No Place to Lay One's Head

by Francoise Frenkel

  She helped me to my feet, picked up my bundle and, taking me by the arm, led me as if I were an invalid. I shall never forget her gentle, affectionate support. She did not ask me a single question. How grateful I was to her for that!

  Slowly, she guided me to a table at a glassed-in terrace. I thanked her warmly.

  After greeting the owner, with whom she appeared to be on very good terms, she gestured to me in friendly farewell as she left.

  A delightful brunette, the daughter of the house, as I was subsequently to discover, came to serve me. I asked if she would be so kind as to put in a telephone call to the Mariuses.

  She told me foreigners were not permitted to make outside calls, but offered to carry out the necessary formalities on my behalf.

  I started to eat, gazing out to the lake, the sun, the sky, the trees and the people passing by.

  An hour later the connection was put through: the Mariuses were on the line. They told me how delighted they were to know I had been released, promising they would come to see me in Savoie. Our conversation ended in a bout of laughter with a peculiar acoustic phenomenon making our words echo. Was it due to a special monitoring device? I don’t know. We paid no attention: I was free!

  I stayed there in the sun a long time, reading, writing letters, taking in everything around me: the countryside, the passers-by, the comings and goings on the street. I was resuming contact with life … When I wanted to pay for my telephone call and my meal, I learned, to my great embarrassment, that my lunch had been paid for by the kind lady who had accompanied me, and that I was welcome to another coffee and dessert, both of which had also been paid for. This display of sympathy, the young Savoyard woman’s kindness and the Mariuses’ encouraging words went a good way to restoring my courage.

  Out on the street, I experienced a sort of vertigo which, for more than a week, would come on every time I ventured outside.

  At the corner of Rue Royale, I ran into the pretty Viennese woman and her precocious son. Given her advanced pregnancy, she had been released and allowed to stay in a local hotel while awaiting the trial of her husband and father, both of whom were in prison, but she was under surveillance, meaning she had to present to the police station twice a day.

  We chatted. She advised me to go to her hotel; the owners, she said, were decent Savoyards who looked kindly on refugees. That was, indeed, a useful recommendation and I made my way there without delay.

  It was only six in the evening, but exhaustion and, most of all, the appeal of a bed with white sheets, an actual bolster, a real duvet, and even two blankets … was irresistible, and I lay down. The maid brought me two hot water bottles and, fifteen minutes later, a milky tea and some bread and cheese on a tray! I tried all of these ‘delicacies’, then, like an exhausted animal, I abandoned myself to the exquisite pleasure of sleep.

  Days went by. I never quite managed to recover my peace of mind. Heavy steps in the stairwell, the bell ringing in the middle of the night, loud voices on the landing all made me sit bolt upright, covered in sweat and short of breath.

  One night, three violent blows were heard at the neighbouring door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ shouted a male voice.

  ‘Police!’ came the harsh reply.

  The door opened after several minutes and I heard my neighbour exclaim:

  ‘You fool! Are you mad? What are you doing waking me up like that?’

  To which the visitor replied with a laugh:

  ‘Looks like I gave you a fright. It’s just a joke!’

  ‘Funny joke!’ grumbled the other man, ‘and just when the police are clamping down all over the place!’

  They then started chatting about other things.

  And there I was, all dressed, my Annecy resident’s permit in one hand, and in the other my little suitcase. How was it that I had managed to ready myself in the space of a few minutes? After the round-ups in Nice, I had grown extremely skilled at this sort of thing …

  The following day, all the hotel residents were talking about the ‘nocturnal joke’. Those who had been released and, even more so, those in hiding preparing to flee, had been thrown into a panic. The bad joke, executed with neither malice nor ill will, quite simply failed to heed the atmosphere of the moment.

  I smile now at the memory of my panic and, most of all, at how I must have looked at the time …

  While in Annecy, I caught up with most of the detainees who had been released. They were all waiting for travel permits in order to return to their former places of residence.

  But now the postcards and letters we were receiving from other parts of France were once again putting us on alert.

  One Austrian woman informed us that hardly had she been released and had returned to the Alpes-Maritimes when she suddenly became ‘gravely ill’ (code for being in danger of being deported), and Sophie (as she was calling herself) had ‘once again set off’ towards Grenoble, evidently to be near the border again.

  Another woman told us of a serious ‘attack of rheumatism’ (need to escape).

  A German woman, who had left the gaol with her husband and returned to their home in Nîmes, learned once there that ‘the François’ (militiamen) had come by ‘to invite them over’; the couple were now living on a big farm where ‘they were being cared for’ (hidden) while waiting for ‘the grapes to be harvested’ (to make a new attempt to escape). In Haute-Garonne, there had been an outbreak of ‘scarlet fever’ (deportations).

  We found out from two young women in Gurs that ‘their father’ (their lawyer) had not given up hope of seeing them again soon, and that ‘the weather conditions were currently favourable for hiking in the mountains’. Many informed us also that their families had been deported.

  But in the Isère, ‘the weather was superb, almost like spring’, and the poor souls there, it seemed, were regaining a taste for life.

  Those inmates who had obtained temporary permits to stay in various small towns in Savoie were likewise confident in what the future held. This respite, which felt like a holiday, had calmed spirits and revived people’s courage.

  In Nice, Grenoble and in my encounters with other fugitives, I had often heard talk of the name Father F–, from Annecy.

  Like so many distraught refugees seeking assistance and comfort, I found my way to him upon my release. The house was deserted. I knocked at a door at the end of a corridor.

  The priest came to open it himself. He was standing against the light and I could only make out his tall silhouette. He took me into a large room full of books, and bade me sit down at a table laden with papers and packages of every size. Some were not tied up and I spotted coffee, rice, sugar, tea … Every chair was covered in larger parcels, and in order to sit down himself, the priest had to lift one of them off. He sat down at his desk opposite me and only then did I see him in the full light of day.

  His face, his features, wore a look of infinite peace. Never have I seen such an open expression. You immediately felt that he trusted you. He radiated goodness and his presence was as reassuring as a beautiful sunny morning on a peace-time day.

  Father F– must have considered me to be in a bad way, for he came the very next day to tell me that the Mother Superior of a convent was offering to take me in while I gathered strength and regained my peace of mind.

  I willingly accepted the invitation and took myself off to the convent, which stood out white against the backdrop of the mountains.

  When I pulled on the bell, an invisible hand seemed to push the gate, which opened onto a beautiful garden full of fruit trees.

  I approached the entrance.

  Sister Ange had played the role of gatekeeper for thirty-five years. How many human beings must have entered the convent under her benevolent gaze over that long period of time!

  Her face had become the very manifestation of welcome after taking so many people in. She appeared to have been told of my circumstances and invited me to make myself comfortable in the room near the entrance, wh
ile I waited to be summoned by ‘our Mother’.

  We were sitting by the window. Sister Ange was telling me about the trees, one of the great earthly pleasures of the good sisters who devoted themselves to gardening. She gave me a beautiful winter apple harvested from their crop; it was a species, she told me, found only in Savoie, and they were especially delicious that year.

  You could hear children singing and laughing: an orphanage was attached to the convent.

  The Mother Superior greeted me with kindness. She told me the convent was caring for several children, orphans whose parents had been deported. They were to be taken to Switzerland by a Carmelite sister any day now.

  ‘They never laugh,’ she sighed.

  For months and months now, so many miserable, hunted souls had found a moment’s respite at the convent.

  The Mother Superior lifted her gaze to the ivory Christ and was silent. She was praying.

  I was moved by this motherly welcome and made my way towards the rear of the building feeling greatly comforted.

  Nothing broke the silence of the convent. The garden, completely white, sheltered me from the outside world. The mountains formed a second protective circle around me. Peace reigned throughout.

  Slowly I resumed life’s rhythms.

  In the morning, at six o’clock, a bell vigorously announced it was time to wake up.

  You could hardly hear the muffled steps of the sisters leaving the light-filled sleeping quarters.

  Not long afterwards, the bell called them to the chapel, soon followed by the crystalline sound of the little bell during Mass.

  The sun would rise in all its glory and bathe the silent convent, the mountains, the entire world, in light.

  After Mass, the sisters would head off to perform their humble tasks and daily duties with visible serenity.

  Sister Célestine would tell the children stories of pagans and infidels, of corrupted and diabolical souls who had, in the fullness of time, been granted heavenly grace. Her faith in the power of miracles was profound and infectious. Her audience listened to her eagerly, spellbound.

  The surrounding countryside was calming, though it could not provide me with the same solace it had once offered. I knew it was only a respite. I took advantage of those days of fleeting peace as one swallows a precious remedy, gulped down to restore one’s strength ahead of battles to come.

  War continued to rage in Europe, increasingly bloody, with persecutions similarly rife.

  And my relatives were in another part of the world, unreachable.

  The past was still recent and the future remained full of threat.

  We would run into Father F– every day. Sometimes he would be making his way down a hill on his bicycle, his cassock bearing traces of challenging rounds.

  He visited the sick, the infirm, throughout the countryside, consoling the despairing, and would go so far as to push through the scrubby undergrowth of the maquis delivering letters, supplies, cigarettes and encouragement to French civilians refusing to be drafted to work for the Germans.

  Sometimes, when I went to see him at the presbytery, he was just about to head out. I would see him fill the pockets of his cassock with the most diverse items: a bottle of medicine, packets of cigarettes, a quarter of a kilogram of coffee, two pairs of socks, a shirt, and one day, even, a litre of red wine!

  Seeing my astonishment, he joked:

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what you can fit into a priest’s pockets, would you? Wait! I almost forgot …’

  And he added a pair of slippers, which, indeed, he still managed to fit in!

  He laughed heartily.

  He would often come to ask after me at the convent, the ideal retreat to which he had brought me just as my resistance was failing.

  Sometimes he would talk to me about his parishioners, the sick, a baptism, somebody dying, and always with the same affectionate solicitude.

  He never overlooked anybody, and would openly receive fugitives, setting them on the path to the border himself or entrusting them into the care of country folk who took on that perilous task without hesitation. He could always find French people ready to help the persecuted, and houses in which to shelter them.

  He was neither cautious nor measured in the performance of his charitable works, throwing himself boldly, chin thrust forward, into the danger he must have known existed.

  Did he believe, in his profound faith, that Providence would not desert him in the fulfilment of his Christian duty? Or was he quite simply embracing his fate, placing himself in God’s hands and humbly accepting His decisions in advance?

  One morning, I was unable to get up. The illness I had long been harbouring manifested itself now violently. Burning with fever, I remained in a state of semiconsciousness for ten days.

  Like a distant vision, the white wings of Sister Ange’s wimple leaned over me. I drank a variety of cooling, fragrant herbal infusions that quenched my thirst and seemed like refreshments from Heaven itself.

  I had been overcome by a great need to sleep. And so I slept. I dreamed I was in an abyss shimmering with opalescent, sleep-inducing vapours, and it was pointless to resist. I abandoned myself to its powers.

  Sometimes, I would also dream I had fallen asleep for the last time. I was filled with an overwhelming sense of peace. I was tormented by just one regret, that I would not see my dear elderly maman again. And so I wept, calling out in my delirium.

  When I came to once more, April was smiling weakly beyond the windows of my room.

  The leaves on the trees were starting to come out.

  The sky was a pale blue.

  Spring was blossoming.

  Madame Marius came to visit me. She was welcomed into the convent. She brought me a visa that had been renewed by the Swiss Consulate in Nice and told me that most of our acquaintances had been deported; the others were in hiding. The Italians had been powerless for a long time now. The Germans had replaced them everywhere in the Alpes-Maritimes …

  She expressed her fears for me. I mustn’t wait any longer.

  When Madame Marius left again for Nice, we farewelled each other for the remainder of the war.

  XIV

  At the border

  On a magnificent spring day in April, I set off for the border for the second time.

  I had been given very precise instructions as to where the barbed wire was not very high and a water-filled ditch served as a natural obstacle. One could get through, the only risk that of catching a bad cold, easier to cure than deportation to Germany!

  In those times, the possibility of catching a cold was, indeed, but a laughable risk …

  Thus, I made my way that day towards the ditch with a light step, walking alongside the barbed wire and, just beyond it, within reach … Switzerland!

  On more than one occasion I was tempted to clamber over the metal strands without wasting another moment, and jump to the other side. But it would not have been easy and my instructions were clear: wait until I came to the ditch!

  At last, I reached it …

  Hitching my dress up, I prepared to cross it.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  My actions had been witnessed by a soldier who had been hiding behind a tree and had suddenly sprung into view.

  I realised it would be pointless to reply and, furthermore, I would not have been capable of uttering a single word.

  I knew this second attempt would be classed as a repeat offence and would lead me straight to Gurs without trial. I knew everything that awaited me and yet all I felt was an emptiness, an absence. I felt removed from everything. Time seemed to have stopped in its tracks.

  An eternity went by.

  ‘We’re going back to Saint-Julien,’ I heard a voice declare in the singsong tones of Italy.

  We set off. My mind was empty.

  After a few kilometres, two Mobile Guards riding bicycles appeared on the road.

  I felt a dreadful sense of horror. At the same time, the soldier took me by the arm
.

  The guards approached.

  Suddenly, the soldier started talking to me:

  ‘Bel tempo! Sun! Good for the soil! Me, farmer, down there. Terra napolitana. Bella, bellissima terra!’

  The guards passed by.

  In Saint-Julien, the Italian stopped at the buses. He told me to board the one that was leaving for Annecy, made sure I was settled and left my bundle on my knees. He had taken it from me and carried it the whole way.

  He got off again and the bus departed.

  A Neapolitan peasant had just given me the gift of life – he had not turned me in …

  And as I admired the grandiose views of the Alps unfolding before me, I could hear once again the sweet song of gratitude swelling within me …

  I headed back to Annecy and returned to the hotel, where I received a very warm welcome from the owner. She handed me a notice summoning me to the prefecture of police: it informed me that my extended residence permit was to be withdrawn.

  The Viennese woman was still living there with her ‘two men’, as she called her father and husband. She brought me up to date with recent developments: the situation had deteriorated significantly.

  All refugees, she told me, without exception, were being forced to appear at the police station twice a day, by recent order of the Vichy government; people were pouring in from the départements where deportations were rife and escapes to Switzerland were again as common as they had been in December.

  At the prefecture I joined a line of foreigners being grilled as to their identity by an official, who was not, however, insisting overly on questions of race. Those whose race had not yet been stamped on their documents received a residence permit that did not mention it, a very significant omission in the coming days!

  I felt safe for a few more weeks, even though danger still lurked in the shadows.

  There were more and more cars about, filled with Germans. They took up residence in a large hotel in town; it was said they were members of the Gestapo. They had set up a recruitment office for French labour in the middle of Rue Royale, where buses filled with young men would pull up. Sometimes there would be demonstrations around the buses, and the labourers within – prisoners, in effect – would escape with the help of passers-by.