‘Mademoiselle Marion!’
She was right by my room.
‘Marion,’ I said, ‘my hiding place has now been revealed. Sooner or later it had to happen. Pass me my coat and shawl. I’m going with this gentleman to the police station.’
‘But come now, Madame,’ she cried, ‘since Monsieur is being so obliging, you’re not about to turn yourself in, and us along with you.’
‘Monsieur is not risking a thing,’ I reassured her, ‘he’s only doing his job. He’ll get the usual reward. Every denunciation gets a bonus.’
‘And what about me? I’ve hidden you and cared for you!’ she cried, desperate.
Just as I was heading for the door, she grabbed me by the sleeve. I freed myself in disgust. Then, turning to the fake policeman, she begged him:
‘Louis, come on, aren’t you going to stop her?’
And she burst into sobs.
The young man pushed her away, made for the door himself and ran down the stairs, four at a time.
I had to assume he would denounce me.
I told Marion to take the tram and go to the Mariuses to ask what I should do. Quite beside herself, she left.
The girl’s complicity was soon evident, as no police officer appeared. Clearly, the so-called detective was obviously sparing her.
It was well and truly dark when Marion returned. She brought word from Monsieur Marius, telling me to come that very evening, after the blackout, and to have Marion accompany me.
The two of us waited for ten o’clock to arrive without saying a word. The cats circled us, exercising all their charm in an effusive display of affection. It was as if they wanted to re-establish the ties formed by weeks of shared living, ties that had just been so miserably torn asunder by their mistress’s weakness.
When, at around eleven o’clock that night, we arrived on foot cloaked in darkness, the Mariuses were waiting for us impatiently. Monsieur Marius told Marion to stay with his wife until he returned.
He left, taking me with him, and without saying a word led me towards a nearby alley where he spoke in a low voice to a silhouette standing in the shadows.
‘Good evening, Madame, we’re late. We’ll explain why later. It’s good of you to have waited for us.’
Then, turning to me:
‘Go with this woman, we’ll follow around midnight.’
I walked in silence behind the woman, who was taking care to walk quietly in her old shoes. We turned two corners and went into a building. My new hostess was keen not to turn on the timed light and we had to walk up the stairs by the light of our torches. On the third floor, she opened a door and allowed me to go in first. The light flashed on and … I found myself standing before one of my dear acquaintances, Madame Lucienne!
How great was my surprise. We embraced. She took me through to the beautiful room she had readied for me.
I must have caught a chill, for I started to shiver and my teeth started to chatter. Madame Lucienne helped me undress, gave me a woollen nightdress and quickly prepared a hot water bottle and a herbal tea.
At about midnight, somebody scratched softly at the door. It was the Mariuses. At the sight of these two, and their evident loyalty, I dissolved into tears. My disappointments, my bitterness, all of it vanished, erased by an immense feeling of gratitude. They, too, seemed moved, for however great the joy of being saved, even greater, doubtless, must be the joy of those noble souls who come to the aid of a human being in distress.
We chatted, we made plans, and that night I slept calmly.
Madame Lucienne had been a nurse for twenty-five years in a hospital in Marseille, where she had devoted herself body and soul. In her retirement, she had taken herself to Nice, the place of her dreams, where, with her small savings, she had been able to create an intimate, cosy retreat. She had adorned her home with all she had been deprived of during her quarter-century of hard labour. Cheerful fabrics, plentiful cushions and amusing ornaments enlivened the décor; brightly coloured hummingbirds, canaries, budgerigars, a talkative green parrot, a blackbird and even an injured sparrow, taken in out of pity, filled two cages or fluttered around the room.
There were flowers everywhere, at the windows and filling numerous vases on the tables inside. The apartment was full of scents, song and gaiety.
Tall, sturdy, very dark-haired and with kindly brown eyes, Madame Lucienne wore bright dresses, long, dangly earrings, large, showy brooches and, on seven out of her ten fingers, rings set with colourful stones.
Widowed in her first marriage, she had since been twice divorced. Men, she said, disappointed her.
I had met her some time ago in my little restaurant. She, all in colour, me, all in black; we had both felt an unusual connection.
The numerous years she had spent dealing with bureaucracy had moulded her spirit into that of a civil servant. She believed only in authority and official regulations. She respected the police, whom she believed to be dedicated solely to the suppression of crime and the tracking down of criminals. Her daily paper, in which she placed a blind faith, was a source of spiritual nourishment. Her radio and newspapers provided her with a ready supply of political opinion and world views. She did not care to think too hard, she’d say, and gladly accepted ready-made judgements. Genuinely convinced of the Marshal’s ability to act freely and of his complete understanding with the victors, she had an ingenuous trust in the political direction of the day.
At the time of the persecutions, she had initially been upset, for she was fundamentally a good person. The Jewish history lessons she listened to on the radio, the ‘secular crimes’ of these people, had led her to admit that the measures in question, while troublesome, were probably necessary. We had fallen out over this point of view.
How great my astonishment, then, when there I was suddenly, face to face with her. Knowing I was in danger, she used to go to the Mariuses regularly to find out my news. That very day, they had told her somebody had tried to blackmail me. She had then exclaimed:
‘I trust our government, since the Marshal is part of it; but I feel sorry for this woman who has always seemed honest and decent. I can’t believe she’s a criminal. Bring her to my place.’
And that is how I found myself at Madame Lucienne’s.
Appreciating the restraint she must have imposed on her own sense of discipline and on her beliefs, I was all the more touched by the sacrifice she was making on my behalf.
A high fever kept me bedridden for a week. I really was very fortunate to find myself living just at that moment with Madame Lucienne, a first class nurse and carer.
A pleasant friendship developed between us. She would care for me. We read. I would teach her a card game, but she would forget the rules from one day to the next. I would scold her for being absent-minded. She would make a visible effort, but without any effect, I might add.
She preferred to make me listen to records. Each one prompted a sentimental memory which she would recount in melancholic fashion.
A relative – a retired office worker – was living with her and she adopted me too. These two women, from a conservative family, loyal to the administration, showered me with their attentions, each jealous, it sometimes seemed, of my friendship with the other. But at the same time, they were conscious of ‘contravening the laws of the time’ and they felt the scruples of their model civil servants’ consciences. It was a case of ‘two storms within two minds’.
However, their well-meaning French hearts appeared to have won them over. Each time Radio-Paris set out the grounds for racial measures, Madame Lucienne was visibly anxious about the legitimacy of her conduct but, glancing furtively at me, she would turn the dial, saying:
‘Too bad about that provision of the collaboration!’
And we would exchange a smile of ‘entente cordiale’.
In order not to attract attention by carrying luggage, I had left Marion’s place without taking a thing. Two days later, Madame Marius went to fetch my clothes. Marion handed her a
suitcase with various minor items. As for the dresses, they had disappeared!
After my departure, Marion explained, she had taken my belongings to the cellar, fearing a search. That morning, knowing that Madame Marius would come by, she went to retrieve the suitcase. She found it had been forced open and the two dresses were no longer there!
The Mariuses had been almost beside themselves before coming to tell me about this latest pillage. But it was not the time to make a fuss. One had to put on a brave face. As was his wont, Monsieur Marius promised:
‘They’ll pay for this, all of them! After the war, as Marius is my name!’
Madame Lucienne and Madame von Radendorf each offered me something to wear.
These touching displays of kindness and loyalty were an invaluable support.
I was paralysed in a state of agonising anxiety about my mother and the rest of my family, not having had any news. Confined, with no possibility of going out, unable to exercise, and without air, I suffered such insomnia that my nervous strain was becoming unbearable.
All I had by way of entertainment was Radio-Paris and the French newspaper of my hostess! I was constantly bombarded by both of them with stories of Allied defeats and of the collaboration reaching its apotheosis. Not a ray of light nor hope to be had there.
The threat of danger remained. There were daily arrests. On one occasion, the police seized some unfortunate soul in the middle of the street who had ventured out, driven by an overwhelming need for space or to move about, or to carry out some important and urgent task.
Some risked their freedom just to immerse themselves for a moment in the atmosphere of the town once again.
Several times there were arrests in front of the Swiss and American Consulates, where refugees would go to see if a visa or notice had arrived for them. For none of them had any fixed address where they might be reached.
Every time a new hiding place was discovered, the newspapers reported it and took the opportunity to warn the population about the danger they courted in continuing to assist refugees.
I was constantly thinking about how to move closer to the border, from where I wanted to try to flee to Switzerland. I feverishly carried out the preparations for an escape, with the help of friends in Switzerland and Nice.
I would have remained in hiding with Madame Lucienne until I was able to leave, were it not for two incidents that compromised my safety there.
The apartment looked onto gardens and a field. As I never went near the windows, nobody was able to see me. One day I was sitting at the table in the middle of the room, reading, when I had a feeling of being watched. Perched on a tree opposite me, the concierge’s husband was busy picking figs. Seeing I had noticed him, he greeted me. Madame Lucienne frequently entertained visitors and my presence may not have surprised him. Nonetheless, the fact this had happened caused us grave concern.
A few days later, a clumsy mistake almost gave me away.
Cut off as I was from the outside world, friends would come to pass on urgent messages, deliver me a letter, a notice, a word of advice, news of political developments from foreign radio broadcasts or simply to chat about trifling matters from the outside world.
They wanted to demonstrate their solidarity and provide encouragement. In order not to attract attention, there could never be too many visitors. Each person had to get in touch with the Mariuses ahead of time and take advantage of an appropriate moment.
And so it happened, one Sunday, after blackout, I was waiting for a visit from an old neighbour. He had just returned from a reconnaissance trip carried out on behalf of his friends. He had travelled all over the Isère and Savoie regions and was coming to pass on useful information for the implementation of my plan.
When he arrived at the door to the building, he noticed a woman in the shadows. He approached her and asked if she were waiting to direct him to the Polish lady. The woman, who was in fact the all-powerful concierge, replied that there were no ‘foreigners in the building, just decent French citizens’.
Conscious of the blunder he had just committed, my visitor excused himself and left, intending to return a little later.
Sure enough, the concierge went up from floor to floor to announce to the tenants that somebody was looking for a foreign woman who, it appeared, was hiding in the building. Naturally, she also came to us.
I’ll not forget poor Madame Lucienne’s expression, both anxious and full of regret. She came rushing into my room and kept repeating, ‘This is bad … this is bad … this is bad!’ as she paced agitatedly up and down the room, wringing her hands.
She told me the whole building was on high alert. I had to leave, then, before word reached the police station.
As always, the Mariuses were informed and I found myself – for the third time – returned to my appointed benefactors.
They received me with their customary kindness and unassuming courage. Even though my successive retreats to their home were always the result of some disaster, I still felt elated every time I crossed their threshold. Their inexhaustible concern made me feel completely as though I was out of danger.
The railroads, the highways, every form of traffic was controlled by the German authorities and the French police who were carrying out their orders. At the entrance and exit to railway stations, in front of ticket counters, on platforms, at the main bus stations, at the toll barriers on the outskirts of town, travellers were interrogated by gendarmes and their papers were inspected. On the trains, German police in civilian clothes would pounce on people, sometimes more than once on the same journey. On the roads, every vehicle was pulled over, from luxury automobiles to carts pulled by donkeys. All foreigners were forbidden to leave the perimeter of their home unless armed with a safe-conduct pass. That document was not issued to foreigners of Jewish race. And yet they had to risk escape, whatever the cost; it was the only path to salvation! It was an intractable dilemma!
Thus, every refugee was thinking of fleeing to Switzerland, Spain or England. They resorted to methods at once ingenious, risky and dangerous. Plans multiplied and were perfected over time.
The most courageous simply set off, advancing at night, taking cover during the day in thickets, in the woods or with charitable hosts. Numerous French families were offering shelter. A comprehensive organisation sprang up with cells in every town, its own covert communications, messengers, information networks and even luggage transportation services! Sometimes, when it was impossible for them to continue on their way, fugitives would stay for days, weeks, even months with their French hosts. And they not only hid them, but found ways and means to feed them. This was a tour de force in and of itself, for these unfortunate souls no longer had ration cards.
One could write volumes about the courage, the generosity, the fearlessness of those families who offered assistance to fugitives in every département and even in Occupied France, putting their lives at risk. It was not unusual for French identity papers to be used, allowing people to travel without special authorisation.1 And everywhere in France, there were people of good will who did not hesitate to lend their papers.2
In November 1942, a new decision stipulated that every person travelling had to carry ration papers as well as an identity card. This was serious, for if a French person could survive for a time without identity documents, it was not possible to go long without a ration card.
A new industry was thus born and soon grew widespread: the manufacture of these documents for use by fugitives; an industry supplementing the one which already existed for identity cards.
People would choose the names of French citizens living a long way away, in the forbidden zones, in the colonies or abroad, wherever it would be impossible to carry out an inspection. False identity papers were also useful for those who had to abandon the idea of escape. During the Occupation, many foreigners caught in France by the war hid behind such names, whether they were Jewish or simply nationals of countries at war with Germany – English, Belgian, Dutch, Norw
egian, Polish or Russian. They had no need to procure a fake ration card, for the genuine civil status they had acquired entitled them to an official document.
These documents, issued by skilled draughtsmen and engravers, sometimes achieved perfection in their imitation, and commanded fantastic prices, too! The prices varied according to circumstance: a fresh upsurge or a slackening off in persecutions. Some people liquidated their assets and sold off parts of their wardrobe in order to acquire these indispensable documents.
Clandestine French organisations soon issued the documents for no charge, proffered advice and useful information, and supplied the necessary money and clothes to those arriving without anything.
This work drew upon covert financial subsidies, and people were aware that this was being led by French religious and secular figures.
In December 1942, the Vichy government doubled the numbers in its police apparatus, increased security measures, tightened its surveillance. Barbed wire was reinforced everywhere. Police dogs were used for the first time.
In the end, nobody dared risk travelling alone on the roads. So people engaged guides who were familiar with the paths, the trails, the secret tracks, the streams that were easy to cross, the most sheltered mountain paths.
These guides had numerous ‘tips’ and relied on assistance from locals, and even in some instances the complicity of gendarmes and customs officers. They were the masters of a new form of trade, human trafficking. The profession of ‘people smuggling’ had just been born.
Whenever an expedition failed, the fugitives were taken to the nearest police lockup where, after serving their time for unlawfully attempting to cross the border, they were sorted according to age and nationality and sent to French concentration camps or to fortress detention. From there, a new sorting process would result in their final deportation.
The French camps included Noë, for the elderly, the sick and the infirm, as well as Récébédou, near Toulouse, Masseube (in Gers), Rivesaltes (in Pyrénées-Orientales), the Rabès internment centre (in Corrèze) and Gurs (in Basses-Pyrénées) for Jews from Germany, Holland, the Grand Duchy of Baden and the Palatinate.
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