From 1941, this last camp took all the foreign Jewish refugees, with no distinction as to nationality.
Of all the camps, it was the most terrible, a veritable hell. In the winter of 1940–1941, between fifteen and twenty-five people per day died of exhaustion, disease, cold and epidemics. The camp at Drancy (in Le Bourget) ultimately gathered Jewish foreigners who had been living in France for a long time, as well as more recent refugees intended for deportation.
Frequently prisoners in French camps were liberated by virtue of the most varied forms of intervention. But nobody ever returned from Drancy, which was under the direct control of the German authorities.
News of accidents, thefts, blackmail, arrests, deportations and failed attempts spread rapidly throughout the region.
Consequently, the number of escapes fell very quickly. Exhausted by the hardships they were enduring and weakened by their long confinement and the resulting inertia, the refugees had been sapped of their energy. Escape felt like a considerable undertaking with all-too-unpredictable results. Resigned, they ended up passively awaiting their fate, abandoning their plans and, at the same time, all hope.
Only an intrepid few, particularly among the young, preferred to brave the perils. They set off, carrying powerful poisons, weapons or, absent those, a dose of sleeping pills sufficient to kill them in the event of failure.
If somebody had an entry visa for another country, there would never be any hesitation about setting off.
I was waiting for just such a visa for Switzerland and, in order not to compromise this possible path to salvation, I was forced to remain in hiding in Nice for some time yet.
There was a beautiful new house in Cimiez where two ladies lived on the fifth floor. They bore an astonishing resemblance to each other: tall and thin, they fed off their mutual likes and dislikes. Both mother and daughter took in knitting following a reversal of fortune. In these times of war, the cost of their rent unfortunately exceeded their means, so they were looking for a subtenant. For my part, I was once again looking for a safe haven. Thus, we were a good match.
In fact, they were not at all willing to give up a room, as each of them planned to keep her own.
At last it was agreed I would sleep on the living room sofa and would rise early in the event of a possible visit.
I am keen to acknowledge that these two women were hardworking, frugal, excellent housekeepers; patriotic to the point of chauvinism, they suffered from two unbearable failings: the first, the flip side to their excessive patriotism: xenophobia; the second: envy.
They revealed themselves to be constantly envious of everything: of a letter or money order sent indirectly through a friendly contact in Switzerland, of a visit, or a show of sympathy, kindness or readiness to help. They were envious of my provisions, envious even of any hope, any joy, rare as that was in this dark period of my life. They wished only to see me in my normal state, that is, hunted, demoralised, desperate.
They never missed an opportunity bitterly to inflict their sour moods on me. Without a room of my own, I had no place to be alone. Such opportunities were, as a result, frequent … constant, even.
The arrival of the Italians in the Alpes-Maritimes département appeared to be the result of some ad hoc decision. Hour after hour, convoys of artillery, infantry, mountain troops with hundreds of mules, followed by trucks and ambulance vehicles, made their way down the Promenade. The Italian headquarters were set up in a palace in the centre of town.
An unexpected piece of news soon spread: thanks to the intervention of the Holy See, the occupiers had just decreed that persecutions be immediately suspended.
The synagogue of Nice, which had been defaced with vulgar inscriptions, its windows broken, was cleaned, restored and returned to being a place of worship.
Jewish refugees were asked to register themselves at police stations and to go to the prefecture to renew their identity cards and residence permits; all landlords were ordered to return whatever property they’d been holding. The Jewish community was informed of the Italian occupiers’ policy of protection of the Jews. Thus, those refugees who had survived the round-ups were to be seen waiting outside the prefecture. They were only a small group.
Issuing from a long line of ancestors among whom there is no shortage of the persecuted, having been tormented and dispossessed for generations, Jewish people have an undeniable instinct for danger. Despite the liberal attitude of the Italian authorities, they were wary of what the future held. Everybody took advantage of this lull to prepare their escape to the Creuse, the Isère and especially the Savoie regions in order to be closer to the Swiss border.
I took advantage of the respite offered to everybody by the Italian Occupation to put my affairs in order. Like everybody else, I went to renew my residence permit as well as my identity card and ration card. At both the police station and the prefecture, I was cautious not to give my true address: I gave that of the hotel where I had previously stayed.
Free to move about once again, I hastily prepared for my departure. There was no longer anything keeping me with the two knitting ladies from Cimiez. So I went to live in a villa right at the bottom of an abandoned garden, with a septuagenarian Parisian woman whom I had known for two years by then.
Anticipating future persecutions, which I considered inevitable, I cloaked my comings and goings with a thousand precautions, trying not to be seen, not to attract any attention.
First of all, I had to scrape together all my available assets into cash. The hotel had returned my three suitcases. So, I set about selling my belongings, my typewriter and a ring. I liquidated everything I could, item by item, for nothing could be allowed to impede the escape I was planning.
I filled a small suitcase with three dresses, a few undergarments, some essential items dear to my heart, including, among others, some photographs. This bag was to join me in Switzerland.
Yet again, I farewelled my three vagabond suitcases, whose extraordinary adventures I have already had occasion to recount.
On 15 December 1942, I took myself off to the Swiss Consulate to enquire whether my visa had arrived. After consulting some dispatches, the secretary pulled one out that related to me.
I felt overwhelmed by a complicated emotion of joy mixed with anxiety. I was acutely aware that this journey towards the border carried with it this alternative: salvation or perdition.
The Consulate’s secretary stamped my passport in an amicable fashion, warning me that ‘of course, the border was closed for the time being’. He knew as well as I did that this fact had absolutely no bearing on me: I was unable to leave France in a lawful manner.
Now it remained for me to get hold of the identity card and ration card of a French woman. My landlady was aware of all the difficulties I was facing: she declared herself ready to help, there and then. She told me she had twice mislaid her own papers, but the police had only issued her with an official warning, no doubt due to her advanced age. Her two cards had been renewed in return for payment of the customary fine.
My hostess was going to ‘lose her papers for a good cause this time’, as she said. Like so many French people, she vehemently opposed the government’s actions and the horrors taking place in her country. I was the beneficiary of one generous gesture after another!
Before all else, I had to undertake the complicated task of transferring over the details of my own description onto the documents of my benefactress. How much effort, how much patience and attentive, skilful care it took to remove the descriptions of age, height, eye colour, face and nose shape, and substitute my own.
By a stroke of misfortune, my benefactress had a wart on her chin! This particular feature stood out on her face and, much more seriously, featured on her description. How often a funny – if not to say comical – note is written into life’s drama, and my friends and I spent a week or so anxiously pondering this decorative detail.
Ought I fit myself out with a fake wart? But there weren’t any experts
in this field and, in the end, we were left with having to make the bothersome description disappear, at the risk of leaving behind evidence of having scraped something off the document. Feeling extremely nervous, but displaying infinite skill, we somehow managed to remove that particular description, taking a thousand precautions.
Then came the no-less-delicate task of detaching the photo, which was solidly glued onto the card, and replacing it with my own. This task, too, required some considerable time as well as a good deal of patience.
Of course, I was taking on the surname, first name and place of birth. Henceforth, for reasons of necessity, I would be known as Blanche Héraudeau, born in Paris, Rue de Clichy. The stamp of the prefecture was supposed to finish off the task of lending authenticity to the document. It was drawn on with a paintbrush! Of course, recognised specialists had imitations of the real stamps, and some were able to access the official stamp, but all of that came at prices too prohibitive for me.
In the end, the documents came up in a very presentable fashion, provided one did not examine them too closely …
I had all my French documents in order, the Swiss visa on my real identity card, which was sewn into my coat. I learned my name and its spelling by heart and I practised imitating the signature of my benefactress. With my nerves stretched to breaking point, bolstered above all by my Swiss visa, I considered myself among the privileged and was ready for the journey.
The Mariuses, for whom ultimately I had come to be a sort of fragile vase that they had grown accustomed to moving with touching care, agreed they could not allow me to depart on my own. Never! With the result they found themselves arguing over who should accompany me. Madame Marius, with her angelic candour, hardly seemed qualified for possible encounters with the police. On the other hand, any prolonged absence on the part of Monsieur Marius would have set tongues wagging in the neighbourhood.
Once again, Providence came to my aid. Fate seemed determined to want to lead me to salvation.
One of the Mariuses’ regulars let it be known in conversation that he was going to spend the Christmas holiday period on his property in the Isère. Monsieur Marius immediately devised a plan to put me in touch with him. He knew his client to have decent French values and he openly told him of my situation.
Monsieur Jean Letellier, an architect by profession, an ex-serviceman and a Republican, moreover, said he was prepared to assume responsibility for my safety and came to see me. The details of the journey were considered and decisions made. I would go, under the aegis of my new protector, to Grenoble, where he would stay with me for as long as necessary.
It was just prior to Christmas and the trains were packed. We had to fight to get seats, but in the end we were successful. It was agreed that my companion would take care of the luggage, hand our tickets to the inspector and, to the extent he could, respond to any questions asked.
The train was not heated and Monsieur Letellier spread a large travel blanket over our knees, laughingly saying:
‘We’d be able to pass for a couple going on holidays. Let’s pretend to be in love.’
The journey started out in this fashion under favourable auspices.
My travelling companion was the perfect man for the circumstances: of good French stock, he looked like a Gaul, without the moustache, it goes without saying. He was wearing a lambskin jacket and matching cap, and looked like a lord of the manor returning to his estate.
The journey passed without incident until we reached Marseille. Everybody was buried in their books. From time to time, I would interrupt myself in order to remind myself of my first and second names.
Tickets were inspected without incident. But then, at Marseille, three clean-shaven individuals with grim expressions appeared and demanded our papers for proof of identification. Without rushing, I held mine out to them when it came my turn. Feigning indifference, I smiled at a charming young woman sitting opposite me who was fussing as she hunted for her documents, which she finally found … in her handbag.
Monsieur Letellier told me later that my smile, at that moment, had seemed both appealing and daft, and that he had struggled not to burst out laughing. I thanked him from the bottom of my heart for calming my anxiety with a joke and for displaying an apparent lack of concern, despite his own fears.
Twenty minutes out of Grenoble, a second inspection. This time there was an incident. A lady whom we subsequently discovered to be Belgian, and whose papers were in order, was asked by the Gestapo agents to produce her baptism certificate.
‘I’m forty-two years old, I’ve needed my baptism certificate four or five times during my life, but it has never occurred to me to take it with me when I travel.’
‘You’re a foreigner and your papers make no reference to your religion,’ replied one of the officers.
To which the lady replied:
‘But I have a safe-conduct pass! Have you noticed anybody handing out safe-conduct passes to Jews in these times we’re living in?’
Just then, another traveller interjected:
‘I have known Madame for several years. She’s my neighbour. I’m a factory manager at C– and here’s my business card. Her husband owns a factory in Charleroi.’
The policemen did not persist. They disappeared to pursue elsewhere their hunt for the game they were stalking.
It is not hard to imagine my own emotions during this exchange.
IX
Grenoble
We arrived in Grenoble in the middle of the night. As it was just before Christmas, the hotels were full. We were only able to find lodgings in a large hotel, right where the Italian Commission was located.
Monsieur Letellier inspired such confidence in the porter that he was able to fill out our registration papers without having to produce our documents.
We stayed there for several days. Not the slightest complication. I didn’t bat an eyelid when I came across representatives of the occupying authorities on the stairs, in the foyer, in the restaurant.
I had been told about a secret organisation in this town which was operating in a fairly secure manner throughout the départements of Isère and Savoie. Armed with the password, I was to make my way there and find an experienced guide.
That evening, at six o’clock, I found myself at the organisation’s headquarters, having had the greatest difficulty in the world locating it in an old, half-demolished school.
An elderly man took down my real first and second names, as well as the address of my friends in Switzerland and in France, ‘to be able to warn them in the event of any misfortune’, and recommended I try, if possible, to get hold of some hiking shoes, some woollen stockings and a torch. Then he gave me an address in an area on the outskirts of town. I was to make my way there that very evening at eight o’clock to receive all the necessary information.
At the agreed hour, then, I presented myself at a villa, where I was greeted by a gentleman in his forties who had a determined, energetic demeanour. He examined my papers, both real and fake, as well as my Swiss visa. I handed over the sum of money intended for the smuggler. He gave me the final instructions.
I was supposed to be at the entrance to the railway station at eight o’clock in the morning. I was to follow a young man in a worker’s smock, who would be carrying a loaf of bread so I could tell him apart. We were at the rendezvous at the agreed time and, indeed, leaning nonchalantly next to the entrance grille, we saw a worker with a large, fancy-looking loaf of bread under his arm. I say ‘we’ because Monsieur Letellier was still accompanying me on this final leg of the journey.
The worker boarded a train headed for Annemasse. We took a seat in the same carriage, but in a neighbouring compartment.
At each stop, we monitored the platform to see if our cicerone had disembarked, which he did after several stops.
We got off the train. The worker walked out of the station and we followed. After walking for a quarter of an hour, we saw our man move off to the right side of the road. Two girls and
a boy, laden with a complete set of mountaineering equipment, followed suit. And so we continued, each keeping a certain distance from the other. At last our guide stopped in front of an inn, lit a cigarette and entered. The three young people went past the house, walked around it and disappeared through a door giving onto the courtyard.
We continued a while down the road, pretending to hesitate between the restaurant situated a little further on and the inn. Then we too went in.
The innkeeper led us discretely towards a little room where the table was set. The young man disguised as the worker set down his bread, approached us and introduced himself as working for the fugitives’ assistance association. He offered us a seat at the table while we waited for the smuggler and suggested we have something to eat ahead of the long journey on foot awaiting us.
We sat down. A few minutes later, a woman, accompanied by two children, came into the room. Whereas the boy, who was about ten, sat himself down at our table, the mother led the young girl, who would have been about fourteen, by the hand, as one would a very small child, and gently sat her down next to her brother. The young girl had typically Israelite features, but expressed in their purest form: her skin was the complexion of alabaster, her large, dark eyes were deep and velvety, her hair was bluish-black, framing her fine features with curls. But the child’s expression was strangely distant, almost absent.
They were served promptly, for their smuggler was due to appear at any moment. The boy ate with the healthy appetite and insouciance of his age. The girl sat, immobile, and her mother started to spoon-feed her. She told the innkeeper, who was moved to pity, that the young girl had been in that state since the night when, woken by the racket, she had witnessed her father’s arrest.
‘I’ve been to see a doctor in Grenoble. He assured me she would return to normal. In Switzerland, there are specialists who will certainly heal my sweet Rachel,’ she concluded with a sigh.
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