by Jan Rehner
The words just flew out.
ESTHER BENASSAYAG, TWELVE YEARS OLD
I REMEMBER HIDING for a long time in an attic. The world was only whispers and tight corners, no speaking in full voice, hardly any talking at all. There was no going out, no feeling the rain or seeing the sky, no fresh breeze, no jumping or running, no laughing, no crying out loud. That was hard for Élie and Jacob. I had to hush them.
There was no colour but the faded shades of our dirty clothes. No green of grass or blue of sky. No purple of twilight. The neon reds and oranges of shop signs, so bright the colours looked wet against the black of night, seemed lost forever.
Inside our attic, the moon was any globe of light, even one held in your hand, quickly snuffed out.
We were moles in a burrow, blind things.
The first thing I did when I came to the House of Izieu was run. Run with my mouth wide open, gulping in the fresh air, my eyes stinging from staring at the sun. Monsieur Miron took my hands and we spun in a circle until my feet left the ground and then we both collapsed in a dizzy heap, and I just lay there, panting and laughing and smelling the crushed grass.
At bedtime, I wore a white cotton nightgown. My hair was plaited and my face scrubbed clean. But I never fell asleep until I could search the sky and find the moon, just where it should be, high above me and huge among the stars.
MONSIEUR PERTICOZ, FARMER
I WORKED THE NEXT FIELD over from the Settlement for Refugee Children and thought it was only neighbourly to introduce myself the day they arrived. What a hullabaloo. There were kids everywhere, climbing the trees and running up and down the terrace. Cute little beggars. One little scrap of a guy couldn’t have been more than three or four years old, still in short pants.
Miron Zlatin was the man in charge, him and his wife, Sabine. One handshake and I could tell he knew what was what. He had a farmer’s hands, calloused, and not afraid of hard work. She was as tall as a man and wore pants like a man, too, but she was gentle as a lamb with those kids.
I asked right away if a couple of the older boys wanted work because I could use the help and I could pay in food. That was when I handed over the smoked ham my wife had packed in a basket together with a couple of bottles of wine and a big jug of sweet cider. Sabine thanked me very prettily and then Miron and I went off to talk to the boys and I met Henri and Joseph, fine strong lads.
I stayed a couple of hours and took a strong liking to Miron. He asked if I knew any one in the area who might be willing to join them as a cook and I recommended Philippe Dehan and his mother, Marie. They were refugees, too, from Paris, where they once ran a little bistro, and I thought they’d be good with the little ones.
When I got home my wife was full of questions. How many children, and how many adults, and did they seem like nice folk?
I just shook my head and told her that we shouldn’t put any more ham in the next basket, no matter how nice our new neighbours were. “Why ever not?” she asked.
“You only need to take one look at them to see they’re Yids. But a second look will tell you they’re hungry. God knows what they’ve been through just to get here—all those little ones without parents. We’d best keep who they are to ourselves.”
SARAH (SUZANNE) SZULKLAPER, ELEVEN YEARS OLD
I REMEMBER IN ANOTHER LIFE, there was a girl named Sarah. Her life was like one of those fairy tales her mother used to read to her in front of the fireplace in an apartment in Paris. Sarah’s mother was kind and loving. Sarah’s father granted her every wish. She had a dress as blue as the sky, and another as golden as the moon.
But one day an evil king came to rule the land. He had a thousand soldiers and they all raised their arms in the air when the king spoke. He shouted so loudly that even the earth seemed angry.
Silly Sarah thought that had nothing to do with her. She was happy in her own little world. When the king handed out yellow stars, she was stupid enough to think you got stars for good behaviour.
Then one night, bandits in black uniforms took away Sarah’s father and mother and all her pretty things were stolen.
She couldn’t think what she’d done to the king for him to punish her so. Maybe she was weak and greedy, like the king said when she finally listened to him.
People who used to be her friends didn’t recognize her anymore. She ran to her teacher and he just shook his head. She ran to her cousins and they told her to hide. She ran to her rabbi and he told her to pray. She ran to the soldier and he told her to get on the bus. It took her all the way to Rivesaltes and she was smart enough then to know she was in hell.
Sarah could never have survived in that place. She was too spoiled. So one night she went asleep and woke up as Suzanne.
I’m a lot braver than Sarah. I pay attention. I watched this Red Cross nurse for days taking away other children. So I marched right up to her and said: “Take me.”
She did.
At the House of Izieu, I became a wild bird, shaking the smell of Rivesaltes from my feathers. The other girl I used to be knew a story about an ugly duckling that transformed into a swan. Poor Sarah, she thought it was just pretend, but I know it’s true. I’m that swan.
IZIEU, MAY 1943
THE FIRST DAY WOULD NOT have been complete without visitors. Monsieur Perticoz arrived from the neighbouring farm, a tall, rangy man in blue overalls with the weathered face of someone who’d spent his life outdoors. He brought a large basket of food and an even larger laugh and promised employment to some of the older boys. Within minutes, Miron was mining his knowledge of local growing seasons to put to use in his plans for the garden. Sabine watched the two men walk away in the direction of the barn and she couldn’t be sure, but she thought negotiations were underway for a cow—and if the wishes of a little boy named Isidore came true—a dog, as well.
Marie-Antoinette and Pierre-Marcel were not far behind, their arms full of gifts. The children were wary of the Vichy uniform and kept their distance from Pierre-Marcel, but when he began to hand out little bags of striped peppermints, their suspicions seemed to vanish.
“I wish everything I’d brought today was sweet,” Pierre-Marcel whispered to Sabine. “But I fear Mayor Tissot heard of your arrival and he’s sure to show up at any moment.”
“Nothing can spoil today,” Sabine smiled. “Just look at the children and how happy they are. Their faces could melt the hardest of hearts.”
She looked across the sweep of lawn and saw that the children were indeed beautiful, like blossoms in the still dreamed of garden, a bright gathering of different shapes and sizes, waving arms and legs, and bobbing heads of glossy black or mahogany or golden curls. Right in the centre of this laughing circle, the littlest of all, Coco, with his pretty mouth curved into a smile, was sound asleep in Léa’s arms.
On the terrace Marie-Antoinette was holding court like a queen in a kingdom of children. She had dressed for the occasion, a white dress with embroidered violets all along the hemline and a violet shawl. Her hair gleamed pale gold in the sun as she leaned toward the upturned faces of her audience, keeping them spellbound with some story or rumour or scandal. You could never be sure what Marie-Antoinette might consider entertainment.
Sabine drew closer and saw that Marie-Antoinette was sitting on one of the gifts she had brought: a large pine chest with woodland scenes of dark glades, grazing deer, and fairies with pale wings painted on the sides. There was an elaborate looking lock peeking out from under the hem of Marie-Antoinette’s dress.
“What’s in that box?” one girl asked, curiosity trumping politeness.
The others joined in immediately. “Is it for us?”
“I’ll bet there’s toys inside.”
“No. Look at the fairies. It must be magic.”
Marie-Antoinette was delighted. This was just the reaction she’d hoped for. “It’s a dress-up box,” she confessed.
“You’ll have to wait and see. It’s for rainy days and special occasions only and Madame Zlatin will be the keeper of the key.”
By late afternoon, the adults on hand had managed to corral all the children into the dining room for their first meal. Léa poured out cups of cider and Miron sliced the ham with a quick wink to Sabine. Hunger, after all, trumped the rules of kosher. Silence, and perhaps the first inklings of fatigue from over-excitement, settled on small shoulders as the children ate their sandwiches.
“You and Miron and Léa will never cope with this rowdy bunch,” Marie-Antoinette teased. “You’ll need help.”
“Oh, but we won’t be alone. Léon Reifman will likely be here by tomorrow. Paul and Théo are old enough to act as counsellors and Arnold Hirsch, who’s travelling with Léon, has already been helping at the home in Palavas. Our neighbour suggested we might hire Philippe Dehan as cook. Do you know him?”
Marie-Antoinette shook her head. “I do not. But I know his mother, Marie. She looks like a raisin cookie, so perhaps that’s a good omen for a cook.”
“A raisin cookie?”
“You know—a round face, kind of soft and doughy looking, with little black eyes like currants or raisins.”
“Really, Marie-Antoinette, your imagination…”
Sabine was about to say more when her sentence was interrupted by a sound from the courtyard, a kind of rushing sound like a sudden wind, or the sound of a moving car, which was exactly what it was.
Miron and Pierre-Marcel stood up and Sabine motioned them to join her in the courtyard.
She thought it must be Léon arriving early, but when she opened the door she felt her stomach jump with nerves.
Mayor Tissot was standing by his car, staring up at the house. Sabine thought his eyes were like two grey stones on a winter beach.
Pierre-Marcel greeted the mayor politely, if not cordially, while Sabine introduced Miron. Their conversation opened, as conversations between two uneasy strangers often do, with banal comments about the weather. From there, the group slid into silence. They were awkward with each other. Sabine was nervous, and the mayor seemed stiff, as if his smile had been applied with a brush, like a quick coat of paint, as ill fitting as his toupee.
“Would you like a tour of the house?” Sabine finally offered.
“It seems a bit crowded right now.”
Sabine swung around to see what the mayor was looking at—a dozen little faces peering through the dining windows and a dozen more through the classroom windows. Up above, noses were pressed against the dormitory windows.
“It seems I’ve come not a moment too soon,” the mayor continued solemnly. “Something will have to be done.”
He turned his back to them and began to retrace his steps, returning to his car. Sabine watched him nervously, unsure of what he was going to say or do next.
At that moment, the door opened and Marie-Antoinette swept into the courtyard with Coco in her arms.
“Mayor Tissot. How lovely to see you. This is Coco, the youngest of the children.”
Coco stared at the mayor and the mayor stared back. The boy had curly black hair that sprang all ways and asked to be ruffled. With the unpredictability of children everywhere, he suddenly smiled, a wide, beatific smile.
Sabine swore she saw the light change in the mayor’s eyes.
“My, what a beautiful boy,” he murmured and then, when he reached the trunk of his car, he heaved out a huge bushel and thrust it into Miron’s arms.
“Seed potatoes,” he said. “You’ll need to start a garden. And for you, Madame—” his head disappeared for a moment as he plundered the trunk once more, “two sacks of flour, one of sugar, a little salt, and a whole pound of butter.”
“Why, Mayor Tissot, you haven’t been dallying with the black market, have you?” Marie-Antoinette teased.
“No. Oh no,” he replied, immediately flustered. “Just a few provisions my wife and I had set aside. I’ll see about getting more.”
“You’ve already been so generous,” Sabine assured him. “Thank you, Mayor.”
“Generous, no. No, Madame. I’ve been blind. I didn’t understand. There have been rumours, but I didn’t know. About the children, I mean. I didn’t—”
“I know.”
He bowed stiffly, and Sabine thought he suddenly looked old, and then he was gone.
When the children were finally all tucked in and Léa was singing lullabies, Miron and Sabine waved goodbye to Pierre-Marcel and Marie-Antoinette and carried their lanterns into the barn. Their light triggered the rustling and whispery sounds of small creatures scurrying for darker corners, and disturbed at least one owl. It flapped its wings at them in annoyance and then sailed away above them, its shape briefly silhouetted by the moon.
The ceiling of their bedroom was the floor of the hayloft, and though they both had to duck their heads, the space was cosy enough.
Sabine sat hunched on the bed with her arms around her knees. She smiled, cat-like and content. “We’ve done it,” she whispered.
Miron stretched out beside her. “We’ve only just begun. But we’ve done enough for today. Do you realize how cold it is in here?”
Sabine ran a hand through his hair and kissed his forehead. “I’ll keep you warm,” she promised.
OTTO WERTHEIMER, TWELVE YEARS OLD
STRANGELY, BECAUSE A LOT of bad things have happened, what I remember best is standing in my mother’s kitchen on a summer’s afternoon. I’m maybe four or five. My mother is mixing a large bowl of fruit bread. She stirs in the sugar and the candied fruit peel and covers the bowl with a towel to give it time to rise.
But I can’t wait.
I lift one corner of the towel, dip my finger in the sweet yeasty dough and lick it. Then I dip my finger in again.
I can still taste that sweetness in my mouth. I can still see the sunlight shining through the pots of geraniums on the kitchen windowsill. I can hear my mother walk into the kitchen behind me, her shoes on the wooden floor.
She laughs and swats my hand away from the bowl. “Good things are worth waiting for,” she says.
I guess she was right because I sure waited long enough for the House of Izieu.
Bad things don’t take any waiting for—they just pounce on you like a cat on a mouse, like my father turning the wrong corner and running into an identity check and being dragged away.
But here I am in this big old house in a bed of my own with a pillow. My cousin Fritz is here, too, just beside me, a piece of family.
We had ham for supper, something I’ve never tasted before and it sure tasted good. Monsieur Miron has promised to take us on a hike through the mountains when the summer comes.
So I’ll wait here for you, Mother, however long it takes. And if you want to swat my hand for eating ham, well, that’d be the happiest day of my life.
MARTHA SPIEGEL, TEN YEARS OLD
WE ALL SLEPT TOGETHER in the upstairs room at Izieu, boys on one side, girls on the other. Real beds, with sheets and blankets and soft pillows. It made me feel safe to hear all that breathing around me.
In the camps, my little sister, Senta, had nightmares. I knew why. I would shut my eyes to try and sleep but I’d see ghosts. They’ll jump out at you and try to grab you. I’d sit straight up like a poker. When I opened my eyes, I would see shadows on the ceiling that looked like witches crouched in the trees. Senta saw them, too. When the wind rattled the walls of the barracks, I couldn’t think of anything but demons and skeletons trying to get in and snatch us.
Mother told Senta to settle down and not make things worse than they had to be. She tried, but someone’s dress hanging up to dry in the night was a ghost waving in the dim light. She’d wake everyone up with her screaming. She stopped talking, even in the daylight.
; Her nightmares went away in Izieu.
Madame Sabine said it was because of all the fresh air and exercise, but I think it was because of Léa. She sang to us, and when she leaned down to kiss our cheeks, her hair smelled of lily-of-the-valley.
One day I heard Madame Sabine call Léa an angel.
I think she was.
I imagined her standing outside our door in a circle of pale golden light with feathery wings to sweep away any terrors that came by in the small dark hours.
Then in the dawn, she folded up her wings and put them away so no one else would guess her secret.
But one morning, I woke up very early and surprised Léa coming up the stairs while I was going down. She had a feather in her hair, a small, curly white feather. When I pointed to it, she pulled it out and smiled at me and put a finger to her lips.
I never told anyone that, not even Senta.
RENATE AND LIANE KROCHMAL, TEN AND EIGHT YEARS OLD
WE REMEMBER HOW SURPRISED we were at how big the house and grounds were at Izieu. We’d never been any further than the end of our village street until we were sent to Rivesaltes, which was ugly and crowded, but here the air was fresh and wide fields surrounded us. We could see the line of the horizon and we tried to imagine what lay beyond it.
We often played in the fields where everything smelled green and sweet. There must have been a dozen different kinds of wildflowers that we could never remember the names of. When they grew in patches, we thought they looked like puddles of colour—scarlet, cornflower blue, butter yellow, and the palest shades of pink.
Sometimes we would play a secret game. If the night was very mild, we would sneak outside. We would lie on our backs in the grass and stare up at the stars. We would choose the brightest one or the closest one and then blink once and be gone.
We’d travel right up to that star and look down at Izieu and France and the whole wide world. We were newly born creatures of the sky.
There was room to breathe up in the stars, and no Nazis either. We thought this must be how angels view the world. We’d imagine looking down and pretend we could see our old house. But after we’d floated around a bit, we always wanted to come back to earth because that was where our mother would look for us. She wrote us letters and told us to be brave.