He arrived by bicycle, with a knightly bearing. A man in his sixties, he was tall with a commanding figure, courteous and jovial. He had been a chaplain at the Front from 1914–1918 and retained a soldierly presence despite his cassock.
His kindness contrasted sharply with his military appearance. He was charitable and even though he trusted to Providence in every respect, he was wont to say: ‘God will help us if we help each other,’ and, indeed, he unhesitatingly offered assistance to whomsoever called on him.
I made his acquaintance in the most unusual fashion: having slipped on a step, I was spread-eagled on the landing amid the potatoes I had just brought back from the market. At the sound of the fall, my reverend neighbour rushed out and, good Samaritan that he was, helped me back to my room, but not before gathering up the contents of my basket. I suffered painful bruising: it was not the first time Monsieur the Chaplain had tended to the wounded, and he bandaged my sprained finger and then entrusted me to the care of my Viennese neighbour.
He came regularly to enquire after my wellbeing during the week I was confined to my room. I owed him a great debt of gratitude which I repaid in the manner of the times, namely by bringing him hot drinks throughout the colder months.
Thus passed the winter of 1941–1942.
During this period in Nice, the most fearful moments came when identity papers were reviewed.
About a week before their residence permit expired, foreigners had to present themselves at the prefecture of police with their documents, one of which was a stamped application.
They would take their place in line in the Passage Gioffredo. This alley attracted an unusual draught which acted as ventilation for those having to wait there for hours on end. On rainy or windy days, it was truly torturous.
At last one would make it into the building, in batches of ten to fifteen people, to appear before a girl sitting at a table laden with folders and piles of files. She had brown hair and was of average height. She would gesture energetically. Everything about her exuded a confidence which contrasted with the worried demeanour of the refugees.
She would examine the documents, interrogate in an imperious tone, speak in monosyllables, take rapid notes and never respond to anxious questions. She would eye the suppliant with the grim look of one of the Fates, mistress of another’s destiny. If she thought one of her subjects looked particularly downcast, humiliated and anxious (included among them were the elderly and the sick, and everybody, moreover, even the young, was to a greater or lesser degree distraught), an ironic smile would spread across her face.
The refugees called her ‘the Nazi’ and feared her. She was not unaware of the power she exerted over these thousands of stray souls, and her face maintained its haughty expression.
She would consult her files and make authoritative decisions. She would extend residence permits by one month or three, summons people repeatedly to appear, require an additional document, a reference from a French citizen, a medical certificate. In the meantime, she would retain the papers and one would be left, full of apprehension, with some sort of receipt in hand.
Out-of-date documents were frequently declared invalid and confiscated. It was then impossible to renew them, as communications with those countries occupied by the Germans had been cut off and consulates either abolished or left with no authority whatsoever.
Mad with worry, the person concerned would besiege the police station seeking advice, information and support, and would end up filling in new stamped applications that were more like supplications. They set out their distress, their hopeless circumstances, referred to the fact they had means on which to live, that they were gravely ill, infirm and I don’t know what else!
Finding themselves in such difficult circumstances, some appealed to businessmen, to supposed advisers, many of whom were very often crooked.
Others turned to doctors, consulted specialists, went to see surgeons.
One day, a lady from our hotel told me, radiant:
‘I have nothing to worry about. I’ll get my residence permit: I have to undergo an operation!’
If the refugees were unable to extricate themselves from these complications, they would find themselves in breach of the regulations and exposed to the threat of police action.
I suffered these tribulations along with everybody else. The residence permit granted to me in 1939 which was supposed to last ‘until the end of hostilities’ was invalid following the armistice: the office of President of the Council of Ministers had ceased to exist and references issued by its departments no longer had any validity according to the new authorities.
These laborious, exhausting procedures often had their comical side.
For every application to extend a residence permit, one had to provide evidence of sufficient means to support oneself: a bank account, foreign subsidy, cash. As to this last matter, the person concerned would have to bring his funds to present them to the civil servant whose job it was to ascertain those means. Very often the sum available to one person or the other did not reach the prescribed minimum amount. So he would borrow from friends, acquaintances and from neighbours in order to demonstrate access to the required amount. On leaving, he would then return the sum to the creditor who was sometimes waiting nearby. The clerks were not always taken in. One day, one of them, deadpan, said in a low voice to the refugee who was busy counting out notes:
‘Is your banker waiting for you at the exit to the prefecture or at the corner café?’
It was said perfectly well-meaningly, for the clerk was not taking the requirement seriously. The refugee was let off having had a fright.
One way or another, the question of documentation ended up being sorted out and one was able to breathe … until the next expiry date.
In the interim, everybody led a life burdened by preoccupations and suffering, relieved by neither work nor happiness.
The background to this existence was the waiting, a canvas upon which ever more meagre hopes and ever gloomier thoughts together embroidered their nostalgic motifs.
From time to time, lighter shades would stand out against these sombre colours, such as a fleeting happiness, a more gentle emotion: a letter from friends or relatives, news from Switzerland, Sweden, America, miraculous countries where there was no war.
In March 1942, the Vichy government ordered a general census.
Special posters directed Jewish members of the population to indicate their racial origin in their declarations, on pain of imprisonment.
The significance of this order was clear, since in Germany, the same census had ushered in the era of persecutions.
Everybody realised, moreover, that it was a measure imposed on the French State by the German authorities. The expected consequences were obvious.
People were undecided as to how best to act. Some said:
‘A deliberate failure to declare our race will obviously be followed up, but there’s always a chance it might go unnoticed. And that means salvation. On the other hand, making such a declaration would definitely expose us to all forms of persecution.’
Others replied:
‘We’re in France, a country that has welcomed and protected us. We owe her a duty of loyalty and we must comply with these requirements. French authorities will never condone any atrocities against us. We have faith.’
An atmosphere of confusion and indecision thus marked preparations for the notorious census. Then came the final day for returning questionnaires. People had to decide, had to act. Most made truthful declarations. I was one of them.
With the census complete, everybody was required to hand in their identity papers to the prefecture of police. A week later, these documents were returned, bearing the expected annotation. Then it was the turn of the Department of Supplies to call for all those concerned to register their race. Everybody was now classified, branded, ‘in perfect order’ according to the police. The danse macabre could begin.
In Paris, foreign Jews started being dep
orted from the beginning of July; in Lyon, from 15 July. There was a sense of imminent danger throughout all of France, but nobody really knew how best to act.
Fugitives were arriving en masse, from everywhere, in great distress, bearing terrible news.
Refugees living in the Alpes-Maritimes region were literally besieging consulates: American, Spanish, Swiss, Swedish … They would queue up to attempt that next desperate step; but most visa offices were no longer operating.
We felt imprisoned, our path blocked.
Those who had salvaged a few possessions from a previous exodus sought to place them in safekeeping with French citizens. The most far-sighted were on the lookout for places to hide. Everybody was waiting uneasily, helpless in the face of unavoidable circumstances.
I had written to my Swiss friends saying that ‘my state of health had deteriorated’, which, we had agreed in our letters, meant that I was in danger. My friends replied that I could count on securing an entry visa into their country.
Relying on this promise, I took myself off to the prefecture. I showed them the message I had received from Switzerland, with my 1939 reference attached to it, and requested an exit visa.
The official, a young man of about twenty, considered the two documents and told me politely, in a matter-of-fact tone:
‘Madame, you have there a reference from a prewar government that proved unfit to govern. That government has been abolished. We have a new France now. The masters you served no longer exist.’
I was not unfamiliar with this line of reasoning. Had I not already heard it on more than one occasion! This time, however, I protested, exclaiming:
‘Boileau, Molière, Corneille, Racine, Voltaire … these are the masters I have served, Monsieur, these and several other of your immortal countrymen!’
My words appeared to awaken a few schoolboy memories in my interlocutor.
‘All right,’ he said in a conciliatory tone after a few moments. ‘I shall try to lodge an application for you. Your passport, please!’
He fed a sheet of pink paper into his typewriter, spelled my name aloud, then typed it out.
‘I hope you’re not Jewish?’ he said, with a sudden change of heart. ‘Show me your residence permit.’
He glanced over it.
‘Pointless making an application! We have strict orders not to allow foreign members of the Jewish race to leave France. This law will soon apply even to French citizens. You understand,’ he added, in a low voice, as if confessing, ‘the Germans are in charge.’
He seemed to be apologising for himself and his attitude moved me.
I left the prefecture. I was walking with hurried steps. On the corner of Avenue Gambetta, I realised I was still holding my passport and reference.
I sat down on a bench, returned the documents to their envelope in a daze and remained there, utterly crushed.
On 26 August 1942, I went out to do my shopping as usual. Despite the early hour, it was already very warm. I was surprised to see so few people at the market.
After doing my groceries, I headed back to the hotel at a leisurely pace. I had fallen into the habit of glancing up to the fifth floor to give a friendly wave to my Viennese neighbour upon turning the corner into the little street that led back to my hotel. That morning, she wasn’t there, but I did notice my fellow countryman, Monsieur Sigismond, on one of the third-floor balconies. He was signalling strangely with both arms. I watched him, amused at first, thinking he must be having a bit of fun. But I soon realised, astonished, that this gesturing was directed at me!
I paused, trying to make out his meaning. I realised he was pointing to the lane opposite the hotel. Without trying to make any further sense of it, I headed in the direction he was pointing.
Reaching the avenue, I came upon a crowd of people. Several buses were parked there, surrounded by numerous policemen. Then some gendarmes arrived, shoving men, women and children ahead of them or grabbing them by the arm.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked a truck driver.
‘They’re picking up the Jews,’ replied several voices at once.
‘We’re hunting humans now,’ came the disapproving comment of one worker.
A crowd was gathering around the coaches.
Crossing the avenue, I headed instinctively for the sea. I sat down on a bench, setting my baskets at my feet.
The Mediterranean stretched out in front of me; behind me, there was no escape. I sat there a long time, trying to gather my thoughts.
The coast road was deserted. After a while, a group of policemen on bicycles came heading towards me. I waited until they had passed and then started back towards the avenue.
The buses were still parked there and groups of two, three, four and five people were still being led over to them. They were carrying suitcases or even just parcels. Gendarmes were shoving them into the vehicles. Two buses, filled to bursting, drove away. Two more, these ones empty, replaced them immediately.
For a moment, I was tempted to run towards the crowd, shouting, ‘Take me, I’m one of them!’
A feeling of intense joy overwhelmed me at the thought of such solidarity, such sacrifice. But cold logic took over.
Who would benefit from such a sacrifice? What could it change? What good would come of it?
The instinct of self-preservation had won out.
The bitterness of this truth weighs on me still, and will to the end of my days.
I do not know how long I remained there, as if paralysed.
Somebody dashed past, bumping into me.
With a shock, I realised the danger I was in …
I scanned the avenue, the little laneways, the houses, shops and villas, searching instinctively for somewhere to take cover.
My eyes fell on a shop window:
MARIUS – HAIRDRESSING SALON
I had met Madame Marius while waiting in line. One day, as methylated spirits was being distributed, she had suggested I go to her place whenever I needed any fuel. It was a relationship founded on the very significant issues of sourcing supplies. For my part, I had ‘introduced’ Madame Marius to a farm where one could source fruit and vegetables. An entente cordiale existed between us. I would happily go and have a little chat with this friendly, congenial couple in their thirties.
Madame Marius was Corsican, with eyes like embers and her black hair worn in heavy plaits. Monsieur Marius, although a southerner too, had blue eyes and brown hair. He was a lighthearted, even-tempered fellow.
The couple were as obliging as they were cheerful, and it was no surprise their salon was always full. Crowded into an impossibly small space, cramped and confined, their customers – for the most part spirited southerners too – waited their turn without grumbling, perfectly content even.
The shop was always abuzz; banter and double entendres abounded; everybody was talking over everybody else, recounting the day’s events, the news, prognosticating.
Finding myself alone, in the middle of the street and in danger, I made my way to the Mariuses’ salon, as if guided by an invisible hand.
The owner was standing on the front step, he must have seen me, for he simply said:
‘Bonjour Madame, it’s good you’ve come to us. Come in!’
And going ahead of me, he called out:
‘Francine, come and see who’s brought us provisions this morning!’
He shot his wife a rapid look that was like a tacit agreement.
She then greeted me, offered me a seat, went over to the cafetière and poured me a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac, not forgetting to put the sugar bowl on the table, which in those times was a special mark of hospitality and generosity.
‘Drink,’ she said to me, ‘the coffee is hot and the cognac will do you good.’
Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
After swallowing the drinks, I brought the two baskets in to her.
‘My, they’re heavy!’ she smiled. ‘That will go well with our stew.’
Jus
t then, some neighbours out in the courtyard walked past the glass door, and she gestured to me to retreat back into the bedroom, where I huddled away once more.
The pink mosquito net hanging over the matrimonial bed, the old chest of drawers filled with towels, the dresser full of crockery and multicoloured cups, the walls decorated with family photographs and postcards, it all conjured up a calm, welcoming atmosphere. Through the half-open door, I heard voices from the salon. There was talk of the day’s events, of the big round-up; but I couldn’t make out any details.
At noon, Madame Marius set the table for three. Her husband came to join us and, sitting down, he announced:
‘I found out some information from an official I know. They’re going to keep gathering up those poor people for several days still and then it’ll be over. It’s a matter of holding out for a while. And we’ll hold out! Ah! The dirty bastards! They’ll cop it one day.’
Then, as he poured me a ladleful of soup:
‘You need to conserve your strength, Madame. Eat up! Times are tough, but everything comes to an end. Cheers!’
The wine helped lift Monsieur Marius’s spirits. It helped him cope with all life’s vexations and worries.
The meal was finished in silence. With the last mouthful of wine downed, my host concluded:
‘Consider yourself at home; I mean to say, you’re with decent French people here. Nothing will happen to you so long as we’re in charge here. You can count on that, in the future and by way of revenge, so long as my name is Marius!’
Then the household returned to its work. I sat down in my corner at the back of the room. The boss’s wife appeared frequently to exchange a few words with me.
At four o’clock, she brought me a bowl of café au lait. A little later, some friends, alerted by Madame Marius, came by to see me. The Viennese lady advised me not to go out under any circumstances and promised to bring me a few clothes and toiletries the following day.
Monsieur Sigismond recounted how at eight o’clock in the morning the police had burst in to the hotel and arrested two Jewish couples; the others, no doubt warned away, were not there. The police had left a list of Jewish residents and had ordered management to forbid them from returning to their rooms, and ordered that they be brought immediately to the local police station. My name was on that list. Just as I’d been returning from the market, three gendarmes had been standing right on the hotel doorstep and had I not been warned by my neighbour, there was no doubt I would have fallen into their hands.
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