No Place to Lay One's Head

by Francoise Frenkel

  Furthermore, I owe my first contact with the Gestapo to that woman.

  I had taken advantage of the Easter holidays to visit my cousins in Brussels. I had conferred with them about the possibilities of moving my bookshop to their city. The result was negative. From there, I had left for Paris, as I did every six months. I was planning to take steps to sell the whole business to French purchasers. My advertisements had appeared in a trade newsletter. A couple agreed to spend a few weeks in Berlin, working in the bookshop, before deciding whether to take on my business.

  The day after my return, I was summoned as a matter of urgency to the police station.

  On arriving at the Gestapo, I had to pass through three metal gates, each opened then closed and locked again after me by a man in a black SS uniform. I followed him down long corridors with barred windows. At last he stopped in front of a door and, after knocking, took me into a sort of cell.

  Sitting at a table in front of me was a young blond-haired man in uniform: twenty years old, not yet shaving, his face red and blotchy, eyes a washed-out blue, his demeanour furious. He gestured to me to sit down.

  ‘Are you Frau So-and-So? Father’s name? Mother’s name? Race? Age? Date and place of birth? Identity papers! You are accused of having left at Easter for an unknown destination and of crossing the border illegally.’

  ‘I travelled on a normal German exit and re-entry visa; I went first to Brussels and then on to Paris.’

  ‘Why to Brussels?’ he shouted.

  ‘To visit my Belgian relatives.’

  ‘What did you take with you when you left? Currency? Gold? Diamonds? You might as well confess, we’ll find out in any event!’

  He continued to raise his voice and I became increasingly distraught.

  ‘I took nothing of the sort,’ I replied, holding myself together. ‘I went to Paris, as I usually do, after stopping first in Belgium, and I returned in accordance with the permit noted in my passport here.’

  He shoved the passport away, saying:

  ‘Be that as it may! But why exactly did you travel to Brussels by automobile?’

  It was obvious he thought he had found the weak point in my journey, and he scrutinised me with wrathful eyes.

  But I had regained my composure.

  ‘I took advantage of some friends travelling to Brussels who offered to drive down the Autobahn. I didn’t want to leave Germany without having seen at least once this road the whole world is talking about.’

  ‘Ach! Our Autobahn is colossal,’ agreed the young officer, furiously suppressing a beaming smile.

  ‘Let’s see. You’re free to go,’ he finished off, ever more officious.

  I was taken back to the exit. I was free!

  My friend was waiting for me outside the metal gate. Seeing me, she ran towards me and threw herself into my arms.

  Once back at the bookshop, I learned that the French Embassy and the Polish Consulate had telephoned to enquire after me. They had feared the worst.

  I’ve asked myself more than once if I didn’t have the famous Autobahn to thank for emerging from that affair unscathed, at a time when concentration camps were filling with innocent souls.

  Nocturnal gatherings of the SA and Brownshirts started to be held in the courtyard of my building – as was happening all over the city – hidden from view. These men would argue about and rail against foreign governments, but they especially had it in for the Jews. They would then launch into hymns glorifying violence, war, hatred, vengeance …

  My four ground-floor window ledges served as seats for these partisans.

  What nights of anxious insomnia!

  As I had done so often, I left for two days to visit my family.

  My father had departed this world three years earlier. We had all witnessed his awful agony, powerless to help, despite our every tenderness.

  My old childhood home, now older still, was in mourning.

  My mother was living there with her son, her daughter-in-law and her grandson, whom she worshipped. She greeted me affectionately and lavished upon me the never-ending attentions of her maternal love. My inner torment was calmed just being in her presence.

  My mother begged me to abandon my business in order to save myself. Yes, there was nothing else for it.

  We would spend time wandering, the two of us, in the beautiful Polish forests. Later I would find some way to employ my talents as a bookseller; I would doubtless be successful anywhere.

  Thus spoke my mother. I agreed with her wise and loving advice. Everything seemed so straightforward, so easy …

  Events followed rapidly, one after the other.

  First came the day of the general boycott.

  Nazi guards were posted in front of Jewish shops with orders to notify customers that it was contrary to National Socialist policy to patronise shopkeepers of this race. Foreign-owned businesses that had escaped the honour of such a guard remained closed in solidarity.

  I kept to my apartment. Suddenly, my housekeeper arrived, looking very nervous.

  ‘Come quickly, Madame! They’re vandalising the shop window!’

  And indeed, armed with a container of glue and a long paintbrush, boys from the ‘Hitler Youth’ were busy daubing my window with offensive notices.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘We’re carrying out orders!’

  ‘Stop that at once!’

  One of the lads shot a glance at the window displays and said:

  ‘Wait a minute, this is a foreign business! No point carrying on, boys. Let’s go!’

  The day was glorious. I headed towards the main thoroughfares in nearby neighbourhoods to try to determine the extent of these activities.

  It was at once grotesque and pitiful.

  Everywhere the orders were being rigorously and systematically implemented. One scene I witnessed, among many, was almost comical. A lady approaching the entrance to a fashion boutique was warned by the two Nazi guards that it was a Jewish establishment.

  ‘But I’m Jewish too,’ she said as she stepped up to the door.

  ‘Wait,’ ordered one of the two watchdogs, catching her by the arm.

  They consulted each other, then one of them raced off to seek instructions as to how to deal with this unexpected situation.

  A crowd was gathering, awaiting the verdict.

  Feigning indifference, the lady had turned all her attention to the hats in the window.

  A quarter of an hour later, the messenger returned and allowed her to enter the shop.

  The boycott that day had been instituted with strict orders to maintain public order. Aside from gatherings on the footpaths, there were no serious incidents.

  Everywhere there were people looking embarrassed, almost ashamed; but nobody protested openly …

  November 10, 1938 was the unforgettable day of the great pogrom throughout all of Germany.

  When news of the death of vom Rath, attaché to the German Embassy in Paris, spread through Berlin in the evening papers, everybody recognised that terrible events would follow. People knew that the Party had prepared ‘reprisals on a grand scale’ in advance.

  I had spent the evening with friends. We felt sad and anxious. Returning very late, I heard the raised voices of a big SA meeting in the courtyard.

  I went to bed without turning on any lights. I was woken by a strange sound coming from the street. My little clock showed four o’clock. The unusual noise was growing louder and appeared to be getting closer. I recognised the sound as that of a water pump.

  I dressed hurriedly, thinking there must be a fire somewhere nearby. I left the house.

  Opposite my building and all down the street, firemen were hard at work. The furrier’s boutique was burning. Three buildings further down, it was the stationer’s; further away still, other fires burned red in the night. I stood, rooted to the spot, aghast.

  ‘The synagogue is alight,’ came the whisper from one group.

  I made my w
ay down the street. It was true; the synagogue, housed within a large building, was in flames. Firemen were hosing neighbouring houses to prevent the blaze spreading.

  ‘The synagogue is lost!’ announced an authoritarian voice in the darkness.

  It was tremendously hot. As I left the courtyard, I stumbled on a metal object. It was a silver seven-branched candelabrum, broken and twisted, tossed away.

  Out on the street, scattered papers lay strewn all over the ground.

  ‘Public announcements,’ I thought, bending down to pick up a copy.

  Imagine my astonishment when I saw it was a fragment of Torah scroll, its scattered remains tossed to the winds.

  Just then, an old fellow approached the temple. Holding a basket, he started gathering up these scraps of paper covered with Hebrew characters. His lips were moving. He seemed to be reciting a prayer. It was the temple’s beadle.

  Silently, others from the neighbourhood joined him in picking up the desecrated relics, a sorrowful and pathetic group of shadows.

  Dawn was breaking.

  Tired, I returned home.

  Just then, I heard a cry from a window:

  ‘Here comes round two.’

  Two individuals, armed with long metal bars, suddenly appeared, marching quick time. They were stopping in front of various shop windows and smashing them in. There was a shattering of glass. One of them would then climb into the window displays, kicking and trampling all over the merchandise. Then they would be on their way.

  I saw them approaching, heading in my direction.

  I found myself on the steps of the bookshop. My heart was beating at a furious pace, my nerves stretched taut. I felt a surge of strength.

  They stopped.

  One of them spelled out the sign on my shop while the other consulted his list.

  ‘Wait! Wait! It’s not on here.’

  They moved on.

  I was left standing there. Had it been necessary, I felt, I would have defended each volume with every ounce of my strength, my life even, driven by devotion to my bookshop, yes, but above all by an immense revulsion for humanity, for life itself, and by an infinite longing for death.

  Sitting on the steps of my shop, I waited …

  Fires were crackling and firefighters were still toiling away.

  The footpaths and street were littered with the most disparate array of objects.

  Somebody took me by the arm and made me return home.

  A Nero-like atmosphere of destruction engulfed the city that day.

  Goods and wares which had been hurled out of windows were carried off by the mob. Whoever tried to defend himself or to save his property was manhandled and abused.

  This time, there were bloody, murderous encounters. Everything took place under the very nose of an uninterested police force.

  Right next door to these scenes of looting, officers were directing traffic.

  The whole city took on an indescribable appearance. Pieces of furniture, pianos, chandeliers, typewriters, piles of stock lay strewn over footpaths; the street was literally covered with broken windows and mirrors.

  Jewellers’ and humble working-class shops alike were plundered. Apart from a few commercial enterprises belonging to foreign Jews, everything was destroyed in this sinister and organised fashion.

  Hundreds of metres of fabric hung from department store windows, emblems of abomination and savagery.

  The next day, I did not open the bookshop. At around midday, I received a telephone call from a senior official from the Chamber of Commerce. He enjoined me, perfectly politely, to reopen as quickly as possible. He added, by way of aside, that it was not the government’s intention to force the closing of foreign businesses; that might have repercussions on German businesses operating outside the country.

  During the course of the following day, numerous customers came by to visit me. They brought me flowers and expressed their support. The telephone did not stop ringing. People were asking after me and enquiring about the fate of the bookshop.

  Flowers! How sinisterly ironic they seemed, bringing home the full horror of my circumstances! These displays of friendship were nonetheless a comfort to me.

  I had long given up contemplating selling my bookshop. All my efforts in that regard had come to nought. Any interested parties were asking themselves very serious questions! Could a French bookshop survive in Berlin? Wouldn’t one be putting oneself in a very difficult position vis-à-vis the National Socialist authorities by purchasing a business which was essentially French? The same problem reared its head once again in 1939, just as it had in 1921 on my reconnaissance trip: was there any justification for a French bookshop in Berlin? Those few friends of the bookshop who wished to purchase it were justifiably hesitant and concerned.

  As for French purchasers, they came ‘to see the situation first hand’ and departed again after a few days at most. The young couple who had come from Paris had demonstrated their good will, but despite attempts on both sides to reach agreement, their enthusiasm had waned, and first the young woman then her husband announced that they could not possibly live in such a heavy, joyless atmosphere. Ultimately, I had to face the facts; the bookshop was now redundant and out of place in Germany.

  I had still not settled my obligations with respect to the publishing houses. They had placed complete confidence in me and had facilitated my task. It was impossible for me just to close up shop.

  In June 1939, a list of my outstanding debts was drawn up and signed off in Paris. The invoices were audited by the Contracts Office (Customs division: compliance with importation regulations), they then passed through the clearing office before reaching the Reichsbank, accompanied by a payment order.

  As this involved the interests of French publishers, these formalities were handled by the Commercial Division of the French Embassy.

  On 1 August 1939, I was granted clearing authorisation. I proceeded feverishly to make the payments.

  I tried to store the collections of books in a safe place. While I was working to make arrangements in this regard – without success, moreover – the atmosphere was growing heavy with menace and danger.

  I had attended the Polish Consulate on several occasions in July to enquire about the situation.

  Each time I was thoroughly reassured.

  The consul admitted to me in confidence that England was in the process of ironing out complications that had cropped up in Germano–Polish relations.

  On 25 August, having settled all my obligations, and on the eve of departing on holiday to visit my family, I returned to the Commercial Division seeking information concerning the protection of my bookstore. With consternation, I learned that the Polish border was ‘momentarily’ closed, following an exchange of fire between units of the two countries.

  To the anxious crowd that had hastily gathered, the reply was given: ‘Everything will work out, there’ll be no war!’

  On 26 August, I was called to the French Consulate. There I received advice to go to Paris ‘for the time being’ and to take the train that, in twenty-four hours’ time, was supposed to be transporting French nationals from Berlin as well as some foreigners.

  ‘This mass departure is only a protest against the Nazi violation of the Polish border.’

  Once again I returned to my consulate. ‘England is taking action! America is getting involved! Roosevelt will appeal to the German people for peace.’ My contact, a high ranking official, added: ‘However, in your situation, in these troubled times, you are particularly exposed. Why wouldn’t you accept the benevolent offer to go to Paris “temporarily”, and be ready to travel to Poland as soon as conflict is averted? It’s a matter of a few days! The Allies are not in the least bit inclined to go to war …’

  It was said in a tone of profound conviction.

  Subsequently it was conceded that the English, French and Polish diplomats were reluctant to acknowledge the approaching disaster.

  That very evening, two devoted friend
s came over to ‘pack my bags’. Nothing was supposed to leave Germany at that time without express authorisation. A multitude of questionnaires had to be filled out, itemising each object one intended to take: articles of underwear, clothing, shoes and even scissors, bars of soap, toothbrushes.

  I had not considered complying with this formality.

  My two friends insisted I take at least some of my personal effects with me. Thanks to them, a trunk was packed.

  Huddled up in a corner of the sofa, I left them to it. All my energy had disappeared. It was as if I’d been stunned.

  Very late at night, two young people came to take the trunk to the station. Such unusual behaviour exposed them to real danger. But they took the risk notwithstanding my protestations.

  I was left alone with my bookshop. I watched over it through the night, thinking back on our community, our solidarity, our years of effort and exhilarating struggles.

  I saw my customers and friends again before me … how, with each of my attempts to leave, they had been so deeply affected. ‘The bookshop,’ they used to say, ‘is the only place we’re able to come to rest our minds. Here we can forget and find solace, we can breathe easy. We need it more than ever. Stay!’

  That night, I understood how I had been able to withstand the oppressive atmosphere of those last years in Berlin … I loved my bookstore, the way a woman loves, that is to say, truly.

  It had become my life, my raison d’être.

  Dawn caught me sitting in my usual spot at my work table, surrounded by books.

  The bookshop seemed almost unreal in the first light of day.

  Then I rose to say my farewells …

  I went from shelf to shelf, tenderly stroking the spines of the books … I leaned over the limited editions. How many times had I been too attached, refusing to sell one or another of them!

  I re-read the authors’ dedications. Some of them were no longer with us. Not Claude Anet … How enthusiastically he had spoken of his life in Russia! Nor Henri Barbusse … He had shared his memories of Romania, of Russia and Lenin … Nor Crevel, young, whimsical, unsettling in his enthusiasm and pessimism.