A plan of action was discussed and it was decided that I would, for the time being, remain in hiding with Monsieur and Madame Marius.
Once the salon had closed, Monsieur set about laying down a mattress on the floor, while Madame took out some white sheets from the chest of drawers and made up the bed. Monsieur was preparing to sleep on the floor. I had to insist and even threaten to leave in order to ensure the two of them remained in their own bed.
At last, Monsieur Marius said to his wife:
‘If that’s what she wants, so be it, Francine.’
And so the white sheets were moved from the bed to the mattress where I was to sleep.
I listened for a long time that night to noises outside.
Hurried steps, muffled exclamations, whistles, shouts … and once again the murmur of the sea.
I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep.
‘Sleep, dear lady, you need your rest,’ came Madame’s soft words, catching me awake and anxious.
I buried my face in the pillow to hide my tears. I was weeping in despair, but at the same time, out of gratitude towards these infinitely kind souls who had taken me in and saved me.
The realisation that I was safe there, with them, calmed me.
Exhausted, I finally dozed off.
The owners awoke rested and ready for work, which, for both of them, was their whole life.
Monsieur Marius was an idealist who dreamed of peace and universal brotherhood. He enjoyed long conversations about humanitarian issues. Both husband and wife were sensitive to the misery and sorrows of others, were always in agreement and were constantly ready to offer help to all who were suffering.
They spared no effort in their care and consideration of me.
In order to distract me, Monsieur Marius enlisted me in a game of cards in the evenings, which I regularly lost. I genuinely admired his skill, which pleased him enormously. Madame Marius, for her part, was proud of her husband.
These evenings were really very pleasant and they helped me to bear, even to forget, momentarily, my tragic and dangerous circumstances.
Elsa von Radendorf returned often, bringing with her terrible news.
The police were rounding up people at night. Sweeps to flush people out were organised in gardens, parks, the squares, on the beaches, in the surrounding woods. On the assumption that most of the fugitives, after having gone into hiding outdoors, would slowly return to their homes, the police burst in to scores of rooms, tearing residents from their beds and taking them away. Thus, it was impossible to return to my hotel room to retrieve anything I might need. Elsa von Radendorf, however, brought me a few items purchased in haste, a toothbrush, soap, handkerchiefs, stockings, as well as lending me her dressing gown. She also agreed to post a letter in which, under a pseudonym, I informed my Swiss friends ‘that I was critically ill’.
Every day for the next week, round-ups were rife throughout the Alpes-Maritimes. A considerable number of people were arrested; you saw them walking, handcuffed, between policemen. Police, gendarmes and members of the Mobile Guard were locking them up in police stations, barracks and in the covered market in Place Masséna. All of these places were hastily transformed into temporary prisons.
At the start of October, everybody had to renew their ration cards. Police were present at the respective offices to collar those who, having escaped the round-ups, were now coming for those indispensable coupons.
But there were few who turned up. Instead, it proved an opportunity to arrest those French citizens who came, out of pity, to collect the coupons of those in hiding.
Shortly afterwards, a new measure was instituted: Jewish children were to be removed from their parents. They were thrown into trucks, their papers torn up on the spot. The authorities branded them with an identification number.
Tragic scenes accompanied the implementation of this measure. Mothers cut their wrists, others threw themselves under the buses just as they pulled away with their tragic cargo. In one hotel on the Côte d’Azur, a woman who had escaped the round-ups threw herself from the window with her young child. She was retrieved, having broken her legs. The child was dead, crushed in the fall.
Police and gendarmes were on the hunt, displaying inexhaustible levels of skill and energy. Strictly and inexorably, they were implementing the Vichy regulations. These subservient men harboured a violent anger accumulated in the wake of the defeat, and it was as if they wanted to take it out on those weaker, less fortunate than themselves. There was nothing heroic about these agents of authority, not their job nor their approach.
Some deep sadistic urge must lie hidden in every man, waiting to be exposed when the opportunity arises. It was enough to have given those boys, quite gentle enough in themselves, the abominable power to hunt and track down defenceless human beings, for them to carry out the task with a peculiar and savage bitterness resembling joy.
Were they carrying out orders or acting out of a sense of shame? One heard them claiming that the procedures were useful and necessary, since it was one of the conditions of collaboration with the Germans and France’s salvation depended on that collaboration.
It did not take long before final decisions were made regarding the Jewish refugees who had been arrested. For a week, friends were able to see them and bring them some basic necessities, a little comfort. But one day, without warning, they were taken away to the French concentration camps, and from there transported, by category, to camps in Poland, Czechoslovakia and Germany.
It was not without qualms that I remained hidden with the Mariuses; but each time I spoke of changing my hiding place, my hosts protested; they considered it their duty, they said, to counter the injustices in which their fellow countrymen, whether blindly or compelled by the authorities of the day, were complicit.
The couple’s bedroom was adjacent to the hairdressing salon. Some clients were in the habit of going through to exchange a few words with Madame Marius or to wish her good day. Thus, some of them had seen me and soon there were rumours that the Mariuses were concealing somebody in their home.
It had been agreed that when Monsieur Marius called for his wife in a very loud voice, I was to hide myself at the back of a cupboard.
This happened one day around midday and, from my hiding place to which I had swiftly retreated, I heard Monsieur Marius say:
‘Come in, sergeant, it’s just the bedroom and kitchen we have. The inspection won’t take long.’
Then, turning to his wife:
‘Why don’t you offer the sergeant a glass of cognac. Let him tell us if he likes it.’
The sergeant drank his glass of cognac and, excusing himself, said:
‘You know, we’re being driven mad. All day long we’re passed information and denunciations! It’s a dirty job we have now! Running after people who haven’t committed any crime, it’s enough to make you sick! But you can’t say what you think. We’d be locked up on the spot. We have to feed our families. No hard feelings, boss!’
After excusing himself from his host, the sergeant disappeared.
‘You see?’ said Monsieur Marius to me once I had emerged from my cupboard. ‘There are still some decent sorts among those damned pigs of police.’
That was how I happened to discover (a fact that had been carefully hidden from me) that the homes of French citizens suspected of harbouring hunted Jews were being subjected to searches. Police were turning up day and night, forcing their way in, if necessary, arresting any refugees they found there and taking their hosts away with them.
Notices informed people of the risk of penalties and imprisonment facing charitable French citizens.
I had asked friends to enquire about a refuge for me outside Nice. Having assessed the danger in which I was placing the Mariuses by remaining there, I no longer had any peace. I was very pleased to learn one morning that a French lady from a good family had said she was prepared to let me shelter in a cottage in the grounds of a château in the mountains, about twenty kilom
etres from Villefranche.
My hosts protested. However, faced with my firm resolve, which was supported by my Viennese friend, Monsieur Marius agreed to my leaving, but on the condition he meet with my new hostess beforehand. It was decided that the châtelaine, the lady of the manor, would come to collect me herself from the Mariuses’ the following Sunday.
Sheltered as if in a warm, comfortable refuge, benevolently protected, I waited, somewhat anxiously, for the second stage of my extraordinary, almost medieval, adventure.
During the last two days I spent with them, my friends outdid themselves spoiling me. Madame Marius ventured out to some farmers and brought back eggs, impossible to find in Nice, and even some lemons. Digging into her cache of white flour, my hostess baked a beautiful tart in my honour.
Madame Elsa von Radendorf, too, arrived triumphantly; she had managed to access my room at the hotel, and had come away with a dress, some shoes, a coat and a few changes of undergarments.
My neighbour on the floor, the student from Lyon, Monsieur Charles Guyot, suggested I seek advice from an officer of the peace whom we knew personally. This latter, originally from Alsace, loathed the occupiers. He used to visit Monsieur Guyot; I had met him several times, and he had assured me I could rely on his support in the event of complications. Not knowing quite how to undertake my move with an expired residence permit marked, moreover, with the dangerous branding, I decided to follow the advice of my young neighbour. I wrote a brief note to the police officer. I reminded him of who I was, setting out my difficulties.
A friend of Monsieur Marius was tasked with bearing the note. I awaited the results with feverish impatience. As for Monsieur Marius, every second saw him at the doorstep to check the messenger had not returned. It was afternoon when he returned, and in what a temper. He recounted that having duly handed the letter to its addressee, he had been hauled over the coals most unpleasantly right from the outset. The officer had started by asking to see his identity papers, following which he had said to him:
‘What! You, an ex-serviceman from 1914, you’re compromising yourself by getting involved in these unlawful matters which contravene our government’s policy?’
And he had concluded with this advice:
‘Whatever you do, don’t try it again!’
At first, I didn’t want to believe my ears, but the description the messenger gave of the man who had interrogated him matched in every respect the description of our supposedly good friend and, ultimately, I considered myself fortunate to have been let off so lightly for having taken such an inopportune step.
VII
Somewhere in the mountains
The following Sunday arrived, and with it our châtelaine, who was supposed to bring me to her home, near Villefranche. She was a woman in her forties, with a masculine look about her and a cold expression. She told us she had a girl and a boy. The property, heavily mortgaged, belonged to friends living in Paris; they had allowed her the use of it for twenty-five years, provided she bear the costs of maintenance and taxes.
She shared her political opinions with us, her anger towards the Germans and demonstrated her satisfaction at being able to come to the aid of a ‘victim of persecution’. She confirmed that, far from acting out of self-interest, she was nonetheless relying on extracting some benefit from this lodging arrangement, for times were difficult. We set out the situation for her and fixed a price for rent which was equivalent to that of a luxury hotel on the Promenade des Anglais. As for foodstuffs, my friends would have to procure them for me. Monsieur Marius was privy to negotiations and while he did not appear overjoyed with the châtelaine, he nonetheless agreed to these terms. He even threw in the promise of two packets of cigarettes per week, after the châtelaine had demonstrated during the course of the conversation that she was a fervent smoker. It was a very attractive offer. Tobacco was strictly rationed and it was only available to men.
Thus, we were agreed on every point.
I set about donning my disguise: a broad skirt, woollen slippers, an apron and, covering my head, a peasant’s shawl that fell to my shoulders. On my arm I would be carrying a basket containing a few provisions. My toiletries were handed over to the châtelaine to avoid suspicion.
We set off at around six o’clock in the evening. After a very emotional farewell from Monsieur and Madame Marius, I followed my guide.
We boarded a tram. It took us to Place Masséna. There we were supposed to wait three quarters of an hour before taking the bus that serviced the area surrounding Villefranche. The châtelaine used this time to pay a visit to somebody nearby, leaving me alone at the bus stop.
Several policemen and gendarmes were circulating, on foot and on their bicycles. Suddenly, right before me, a young man flashed past at full speed, two policemen hot on his heels. They apprehended him and put him in handcuffs. I saw him walking off between the officers, back hunched, head down, his gait unsteady. He disappeared around a street corner …
When the châtelaine returned, I felt genuinely surprised to still be there: in my mind, I had been taken along with the young Jewish man who had just met his fate.
The bus climbed unhurriedly up into the hills. While my hostess, who was very chatty, filled me in on life at the château and told me about the neighbourhood, I took in the magnificent scenery of the Alpilles, which I had not previously seen from this vantage point: fields, woods, little villages that seemed to cling to the verdant hillsides.
Now the châtelaine was talking bitterly of her neighbours, complaining about their selfishness.
‘The area is teeming with workers,’ she was saying. ‘I’m surrounded by hostility, for most of them are Communists. As for the local police? Same leanings.’
As I listened to her, a certain uneasiness crept over me: my hostess seemed at odds with the entire universe.
We got off at Place de la Mairie, directly opposite the gendarmerie. Posted onto the walls of that building were notices, a little faded, about the census and more recent posters forbidding the harbouring of Jews. In order to get to the château, one had to walk up for about four kilometres. My hostess suggested I make the trip slowly on my own and that I wait for her at the crossroad, so we would avoid being seen together.
The footpath was cut from the rock itself and there were numerous steps to struggle up. Little houses and cottages were built higgledy-piggledy lining the path the entire way. A few villas stood out here and there; further away, small farmhouses, surrounded by olive trees and palms.
I progressed slowly, stopping to admire the view.
At last I arrived at the specified crossroad, in the middle of which was a fountain. I told the châtelaine, who soon joined me, that as I made my way up, I had been seen by some people who had greeted me with a friendly ‘Good evening’ from their front doors. She reassured me: people often came to visit in this part of the world and indeed never a Sunday passed when she herself did not receive visitors from Nice.
The château was surrounded by beautiful lawns carved out among the trees. The building was in clear need of restoration, but it was of very aristocratic design.
I was introduced to a young blonde woman of about twenty, welcoming and mild-mannered, and a boy who might have been sixteen.
I was offered, by way of lodging, a room decorated with two beautiful Gobelin tapestries. Four big balconies opened up to a view of the Alps. But as soon as night fell, the château was enveloped by such heavy shadows that I hurried, anxiously, to close the shutters and turn on the lamps.
The following day, dressed in one of the châtelaine’s aprons, clogs and a straw hat, I went into the orchard to pick vegetables. I gathered large stones from a field that the châtelaine was planning on sowing. Then I carried them in a basket to a designated spot.
In the meantime, my hostess and her daughter turned the soil over. After hours of considerable heat, we watered it, carrying the water from a pond. Using special gloves, the young man stripped caterpillars from the trees and threw the ins
ects, in their hundreds, into a brazier. He called me over to show me the caterpillars squirming in the flames.
Several days went by, peaceful and calm. I felt as though I was at the end of the world and that I would be safe forever. But one Saturday, returning from the village where he had gone to fetch bread, the young man recounted that he had run into one of the three local gendarmes who had asked him, in a low voice, to come by the gendarmerie. He had stopped by there half an hour later. There, he was told of a rumour in the village: a foreign woman was said to be living at the château. The woman had not yet registered with the police. The officer had finished by saying:
‘My colleague and I will come by to carry out an inspection on Monday morning. The person in question will have to have left by then.’
The châtelaine quite literally lost her head on hearing her son’s account and thought I should leave immediately. I asked if I might at least have twenty-four hours, enough time to notify my friends in Nice so they could find me another place to shelter. Would I not risk being arrested and deported by heading back down towards the town?
I asked the châtelaine’s son to take two letters, one to the Mariuses and the other to my hotel neighbour.
He set off and returned towards evening, telling me that Monsieur Marius would do what was necessary and would come up to the château immediately.
After dinner, the châtelaine came to see me in my bedroom. She had had a conversation with her son, she told me, ‘the only man of the house’. She had not realised the danger to which she had exposed herself by offering me lodging. Knowing the attitude of the police towards her, she could expect serious repercussions! The gendarme had just issued her with a warning, I reassured her. But all she saw was a trap on the part of the police.
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