The House of Izieu

by Jan Rehner

  Sabine thought everyone had gone crazy letting themselves be caught up in a pretend Christmas because all these tidings of hope and mercy would surely vanish in an instant if a single jackboot crossed the threshold. She had little tolerance for the gaudy fuss of the holiday, and found the whole enterprise disquieting. What were they thinking, hidden Jews performing Christmas like some kind of play? She couldn’t help but feel that the natural order of things had been turned upside down. She felt twitchy, like an animal before a storm, and expected nothing less than disaster.

  But Sabine was wrong. When the eve of Christmas finally arrived, Pierre-Marcel in full dress uniform and Marie-Antoinette in a fur-lined cloak arrived with it, pulling up to the house with a flourish in a horse drawn sleigh filled with presents, the three boys who attended the boarding school in Belley, and the lovely Marcelle. The children were drawn to her as though she radiated light, and she greeted every one with a kiss or hug or handshake, depending on their age or preference. The reunion made the house so warm it seemed the air was turning to mist, and the younger children hopped from foot to foot, giddy with pleasure.

  While Miron greeted Madame and Farmer Pericoz, Pierre-Marcel drew Sabine aside and whispered that his wife, Noelle, and Mayor Tissot had arranged the best surprise of all, a dinner for the German officers stationed in the area which would keep them full and drunk and listless for days to come.

  There was an hour of carol singing, a bit ragged because the children didn’t know most of the words, and the adults were distracted by the siren call of smells wafting from the kitchen. Then, finally, it was time for the traditional meal, le réveillon de Noël, served proudly by Philippe and Marie, with a few menu substitutes necessitated by circumstance. A simple duck pâte took the place of foie gras, and grilled sardines stood in for more luxurious seafood. But the roast capon with chestnut stuffing could have been the star of any French table, followed by the best cheeses of the Jura, Mont d’Or and Morbier.

  Five-year-old Émile’s mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ when he saw what Philippe had prepared for the final course: seven Bûches de Noël, rolled cakes in the shape of Christmas logs covered in chocolate ganache, enough for everyone to have a slice of their own.

  After dinner, everyone crowded into the classroom where the desks had been pushed against the walls and Pierre-Marcel took charge of the distribution of presents, beginning with his own offering of bars of chocolate for the children. The treats had cost him a small fortune and a stab of conscience because he’d been forced to pretend that the unsavoury characters that had sold it to him were not part of an outlawed black market ring. Despite all his trouble, he was still upstaged by Marie-Antoinette who unveiled a carton of four-dozen oranges, a fruit so rare in the dead of winter in the midst of war that it might just as well have been exotica from another planet. Her laugh, when she saw the look of amazement on Pierre-Marcel’s face, was as close to the peal of a Christmas bell as anyone in the Jura was likely to hear that night.

  The children received their gifts with enthusiasm. The knit bears and rabbits with button eyes were fiercely hugged, and the rag dolls were instantly rocked. Théo had carved small squirrels and birds for the youngest children and a cat for Max, while Léa had embroidered scarves for the older girls. There were paints for Joseph, sweaters for the older boys and, from Farmer Perticoz, the promise of a piglet for Henri. Sabine’s surprise for Théo was a letter from Paulette that had arrived two days ago from Montpellier still smelling faintly of roses.

  No one wanted the pretend Christmas to end because it had turned out to be the real thing, provided religion, which had caused so much trouble in the world, was set aside. Even Sabine believed that night that the world might be saved after all, if only all children were treated tenderly. But when Marcelle found Coco curled up and sound asleep under one of the desks, his cheeks sticky with melted chocolate, the guests knew it was time to leave. When Léa and Mina finally put the children to bed that night, they smelled of cake crumbs and sugar.

  A few hours later, all the goodbyes said and all the dishes done, Miron turned to Sabine. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

  “Best Christmas ever,” she replied.

  “You’ve never had Christmas before.”

  She laughed, a full-throated musical riff. It had been a long time since Miron had heard her sound so happy. “Come. Let me show you what I’ve been working on in the barn.”

  They crossed the lawn hand-in-hand and Miron led her to a gleaming wooden sled for the boys and a multilevel dollhouse for the girls.

  Suddenly, Sabine felt like a teenager again, impulsive, unpredictable, and drunk on mischief. “Let’s take the sled for a run,” she coaxed, “before we set everything up for the children.”

  So, while the House of Izieu slept under a Christmas moon, Sabine and Miron went sledding, swooshing down the sloping lawn, landing in a tangle of arms and legs, and kissing the snow from each other’s face.

  It was sometime in mid-January, after the House had settled back into its comfortable routine, when little Jean-Claude Benguigui first called Miron Papa. Miron crouched down and put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You know I’m not your father, Jean-Claude. I’m sure your real papa misses you.”

  “But I don’t remember him. And Yvette calls her new family mama and papa.”

  For a moment, Miron didn’t know what to say. For many of the youngest children, the war stretched backwards into their earliest memories and forward into their unknown futures. How do you tell a five-year-old that the people who shielded him from the world, the people he trusted most, hoped to turn him over one day to parents who’d become virtual strangers?

  “You must talk to your older brothers, Jean-Claude. They can tell you stories about your father to help you remember.”

  “But I don’t want to remember.”

  “Why? Why don’t you want to remember your own father?”

  “Because he might not come back. If I remember and he doesn’t come…”

  “I see. We all share that problem here. But I promise you that someday, whether your father returns or not, you’ll want to know all about him. Even your baby sister will want to know.”

  Jean-Claude looked hard at Miron. It was clear he’d heard this advice before, but he was too young to understand that those memories that cause misery could also bring consolation. Adults often spoke in riddles. He shrugged, looking entirely unconvinced. “In the meantime, can I call you Papa? You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

  Miron smiled. “I’m here to stay. But call me Papa Miron, just to keep the record straight.”

  Jean-Claude nodded and ran off, seemingly content with their bargain. But Miron was reminded of how fiercely children live in the present. Time was suspended for them at the House of Izieu where all that mattered was cocoa at breakfast, lessons in the morning, and if the day was fine, maybe a hike or a game on the lawn. Maybe the war would last forever, or maybe it would end tomorrow.

  The adults, however, were aware of distant concussions and smudges of smoke in the peerless blue sky. The Allies were coming, and the Germans were going. The ending was inevitable, but Miron prayed for sooner rather than later.

  Though the weather began to soften, February was not a kind month. When Georgy caught the flu, Jacob slipped into the infirmary to show him his new comic book, and a few hours later Jacob kissed his sister, Esther, good night. Esther read a bedtime story to Rénate and Liane, and by the next morning, half the children were flushed and feverish.

  Suzanne Reifman moved quickly to quarantine the infected children in the upstairs of the house, but the virus proved difficult to contain and seemed immune to Marie’s hot chicken soup, even though it was guaranteed to lift the spirits and drive sickness from the body. Several children gagged on the broth and before nightfall several others had begun to vomit.

  “I need help,” Dr. Reifman declared. �
�I need real medicine.”

  Sabine and Miron agreed it was too risky to send a child alone to Dr. Bendrihem in Glandieu because German soldiers could be anywhere. Sabine set off alone, while Miron readied himself for a trip into the mountains to confer with Philippe’s mysterious contacts.

  It took hours to slog through the snow, and by the time Sabine reached the village, she was exhausted. She took shelter in a café from where she could see the doctor’s blue door and ordered a cup of faux coffee to give herself time to recover from her journey. Through the window she watched three German soldiers on a slow patrol along the street, but no one entered or left through the doctor’s door.

  An hour crawled by and Sabine knew she couldn’t delay any longer without drawing the attention of other customers. How many cups of bad coffee could one woman drink? Her plan had been to enter the doctor’s office with at least one other person to seem less noticeable, but apparently no one else in the village had so much as a minor cold to complain about to a doctor.

  She rose to her feet just as the waitress who had been serving her approached. “Sit down,” she whispered. Sabine sank back onto her chair, for her legs were suddenly weak.

  “Your bill, Madame,” the waitress said in a louder voice. “Just check the total.”

  As Sabine scrambled for change, she read the words written under the addition, Meet me at the back door.

  The waitress swept up the coins and the bill. “Thank you, Madame.” Her face and her voice gave away nothing.

  Sabine had no choice but to leave the café. Should she trust this stranger or go straight to the doctor’s office? As she entered the street, her eyes were riveted on the backs of the German soldiers. Could she reach the doctor’s door before they turned around? Acting purely on instinct, Sabine ducked down the alley and found herself at the back of the café.

  The waitress was a thin woman, tall, though not as tall as Sabine, in a faded print dress and a black coat. She stared at Sabine with hooded, storm-grey eyes. “Follow me.”

  “Wait. Who are you?”

  “A friend. Keep up unless you want to be arrested.”

  Shaken, Sabine followed the woman down the alley and through a maze of lanes to the back door of a small, ramshackle house. “In here,” the woman said, holding the door open for Sabine.

  The interior of the house was full of shadows, as ominous as the overcast sky, and Sabine dreaded crossing the threshold. At that moment, someone inside lit a candle, and in its halo Sabine could make out the face of a young boy, a boy she recognized from somewhere. “Hurry up, please. It’s starting to rain,” the waitress urged. “This is Gérard, the doctor’s son. His father was arrested in January.”

  The door swung shut behind Sabine and she could hear the turn of a lock.

  “I recognize you,” the boy said. “You came to see my father once. You’re from the Settlement.”

  “You are?” the waitress said. “Thank god. I’m Lucie Feiger. I’ve been hiding Gérard ever since his father was taken by the Gestapo. If you’d approached the doctor’s door, you would’ve been taken, too.” She lit another candle as she was talking. “I’m afraid we can’t turn on the lights. The front of the house has been boarded up. So far, the Germans think it’s vacant. My husband was also rounded up. This is where we lived.”

  The bad news broke over Sabine like a cold wave. “What happened?”

  Lucie glanced at Gérard and then back at Sabine. “Another time. Can you help us?”

  There would be no medicine found here for the children, and no travelling back to them until the weather cleared. At least the hideaways were dry inside the house, and Lucie had food from the café. While the rain poured down, while the wind rose in the east, Sabine would think of a plan, she’d have to, because she could no more abandon a child in need than she could stop the rain with just a wave of her hand and fly back to the House of Izieu.

  In the end, the rain began to melt the snow, and Sabine’s return journey, though cautious, was easier than she’d supposed.

  “I’ve brought no medicine,” she told Suzanne, “but at least we have more help with Lucie and Gérard. How are the children?”

  “Rallying slowly, but the sisters, Rénate and Liane are gravely ill, weakened no doubt by their months in Rivesaltes. Perhaps Miron and Philippe will have more luck.”

  “They’re not back?”

  “Not yet.”

  It was midnight, and the wind was battering the trees, when Miron finally appeared at the mouth of the barn. His face was pale and his hair was drenched from the rain. His eyes, usually so expressive, telling Sabine all she needed to know about what he was feeling, were empty and dark. He looked exhausted, and without asking any questions, she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

  He responded eagerly, but then rested his forehead against hers. “A man was killed,” he murmured.

  “A soldier?”

  “A resister. We buried him, but there’ll be questions. Shots were fired and we heard dogs.”

  She wanted to tell him to stop talking, that she shouldn’t know about this, but it was as if he had something inside him that had to pour out.

  “I think Philippe knew him. I had to drag him away from the grave. It was all I could do to get him back home. That big man, Sabine, he sobbed like a boy.”

  She put her arms around him, felt him shudder. He leaned into her and pressed his face into her neck. “We brought back the medicine,” he murmured before falling into bed.

  Sabine lay awake for a long time watching Miron sleep, listening to the inevitable melting of the snow, knowing that their dream of keeping the children together was coming to an end.

  Montpellier was grimmer than she remembered. The leaves of the palm trees were a bleached-out green. The streets were grubbier. The faces of the few people she saw on the street had an ashy cast. Coils of barbed wire were strung along the beaches like thorny snakes. Only the sea was unchanged, an impervious, arrogant blue.

  There were many more soldiers here than in the Jura, but even they looked dispirited. With her false identity papers, Sabine travelled unchallenged. At first, she found it astonishing that other people judged her to be calm and capable even though she was still spiralling from the arrest of the doctor, and she guessed this was because of how she looked: tall, almost mannish, with a plain and solemn face. She seemed as utilitarian as an old pair of brown shoes a bit worn down at the heels as everyone’s were because the war had eaten up most of what the world had to offer, including leather. With her hair scraped back, and no make-up to soften her square face, she could be mistaken for a nun, maybe, or a head mistress, but certainly not as a woman with secrets to hide. And so, Sabine kept her secrets to herself and few suspected she had any to tell.

  She went first to her good friend, Berthe Mering, the soul of charity who lived in a small house well below her means in order to avoid drawing attention to her fortune. A devout supporter of the Red Cross and the OSE, she greeted Sabine with open arms and bad news. “The headquarters of the OSE in Chambéry was raided two days ago by the Gestapo and the staff were rounded up,” she said. “The entire organization has gone underground. This must be the work of Klaus Barbie who has jurisdiction over the area.”

  The mention of Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon, was like an ice cube slipping down Sabine’s spine. “Did the Gestapo seize the records?” she asked.

  “I know what you’re asking—did the Gestapo find the names of the children—but I don’t know the answer. The staff has been careful. Coded lists of names were sent to an OSE office in neutral Geneva and many other financial records were hidden off the premises. They couldn’t be destroyed outright because when this war finally ends the records will be the only way for parents to trace their way back to their children. But, Sabine, if the staff are questioned—”

  There was no need to finish the sentence. The word questioned
hung in the air, a euphemism for whatever horrors occurred in the sinister cells of Montluc prison in Lyon.

  Sabine felt the first stings of panic, as if a frantic bee were trapped in her stomach. “Then we haven’t a moment to lose. We must assume the Germans know about the House of Izieu.”

  “Remember the name will be recorded as The Settlement for Refugee Children from the Hérault. If the Germans even have that name, they will speak first to your friend, Monsieur Wiltzer.”

  “Pierre-Marcel will tell them the House has a history as a Catholic boarding school and summer camp.”

  “Yes, of course. But if the Germans become suspicious, they may also want to speak to Monsieur Jean Fridrici, your contact in the Hérault.”

  “You’re right. I’ll go to him first, and then to the Paillarès family who will help me find Marius, and then to the Abbey.”

  “No, my friend. First you’ll eat and sleep, because anyone can see the lines of worry on your face. If I poked your shoulder right now with just a single finger you’d surely fall down from exhaustion.”

  Over the next few days, Sabine met with all her friends and old contacts. They offered her whatever they could, which was always less than what she needed. Since the beginning of the war, OSE and its myriad networks had hidden over four thousand children, spread far and wide among various homes and institutions, and among the families of farmers, craftsmen, labourers, teachers, fishermen, or shop owners, poor or well-to-do, urban or rural. But placements were becoming more difficult to find, and the transporting of children in any number, more dangerous.

  A day before her scheduled return to Izieu, Sabine, with the help of Marius and his decrepit truck, had a clandestine meeting with Léon Reifman in the deserted sanctuary of Palavas-les-Flots. They embraced and if they noted any changes in the other’s face wrought by desperation, they failed to mention them.