by Ruth Druart
“Do… do I have to go?” He put his hands back in his pockets.
His boss merely raised an eyebrow, then turned around and walked away. Jean-Luc had no choice but to follow him out to the waiting army truck. They shook hands firmly before he got in the back. Five other men were already there; he nodded at them but didn’t speak.
As they drove through the deserted streets, the men glanced around, sizing each other up, their expressions grim. Jean-Luc supposed none of them were very enthusiastic about working so near the notorious camp. Thousands of Jews, some communists, and members of the Résistance had been sent there. No one knew what happened to them afterward, though there were rumors. There were always rumors.
As they sped through the empty streets of Paris and then out northeast toward Drancy, they occasionally passed other military vehicles. Jean-Luc watched the French driver salute them as they passed by. Un collabo! He could tell. It was a game he liked to play with himself—guessing who was collaborating and who wasn’t. Though often the line was blurred. He had friends who got things on the black market. But who was running the black market? Usually it was only the Boches and the collabos who had access to certain goods. It was a gray area, and he himself preferred to only accept items when he knew exactly where they’d come from—a rabbit or a pigeon shot by a friend, or vegetables from a contact with a farm.
A bump in the road jolted him back to the present. Looking up at the other men, he was met with blank stares. Gone were the days of open, easy camaraderie. Gone was the banter of young men out on a new job. A grim silence was all that was left.
Silence. It was a weapon of a kind, and it was the only one Jean-Luc had at his disposal. He refused to talk to the Boches, even when they looked friendly and politely asked him directions. He would simply ignore them. Another thing he did was to take his Métro ticket and fold it into a V shape before dropping it on the ground in one of the tunnels. V for victory. Little acts of defiance were all that were left to him, but they didn’t change anything. He felt desperate to do more.
When the Boches had taken over the SNCF, he’d been quite clear with his parents. “I’m not working for the bastards. I’m quitting,” he’d told them after just a few weeks of the occupation.
“You can’t do that.” His father had laid his hand firmly on his son’s shoulder, an indication that what he was about to say was not up for discussion. “They’ll find some way to punish you. They could send you to fight somewhere. At least you’re in Paris now, and we’re together. Let’s just wait and see how things go.”
Papa. Every time he thought of him, Jean-Luc felt a mixture of shame and longing. He’d done as his father had asked, working under the Boches, but it didn’t sit well with him, causing him to resent Papa for making him conform like that. And in fact, it had been just as he’d imagined it would be: the initial polite friendliness and professionalism of the Boches gradually turning to disdain and superiority. What else could you expect? He had been shocked by the ignorance and naïveté of some people suggesting that they might not be so bad.
Then, in the summer of 1942, they’d done something that left no doubt in anyone’s mind. They’d started to conscript France’s men for Service du Travail Obligatoire —forced labor in Germany. Papa had been one of the first. He’d received the papers one week, and the next he was gone. There hadn’t been enough time nor the words for Jean-Luc to tell him he was sorry for his sullenness, to tell him he loved and respected him. He hadn’t been brought up with the kind of language that spoke of such things.
Glancing out the window, he spotted two enormously tall buildings, at least fifteen floors high. Beyond them was a large U-shaped complex.
“Voilà le camp!” The driver looked at them in his rearview mirror. “It’s pretty ugly, isn’t it? It was built for poor people, but it wasn’t finished when the Germans arrived, and they decided to turn it into this.” He paused. “Poor people.”
Jean-Luc wasn’t sure if he was being ironic or not. His tone was flippant, even mocking.
“There are thousands of Jews waiting to be resettled,” he continued as he turned the corner, shifting gears. “It’s horribly overcrowded.”
Jean-Luc stared back at the U-shaped complex, four stories high, surrounded by barbed-wire fences. Guards with rifles stood watch on top of two lookout towers. “Where are they taking them?” he ventured.
“Germany.”
“Germany?” He tried to make his tone casual.
“Yes. They have plenty of work out there. You know, rebuilding.”
“Rebuilding?” Now he felt like a parrot. But the driver didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes. You know, war damage. The English keep bombing it.”
“What about the women and children? Are they taking them too?”
“Bien sûr. They’ll need someone to do the cooking and housework. It will keep the men happier, don’t you think?”
“But what about the old people?”
The driver stared hard at Jean-Luc in his rearview mirror. “You ask too many questions.”
Jean-Luc looked around at his fellow workmen, wondering what they were thinking, but they were all carefully studying their shoes. For a few more minutes they drove on in awkward silence, then the driver started up again. “The Boches aren’t so bad. They treat you okay as long as you work hard and don’t show any Jewish sympathies. They’ll even drink with you. There’s a nice little café over the road; we often go there for a beer. They love their beer!” He paused. “When I started work here, two years ago, there weren’t any Germans at all, but I guess they thought we weren’t efficient enough, so they sent Brunner and his men over.” He paused. “Well, here we are. You’ll be lodged here.” He turned backward in his seat as he parked in front of one of the high-rises.
The men in the back of the truck glanced at each other, anxiety written across their faces. How long would they be here? Jean-Luc knew that his mother would think he’d been arrested or taken to a work camp. He had to get word to her; she’d be worried sick. There were only the two of them left since his father had been sent to Germany. They had become close, and she relied on him for everything from financial to emotional support. It made him feel protective toward her and had helped him grow into a man.
The guard who met them thrust small backpacks into their hands as they jumped out of the truck, then led the group of men toward one of the blocks. An elevator took them up to their rooms on the fifteenth floor—the top floor. When they looked out the windows, they found themselves facing away from the camp. Jean-Luc gazed up at the gray sky and then down at the tiny roads below, railway tracks weaving their way in and out of the town. But there were no trains to be seen.
He was unpacking the small bag, which contained pajamas and a toothbrush, when a Boche walked in. “Willkommen. Welcome to Drancy.” Jean-Luc dropped the bag on the bed, turning to face him. The soldier’s pale face shone unhealthily, and his thin lips had no color to them. He was young, probably no more than twenty. Jean-Luc wondered what they were doing sending a kid like that to Drancy. Still, he didn’t smile at the soldier or even address him. He just followed him out of the room to the waiting elevator.
The same driver was waiting for them outside in the same army truck. “Salut, les gars!” He spoke as though they were old friends. Jean-Luc loathed him for it.
When they passed in front of the camp this time, Jean-Luc craned his neck, wondering what it was like inside, remembering the stories he’d heard of the interrogations, the deportations. The driver came to a stop in front of a small station, then turned around, throwing blue overalls into their arms.
“Here—you’ll need to wear these. You don’t want to get mixed up with the prisoners!”
As they marched through the station, Jean-Luc wondered why it was so quiet and where all the trains were. His eyes roamed up and down the platform. A brown object caught his attention. He took a couple of steps nearer. It was a teddy bear, squashed flat as though a child had used
it for a pillow. Farther down the platform, he saw a book lying open, its pages blowing in the morning breeze.
“Schnell! Schnell!” A hand pushed him in the back. Jean-Luc stumbled forward, toward the other men who were walking into the stationmaster’s house. It was quiet inside, the only sound typewriters clicking away as women in uniform sat with straight backs thumping out words.
“Name?” the Boche behind the front desk barked at him.
“Jean-Luc Beauchamp.”
He wrote it down in his ledger, then looked up at Jean-Luc for a moment too long. Jean-Luc turned his eyes away, embarrassed to be standing there in front of a Boche, reporting for work.
“Work hard. No talking.” The Boche continued to stare at him.
Jean-Luc nodded his comprehension.
“Now, go check the lines. They are bad—bad work. Tools in hut on platform.”
Jean-Luc shrugged a shoulder, turning away without another word.
Chapter Five
Paris, March 24, 1944
JEAN-LUC
Days turned into weeks, and a routine became established. Their day started at eight o’clock, then there was a half-hour break for lunch at twelve, and they finished at six, when night drew in. Jean-Luc’s job was to check the tracks, making sure the sleepers weren’t too worn, that the fishplates joining the rails together were in place, and that all the bolts were tight. Then another man would quality-control his work. If he had missed anything, his meager pay would be docked and he would have to work an extra hour, by flashlight. He had Sundays off, though, and every Saturday evening he would take the train from Bourget, the passenger station at Drancy, into Paris to visit his mother.
By the evening, he was worn out, too tired to go drinking in the café opposite the camp, even if he had wanted to. But he didn’t want to. Who’d want to be socializing with the Boches? So he kept to himself, reading in his room by the light of the small table lamp. The other men kept to themselves too, most of the time. But sometimes the need for human contact drew them together, and they would gather in one of the bedrooms. Inevitably the conversation would turn to the station.
“How come we never see any trains?” Marcel took a drag on his cigarette stub.
“They leave before daybreak.” Jean-Luc looked around the sparse bedroom. Blank gray walls stared back at him; the men’s eyes were fixed on the cement floor. He understood their wish not to participate in the conversation. Anyone here could be a collabo, put there to spy on the others.
“Yes, but why?” Marcel finally gave up on his cigarette, letting the tiny stub slip between his fingers onto the cold floor.
“’Cause they don’t want us to see them.” Jean-Luc took a Gitane out of a crumpled pack, passing it to Marcel. He almost felt sorry for him, trying to understand what was going on right under his nose. “They’re deporting the prisoners,” he continued. “Hundreds, probably thousands of them.”
“Merci.” Marcel took the cigarette quickly, nodding his thanks.
Jean-Luc felt the other men’s eyes boring into him. No one gave precious cigarettes away like that, for nothing. Jean-Luc didn’t smoke himself, but he always liked to have a pack on him for moments such as these. It eased the tension. He offered the open pack around to the others.
“But why are they so secret about it?” Marcel continued, staring down at his cigarette as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck. “We all know what they’re doing.”
Jean-Luc stared around at the men’s faces. So placid. So gullible. So silent. Taking a deep breath, he decided to throw caution to the wind. “Why do you think they don’t want us to see? Huh?”
The silence in the room grew heavier, weighing him down, making him feel powerless, impotent. He took a step toward Marcel, putting his hand on his shoulder, leaning forward so his mouth was next to Marcel’s ear. “Because we might start asking questions. If we actually knew what was going on, we’d be mad.”
“Mad?” Frédéric shouted. “Putain! We’re already mad. They’ve taken our damn country! Mad isn’t even the word.” His eyes darted wildly around the bedroom, from man to man. But no one wanted to meet his gaze. They shuffled their feet. Someone coughed. Someone else blew cigarette smoke out into the middle of the room. The silence grew oppressive.
“Are we really?” Jean-Luc spoke slowly and quietly. “Are we really that mad? Then what have we done to show it?” He stopped, aware that the conversation was getting dangerous, but he couldn’t seem to hold back now. “For God’s sake, here we are, working for them!” He stopped again, realizing that Philippe was standing against the wall, his eyes blank.
“It’s not our fault. We didn’t have an army to fight them with.” Jacques spoke quietly from the corner of the room. “Not a proper army, and now we have none at all.”
“Well, we’ve got de Gaulle in London.” Frédéric’s tone was ironic.
“Fat lot of good that is.” Jacques took a step forward.
“But where are they taking them?” Marcel looked around the room.
The men gazed down at the floor again.
“Somewhere far away.” Jean-Luc’s voice took on a surreal tone, as if he were recounting something imaginary. “Somewhere far away from civilization.”
“Exactly!” Spit flew from Frédéric’s mouth. “Then they switch the French driver for a Boche at the border. They don’t want us to know where they’re taking them. They don’t want us to know ’cause…” He hesitated.
“’Cause what?” Marcel looked at him.
“I don’t know.” Frédéric glanced away.
“What do you think?” Marcel’s eyes turned to Jean-Luc.
“I’m tired, that’s what I think. I’m going to bed.” Jean-Luc wanted to end the conversation before one of them put into words what they were all thinking. You could be arrested for words.
“But the trains are cattle cars, for God’s sake!” Frédéric continued. “And then there’s all the personal items we find on the platform after the train’s gone. I bet the Boches let them think they can take some things with them to help them resettle. But then…”
An oppressive silence descended as they imagined the fate of the prisoners.
“Putain! They’re killing them.” Frédéric slapped his hand against the wall. “I know it.”
Jean-Luc looked over at Philippe, but his face was still blank. He turned back to Frédéric, knowing it was time to stop the conversation. They were all at risk, talking like this. “We don’t know that. We don’t know anything. Not for sure.”
Chapter Six
Paris, March 25, 1944
JEAN-LUC
On Saturdays, he could get away from the camp. As soon as the day was over, he took the train from Bourget into Paris. He liked to get off the Métro at Blanche, looking at Le Moulin Rouge before wandering up Rue Lepic, where he lived with his mother.
But this evening he wasn’t ready to face the absence of his father in the apartment. Not yet. So he stopped for a pastis at the café on the corner.
“Salut, Jean-Luc.” Thierry poured him a glass of the strong aniseed drink, leaving a small jug of water by the side. Jean-Luc added some, watching his pastis turn a cloudy yellow. Thierry put his elbows on the bar, wrapping his hands around the back of his neck, twisting his neck as if it was sore. “Quoi de neuf?”
“What’s new?” Jean-Luc drew his eyebrows together. “Nothing that I know of.”
Thierry leaned closer. “Any news from your father?”
“Two months ago.” Jean-Luc paused. “We had a letter asking us to send him warm socks and food. He says he’s fine, just thinner and older.”
“Terrible business—taking the men like that. I was lucky I was too old for them, and you… well, you were lucky they needed railroad workers. But how are we supposed to keep things going back here? There’s no one left to farm the land.”
“I know. I know.” He’d already had this conversation a hundred times.
“Service du Travail Obligatoire, my arse. It
’s forced labor for the Boches.”
“Of course. But at least we know he’s in Germany.” Jean-Luc picked his glass up.
He’d done his best to fill his father’s shoes, but the little flat he shared with his mother felt more than half empty, as though his father had been replaced by a gaping hole that allowed a bitter wind to blow through the rooms. Every Sunday, he went to Mass at Sacré-Coeur with his mother, and they lit a candle for Papa. Jean-Luc liked to imagine the little flame giving his father courage, wherever he was. He thought of his father often, but it left him feeling morose and melancholic. Papa was such a strong, independent man, the thought of him having to submit to the Boches and their brutality filled Jean-Luc’s heart with pity. He didn’t deserve that.
Thierry lowered his voice. “Don’t worry. He’ll come back. Have you heard about the Americans?”
“What?”
He leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a whisper even though the café was empty. “They’re going to land in France. Yes! They’re getting their troops ready, and then they’re going to actually land here and chase the Nazis out.”
Jean-Luc stared at him, wondering how he’d heard such a thing. “Well, let’s hope it’s true.” He gulped his drink back.
“Another?” Thierry had already taken the lid off the bottle. “And then all those poor families they sent away will be able to come back—your father too.”
“Let’s hope so.” Jean-Luc swirled the pastis around in the bottom of the glass.
“Maybe the Cohens will be back soon. Their kid, Alexandre, was a cheeky little monster. I’d like to see him again.”
Just then two Boches entered the café, and Jean-Luc walked out, leaving his half-finished drink behind. As he left, a wave of loneliness washed over him. Suddenly he missed his ex-girlfriend with a pang. They’d been courting for almost a year and he’d been serious about her; he’d even been planning to ask her to marry him. He liked the way she wanted to enjoy life to the full despite the war; she loved dancing and always seemed to know about the next bal clandestin. He liked these secret dances too; they felt like one small victory over the Boches. She’d told him not to worry when his father had left, that it was only Germany and that they needed the labor there, so they’d look after him properly. He’d drunk in her words, letting himself believe them, but as time marched on, he began to doubt them. Began to doubt he’d ever see Papa again. And then he’d grown despondent and withdrawn. How could he enjoy himself knowing his father was probably cold and hungry in a foreign country? He couldn’t do it.