The front windows of the office displayed caricatures of varied and blatant anti-Semitic propaganda.
But to the outside world, the département appeared to be under the peaceful rule of the Italian Occupation.
Upon my return, I had all the time in the world to stroll around Annecy and I made some very curious finds.
A water fountain murmuring in the middle of a square. Nearby, a little bridge from ancient times, looking toy-like with its delicate balustrade.
A footbridge seemingly lifted straight out of a theatre set; the lively rushing stream and pervasive smell of watery plant-life the only things to recall reality. On this street corner, an old church surrounded by dilapidated buildings.
In the next street, a decrepit, damp tower with narrow windows: a former prison. It held inmates until just a few years ago. Now it has fallen into disuse. How fortunate!
I lose my way in the alleys, walking down a long, dark passage beneath ancient homes; I feel a shiver down my spine. Suddenly, I emerge onto the sunny square of another church. In another laneway, an electric lamp seems such an anachronism in this place from the Middle Ages. Its light flickers under a thousand-year-old arch. Old steps spiral upwards. Up we go. They smell musty. But it is not to any sinister abode they lead; standing outside an intricately carved oak door, I wonder, shall we use this bronze knocker? In we go … the house resembles a museum!
Time has been kind to the pale colours on the ceiling; the floor is a veritable mosaic of marquetry. There are paintings on the wall, and in the display cabinets old porcelain, and lacework which is older still.
I resume my promenade through Annecy: look! An ancient gate with iron lacework in blooms of intertwining flowers; an old portal flanked in bas-reliefs of characters from the Scriptures.
So many little shops in the town’s old quarters have carved or brightly painted wooden shingles.
One can’t help but be enthralled by the architectural integrity of the grand old houses.
The house of François de Sales is still alive with the glorious past of that enlightened, saintly and aristocratic spirit.
Now I find myself in the garden of the former Bishop’s Palace, with its beautiful lawn. I stop to gaze at a thousand-year-old acacia, with its array of white flowers. Its neighbour, a pink acacia, stands opposite. Two old friends, the same age as each other; the ground is covered by the iridescent carpet of their mixed petals, as is the still surface of a little stream that leads nowhere.
I sit down on a mossy bench, in the shade of a sturdy oak tree, and watch the children of France gracefully dancing in a circle and singing:
Nous n’irons plus aux bois,
Les lauriers sont coupés …
We’ll to the woods no more,
The laurels have been cut …
All the while, events were running their course.
My second visa had by now expired too.
Monsieur Marius, who knew of my failed second attempt to flee, had gone to the Consulate in Nice and learned that my permit, renewed for the third time, could be collected from the Consulate in Annemasse.
At the same time, I was informed by my Swiss friends that they had obtained one last extension and that henceforth it would be impossible for them to make any further requests.
From one day to the next, then, I found myself faced with this distressing alternative: either to run the risk of no longer having a visa or to risk a third attempt to flee.
In the middle of all this, and without any warning, Monsieur Marius appeared. He had taken forty-eight hours’ leave to travel for thirty-four hours, which he considered his duty towards me.
He told me of the horrifying events unfolding in the Alpes-Maritimes since my departure from Nice and said:
‘I am a man of no formal education nor learning … forgive my presumptuousness: but I tell you, it is futile and dangerous to wait. Better to make another attempt to escape than to remain under such rule! Oh! How dreadful it all is! The things I have seen! I have only one thing to say: leave, Madame!’
I gave him a guided tour of the best Annecy had to offer.
He found the town very small and the lake very beautiful, ‘but it wasn’t the sea.’
He sent off half a dozen postcards to relatives and friends in Nice. He had a laugh thinking of their astonishment upon hearing of his extraordinary escapade: it was the first trip of his working life!
He quickly felt terribly homesick for his wife, his lively business and most of all, for Nice’s sunshine!
‘You can say what you like,’ he repeated, ‘it’s not the same sun as ours back home!’
Upon his return to Nice, he sent me a card telling me ‘it is indeed a beautiful world, but nothing is as beautiful as my own little piece of it.’
In the history of France in the years of Occupation, the pages devoted to Savoie will count among the most proud and most glorious.
For the most beautiful thing in that most beautiful of landscapes – was the attitude of the Savoyard people.
The whole region maintained its independent spirit and continued to offer assistance and hospitality to those pouring in seeking refuge in ever greater numbers.
The maquis filled with people resisting being drafted into work for the Germans, from all corners of France, and individual homes provided shelter to the persecuted.
At the same time, the Gestapo and the French Militia continued to arrive, setting up everywhere.
Developments in other départements led one to believe that in Savoie the Italian Occupation would be replaced by the German authorities any day.
Vichy’s influence continued to grow …
In May 1943, a group of refugees had, as usual, gone to register their presence at the police station. They were arrested on the spot and incarcerated in the cellars of the town hall, pending orders from Vichy.
The Viennese woman was informed; her husband and father were among those arrested. Panic-stricken, she hastened to the town hall, to the prefecture of police, to the gendarmerie, and returned to the town hall in tears … A French official, seeing no other possible solution, advised her to try the last resort: an appeal to the Italian occupying forces.
She went to the hotel where the Commission had its headquarters. After asking her to wait, the Commandant climbed into his car, went to the prefecture and ordered the immediate release of all detainees. The order was hurriedly carried out. Following this success, the Viennese lady came to be known as the ‘Ambassadress’. And on more than one occasion, she lodged appeals on behalf of prisoners, those who had been released and fugitives.
She was certainly not lacking in resourcefulness.
Sitting by the lake one afternoon, I noticed a young woman who looked familiar. When she reached me, I recognised her – the Viennese lady! But how she had changed! Svelte, walking in high heels, there was no longer any sign of pregnancy …
‘Congratulations! Did you have a boy or a girl?’ I asked her when she sat down beside me.
‘Had I had to give birth, it would have been all over with a very long time ago,’ she replied, laughing. ‘No, no, the fact is, I was never pregnant at all! The camp doctor, a decent French man – how many poor wretches did he save at that time! – wrote me a certificate to say I was pregnant to avoid my being deported. The rest of it was all due to an excellent belt, an enormous – and now unnecessary – affair.’
I was staggered.
This subterfuge was but one of a thousand and one methods employed to escape persecution.
In May, the local police were compelled, by order of the Vichy government, to stamp ‘Jew’ on the documents of Jewish French citizens and foreigners alike.
There was nothing for it but to escape, no matter what, before this branding made any travel impossible.
Once again, the only way out was to adopt the every-man-for-himself approach.
At the Swiss Consulate in Annemasse, I learned that the anticipated visa had not yet arrived.
I went into h
iding once more.
XV
Heading for Switzerland
Eight days later, the renewed visa arrived … Indeed, it was valid for another month and that was all!
Once again I was given the necessary instructions. Before I could do anything, I had to secrete myself away in the convent immediately to avoid the Militia, who were conducting round-ups.
As my identity papers still made no mention of race, I could move about without any imminent danger.
From the convent, I went to the designated inn at seven o’clock in the evening. There, I asked after customs officer H–.
Originally from the hamlet of E–, and suspected – although not yet proven – of having assisted the escape of French resistants, the customs officer continued to devote himself to the cause, notwithstanding his own compromised situation.
He had already been told I was coming.
A cheerful, courteous fellow, he greeted me good-humouredly.
He introduced me to the innkeeper as his wife’s friend who was coming to holiday with them for a month.
‘Ah! So that’s how it is,’ said the innkeeper’s wife with far too much conviction, or so it seemed to me.
The customs officer offered me something to eat and drink. I noticed he enjoyed considerable popularity in the place. By the way I was served, I realised that here, too, as in most Savoyard establishments, people were aware of ‘the situation’ and looked sympathetically on Monsieur H– and those in his care.
However, when two gendarmes came in and sat down not far from us, my confidence deserted me. I soon realised these two jovial fellows were paying no attention to me: they approached our table to exchange a few words with some guests, brushing past me almost, but without even seeing me.
I whispered to the customs officer that I was feeling uncomfortable; he replied that we still had to wait for his son. ‘A future matriculant!’ he added proudly. His son arrived a few minutes later.
The lad was about sixteen or seventeen, skittish, and wearing a schoolboy’s cap pulled down over his eyes, books under his arm. He had an arrogant manner and seemed disdainful of those around him. He gestured to us and we stood up.
We were off.
On the way, I heard the schoolboy whispering to his father, who appeared to be defending himself. The son was muttering:
‘You wait until you hear what Mum has to say.’
‘What’s done is done,’ answered the father categorically.
We had seven kilometres ahead of us and were walking along next to strands of barbed wire. The customs officer pointed out to me the position of gates in certain places that were regularly used by the Savoyard and Swiss population who lived along the border. Padlocked at night and open during the day, they had been used for many an escape and were strictly monitored by German and Italian soldiers and by the French Militia.
The customs officer said the word ‘Militia’ in a very particular way, with an expression of deep disgust.
I had, on several occasions, noticed that this term, even then, had a deeply pejorative meaning for many French people.
The gendarme who had been present when we were transferred to the gaol had said: ‘We’re not the Militia, you know.’ Another had insisted: ‘I hope nobody here takes us for one of the Militia!’
I had not, at the time, appreciated quite the significance of this distinction.
The customs officer’s wife greeted me without enthusiasm, which I could not hold against her since her husband was already compromised and in danger.
The future matriculant was openly sulking. He launched headlong into an argument that he had started. He criticised his father for his anti-German opinions, his lack of caution and opportunism.
I spent a sleepless night under that roof, worrying about the days ahead. To bolster my spirits, I told myself that making it to Switzerland would, as well as leading me to safety, allow me to make contact with my mother and the rest of my relatives.
I made great plans …
Day was breaking: a dazzlingly beautiful June day.
The customs officer’s wife had been keen to see me leave and she accompanied me a little way.
We were walking on higher ground, and below me I could see the national highway, with loops of barbed wire, particularly dense in this area, stretching alongside into the distance.
In the daylight I could better make out the placement of the gates in the wire, but also the sentries posted every two to three hundred metres, dressed in green, feathers in their hats, rifles slung over their shoulders – Italians! They stood about, leaned against a tree, sat on the slope, or paced backwards and forwards.
I parted ways with Madame H– not far from a viaduct. Now I had to follow the main road and find an opening through the wire.
As I headed into danger for the third time, I nonetheless savoured the peacefulness of the early morning hour.
Keenly aware of the painful burden of my imminent separation, I said my farewells to the mountains, to the meadows and fields, to the peaceful village, to this vast horizon, to France.
The thought of having to cross her borders unlawfully, like a criminal, filled me with sadness.
To pluck up courage, I recalled all the suffering I had endured, almost more than any human being could bear, but at the same time, I remained profoundly conscious of France’s own terrible misfortunes and her complete subjugation.
Suddenly, I became aware of a growing feeling within – a heart-wrenching longing for this country I was leaving behind.
A farmer was busy cutting grass along the edge of the road.
‘Lovely weather,’ I said to him, setting my bundle down at my feet and wiping my forehead.
‘Yes, yes, it’s a lovely day,’ he replied.
‘Tell me, friend, is the gate open?’ I whispered, not beating around the bush.
Without interrupting his work, he calmly moved away then returned.
‘It’s open, but it has been raining, and it looks like it might be jammed,’ he said, without raising his head.
‘What to do?’ I thought, and I could feel the panic rising.
‘Should I go?’ I asked the question of the farmer, looking for some final word of encouragement.
‘Go! But do it quickly … Courage!’
And continuing on with his work, he took a few more steps.
‘It’s now or never!’ a voice cried out to me, the voice of every straining inch of my willpower, and I made a dash for it.
The gate was well and truly jammed.
I shook it with all my strength.
A furtive glance, instinctively, towards the sentry …
An Italian soldier was rushing in my direction!
In a feverish state, and without further thought, I clambered awkwardly over the obstacle – and threw myself onto the other side!
As I fell, barbed wire caught my clothes. I fell to the ground …
Almost immediately, a shot rang out.
Another soldier was approaching me now, and he too was running – rifle in hand!
Lying on the ground, stunned, I waited for him, resigned.
‘Stand up, Madame, you’re not injured. I saw the Italian shoot into the air,’ said the solider in French as he helped me to my feet.
‘Where am I?’
‘Come, now! You’re in Switzerland, aren’t you?’
Only then did I understand, and a flood of emotion washed over me: joy, hope, immense relief …
I was in Switzerland, I was saved!
I started to walk, while trying to staunch the blood that was flowing freely from my legs and hands. At the same time, I tried to rearrange my ripped clothes.
All at once, the tension drained from me.
I was crying … Quietly, the tears I had for so long held back started to flow … It felt like a hot spring flooding my face. I swallowed those bitter tears and as I wept, I felt a crushing weight lift.
The Swiss soldier walked on ahead of me, unobtrusive, carrying t
he pitiable bundle of belongings that had been my companion on my successive attempts to flee. In it was everything I had taken with me from France, save my grieving and deathly tired heart …
FIN
CHRONOLOGY
14 July 1889 – Birth of Frymeta Idesa Frenkel, known as Françoise Frenkel, at Piotrków, near Łódź, in Poland.
Prior to 1914 – Paris. Studying for a degree in Arts at the Sorbonne.
1919 – Internship at a bookshop on Rue Gay-Lussac.
1921 – Françoise Frenkel, together with her husband, Simon Raichenstein, sets up the first French bookshop in Berlin: La Maison du Livre.1
1933 – In November, Simon Raichenstein goes into exile in France. Françoise Frenkel henceforth assumes sole responsibility for the bookshop.
July 1939 – Françoise Frenkel leaves Berlin shortly before the declaration of war and settles in Paris, where she remains for nine months.2
28 May 1940 – She flees Paris for the Southern Zone (la zone sud) and leaves her trunk for safekeeping at the Colisée et Champs-Élysées storage repository.
December 1940 – Arrival in Nice. In February 1941, she takes a room at the hotel La Roseraie.
July 1942 – Simon Raichenstein is rounded up in Paris. On 24 July, he is deported from Drancy and dies on 19 August in Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland.3
26 August 1942 – Round-up in Nice and in the Southern Zone. Françoise Frenkel finds refuge at the hairdressing salon owned by the Mariuses (12 Rue Saint-Philippe, between Rue de France and the Promenade des Anglais).
14 November 1942 – The Gestapo confiscates the trunk, which has been in storage at the Colisée storage repository for two years.
December 1942 – Françoise Frenkel leaves Nice and attempts to cross into Switzerland. She is arrested and incarcerated in Annecy. She is tried and acquitted.
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