by Ayşe Kulin
Both David and his mother were rather apprehensive when his father insisted on taking all their passports and identity cards to the police station to be stamped.
“What’s the hurry?” they had demanded.
“Is there something wrong with your eyes and ears?” Mr. Russo replied. “For days now they have been announcing that Jews must have their identification papers stamped. The newspapers are full of warnings!”
“Yes, but how would they know?” his wife had asked. “Vitali hasn’t done it.”
“I like to have everything in perfect order. I don’t want to be in a position to have to explain anything to anyone.”
“I just hope you won’t regret it, that’s all.”
“I don’t understand why you are arguing with me. For God’s sake, it’s only a stamp.”
And that was how David ended up having a red stamp in his passport.
Now, on this cool, sunny December morning, father and son were sipping their coffee at the breakfast table.
“Are you going to the Champs-Elysées again today?” his father asked.
“Yes, I’m meeting up with my friends.”
“This war has turned you all into good-for-nothings. Have you nothing else to do but visit cinemas?”
“What else do you expect us to do?”
“How about coming to work with me?”
“After the new year, Dad! Let’s just see out the end of this dreadful year.”
“I wonder what year isn’t bad for you. I have a feeling you’ll go through life just waiting for a good one. As for this war, I don’t think it will end very soon. I think you and your friends are looking for an excuse to be idle.”
“None of us thinks that it would be wise to start our own business in the present circumstances, Dad.”
“But you do feel it’s all right to wander around in the bars until the early hours of the morning?”
“We’re war kids, Dad,” said David. “We’re just not a good crop.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree. The war appears to have affected you all badly. If you feel inclined to keep gallivanting around because you are a ‘war kid,’ as you put it, then please at least make sure you have your identity card with you all the time. Apparently the other day our neighbor got into serious trouble because he didn’t have it with him.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll do that.”
“In fact, I think it’s best if you carry your Turkish passport too.”
After breakfast, David read the newspapers and did a few sketches. Today, he and his friends would finally decide where they would be spending New Year’s Eve. Here they were, seeing in yet another new year despite the war. For young people like them, life still had a lot of good things to offer. The Champs-Elysées was lit up in all its glory. For some time now, the shops had been decorated for Christmas. Colorful lights were strung up on all the boulevards so they looked just like bridges. It seemed as though the war hadn’t touched Paris at all. The rest of Europe was in flames, but Paris was one giant Christmas tree. The streets were full of smart gentlemen in black cashmere coats and white silk scarves. German officers ogled the elegant women drenched in perfume, highly made-up chorus girls, and flirtatious whores wearing bright-red lipstick. David too was having his fair share of fun watching these women parade around.
They decided they would probably spend New Year’s Eve at La Coupole or Café de Flore, frequented mainly by artists. David decided he would call Stella and invite her to join him that night. He would kiss her on New Year’s Eve. Yes, he would kiss her on the lips. Surely she wouldn’t push him away on a night when everyone around them would be kissing each other and celebrating the arrival of the new year! You never know, after walking hand in hand through the crowded streets and kissing each other and going to Les Halles for hot soup, he might even persuade Stella to go to his friend Manuel’s bachelor pad. Who knows? Maybe…No, no, there was no need to rush things. Surely the time for that would come later!
David was whistling “Mon légionnaire” while dressing. As usual he put his wallet in the inside pocket of his jacket. Just as he was putting on his overcoat, he remembered his father’s advice over breakfast that morning. He went back to his room, took his passport from the drawer, and walked to the front door.
“Will you be late?” his mother called out. “Will you be home for dinner?”
“No, Mum, don’t worry about me, I don’t think I’ll be back before midnight.”
“Really, David! It’s not the weekend, is it? Give yourself a break for God’s sake! You’re out every night.”
David didn’t reply. He was twenty, full of youthful energy, and he was in Paris. He closed the door behind him and ran down the stairs, two and three at a time, out through the main door, where he took a joyful, deep breath. His nagging parents were left behind. Paris, the world’s most beautiful, lively, sparkling city was dangling her mysteries before him.
When he got off the Métro at the Marbeuf station, he realized he was a bit late. His friend would be annoyed—this wasn’t the first time. So he started to run and push his way through the crowd. But it was rather odd: instead of everyone walking out of the station, they were piling against each other at the exit. He got annoyed, pushing his way past a few people.
Oh dear! These old people taking their time, thinking for an hour before they move! Why don’t you stay at home if you can’t walk, he thought to himself.
He squeezed between an old couple shuffling in front of him and reached the bottom of the stairs. The congestion continued all the way up the stairs—a long, slow-moving line. He decided that New Year’s shopping must have started early this year. The Parisians couldn’t care less about the war; life went on, and so did the shopping.
“Why’s this crowd not moving? We haven’t got all day!” yelled a man in front of him.
David jumped up to try to see what was going on. My, my, my, what’s happening? he thought when he saw two rows of German soldiers outside the Métro exit. They seemed to be checking the men’s identity papers and asking some to step aside. The women were allowed to pass through without stopping. It was a good thing he had his passport with him. Just as well he had listened to the old man—he obviously knew what he was talking about. David checked his inside pocket; thank God the passport was still there. He followed everybody else as the line inched slowly forward.
Five men showed their identity cards and passed through. They pulled the sixth one aside; seven, eight more people went through…Someone near the front of the line turned back. A shrill whistle was heard, and the man ran a few steps.
“Halt! Halt!”
He stopped, his face turning white as he returned to his place. One of the soldiers beckoned him with his finger; he walked toward him with slumped shoulders. Oh! If only shoulders could talk. For the first time in his life, David realized how much one’s shoulders could say. “I’m helpless, help me,” they screamed. Then another man was lined up against the wall. Three, four, five more people went through.
David was late, but so what? He certainly had a tale to tell his waiting friends, and what a tale! He’d be the hero of the day. He would be able to tell Stella all about it on New Year’s Eve. He wouldn’t be bored stiff thinking of what to talk about. “I was almost carried away out of the Métro. If I hadn’t had my identity papers with me, I’d be in a labor camp now. Just imagine, Stella!” Great!
“Identity cards!” said a brusque German soldier.
David showed his passport, which he was holding in his hand. Thank God! The ordeal was about to end. The German opened the passport. He looked at the photograph, read the name and surname, the date and place of birth, and saw the red stamp: JEW.
“Stand against the wall.”
“But I’m Turkish.”
“I said against the wall.”
He did as he was told and waited with the others in silence. A soldier came over and separated them into groups of eight.
“Move!”
; One of them attempted to say something. “Shut your mouth!” the soldier said.
They were made to get into a gray vehicle. David looked at the young man who was about his age. He sat next to him and was shaking. This young man, who David would later find out was called Lambroso, wrote the word Jewish with his fingers on his coat. David nodded yes.
They stopped by a bus. They all got out and were crammed into it. Soon, more vehicles drew up; even more people were shoved into the already packed bus, which then set off on its way. After a while David tried to guess what direction they were going. Everyone was so squashed together, it was difficult to see outside.
After some distance the bus entered a courtyard and stopped. On entering a long building, they realized they were at the École Militaire. They were made to sit on the floor of the corridor. They were afraid to speak to each other. Those who tried to ask the soldiers questions were told off. They sat on the stone floor and waited…and waited…and waited. The light that filtered through the rooms opening onto the corridors faded; then they were surrounded by darkness. It was night.
“Get up! Move!”
Groups of people were herded out of the various buildings, and crammed into five buses that eventually pulled away.
At the Gare du Nord station, they all got off again and were made to walk to the end of the platform. Soldiers swarmed like ants. There, they were made to board a train. After a journey of about two hours, the train stopped and the soldiers made them form columns five deep.
“March, march!”
They marched off in the bitter, cold December rain, hungry and exhausted. There were nearly a thousand males between the ages of twelve and eighty-two. Their sense of fear had gone, replaced by some anonymous feeling. David realized later that it was a feeling of resignation to death.
After an endless march, a very long column entered a camp. Then the men were separated into groups of thirty and allocated huts with floors that were covered in straw. They had been on their feet for so long that they immediately collapsed on the straw, leaning against each other and trying to get warm from each other’s breath and body heat. They would be sleeping on the floor like animals for a whole week before their bunks arrived.
At five in the morning, they were awakened and asked to wait in the corridor. There they remained standing for three and a half hours in the freezing cold, waiting to be counted.
“Line up in threes!”
“Line up single file!”
They did. Then they moved toward a soldier sitting behind a table in a large hall.
“Name?”
“David Russo.”
“I’ll give you four very precious items. Make sure you don’t lose them. Here you are! A tin bowl, a spoon, a blanket, and your number. Take them!”
David took them.
“Read your number.”
“Three-two-three-three.”
“From now on you’ll be known as 3233. That’s your name. You’re better off dead if you lose that number. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Now sign here, here, here, and here.”
David signed. He signed for the bowl, the spoon, the blanket, and the number 3233. He was no longer David Russo. Neither his friends at the Café Clossier on the Champs-Elysées nor his mother and father were waiting for him. There was no David Russo. Having signed, David Russo was finished. He was only 3233, a number. A tall, pale-faced tin number with no future.
Someone shouted an order, and he realized it was noon.
“Line up! Single file!”
They walked and stopped in front of a soup cauldron. They were given one ladle of soup each and drank it with their iron spoons. After they finished they put the spoons inside their jackets and pockets so as not to lose them. Then they were gathered outside in the courtyard, in lines of five, and made to walk around. They were forbidden to speak, except to the person next to them. Only two could speak to each other, never three!
“Why are we here? What’s our crime?”
“Being Jewish.”
“Won’t we be saved?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Surely our families will try to track us down…”
“Hey! You over there! Shut up!”
They continued walking around and around the courtyard, like donkeys on a treadmill. Their hands, feet, and bottoms froze as they walked. Returning to their straw-filled hut, they tried to get warm huddling together. In the evening they again walked in rows to the canteen. This time black bread was added to the menu. A soldier put a loaf of bread on a big wooden table and selected someone to cut the loaf into perfect squares using a template. Then the soldiers started distributing the two-hundred-gram pieces to each of the numbers. Numbers—they were no longer human beings. They ate their slices of stale black bread to the very last crumb, licking and swallowing every bit. Then they lined up in front of the door to the stinking toilet, waiting to relieve themselves, before returning to their hut to collapse into sleep on the straw.
The soldier who locked them in shouted in French with a German accent, “No more talking, you motherfuckers!”
The following morning, after standing for three hours, waiting to be counted, after breakfast, which consisted of coffee in their tin bowls, they were sent out into the courtyard, where bales of barbed wire were stacked against the walls. Now they had a job to do. They were to unravel the barbed wire and carry it to an allocated place. David was pleased that he had something to do instead of pacing around the courtyard. How many days ago was it that he had told his father he wasn’t in the mood to work? He didn’t know, because he no longer had any notion of time. What would his old man say if he saw him unraveling barbed wire with bleeding hands? Old man! He would never get old. He’d never have children who called him their “old man.” He—that is, Robert David Russo—was merely 3233 now, a number who was expected to carry barbed wire. He tried to feel sorry for himself and cry, but he couldn’t.
After about a week, the bunk beds with straw-filled mattresses arrived at the huts. One of the guys carrying in the bedding said, “Phew! This place stinks!”
Some of the numbers looked at each other; they hadn’t changed their clothes since the day they’d arrived. Sleeping and working in these same clothes, they had lost all sense of smell.
Fifteen days later, a new instruction relieved the monotony of their existence. After the morning coffee, before going out to move barbed wire, they were made to walk in lines of five down a new corridor they hadn’t seen before and into another hall.
“Strip down!”
No one moved.
“Strip down, I tell you!”
They were baffled, but looking at each other, they started stripping down to their underpants.
“Take your underwear off too!”
“My God!” said an old man.
“What have you got to hide, you decrepit old man,” said a soldier.
They removed their underpants as well, held the bundles of clothes in front of themselves, trying to cover their embarrassment while waiting and waiting. A couple who couldn’t cope standing in the cold fainted and fell to the floor.
“Single file!”
They lined up, and the soldier holding a stick in his hand checked them individually for lice. Another threw their clothes into a steam machine, then immediately took them out. Then they were sent into a large room with lines of showers hanging from the ceiling. They showered, shivering under the ice-cold water. When they got out of the shower room, they were given back their damp clothes from the steam machine and sent back to carrying barbed wire.
Time went by, day after day. Some left when their numbers were called, never to be seen again. Some older men became ill and were taken away. They knew which people died when their straw mattresses were rolled up and removed, but they never found out what happened to those young men whose numbers were called and who never came back.
One morning, after the torture of waiting to be counted and having
drunk coffee from their tin bowls, the men saw a soldier walk in.
“Three-two-three-three!” he shouted. No one moved.
“I said 3233, you fuckers.”
That’s me, thought David. I’m 3233. What should I do now? He took one step forward.
“So you’re 3233, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Go to your hut; collect your bowl, spoon, blanket, and number; and come back here.”
David walked to his hut, picked up his blanket from his bunk, and his bowl and spoon. His number was in his pocket anyway. Then he returned.
“Have you got everything?”
“I have.”
“Move!”
David looked at his fellow prisoners still standing in line. Some bowed their heads and others winked good-bye.
“They’ll probably shoot him,” someone whispered.
David heard him but wasn’t sorry. He was glad to be saved from this brown liquid called coffee, the soup worse than mud, the solid piece of brown bread, and shifting the barbed wire. No more missing home while lying on his straw mattress, feeling desperate that he would die without kissing Stella, being stripped of his dignity and relegated to just a number. He followed the soldier. They walked into a small office. The civilian man sitting at the head of the table had a huge book that looked like a tax registry in front of him.
“Your number?” asked the man.
“Three-two-three-three.”
The man opened the book. “Look for your name on this page!”
His name! David remembered he had a name. But what was it?
He bent forward, looking at the book. Everything was blurred. The letters were dancing all over the page. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, carefully. First he saw his number, 3233. His name was written beside it. He pointed at it.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“Read it!”
“Robert David Russo.”
“Leave your things behind.”
David looked at him blankly.