No Place to Lay One's Head

by Francoise Frenkel

  That evening, I heard my name called when the mail was being distributed: it was a letter from my dear professor, who had planned a stay in Nice but had instead settled in Lyon for family reasons. I had informed him of my arrest. He was writing to me now that, given my circumstances (travel without a permit, attempted flight), the Gurs camp was unfortunately looking like a certainty; although, he added, without the imminent threat of deportation. He was promising to come and visit me as soon as I was transferred to that camp in order to examine with me the possibility of my release.

  All the kindness and loyalty demonstrated in his letter could not console me in the face of the prospect of being sent to Gurs. I spent a troubled night looking for a way out and pondering the possibilities of a new attempt to escape. There were none I could see. The thought of taking the ultimate way out briefly crossed my mind. Three days earlier, just as she had been about to be transferred, a woman had cut her veins by breaking a windowpane in the room where she had been locked up to wait for the gendarmes. I was keenly aware that I lacked this sort of courage. Too many ties still bound me to this world; I loved life, and the thought of seeing my mother and relatives again gave me the strength to try to save myself.

  The following day, when the mail came, my name was again read out. It was a letter from the Mariuses. They wrote to say how sorry they were for me, what an anxious time Christmas had been, and they spoke of the friends who constantly came by in the hope of news. They asked, with sympathy, after my fate: incarceration or camp? And how they might reach me? The money I had asked for had been sent to my lawyer by telegraph.

  They also wrote to me that they had sent ration cards, in the same letter, to the prison management. This letter encouraged and comforted me; I could thus rely on the support of a lawyer, the ultimate hope of every detainee. Two days later, a parcel arrived, containing such an array of marvels and rare treats that it caused a sensation: two rabbit legs, glacé fruits, soap, two towels and a bedsheet.

  The inmate who was an accomplice to the forger of fake ration cards said:

  ‘But that’s a real piece of real soap!’

  I also discovered three needles hidden in a box, underneath a ripe camembert. For the first time in a long time, I rediscovered the pleasures of the palate, for the task of eating had become a form of dismal duty.

  That night, Cinderella slept on a white sheet, her makeshift pillow covered with a clean towel.

  One morning, the patronne summonsed me in a stentorian voice. I followed her into the visiting room, where my lawyer was waiting for me, and we introduced ourselves.

  In addition to the telegraphic transfer, he had also received my passport and various documents. The famous 1939 reference from the office of the President of the Council made another appearance! The Jules Chancel volume also featured in the file.

  The lawyer was very affable as we discussed matters. He told me, smiling, that my file contained documents capable of clearing me of much more serious crimes than an attempted escape to Switzerland. Furthermore, he said to me, the severity of the legal system had relaxed a little, with the attention of the German authorities recently focused elsewhere. Some refugees had been released, once they had served their sentence, others had been sent back to their former places of residence or sent on to parts of the country under less-strict Nazi control. The current trials, he explained to me by way of clarification, were nothing more than a necessary formality, in the absence of which the Germans would quickly, and at the first excuse, take on all such responsibilities themselves, involving themselves in the courts, and ultimately handling the country’s entire law-enforcement and judicial systems. Thus, it was necessary to maintain an appearance of strict severity towards the refugees so as not to offer any pretext for them to seize control of France’s institutions.

  The week was starting auspiciously, affording me some hope to which I clung optimistically.

  It was also marked by the release of Mademoiselle Adrienne, who, before she left, offered each of us a word of encouragement, a recommendation. She gave me the addresses of several people whom I could call on for help and advice once I had regained my freedom.

  Other detainees leaving the gaol promised to send us news to keep us informed of their fate and thereby prepare us for what, in turn, awaited us.

  The week finished with a noteworthy revelation: our collective time in the ‘lockup’ had resulted in several of us having body lice. Great agitation! We embarked on a process of mutual, feverish and diligent delousing that took an entire day. I felt as if I were in one of those vast monkey enclosures where it had so amused me in my youth to watch the monkeys engaged in the same task.

  Once again, the patronne came in and, in a particularly strict, serious tone, announced:

  ‘Attention you lot! Off to court.’

  Then followed the detainees (who, in the meantime, had become ‘old-timers’) whose names she now pronounced with absolute assurance and an impeccable accent, and then the names of the ‘new lot’ who were, in turn, required to appear before the investigating judge.

  With a private quiver of joy, the prisoners, male and female, climbed into the prison van.

  On the way there, our vehicle collided with a truck. After the crash, the motor refused to start again; it was as if a giant’s heart had stopped beating at the shock of its own crime. Its victim, the truck, literally squashed, was lying in the ditch next to the road. The driver tried hard to revive the beast, aided by some gendarmes. In vain! The detainees were forced to complete the journey of several kilometres on foot. There were quite a few of us and the group walking the slowest, who ‘were espressly lagging behind’, as maintained by one of our guards, received handcuffs.

  Lockup, fingerprints, appearance before the magistrate’s court, handcuffs, nothing was missing from this picture. When we entered the courtroom, heavily guarded by our escort of gendarmes, I was reminded of an illustration from an edition of Courteline. The likeness brought a smile to my face.

  The first case to be heard involved a people smuggler who, for months, had led numerous escapes at prices of up to one hundred thousand francs a head. He was sentenced to three years hard labour by reason of the exorbitant sums he had charged.

  Then it was the turn of a woman carrying an infant in her arms. She received a sentence of one month’s detention for having wanted to flee. She was also being called as a witness to give evidence against her smuggler.

  After getting his hands on the agreed sum, the smuggler had demanded five more thousand-franc notes from her once they were underway.

  ‘I know you have more money on you,’ he had said to her.

  ‘I won’t deny it,’ the woman responded, ‘but I don’t know anybody in Switzerland and, as you can see, I have a sick baby.’

  ‘If that’s how you want to play it,’ he had replied, ‘I’m ditching you.’

  So the woman had complied with his request. Two kilometres further on, the infant cried, a gendarme appeared and the smuggler took off.

  She was transferred to the customs house where, not without some pleasure, she discovered that the crook had been arrested shortly after her.

  The prosecutor and judges admonished the accused sharply, who was found guilty of fraud and blackmail.

  Then four young people aged between twenty-two and twenty-five appeared. Just as war was declared, they had been working as volunteers with a group of fifty young Polish Jewish people. After the armistice, they had been sent to Morocco and made to serve as ‘contractors’ in the Foreign Legion. About fifteen of them, however, who had family in France, were permitted to remain in camps in mainland France before their release. Then came the persecutions, and eight of the ‘contractors’ were deported to Germany. Some of the others miraculously managed to reach England. The last four had covered the distance between the Alpes-Maritimes and the Swiss border on foot, only to end up … before the magistrate. They had served their time while remanded in custody awaiting trial. The judges conferred and c
oncluded that the four former volunteers would be in less danger in a French labour camp than being supposedly ‘free’.

  A diamond merchant from Anvers, whose wife had died in a Belgian camp and whose five children were scattered all over the place, appeared, like the majority of us, on a charge of travelling with forged papers and unlawful attempted flight. For his part, he was bringing a counterclaim against the soldiers who had arrested him.

  ‘When he was searched,’ his lawyer was explaining, ‘two little silk bags containing diamonds had been found on his person, sewn into the lining of his overcoat. Attached to each little bag was an itemised list indicating the weight, colour and dimensions of each stone. The diamond dealer had sewn a copy of that list into his cap and had left a third copy with French friends in Grenoble. In the event of any misfortune befalling him, his friends had promised to claim the diamonds; they were planning on returning the precious stones to his children, should they ever reappear. When the two little bags were discovered, the soldiers confiscated them and left. When they returned, some of the stones were missing and the list had disappeared. The diamond dealer refused to countersign the statement pertaining to the seizure. Knowing he was lost and having nothing to fear, he wanted, at the very least, to save that part of his fortune for his children.’

  The police ended up admitting they had taken the two little bags into another room.

  ‘There was such a crowd it was impossible to deal calmly with such small items. The detainee is taking revenge by bringing this matter against us,’ declared one of them.

  Arguing that removal of the arrested man’s property was unlawful, his lawyer asked the court to uphold his client’s claim. The trial was postponed for a fortnight while the necessary searches were conducted.

  Three elderly ladies with startlingly bright white hair appeared before the court at the same time, defended by the same lawyer. The youngest of them was … sixty-two years old; the eldest seventy-two. The tallest woman stood between the other two, who were slighter, almost fragile. They appeared together, all for the same offences: travel without a permit, forged papers, attempted flight.

  One of them had a married daughter in Zurich; the other, deprived of her son, who had been deported by the Germans, had wanted to accompany her friend. The third had been forced to leave the Jewish community’s retirement home in Toulouse, which had been closed by order of the Vichy government, and she had quite simply found herself without a roof over her head. She had set off for Switzerland, a country she had been assured would be a safe haven for such unfortunate souls.

  Looking at those three old women, I wondered how they had imagined being able to cross the barbed wire! Had they considered the difficulties they would encounter? Or were they simply unaware of them? Or did they think that, since the Red Sea had parted to allow the children of Israel to pass, the strands of barbed wire would also separate to allow passage for the likes of such poor old women seeking their freedom? Did they still believe in the miracles that featured so prominently in their ancestors’ stories? Had they forgotten that, since those long-gone times, their God, the Eternal, God of lightning and vengeance, appeared to have well and truly abandoned his chosen people?

  After a touching scene, all three of them were acquitted with an order to return to their former places of residence.3

  As if in a dream, I heard my name called. I rose; I felt, rather than saw, the judges turn to look at me. I remained standing while my lawyer stated my offence: attempted escape, but in possession of a Swiss visa. While such cases generally involved foreigners who had recently come to France to flee persecution, I had lived in this country for a long time, and had completed my studies here. He recounted how, hunted down, I had had to go into hiding for months. He stressed the fact that Swiss friends, informed of my plight, had sent me an entry visa. Compelled to take action by the dangerous circumstances, and very reluctantly, I had ultimately tried to leave France, the country I considered to be my second homeland. This attempt to flee with forged papers which, out of consideration for the French woman who had lent them to me, I had prematurely returned, had failed.

  ‘Had she retained those papers, my client could easily have passed for a French woman and turned back.’

  Raising his voice, the lawyer then read out the 1939 letter of reference. At the passage … ‘May she avail herself of every freedom and benefit our nation has to offer …’, a murmur rose among the judges.

  That reference, rebuffed, disregarded, scorned even, on so many occasions, now allowed my lawyer to ask for special permission to be granted, allowing me to reside in any village, small town or locality of Haute-Savoie, including in Annecy, as well as for the right to move freely within the limits of that département.

  My defence counsel’s application was upheld in its entirety. I was given the minimum suspended sentence and pronounced free.

  I was brought back to the gaolhouse in Annecy, where I had to wait until the following day for the release formalities to be completed.

  For the first time in a very long time, I slept soundly, free of nightmares and anxiety.

  We went down to the ‘workshop’ as usual at six-thirty in the morning. This time, I was carrying my bundle of possessions, my sheet and my towel, for I was hoping never to have to return to that dormitory.

  I was hoping, but without too much conviction …

  XIII

  Annecy

  At the clerk’s office, I was handed back my two pieces of jewellery and my money. La patronne returned the items that had been left in storage. She was almost affable with me now, while maintaining the necessary distance, of course. She persisted with her hostility towards the cough syrup right up until my departure. When she handed it back to me, visibly reluctant, I thought I might make light of it. I took the stopper out of the bottle and swallowed a few mouthfuls. She gesticulated in fright. So, the warder really was convinced it was some sort of poison!

  ‘Enough! Enough! I wouldn’t like to see you croak within the prison walls,’ she said, severely.

  I never did understand why she had been so suspicious of that pink syrup.

  At around ten o’clock, a member of the French Militia came to fetch us to take us back to the police station, where our lawyers would hand us the orders for our release. There were eight of us leaving the gaol: five women and three men.

  Finally, a heavy gate opened to allow us to leave. How joyful we were, walking with a spring in our step. The prison guard was saying: ‘One, two! One, two! Get a move on!’, evidently wanting to exercise his power one last time.

  Before turning the corner of that memorable street, I took one last look at the tall building with its high walls, the bare branches of a miserable tree poking out over the top. I had often contemplated that tree: it had continued to grow upwards in its nostalgic quest for space and freedom.

  ‘At four o’clock we’ll be heading to Gurs!’ came the sudden announcement from the militiaman.

  ‘To Gurs? … To Gurs?’ cried eight voices at the same time. ‘But haven’t our lawyers confirmed we’re free to go?’

  ‘No,’ the man replied, abruptly, ‘in accordance with a new decree dated yesterday everybody is to be transferred to Gurs!’

  It was entirely possible. A leaden grief settled over us. We entered the police station, despairing.

  An hour later, three lawyers appeared, produced release orders and left with their clients.

  My lawyer had not come and I found myself suddenly alone. I was in such a state that I felt as though I was going mad.

  The soldier kept throwing sneering looks in my direction. I overcame my abiding sense of loathing and asked him to please telephone my lawyer to remind him of my situation. He refused outright, saying it was not the job of the gendarmes to run around after release orders, quite the contrary!

  ‘The lawyers will just have to come here, that’s what they’re paid for, damn it!’

  He left, thank heavens.

  Soon afterwards, a g
endarme came in and reassured me. He was perfectly aware my name was on the list of those to be released, he said.

  ‘Forget whatever that other fellow said,’ he added, ‘he likes a joke. Everything will be fine. Just be patient!’

  But I couldn’t anymore. Utterly exhausted and beside myself, I burst into tears.

  Seeing me shaken by sobs, my guard dashed off to look for a glass of cold water, which he offered to me, saying, ‘There, there!’ over and over in a paternal fashion.

  Shortly after midday, my lawyer, who had been held up before the court in the morning, called the police station to say he was bringing my release order that afternoon. The gendarme seemed completely delighted at the news. He handed me some papers to sign and said:

  ‘You’re free. I knew you would be. And now, go and have a decent meal and a nice glass of wine.’

  Moved, I held out my hand to him:

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur, you are a true Frenchman!’

  He took my fingers, squeezed them vigorously, and suddenly serious, said:

  ‘Courage, Madame! They’ll pay for all this, I swear, so long as I call myself a Savoyard!’

  And with that, he had made the same solemn oath as Monsieur Marius, that man of the Midi.

  With unsteady steps, I crossed the vast courtyard. I couldn’t help but turn around every second moment to make certain I wasn’t being followed by a gendarme. Seeing that there really wasn’t anybody behind me, I left without hurrying. I suddenly felt so light-headed I had to sit down on a stone bollard at the entrance. I closed my eyes, my bundle of possessions at my feet, and tried to settle my breathing.

  The square in front of me seemed enormous. I didn’t have the courage to cross that vast expanse. So, when an elderly lady approached, I spoke to her:

  ‘Please, Madame, allow me to walk next to you, just to the nearest restaurant.’