by Jan Rehner
During a break in the downpour, she put on her raincoat and headed for the OSE headquarters in Montpellier, for she had heard rumours that the Vichy police had ordered releases at the camps to stop. Rumours came more quickly than radio broadcasts these days, transmitted mouth to mouth like lifesaving breath, and the rumours were usually as true as they were bad.
When she reached the town and walked down eerily empty streets, a brush of rain fell across her face and she snapped open her umbrella. She heard a rattle of drops on the umbrella overhead and then a hand gripped her arm, pulling her into a doorway. She opened her mouth but before she could scream she heard a familiar voice.
“Don’t go to headquarters. It’s locked up.”
“What’s happening, Marius?”
“OSE’s gone underground. There are soldiers at the door watching.”
“What should I do?”
“Try our friend at the préfecture.”
Before Sabine could even respond, Marius was walking away from her on a mission to warn others. She changed direction and headed for the offices of the Hérault, hoping to find the fidgety young man she’d met so many months ago.
To her very great relief, he was still there, but occupied, according to his secretary, with no hint of the irony of the double entendre in her voice. Sabine took a chair in the outer office and some twenty minutes later heard herself announced, much to her alarm, as Jeanne Verdavoire.
As she entered Monsieur Fridrici’s office, the secretary handed back her papers, her false papers, and closed the door.
The young man’s mouth twitched to see the look on Sabine’s face. “Madame Verdavoire,” he teased. “You look remarkably like a certain Madame Zlatin I once met. But so many people come and go these days, I must be mistaken.”
Sabine smiled, releasing the tension in her body, but the light mood of Monsieur Fridrici changed quickly. “Come, please sit. There’s no time to lose. You know that OSE has closed its doors?”
She nodded.
“I have a friend, a subpréfet at Belley in the Italian zone.” He picked up his pen and began writing, handing her a note. He opened a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of documents. “I also have a set of papers that will allow you and a number of children to travel. Do you understand?”
She nodded again.
“The Abby of Prévost is holding a number of packages for you. Do not leave them there long. A pleasure meeting you, Madame Verdavoire. Bonne chance.”
Sabine rose, as did the young man. They shared one last look at each other, direct and stripped of all pretence, one human being to another, and then Sabine turned away. She knew what she must do and hoped Miron would forgive her.
On the way home, she opened the note, memorized the name, Pierre-Marcel Wiltzer, and then dropped the scrap of paper into a sewer.
By the time she reached the farm, her hair was dripping with rain, the umbrella having buckled in the wind. For once, Miron was not outside, driven in by the weather, no doubt. She let herself into the warm kitchen, casting aside her wet coat and calling out for him, but he did not answer. He must be making an egg delivery, she thought, and set about fixing a simple lunch of omelette and bread. An hour later, she sat at the table, eating alone again, pretending she was not watching the clock.
Finally she was forced to admit to herself that she was staring at the minute hand of the clock so intently her eyes were beginning to water. It was so unlike Miron not to leave a note for her. The times were too dangerous for casual absences: a simple walk to a neighbouring farm or into the town market might lead to an inspection of identity papers. Sabine thought again about the stamp on Miron’s papers: Juif. An inspection could lead to an arrest, and an arrest to deportation.
She stood up, shaking her head as if to shake off her anxiety, and walked into the living room. There was his book, cast aside, and his reading glasses. The floorboards creaked as she entered the bedroom and picked up his pillow from the bed. She pressed it to her face and instantly recognized his smell, warm and complex, slightly resinous. She straightened up and stood there indecisively. She told herself she was being foolish, but her instincts answered back that something was not right; some detail, out of place and alarming that she could not name but could feel, was gnawing at her.
She surveyed the room, turning slowly in a circle, and her eyes rested on the corner of a suitcase jutting out from under the bed. She knelt down and pulled it toward her, flicked open the latches. His clothes were folded neatly inside—underwear and socks, a couple of shirts, a sweater she’d knitted for him long ago in Landas, and under the inner lining of the suitcase, a thick envelope of French francs. At that moment, she heard a footfall.
She stood up quickly, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and turned to find Miron standing in the doorway. She felt like an intruder. She felt like a wife about to be betrayed. Guilt and confusion and anger were all mixed up together.
There was a pause, a hiatus in the whole progress of time, as they watched each other. The silence between them deepened, became cavernous. “What’s going on?” Sabine finally asked, her voice more accusatory than she’d intended.
Miron walked toward her, then leaned over to close the suitcase, swinging it onto the bed and sitting down beside it. “Advance planning,” he said. “Never be caught without a plan. I’ve been making arrangements. You might have noticed if your attention hadn’t been elsewhere.” He looked up and gave her the most open look she’d seen from him in a long time, something between admonition and apology.
She wanted to say a dozen things at once, the kind of words that would bring balance back into their lives and heal all the little hurts that had bruised their relationship, but instead she blurted out the most dangerous thing of all. “I have to leave Montpellier.”
“Well, of course we do. That’s what I’ve just been telling you. I’ve sold the farm, not for what it’s worth, but at least in cash. If I’d waited any longer, it would’ve just been taken from us, confiscated by either Vichy or the Germans. We can stay until the end of the month, or leave tomorrow.”
“There are things I have to do, places I have to go—the Abby of Prévost and the children’s home at Palavas-les-Flots.”
“I expected that, but this time, will you let me help? I can’t be a farmer any longer, but I can still be a husband.”
She laughed as she kissed him, a laugh that was something close to happiness.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Miron pressed.
“It doesn’t need answering.”
Sabine went to the monastery with its hunched shoulders and black spires, exactly as she’d been told. She opened the heavy wooden door of the adjacent church and smelled the thick musty air, the smell of incense, dense and heavy, like spice cake on the edge of burning, layered over the odour of damp stone and the smoke from votive candles. She sat down in a carved pew, quietly waiting for someone to notice her. It was from her father that she had inherited her love of churches, but churches as works of art: no priests or sermons, just these great vaulted spaces filled with peace and prayers of yearning. She wondered if her father was dead and if she’d ever see him again.
A low, muffled sound, perhaps of a door opening or closing, caught her attention and she lifted her head to see a man approaching her. He was dressed in a monk’s robe with no ornamentation other than a large cross. He was old but not weak looking, not diminished, and Sabine knew she was being scrutinized.
“I am the Abbot of Prévost,” he said.
He shook her hand and took a seat beside her and began talking about the weather, the relentless rain, at least Sabine thought he was talking about the weather, though perhaps it was a metaphor for the bad tidings pouring down upon the country. There was an awkwardness in their conversation, as if they were actors who didn’t quite know their lines or understand the point of the play.
“So the storm has finally come.” The monk stared straight ahead at the altar, but was still watching her with his peripheral vision.
“We can always hope the sun will come out tomorrow”
“You’re an optimist. I see nothing but clouds on the horizon.”
This coded talk was giving Sabine a headache. She couldn’t keep it up.
“I’ve come from Monsieur Fridrici,” she said plainly. “I’ve come for the children.”
“Ah, Monsieur Fridrici. There’s a man with a clear conscience. He doesn’t need to work at all, but took that job to try to do some good. His family’s very wealthy, you know. They almost single-handedly cover the expenses of the orphanage.”
“No. I didn’t know. The children? How many are there?”
“We’ve been hiding four. Three boys and one little girl. We’d be glad to keep them, but we’ve been hearing rumours that soldiers will be requisitioned in the abbey. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we pray to the same god. Tell me, Madame, do you know the Beatitudes?”
“I do.”
“Well, then. The children are waiting outside in a car provided by the préfecture. Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God. Take good care of them. We’ve given them some clothes and toys, and packed some food. The driver will take you anywhere you want to go. I hope your sun shines for you again.”
“Thank you, Father,” Sabine said. She didn’t know if “Father” was the proper title, but it was all she knew. “And Father? Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.”
From his sad smile, she could see that parting with the children was costing him some of his strength.
She walked to the car and opened the door and looked in at four little faces with huge eyes.
“It’s okay,” she smiled. “I’m taking you to the sea.”
ALICE-JACQUELINE LUZGART, TEN YEARS OLD
MY AUNT USED TO READ fairy stories to me when I was little. She was a widow who once lived in Paris. She told me she liked to pretend, too. She imagined that all was not lost of the old world. On my seventh birthday, she gave me my own book of fairy tales. The author’s name, Charles Perrault, was written on the cover in gold letters.
It was a beautiful book filled with marvels. Young men turned into snow-white swans. Kings and queens danced in a ballroom under crystal chandeliers. A beautiful princess slept for a hundred years in a rose-briar wood. My favourite was about a clever cat in fine leather boots. Puss-in-Boots tricked the greedy out of their fortunes.
I lived in that world of enchanted princesses, talking animals, and disappearing cats. I was happy there. But somehow the witches and wolves prowling the woods slipped out of the stories and into the everyday world. Perrault was full of warnings, too. If you somehow strayed from the path and the wolf got you, it ate you up and that was THE END.
It was only because I was with my aunt that the wolves didn’t catch me. My parents were taken away and I couldn’t go home again.
My aunt said we wouldn’t be safe unless we travelled to the South. She placed me in a Christian orphanage where I could hide among other children. She sent me parcels and visited as often as she could. One day, the last day I saw her, she brought me a new Perrault book to replace the one I lost, but I didn’t want it anymore.
I wanted to believe the world was different than it was, but there was just so much I could pretend. When one of the nuns who ran the orphanage told me I was being moved, I was frightened. I was being sent to another place I didn’t know to live among other children I also didn’t know.
When I saw Madame Zlatin for the first time, I thought she had a nice smile. She didn’t look like a witch. But then I thought, how could you tell?
ISIDORE KARGEMAN, TEN YEARS OLD
A LITTLE PARISIAN BIRDIE told us not to go to the Marais that day, but I remember the noise of the round-ups. It rang in my ears for a long time, loud and harsh.
Achtung Judenaktion! Alle Juden Raus!
Germans yelling. Gendarmes yelling. Yelling in French and Yiddish. People wailing, dogs snarling, boots pounding, wooden doors splintering, and windows shattering. I held my hands over my ears, but it made no difference.
My mother and I were hidden in a Gentile neighbour’s cellar, but the raid scared the lady so much, she told us two weeks later that we’d have to leave. Maman made no fuss. She just thanked the lady for hiding us and took my hand.
We walked along the edge of the Marais, watching out for the gendarmes. There were already new people living in some of the apartments where our friends had lived, but most of the apartments were boarded up. A lot of the doors and windows were wrecked.
Maman said we’d follow in the footsteps of my older brother who’d already found a safe route to the South. She sold some jewellery and the next day we were driven to a farm. I hoped we could stay there because the farmer had a big black dog with velvet ears and a wagging tail, but Maman said we had to keep going.
The farmer told us to lay face down in the back of his truck. There were holes in the bottom so we could breathe and he told us he would cover us up with ears of corn but we shouldn’t move our faces because then the corn would fall through the holes and the Germans would know we were there. The corn felt heavy on our backs, but it wasn’t too bad because we could see the road zooming by underneath us. We held our breath when the truck got to the border. We were waved through.
I thought we were in the clear then, but Maman held my hand and told me she would have to go on alone to find my brother and I was to wait for her at the orphanage.
I shut my eyes tight, but the tears came anyway. Mon petit canard, she called me. Be a brave little soldier. I liked holding her hand. I liked the weight and feel of it. When she let go, I felt empty.
It turned out that the orphanage was okay. The head monk said we were excused from mass. I don’t think the nuns liked that, but they didn’t dare cross him. I made friends with the other Jewish kids, Sami and Hans and Alice. We teased Alice a lot because she was the only girl, but I liked her because she could run fast. We were given books to read, good books about cowboys in America, and we had lessons so we wouldn’t forget our sums.
It was only at night when everything was still and quiet that I would hear that shouting in my ears again and think about letting go of my mother’s hand.
MONTPELLIER TO CHAMBÉRY, 1943
SABINE, MIRON, LÉA, AND LÉON sat at the long dining table at Palavas with a large map spread out before them. With her slender fingers, Léa traced the route from Palavas to Chambéry to Belley.
“We have safe passage to Chambéry thanks to Monsieur Fridrici,” Léa said, “but we’ll get no help from the Monsignor there. Léon has already tried and been refused. The OSE children’s home in Chambéry is already too crowded, so we’ll have to put our children in a village hostel until Sabine can make contact with her official in Belley.”
“How many children are here?” Miron asked.
“Fifty-two at the moment.” Léa read the dismay in his eyes. “It’s true. We can’t take them all with us on the buses. The American Quakers have visas for five of the youngest. Léon will try to take some of the others to the Protestant Mountain.”
“What’s the Protestant Mountain?” Sabine asked.
“A village called Chambon-sur-Lignon. The local minister, André Trocmé, has rallied the villagers behind him and they have refused to hand over Jews to the Vichy police. So far, they’re holding their own against the Germans. I think Sabine and I can take forty children with us. Léon will take the majority of the rest.”
“The majority?” Miron asked.
Léa smiled. “You’re very quick, Monsieur Zlatin.”
“Miron, please.”
“Well, Miron. There are two older boys here, Théo Reis and Paul Niederman. We don’t have any papers for them, and being older, they tend to stand out. Paul is
especially tall for his age.”
“I’ll take them,” Miron volunteered.
“But how?” Sabine countered. “You don’t have travel papers, either.”
Miron reached for the map again. “I know someone who can take us to Lyon. From there it’s about thirty-six kilometres to Chambéry. We’ll walk if we have to. Are the boys strong enough?”
“I think so,” said Léon. “So, we all leave in two days, agreed?”
The four adults joined hands in the middle of the table, each trying to look confident so as to reassure the others.
Sabine and Miron did not go back to the farm in Montpellier. They stayed in a seaside hotel and stood on the balcony of their room to listen to the lapping waves of the Mediterranean, inky blue in the night.
“What happened to Léa?” Miron asked. “Why is she alone?”
“Her family fled from Belgium to Montpellier. The strain was too much for her elderly parents and they died within eight months of each other. Her brother and sister were deported.”
“How did Léa escape?”
“Officially the OSE protected her and she has identity papers in the name of Marie-Louise Decoste. Personally, I believe she was spared because she’s an angel mistakenly fallen to earth. She’s devoted to the children.”
Sabine suddenly reached out and grabbed Miron’s hand. “I feel like something’s going to go wrong,” she whispered.
“It’s not. It’s not going to go wrong.” He turned to take her in his arms and buried his face in her neck.
She closed her eyes and ran her hands over the muscles in his shoulders. Whether it was going to go wrong or right was not something either of them could control. They used to believe, long ago in Nancy, that they could shape the future, influence it with their own will, their talents and their decisions. She saw now how untrue that was. The future just happened. It was happening now, without the slightest regard for them, like the sun going down or the moon coming out or the restless motion of the sea, completely indifferent to the fate of human beings.