No Place to Lay One's Head

by Francoise Frenkel

  Monsieur Letellier said in a distressed voice:

  ‘Merciful God in heaven, and these things are happening in France!’

  Just then, a fellow from the country came into the room. The mother stood up, followed by the boy, gathered up a meagre parcel, took her disturbed child by the hand and waved us goodbye.

  The tragic group disappeared after the man, heading for salvation … or deportation.

  We remained silent, each one of us deep in our own thoughts.

  Our smuggler was late. At two o’clock, our young guide grew nervous. He went to consult the owner of the inn and returned, scarcely reassured.

  Finally, the innkeeper, having headed out in search of information, returned to announce that Monsieur Charles was nowhere to be found in the village.

  ‘As long as nothing has happened to him. He’s a man of his word and always on time down to the minute,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose there’s always Julot, he’s here. Do you want to talk to him?’

  ‘Julot? Julot?’ answered the young guide. ‘What a nuisance. I was instructed to make contact with Charles. I don’t know what to do. Telephone him? That’s impossible. It would be even more dangerous to take this lot back to Grenoble. There’s no going back! Send me Julot. In any case, I must know him, but he’s not Charles! He’s brilliant, that one. I’m in a right fix!’

  He was very distressed. As you can well imagine, we were growing uneasy.

  A quarter of an hour later, a man came into the room. His appearance alone made me take a violent dislike to him. Dishevelled, with a dirty face and hands, he was brash and vulgar in his expressions.

  ‘If you don’t want me, you can take yourselves. It’s always Charles … Charles this and Charles that … Well, you can have Charles then! I’m sick of this miserable job! I’d much prefer to go and have some fun in the village.’

  Our guide steered him through to a neighbouring room. They negotiated for a good while. When they returned, Julot spoke to us as follows:

  ‘We have to get going right away. It’s winter, the sun disappears quickly. Listen up: I’ll go ahead, sometimes on foot, sometimes by bike. You’ll follow, but keep your distance, of course. If I stop, catch up. If I sit down on the side of the road, or crouch down, that means danger. And you’ll head into the woods, but no rushing. Understood? If the cops pull you up and ask for your papers, show them of course, no hesitation, politely. If it’s all fine, you keep going and pick me up a few hundred metres further on, behind a tree. But if those bastards don’t like your papers and take you away, I don’t know you, never seen you! You don’t say you’re being led, not by who not where to. You don’t know me! Getting me arrested won’t do anybody any good and it’ll just be bad for your friends who keep arriving every day who we’re saving. Smugglers, they’re worth something these days! Agreed, ladies and gentlemen?’

  ‘Agreed,’ we replied.

  I was not the slightest bit convinced of the success of this expedition under this sort of leadership. It’s a curious thing that, despite being acutely aware of the serious error we were about to make by placing ourselves into the care of this man, I allowed myself to do it! I heard Monsieur Letellier saying to Julot that I would hand him my identity papers, and that Julot would have to give them back to him later, because he would be waiting at the inn to hear how the expedition had gone.

  I have often asked myself why I agreed to follow this smuggler who filled me with such loathing and mistrust. I think it was because of the desire, stronger than anything else, to be done with it, not to think anymore, not to look for anything anymore, to submit. I was the drowning person giving up the fight, abandoning herself to the elements.

  The young people loaded themselves up with their rucksacks, their duffel bags and blankets. Mechanically, I gathered up my bundle.

  ‘Let’s go, let’s go,’ Julot hurried us along. I thanked my companion from Nice warmly for all he had done for me. I took my leave from him, feeling almost as if I were in a state of semiconsciousness, absent.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Julot was insisting.

  Just as I walked past him, I was struck by his breath, which smelt strongly of alcohol. He must have had a great deal to drink. Again, this observation left me indifferent. It was too late, it was all too late. Blind destiny would decide the rest.

  We set off on our path. The sun was pale, the countryside utterly white, the snow firm under our feet. We followed Julot for five kilometres, the young ones and I, keeping a distance of a hundred metres. Once we reached a collection of houses, he stopped and waited for us.

  ‘What about we lubricate the next five kilometres?’ he said in an encouraging tone.

  I handed him a banknote and he went into the little inn. We continued on, slowing our pace. Julot soon caught up.

  We set off again, more briskly. After an hour had passed, my companions had left me a considerable way behind. I joined up with them again at a crossroad in the path. Julot was waiting for me before issuing new instructions. I asked them not to get too far ahead so I would not lose sight of them. A young woman replied:

  ‘Everybody should walk at their own pace. We’re not out for a stroll.’

  The other one chided her:

  ‘Come on, Suzy, we have to look after Madame. She’s not our age anymore.’

  For a good while, everybody walked less hurriedly. But half an hour later, my young companions were far ahead, out of sight. I continued along the path, then I caught sight of Julot at a bend up ahead, leaning on his bike, surrounded by the younger ones. He announced:

  ‘We’re about to get to a tunnel. We go through it. Then there’s a viaduct. We go along that and then the path starts again.’

  Turning to me, he added:

  ‘When we leave the viaduct, before entering the village, I’ll stop. That’s when you’ll hand me your papers which I’m supposed to give back to the gentleman at the inn … As for the village, you’ll go straight through it. You’re tourists, and tourists are common around here. Once you’ve passed through the village, you get to a railway track. You stop near the level crossing and then you’re there! I’ll show you where you go off to Switzerland! Has everybody understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ came four voices in reply.

  Five hundred metres further on, we entered the tunnel. Soon we were in complete darkness. Happily, we had taken the organisation’s advice and equipped ourselves with torches.

  It’s hard to imagine what it was like walking through the darkness!

  The stones on the railway track gave way under our feet. Julot went ahead of us, carrying his bicycle on his shoulder, striving to maintain his balance. The young people were only a few metres ahead of me now. We stumbled continuously. One girl lost the heel of her shoe and stopped to rip the other one off. I was finding it more and more difficult to make progress. I fell on more than one occasion.

  A feeble light grew larger in the distance. We were approaching the exit. We stopped to get our breath and looked around us.

  Below us, in a valley, was a town.

  ‘Geneva,’ whispered Julot to us.

  And he set off across the viaduct, pushing his bicycle.

  We followed him. Here and there some sleepers were missing. The viaduct was clearly not intended for pedestrian use. A dry riverbed, covered in stones and rocks, stretched out below. Overcome with dizziness, I tried hard not to look down into the abyss again. I started counting sleepers to focus my attention. Through sheer force of will, I managed to focus only on them.

  Once again our feet hit solid ground. As if suddenly unshackled, the young people set off down the path with renewed energy. I was quite simply exhausted, completely spent.

  The sky was growing dark. The day was drawing to an end.

  Julot stopped.

  ‘Your papers,’ he said.

  I gave them to him. He put them in a tree trunk which he seemed to use regularly as a hiding spot, for out of it he pulled a pack of cigarettes and an envelope.

  W
e set off once more.

  My feet were so swollen I was no longer able to keep up with my companions. I sat down on the edge of the path to take off my shoes, which were painfully tight. However, seeing everybody rapidly pulling further and further away, I stood up and started walking again in stockinged feet across ground that was hard and white with frost. Fortunately, I had found and purchased particularly thick woollen stockings in Grenoble, but I think I would even have walked barefoot had it been necessary. Without shoes, I was able to speed up.

  A light mist descended over the landscape.

  Countless lights glimmered in Geneva, which appeared to be drawing closer and closer. But around me it was dark. I walked by the soft light of my torch as if in a dream, my mind wandering, heavy with fatigue, my spirit absent. I continued along the path following Julot’s instructions: I reached the village, circled past the fountain and found myself at the level crossing.

  Just silence. Nobody!

  My companions had disappeared. They seemed to have vanished …

  I paused, no longer knowing which direction to take. I was shivering. I used the break to put my shoes back on. Surely I was at the spot where Julot was supposed to point out which way to go once we had crossed over the tracks. But the mist was so thick I could no longer make anything out.

  For a moment, I considered retracing my steps, retrieving my papers and heading back to the inn; but at the same time, I knew I would never make it.

  I felt an indifference verging on utter abjection, such was my physical exhaustion. Suddenly, I dozed off.

  I awoke by some subconscious effort. The short respite had restored a little of my energy. Accustomed now to the darkness, I vaguely made out a road turning off to the left. A few steps ahead of me, the silhouettes of trees rose up along the edge of a ravine. I was unable to make anything out further ahead. I entertained the thought of exploring the ravine to see where it led.

  No sooner had this plan formed in my mind than I found the place working a strange attraction over me, a mysterious fascination. I was feeling my way forwards … when, all of a sudden, a bright light struck me in the face, dazzling me. Closing my eyes instinctively, I heard a voice call out to me in a bantering tone:

  ‘What are you up to here, in the middle of the night?’

  It was a customs officer.

  ‘Are you looking for your friends who went on ahead of you?’ the man continued. ‘Come on, they’re waiting for you.’

  He took me by the arm.

  It took us no more than about fifty steps to reach the customs office. I saw the barrier gate in the lamplight. On the other side, a few metres away … Switzerland.

  X

  At the border

  We came into a large, crowded room where there were two customs officers, several gendarmes and a German soldier. The customs officer who had arrested me said jovially:

  ‘Here’s another one to add to that last lot! She’s part of the group belonging to the smuggler who disappeared.’

  He was rubbing his hands vigorously in front of the stove and seemed very pleased with his ‘mission accomplished’.

  I was taken into a neighbouring room, where two gendarmes were sitting at a table laden with paperwork. In pride of place sat a typewriter with a blank sheet of paper ready to go. I saw my companions sitting on the benches along the wall, utterly defeated.

  What happened over the next several hours feels like a bad dream now. In it, forming a wretched group along the benches, are two girls in tears, a dazed-looking little boy and a woman, worn out from exhaustion and cold, all of them in ragged shoes, their clothes and hair in disarray, haggard expressions on their faces. Two strapping soldiers in French uniforms are interrogating them endlessly: ‘Last name? First names? Origin? Race? Religion? Nationality? Prior convictions? Papers? Reasons for travel?’

  The men ask the questions severely, full of self-importance, as if genuinely expecting an answer. Yet they know what to expect, having heard it a thousand times before over the last months!

  ‘Escaping the threat of incarceration in Germany,’ answers a girl whose curly hair frames a tearful, pretty little face.

  ‘Escaping the threat of being sent to a concentration camp,’ explains the other little one, who is not beautiful, but has an intelligent look about her.

  ‘Escaping to be reunited with Mama, who is already in Switzerland,’ says the little boy, simply.

  ‘Escaping the threat of deportation,’ I say when my turn comes.

  Diligently, busily, the two gendarmes take our statements. There’s the click-clacking of typewriters. Additional questions, interminable replies.

  It lasted two long hours, then the men started to flag. Opening a door, one of them shouted:

  ‘Search them and be done with it. It’s already past our dinnertime! I’ve had it up to here with all their dramas!’

  A woman of about thirty, with a cheerful face, came into the room. The gendarmes left, taking the boy.

  After ordering us to undress, the woman first set about inspecting our clothes. She meticulously ran her hands over the seams and thicker parts of our dresses and coats, going through the pockets; then she ran her hands through our hair and made us lift our arms.

  ‘Come on, cough up! You’ve got to be carrying jewels, gold, precious stones, currency!’

  At the same time, she whispered indulgently in my ear:

  ‘Mother Marie here isn’t wicked. She’ll give it all back to you when you return.’

  ‘Return from where?’ I thought.

  ‘They’re going to bring you some hot soup. You’ll be needing it. Come on, get a move on! Declare your valuables, your jewels. Come on, cough up!’

  She ended up removing a locket from one person, a ring, earrings, as well as a wristwatch worth twenty-five francs from somebody else. She took my two rings and gave the lot to two gendarmes coming in. It was handover time.

  ‘All there is left to do is continue with the list of jewellery we’ve found and the contents of the parcels. The arrest documentation has already been drawn up: they were trying to make a run for it into Switzerland without authorisation. There’s even one here with a Swiss visa. There’s not much luggage. There won’t be much to do.’

  The new gendarmes started going through our ‘luggage’, placing the contents on a table in full view.

  In addition to the humble jewellery taken from us, our bags and wallets were also emptied. Various random items were lined up: bank notes, coins, some items of underwear, dresses, combs, brushes missing half the bristles, a book, a cracked mirror, some handkerchiefs and photos of friends and relatives, photos brought along after considerable hesitation, for fear of compromising somebody.

  From time to time, one of the gendarmes would stop to ask the meaning of a document or letter, or the purpose of a particular item. One of them was dictating, the other typing: ‘One brooch …’ ‘One brooch.’ ‘Sixty francs and thirty centimes.’ ‘Sixty francs and thirty centimes.’ ‘A pair of scissors.’ ‘A pair of scissors.’ ‘Ten fifty-centime stamps.’ ‘Ten fifty-centime stamps.’ ‘Earrings, a silver comb.’ ‘Earrings, a silver comb.’ ‘Three hundred francs, two rings, underwear, a dress …’ ‘Three hundred francs, two rings, underwear, a dress …’

  It was a monotonous and pitiful litany. Sitting on the bench, my head leaning against the wall, I dozed off.

  ‘Hey! Over there!’ Suddenly I was being called.

  I woke with a start.

  ‘What’s this supposed to be?’

  He was referring to an old coin Madame Lucienne had given to me when we said goodbye to each other, telling me it was a lucky charm. I offered up the requisite explanation.

  ‘A coin, a sort of lucky charm,’ he then dictated.

  ‘A coin, a sort of lucky charm,’ the other one repeated.

  And the typewriter continued its click-clacking: ‘tip … tap … tip …’

  The second team of gendarmes started to lose patience then, too, having been so z
ealous. One of the men called the neighbouring police barracks to ask for instructions as to what they should do with us. They chatted on for some time and we picked up, among other things: ‘For as long as this has been going on, it’s always the same story. Well then, send Marcel over with Sergeant Camus. Off they go!’

  They lit up some cigarettes and stopped work. The room was full of smoke. Their ‘civic duty’ done, their attitude towards us changed.

  Meanwhile, the dinner promised by ‘Mother Marie’ was brought in in a basket: soup, vegetables and bread.

  An officer appeared, followed by two members of the Mobile Guard, Marcel and Sergeant Camus. This latter might have been about fifty. He had an aristocratic, intelligent face. I observed him while the other two officers, who had completed the statement and drawn up the list of our property, explained our circumstances.

  The officer listened to this report with visible discomfort.

  ‘Good, good,’ he said. ‘Have they had anything to eat? Air the room then, it reeks of tobacco. It’s too late to transfer them! These women can hardly stand upright any longer. Give them a few logs for the night.’

  He left without a backwards glance, back hunched, with little of the military about his bearing.

  Thus, our transfer was postponed. A gendarme put some wood into the stove and left several more logs to see us through the night. He brought in a pitcher of water.

  The girls asked permission to get some air, which was granted to them. A guard accompanied them.

  ‘Nothing stupid now,’ he said, ‘or else …’

  And he pointed to the revolver on his belt, laughing.

  His colleague allowed me to stand in the doorway. He stood next to me, smoking his cigarette.

  In front of me, very close, barbed wire, and over there, tragically close, with its twinkling lights, Geneva, salvation. One of my childhood regrets came flooding back: why didn’t I have wings!

  We went back in and resumed our place on the benches.