been able to write from Vényssieux. And that was the last we heard of her, or of Mrs Friedezky.
Much later we were to learn that the children–those children we had seen playing in Caserne Bizanet–had remained in France. They had been spared, then, you are perhaps thinking. Any such notion would show a poor understanding of the Germans.
Along with thousands of other children–5,000 in all–these children had been packed into ‘my’ camp, Beaune-la-Rolande. And had then been ‘liquidated’ by lethal injection administered by Nazi women sent there for that specific purpose.
Among these Nazi women there were, without doubt, mothers–mothers who sat down calmly at the end of a day’s work to write the most affectionate letters to their children.
At the beginning of September 1942 an issue of the mass-circulation paper Gringoire appeared with a massive headline on the front page: ‘Le bobard des enfants séparés de leurs mères’ (‘Children separated from their mothers–the myth’). Below which an article spluttered indignantly about how people even had the audacity to give currency to such gruesome fabrications. Of course children had never been separated from their mothers.
And so we were again ‘back home’ in Voiron. Here we received many tokens of sympathy. From Belvès, too, we received a letter from Jacquot Rispal, blazing with fury and revulsion. If this letter had fallen into the hands of the censor, it might have had the severest consequences for our young friend. And Pierre wrote announcing a visit.
This was all very comforting. At the same time, we felt that our miraculous escape was again only temporary.
Two days after our return, two gendarmes appeared at our house. ‘Purely out of sympathy’, as they both assured us–simply to enquire about my condition. They sat by my bed, smoked a cigarette, and drank a toast to my full recovery. Nor did they fail to condemn this entire action of the Germans in appropriate terms–‘completely between ourselves’, of course. We parted like old friends.
Not long after that I was honoured by a visit from two more gendarmes–again, to drink a toast, from no other motive than that of respect. Anyone who had seen us sitting together there, chatting so intimately, would have taken the good gendarmes for my guardian angels.
Eight days later: yet another visit. But the closer we got to the bottom of the liqueur bottle, the clearer it became to us that this touching concern was of a similar nature to that of the cat for the mouse.
Our neighbour, Monsieur Pellat, had taken soundings at the Prefecture in Grenoble. ‘Until further notice,’ they had told him, ‘they have nothing to fear.’
Until further notice.
True, the noose around our necks had not–by a miracle–been tightened. It was, however, still around our necks. All it needed was a little tug, and the cord that had been twisted out of my Jewishness would do its work. The task of the brave gendarmes was that of periodically checking whether our heads were still sitting nicely in the noose. Until further notice.
And then there were other events, other symptoms. Jews who had been spared up till now were arrested and taken to the concentration camp of Rivesaltes. The protests of such church leaders as Cardinal Gerlier and Monsignor Saliège,* which had become well-known even in neutral countries abroad, now only had the consequence that the French authorities refrained, for the moment, from operating on a large scale. They delivered their victims to the Germans in small groups. This was much less visible, and allowed Vichy to utter the most bare-faced denials.
Pierre Vorms, who had come to us in the meantime, insisted that we must do something. A miracle like that of Grenoble would not happen a second time. We understood that perfectly; but what were we to do? In our situation there was–at most–one path of salvation: escape to Switzerland.
22
Escape to Switzerland
BUT HOW TO GET TO SWITZERLAND…? Two obstacles presented themselves, like gigantic prison walls: one was the difficulty of getting out of France, and the other was the difficulty of then getting into Switzerland.
The Vichy régime was a match for the Germans in another field, too–that of despicable mendacity. On the one hand, Laval had explicitly stated to foreign press representatives that ‘nothing would prevent him from getting rid of all foreign Jews’. But on the other hand he removed from these Jews any possibility of leaving the country. There was a strict ban on the use of railways. There had been an enormous tightening of security on the Swiss border. Anyone caught trying to escape to Switzerland ended up a prisoner at Rivesaltes.
As for entry into Switzerland: every Jew who had the great fortune actually to succeed in crossing the border risked being refoulé; in other words, handed back to the French; in other words, delivered–with even greater certainty than before–to the German knife. Switzerland had, however, at least declared that it would investigate each case individually and would not deny entry to Jews (such as Austrians and Czechs) who were in immediate fear of their lives.
Bearing in mind that we belonged to this category, Vorms continued his efforts. Over a period of weeks he went back and forth between Voiron and Grenoble, in search of a possible solution.
Some refugees had managed to make their way on foot through Savoie and then over the Alpine passes into Switzerland; but in view of my condition, this possibility could of course not be entertained.
Vorms continued his efforts unstintingly. One day, at the beginning of October, he returned from Grenoble and declared: ‘This time I believe I have finally found the answer. But you must decide at once.’ And he proceeded to outline the plan.
A lawyer in Grenoble had–reluctantly, after much hesitation, and ‘from purely humanitarian motives’–given him the address of one Monsieur Roland, at the same time remarking, in a significant tone of voice: ‘If he really wants to, he can do anything.’
After many failed attempts Vorms finally managed to find Monsieur Roland, who lived in a hotel, and to get a meeting with him. A young woman whom Roland introduced as his representative was also present at the discussion.
In brief: Monsieur Roland eventually identified himself as a police inspector of the Sûreté in Grenoble, assigned to the border brigade at Annecy. In
other words, he was one of those special tracker dogs that Vichy set upon Jews who wanted to flee to Switzerland. It was, therefore, scarcely necessary to explain our situation to him; he grasped it immediately.
After some consideration he finally declared his willingness to take on our case, and to get us across the border.
But how could we get to the border? We had no papers except for those identity cards with the word ‘JEW’ stamped on them prominently in large letters. The police officer’s only response to this concern on the part of my friend was a dismissive wave of the hand. Anyone who was under his protection would need no papers, and need have no fear of police checks or anything else. Such obstacles existed only for common or garden passeurs, not for a police inspector.
In short, it would be child’s play. All that our high-minded benefactor required, for this child’s play, was 20,000 francs per person, which is to say, 60,000 francs all told, payable in advance.
Vorms had the audacity to suggest that such a bill–payable in advance–was excessive. At this Monsieur Roland very nearly showed him the door. He gave him the stark choice: either accept my terms unconditionally or stop wasting my precious time. He added, purely in passing: ‘If your friends don’t mind ending up in Rivesaltes within the next fortnight, then they don’t have to spend a centime. Because that is where all foreign Jews will be within a fortnight–I can give you my word on that.’
We discussed it over and over. Finally, we decided to sacrifice the last of our money; to convert everything we could into cash; and to accept Roland’s conditions.
Vorms summed up his impression of Roland as follows: a gangster, certainly, but a gangster who sticks to an agreement once he’s made it. He then went to make the telephone call. (He had agreed with Roland that he would ring him in his office at the Sûreté in Grenoble.) On his return, he had these instructions for us: we must travel on the last train to Grenoble the day after tomorrow. This train arrives at midnight. A young lady–Roland’s representative–will meet us there and tell us the rest. We must take no luggage–at most one small suitcase or briefcase.
And so the appointed day came, and we crept away in the night, like criminals, accompanied by Vorms and using roundabout routes so as not to risk running into one of our friends from the gendarmerie. At the station we huddled in a dark corner. Then there was the journey to Grenoble, in constant fear of a police check. We were lucky. At the station the young woman was waiting for us, in accordance with the agreement.
Only a few weeks had passed since the experience of Caserne Bizanet. Once again, we faced a leap into the unknown–a leap which might very well lead to the same disaster that only a last-minute miracle had averted on that occasion. The young woman made a sign to us to follow her.
She stood for a quarter of an hour in front of a house in Rue Thiers, then opened the gate and let us in. We groped our way after her in the darkness, following her right up to the fifth floor. There, at the end of a long corridor, was a dirty, stuffy attic room. A bed (just the one), with no sheets on it; a table; three chairs.
The young woman explained that she would pick us up at six the next morning. Monsieur Roland would be waiting for us in a café opposite the station. We should not make ourselves known, but simply follow him inconspicuously into the station. He would board the fast train to Annemasse, in a first-class compartment; we should get into the same carriage. In the event of a police check, we would simply direct the officials to the inspector, and not worry about anything else. At Annemasse Roland would see to everything else, and take us over the border, to the electric tram which would take us the five kilometres to Geneva.
Before she left us, at 1 a.m., the young woman demanded that we hand over the 60,000 francs, saying that she had to go to the Sûreté now to inform the inspector of our arrival and to give him the money.
6 a.m. We sat and waited. No sign of the young woman. Six-thirty… Seven. No one. By now the train that we were supposed to be on had already left Grenoble.
Finally, at 8 a.m., she appeared, pleading ‘last-minute technical problems’. We should understand that Monsieur Roland wanted to proceed with absolute security and not allow us to be exposed to the slightest risk. He therefore recommended that we now travel by the evening train. She would come for us at six in the evening–six on the dot.
At seven she finally arrived–to tell us that our departure had been put off until the next day.
To cut a long story short: we did not depart the following morning; nor the following evening. The four of us had now been in the attic room for two whole days. At mealtimes we stole out to grab something quickly in a restaurant; at every moment we had to be on the lookout for patrols looking for Jews. Our nerves were shot to pieces; we had reached the point where we wanted an end to the terror, rather than this terror without end. We wanted to have our money back and return to Voiron, come what might; and Vorms had arranged to meet Roland late in the evening for this purpose.
Towards midnight he finally returned and begged us earnestly not to lose our nerve at the last moment. He had been at the Sûreté in person, and had been able to see for himself the sort of power that the inspector wielded; his word was absolute law there. And Roland had been able to produce a wholly plausible explanation for the repeated delay. He offered us the option of taking the money back or travelling with him the next morning; and this time, he guaranteed that everything would go according to plan.
The previous night, another group of Jews had been taken in Grenoble. We finally decided to go with Roland…
This time the young woman collected us punctually. In the café opposite the station I had my first sight of Roland: a man of obvious self-confidence, and the demeanour that knows that all doors open in front of him. With him were a huge man with a vicious bulldog face and a stocky young fellow of extremely dubious appearance. Both these individuals, the young woman explained, were also members of the police, and would be accompanying us as far as Annemasse.
Before Roland boarded the train with his entourage, he signalled to the young woman to go to him, and exchanged a few words with her. She returned with the message: ‘I am to inform you from Monsieur Roland that your arrival over the border is as guaranteed as that of a parcel sent by special delivery. You can have a quiet nap until Annemasse.’
We took our leave of Vorms, who said he would wait in Voiron for a telegram from us before returning to Belvès.
We were due to arrive in Annemasse at 10.30.
Our ‘escort’ in the neighbouring compartment was in splendid form: we could hear them laughing and joking. In the end they began a game of cards.
As we approached Aix-les-Bains, the young boy entered our compartment and gestured to my wife to follow him into the corridor, where he whispered something to her. I could see her shocked reaction, and the vehemence of her response.
I stood up and went out. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
The boy looked me straight in the eye, quite without shame; his voice was calmly insolent. ‘I have already told Madame: you must get out. A police check will take place after Aix. If you do not get out, all three of you will be arrested. Is that clear?’
By now the train had reached the station. On the platform was a whole platoon of gardes mobiles, preparing to get on.
We had to get off: what other possibility was there? My wife had grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him with her on to the platform. ‘We insist that Monsieur Roland at least remain with us and accompany us back to Grenoble. Otherwise we will make a scene: tell him that!’
The train would only stop in Aix for a few minutes. The man made as if he was going to return to Roland in the compartment; but on the step he stopped and gave my wife such a hefty shove that she fell over backwards. He then pulled himself into the carriage and closed the door. The train started.
To this day I find it hard to believe that this whole scene did not arouse the suspicion of one of the policemen… hard to believe, in fact, that we were able to c
ontrol ourselves to such an extent that our rage and despair–not to mention the indescribable feeling of exhaustion–were not clear for everyone to see. Here we suddenly were, thrown out on to the station platform–which might just as well have been the middle of enemy territory. A casual demand to see our papers from any garde that we now encountered would have meant the end.
What were we to do? How could we get out of the station? How could we get back to Voiron? And–in the event of our being forced to spend a night in Aix–how could we possibly find a place to stay where they would not ask to see our papers? We knew no one at all here.
These were the questions that immediately raced through our minds as we stood helplessly on the platform–and on top of it all had to behave casually, as though we were tourists who had decided to take advantage of the fine autumn day for a casual outing.
We decided to go first to the station buffet, and to wait there in the hope that those gardes mobiles who had not boarded the train might leave the station. On entering the buffet I noticed that the back door, which gave on to the street, was wide open. A door to freedom…? I crept towards it, virtually hypnotised by this possible path of escape. In no time at all, though, a bad-tempered waitress had planted herself in front of it. ‘What do you want here?’ she barked at me. ‘This isn’t an exit.’
I muttered some kind of excuse, and ordered a drink. The waitress had obviously not taken to us, and kept her eyes on us constantly. Our stress was doubled by the need to give the appearance of carrying on a perfectly casual conversation. We were entirely at the mercy of this simple waitress. We were Jews: there was no one whom we were not entirely at the mercy of.
After a quarter of an hour we decided to go. Fortunately there were now no gardes on the platforms. We could proceed to the street without hindrance. But what next?
We began to wander the streets of the town without direction. We remarked on people going for a walk, people here for the spa. We stared with enormous interest at the display windows of the shops (even though these were practically empty). Finally we went into a café. Here I gathered the information that there was no train to Grenoble until the next morning. There was, however, a bus at four in the afternoon.
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