We began to stroll about once more, even though we were fit to collapse with exhaustion after all we had been through. We went to another café. At the next table someone was recounting the local news, which included the fact that a group of Jews had been taken through Aix under guard yesterday–Jews who had attempted to flee to Switzerland and who had been handed over to the police by their passeurs.
We had actually been lucky with our Monsieur Roland, it seemed…
Finally–finally–it was three o’clock. We walked to the bus stop, which was in the main square. Quite a few people were already waiting, and new people kept arriving. It was a good thing we had arrived so early.
Suddenly I saw a gendarme making his way, slowly and showily, across the square to our group. ‘Oh–another police check!’ growled a woman next to us angrily, and she began to look for her papers in her handbag.
The bus was already in sight. For us, though, there was only one thing to do: get away, as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. As everyone else surged forward, we pushed our way backwards. I could already hear the gendarme’s voice: ‘Vos papiers!’
Then, suddenly, exactly like a deus ex machina, a man came out of a garage, ran up to the gendarme in a state of excitement and started to tell him something… and the two disappeared together in a hurry.
Would the gendarme return? Should we stay where we were–or try to get away? We grabbed our chance, went back to the bus; and, as soon as we had jammed ourselves on to the crammed vehicle, it started moving. We breathed again. How we breathed again.
The relief was almost as great, in fact, as though we had actually managed to cross the Swiss border. For a moment we almost forgot what had actually happened to us. We drove on, and as we drove on we knew that we were out of the reach of that gendarme. At that moment, that was all that we were conscious of.
The bus stopped for a half-hour break in Chambéry, which for us was a half-hour of anxiety. There are gendarmes in Chambéry too, after all. But the stop passed without incident. Grenoble: we rushed to the station and just made the evening train. At nine in the evening we were back in Voiron.
Our Swiss Expedition was at an end. So was our strength.
I should briefly mention the sequel to the Roland episode. We ourselves could do nothing, of course: any complaint on our part would have had the direst consequences for us, as of course the police bandit knew perfectly well. However, Vorms, together with our neighbour Pellat, did go in pursuit of Roland, to see if they could at least get back the 60,000 francs. They finally managed to find the rogue–who condescended to return 20,000 francs, promising to pay the rest within eight days. When Pellat returned to Grenoble on the agreed day, however, Roland had vanished without trace. From what Pellat was able to find out, it seemed that the police inspector had practised similar deceptions on a number of individuals who did not happen to be Jews, and who had therefore been able to denounce him. Roland had, however, managed to make himself scarce in time; there were other police officers implicated in his schemes, and it had been more convenient not to be able to find him.
Fortunately, our friends from the gendarmerie in Voiron had not looked for us during our absence; and so our attempted escape had not been noticed. We had lost 40,000 francs–but, apart from that, nothing had changed.
There was no point in banging our heads against the wall any longer: all we would achieve would be to injure ourselves still further. We were tired; indescribably tired.
23
A telegram
A COUPLE OF WEEKS WENT BY. Among the letters that we received was one from Jacquot Rispal, in which he wrote that he was looking forward to seeing us again, soon, in the Dordogne. The Dordogne? I had no idea what the young man meant, and attached no significance to it. Wishful thinking, I said to my wife–just something he had written to cheer us up.
Meanwhile, our beloved gendarmes had honoured us with yet another visit. We had chatted away like old friends, and they had given us a solemn assurance that under their protection in Voiron we were as safe as in Abraham’s bosom. Naturally, I gave this no credence whatsoever. But it made no difference to us any more; we had become utterly passive.
Then, one day at the beginning of November, an urgent telegram arrived announcing Jacquot’s arrival for that very evening. The journey from Belvès to Voiron took a full twenty-four hours. Why, we asked ourselves, would our young friend undertake such a long and difficult journey?
Once the greetings were out of the way, and once young Jacquot had unpacked the wonderful gifts that his mother had given him for us, he explained, shortly and succinctly, that he had come to fetch us. The position of Jews was becoming worse and worse. We must travel with him immediately–the very next day. Everything had been taken care of, planned down to the last detail. All we had to do was get on to the train with him. We must leave everything else to him and to his parents.
We stared uncomprehendingly at the boy; and he decided to give us a little further explanation.
After our disastrous attempt at flight, his mother had sworn to herself that she would save us. But how? She lay awake at night, grappling with the question. Then, one night, as she lay there, it came to her–a flash of inspiration. A few kilometres from Belvès, in a quite isolated position on the top of a hill, is a Franciscan convent, with a hospital for female patients with epilepsy and mental disorders, run by the Sisters. Its name is the Convent of Labarde.
Gabriel Rispal, Jacquot’s father, had done odd jobs at the convent from time to time over a period of years. He was on very good terms with the Mother Superior, Mère Saint-Antoine.
Hélène Rispal* had woken her husband in the middle of the night and said to him: ‘First thing tomorrow you must go to Labarde. We must persuade Mère Saint-Antoine to hide the Scheyers in the convent. I could be sure they were safe there.’
Next morning, sure enough, Rispal paid the Mother Superior a first visit. Like a good diplomat, he didn’t come out with it straight; he needed to test out the ground first.
He returned full of confidence: when he had come on to the subject of the persecutions of the Jews, the Mother Superior had shown her sense of outrage at what had been happening. On a second visit he told her the whole story, describing our situation and at the same time explaining how deeply he and his wife cared about us. He then made the request.
The Mother Superior was by no means hostile; but there was one major obstacle. Labarde is a convent for nuns, with an institution for female patients attached to it. Mère St-Antoine was happy to take my wife and Sláva; but some other hiding place would have to be found for me–perhaps with one of the farmers in the surrounding area.
Now, Rispal was not so easily deterred. He went over our experiences once more; talked of my terrible state of health; pointed out that there was a room with a separate entrance in a side wing of the institution; offered to undertake all the necessary work himself; in short, he won the day and was able to return to his wife with an unconditional yes from the Mother Superior. And on the evening of the very same day Hélène Rispal had dispatched her son to Voiron to collect us. All we had to do was get on to the train.
‘But,’ I objected, ‘we can’t get on to a train at all. If we are found, with our papers…’
‘Naturally we have thought of that too,’ Jacquot interrupted with a smile. ‘Here!’ And with a triumphant gesture he pulled three identity cards out of his breast pocket. ‘A nephew of my parents, René Mathieu,* is mayor of St-Cernin-de-l’Herm. With his help we have got false identity papers; they just need to have your photographs added.’
I stared at him, this fresh-faced nineteen-year-old, who sat talking to us so earnestly. We were speechless–speechless with amazement and emotion.
These were people who scarcely knew us–or, as in the case of this René Mathieu, did not know us at all. These were people who were not themselves in danger; were not Jews; had not personally experienced any of our sufferings. They could at best only imagine what our existen
ce was like. And they had done all this for us. They had not only disrupted their own lives when they could have carried on in peace; they had not only taken upon themselves all this trouble; they had also voluntarily placed themselves in danger in order to help us. Here was a mother who, without hesitating, had risked her only son’s safety for our sake. Such things still happened.
And, at the same time, I could not avoid asking a question of my own conscience: ‘Would I have behaved in the same way, if the positions were reversed?’ I do not know the answer.
Even though we had decided to make no further attempts ourselves, we could hardly refuse, after everything that these people had undertaken on our behalf. There was, then, nothing to discuss.
The only problem–which we explained to our young friend–was that we needed to delay our departure for a few days, so that this time we could bring at least some of our possessions with us, and store the rest safely. Jacquot was against this, but eventually agreed. We fixed on the date of 16th November, and he spontaneously volunteered to return to fetch us on that day. Early next morning he set off back to Belvès.
We accompanied him to the station, where we happened to bump into one of our friends from the gendarmerie. ‘Not leaving us, are you?’ he asked me anxiously. ‘The idea!’ I replied. ‘We are simply seeing someone off at the station.’ ‘Oh, I see.’ And he shook my hand in relief.
This time, we resolved, this time, at least, there would be no rush. But events decreed otherwise.
Almost immediately after Jacquot’s departure came the Allied landing in Algeria,11 which was used by the Germans as a pretext to occupy the zone libre. ‘France Libre’ had just ceased to exist.
The consequence of this event for us was that now we had no time to lose. The Swastika might arrive in Voiron at any moment. We decided to leave the town the next day; sent a telegram to Jacques Rispal; and on 11th November we managed to board a train for Lyon without being noticed by our gendarmes. There our young friend was waiting for us: he had received our telegram just in time to make the journey in the opposite direction as far as Lyon.
We arrived in Belvès on the morning of the 12th, but remained on the train: it had been agreed that we would get out at the next station, Le Got, to avoid the risk of being recognised in Belvès. Jacquot left the train and his father got on in his place. As Gabriel Rispal happened to be with an acquaintance of his, he pretended not to know us. He nonetheless managed, with a conjuror’s sleight of hand, to slip a packet of cigarettes into my pocket.
In Le Got he got out; so did we. He walked towards a car which stood in front of the station; so did we. Pointing to the driver, he said: ‘You can trust this man.’
Once in the car, we threw our arms round each other. All four of us wept.
After a journey of about half an hour, the car stopped. There was a turn-off from the main road: a country lane leading fairly steeply up to a hilltop. By the turning was a sign which read, ‘Asile de Labarde’.
We took this lane. After a further quarter of an hour, we had reached the top. On the left was a huge statue of Christ which dominated the landscape; in front of us a wide lane, which led past some farm buildings to a rambling old house.
We had arrived.
24
Labarde
WHEN I THINK BACK TO 12th November 1942, that cloudy, cold, wet late autumn day seems to me one of the most moving, and also one of the happiest, of my life. Amid the hell of Hitler’s world, a snatch of the Music of the Spheres.
We were absolutely worn out with exhaustion. Everything that we had gone through dragged us down, down to the ground–like a piece of baggage that is too heavy to carry. And what did we have before us? Our new ‘home’, Labarde–a house for mentally retarded women, epileptics and the incurably ill. A house of sorrow.
And yet the day of our arrival in this house was one of the most beautiful days of our lives.
By our side was Gabriel Rispal, his eyes lit up with the joy of seeing his wife’s plan turned into reality. What did these people know of us? That we were outcasts. Jews.
Then there was the reception we received at the hands of the Mother Superior, Mère St-Antoine. A woman of about fifty came towards us, her still beautiful face framed by the black-and-white veil of the Franciscan nuns. I had the image fixed in my mind of some strict, unapproachable abbess who had condescended to allow us the use of a corner of the convent; but who, apart from that, would probably make us feel tolerated rather than welcome–who would regard us as beggars that had to be given alms out of the duty to ‘love thy neighbour’.
Instead I saw before me a woman whose title, ‘Mother’, represented not merely some rank in the religious hierarchy but the nature of her whole being. I felt immediately at ease and relaxed with her–as with a mother. I felt immediately, too, that this noble woman was also a guide of souls.
She received us, not as beggars to be given something out of kindness; not as outcasts in need of shelter. She received us as if it were a particular mark of honour to be able to put her house at our disposal.
And she treated us with the care and attention bestowed on patients in convalescence. Without asking questions, she encouraged us to speak; she opened the door for us; and I noticed that, as she listened, there were tears in her eyes.
She then took us to our accommodation–though not before she had laid particular emphasis on the pains that the Rispals had taken to put all this in place.
We had expected a very primitive kind of lodging, and would have been quite happy with that. All that we longed for was a little peace. To our surprise, however, we found a clean, heated room with three comfortable beds, fitted out with everything necessary and even equipped with its own lavatory.
And the Mother Superior actually apologised that she could not offer us anything better…
On that first day we had lunch, not in our own room, but with Rispal in the parloir where Mère St-Antoine had received us. She had delicacies laid out for our welcome–items whose existence we had almost forgotten, such as sardines, butter, an omelette. And then she appeared in person with a tray: ‘I have something more here, for your dessert,’ she announced, and placed a dish of compôte in front of us. ‘You must eat properly, and get your strength back; that’s the first thing. Let me worry about everything else.’
In the afternoon Pierre Vorms came, staying with us until evening. And we were promised a visit from Hélène Rispal and Jacquot for the next day.
We felt positively intoxicated by all this care and warmth. We almost forgot that we were not in some holiday home, but in a clandestine location–in a hiding hole. I sometimes wondered if it was actually happening. We felt like human beings among other human beings, not like wild animals being hunted.
A suite in the most luxurious hotel could not have seemed more comfortable than this simple room in which we sat with our friends. And when our friends had left, on that first night under the roof–under the protection–of Labarde, we fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, after which, for the first time for ages, waking up was something other than fear and anxiety in the face of the new day.
I hope that I may have succeeded in explaining why I look back on that day–12th November 1942–as one of the happiest of my life.
And on the day after that we had the joy of seeing Hélène Rispal and her son.
If, even then, we felt the profoundest gratitude towards this woman, the emotion has since been replaced by one of boundless affection. With every day that has passed, and that we have got to know her better, we have fallen in love with her more. She is like a sister to us now. And her child is like our own child.
This quiet woman is simplicity personified. Modesty personified. She gives no thought to herself; on the contrary, she is positively surprised at any expression of affection, and does not understand that others may not find it so natural to take or receive as she finds it to give–to give of herself.
In the final reckoning, she saved our lives–she, with her husband a
nd her son. And we shall see how she took care of us later, too. And yet we have long since ceased to be ‘grateful’. For only if you can describe gratitude as love, and love as gratitude–only then do we three feel what we owe to Hélène Rispal.
The state of euphoria into which we were plunged by the first days of our sojourn in Labarde could not, of course, last for ever. But it was certainly not replaced by any sort of terrible disillusionment.
We realised, of course, that we were by no means out of danger; we were only hidden from it. It was true, too, that we could not afford any false sense of security, and had to avoid the slightest lack of caution. We were hidden, not safe. And we were living among the mentally ill and the retarded.
From the very beginning, however, we felt surrounded by an atmosphere of goodwill and sympathy, and had the sense that Mère St-Antoine here in Labarde, as well as our friends in Belvès, stood before us as protectors; and this knowledge buoyed us up and gave us hope. It seemed that in shedding our identity (which was known only to the Mother Superior and to our friends), we had also somehow shed the consequences of that identity–at least the immediate and terrible consequences.
Life in an institution for fools and epileptics is no holiday. A convent, in itself, is not the most entertaining of places. Moreover, we could not risk straying beyond the confines of the house. The crucified Christ at the end of the lane represented the limit to our freedom of movement; and even within this limit we had to be careful.
Yet none of this was able to impair our contentment. The smallest complaint would have seemed a sinful act of pride–a tempting of Fate. Never before did we appreciate the value of a roof over our heads, of a warm oven, and of every single bit of bread, as here in Labarde. Never before had my wife and Sláva gone about their work with such zeal as they did here, where from early morning until late at night they carried out the most varied and most demanding jobs for the house happily, as though it were an offering of thanksgiving.
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