by Mary Wood
The applause deafened Jacques as his fellow students and their parents gave him a standing ovation. With the embarrassment of being the centre of attention his cheeks reddened, but with the feeling came pride. He looked over at his grandfather, Isaac Rueben. The many lines in his face held the pain of loss. At this moment he must be thinking of those who’d gone before. Most of their family had perished in the Holocaust. Jacques’s beloved grandmother had died of cancer just two years before, and his father – his grandparents’ only son, Pierre – had been executed by the Germans for his sabotage work with the French Resistance in the Second World War. As had, his grandfather had told him, his mother, the love of Pierre’s life, Theresa Crompton.
Jacques lifted his head and stood tall. He hoped he had done his grandfather, and all of these people who would have loved him, proud.
At only nineteen – soon to be twenty in the fall – he’d gained a distinction from college, and was planning to go on to study law.
His grandfather nodded his head. The lines telling his story deepened as his smile lit up his face. The smile held everything Jacques wanted to see. Not just pride, but love and hope – a hope for the future generations of Ruebens.
‘So, young man, what are your intentions now? An apprenticeship with one of the giant high-flying law firms in the big city? A good way to get your degree, you know. Earning whilst you are learning.’ Professor Berry patted his shoulder. A big man, he stood two inches above Jacques’s five-eleven height. ‘Or are you going to waste all you have gained fighting for lost causes?’
This was a reference to Jacques’s known trait of championing the underdog. He laughed as he said, ‘No, neither of them, sir. I’m taking a year out. I have a need in me to find my roots.’
Grandfather shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He hadn’t said he didn’t approve of Jacques’s forthcoming trip to France and England, but he hadn’t been enthusiastic about it. It was as if he feared there were still people there that would persecute him for being a Jew.
‘Oh, and where are these roots?’
‘France and England. My father and mother were war heroes. I know I have nothing but a grave to visit of my father, as there are no family left, but my mother must have family in England. I want to find them and make myself known to them.’
‘That’s very interesting. War heroes? Well, well. But then, it fits. You have a good heart and a strong sense of right and wrong, so those that bore you would have been the stuff of heroes. I wish you luck, young man. But don’t let those sentimental matters get in the way of what promises to be a glittering future.’
‘I won’t, sir. Thank you.’
As Professor Berry moved on to the next group, others who had waited for the big man’s retreat crowded around Jacques. The next hour or so was spent shaking hands and exchanging plans for the future. The most immediate of these was to celebrate.
‘You will come to the beach, won’t you, Jacques? It’ll be a whole lotta fun. Everyone’s going. There’s a bonfire waiting to be lit and the parents have supplied the food. We’ve crates of beer and ice buckets by the dozen.’
Mary-Beth looked up at him with pleading puppy-dog eyes. She had been his sort-of girlfriend for most of his college years, but they’d never got further than kissing and the odd fumble, and even that had fizzled out of late. They were great friends, and their friendship meant more than being lovers did.
‘Sorry, Grandfather and I have booked a dinner at Grecko’s. We wanted to spend the evening together. A lot comes back to him on any special family occasion, and he needs my company. I might come along later. Y’all have a good time.’
As they made their way to the parking lot, the air came alive with the roar of Cadillac engines, the screeching of tyres, pop music blaring from car stereos and laughter. A pang of envy for the carefree feel of it all entered Jacques. His friends had such uncomplicated lives – no horrific backgrounds, no justice to fight for. Theirs was a blessed life, with nothing more than the latest car or fashion to think about.
‘That was a big sigh, son. Look, we can cancel the dinner and have it tomorrow night. I reckon that you’d far rather go with the crowd and have a good time.’
‘No, sir, I want to be with you. I want us to talk.’
‘I don’t know that I’m ready . . .’
‘Please, Grandfather. I need to know. I only have what Grandma told me, and it isn’t enough. There must be more. I’m entitled . . .’
‘Yes, some would say that you are, son. But some would say that I’m entitled to keep things locked away.’
An even bigger sigh escaped Jacques before he could check it. His knowledge of his father and mother was scant, to say the least – just their names and how they had died. His grandfather had always clammed up on the mention of them, and had quieted his grandmother whenever she had started to talk in front of him. Sometimes she had opened up when they were alone, but only to talk of her son and how clever he was and how he took after him. ‘Mon chéri,’ she would say. ‘You have the same floppy black hair, and his hazel eyes. You are not taking after your grandfather with his fair hair. No, it is my family you resemble, as your papa did.’ Anything deeper was left unsaid, and questions steered away from.
Grecko’s wouldn’t be his grandfather’s normal choice of diner, with its loud music, shiny steel decor and car parts hanging on the walls instead of pictures. Jacques suspected he’d chosen it under the pretence of bowing to Jacques’s younger taste, but more likely it was because of the difficulty it posed to having a conversation. What his grandfather didn’t know was that there was a quiet room at the back, and Jacques had popped in during the week and requested a table in there. His grandfather’s face changed from a kind of relaxed I win expression to one of dismay when the waiter showed them through to it.
‘Jacques, I can’t . . .’
‘You have to. You have to for me. I deserve to know. They were my parents and my ancestors. I have to find out about them before I can get on with the rest of my life. And, God forbid, what if anything happened to you?’
They sat down in silence and went through the motions of ordering. Steak for both of them, though neither chose the ten-ounce they would normally have done. Jacques had a pang of guilt at this. His grandfather had a big appetite, and ordering a smaller meal was a sign of the ordeal he was putting him through. As much as his heart wanted to give in, he couldn’t let it. He couldn’t go to Europe without more information. It would be like a blind man going up an unknown alley.
‘This will cost me a great deal, son. I’ll be letting in ghosts I’ve kept at bay. Not because I wanted to, because I had to. It was my only way of surviving.’
‘I’m sorry, sir . . . I . . .’
‘No, don’t be. You have a right. I can’t leave this world with you not knowing, I know that. It would be a betrayal of all those who went before – like saying they didn’t exist and meant nothing. Nothing could be further from the truth. They existed. And they meant the world. My brother, his wife, his three kids. My parents. My sister . . . my dear little sister . . . and most of all my son, your father . . .’
‘Grandfather, I’m sorry. Stop. It’s okay. I – I’m sorry.’
A big white hanky, like the many he’d used to wipe away Jacques’s tears with or to clean a scraped knee, now wiped away the tears streaming down his grandfather’s face.
Jacques waited.
His grandfather gave a little cough, swallowed hard and started his story. His voice took Jacques into the past.
Isaac, Jacques’s Grandfather – Poland 1939
Father looked twenty years older than his sixty-five years as he bent forward, Isaac thought as he sat at his father’s feet. He watched his father’s eyes scan his family sitting around the room – a room that told of their wealth with its polished furniture and heavy brocade furnishings in colours of rich ruby and blue.
The skin hanging from his father’s face wobbled as he shook his head; it resembled the yellow pa
rchment of the papers in their business office. Their family owned the largest jewellery shop in Warsaw, and several others in smaller towns, and were one of the richest families in Poland.
‘Listen, everyone.’ His father’s voice trembled and had lost the strength it used to have. Isaac watched the frail arms gesture in despair. He remembered how those arms had once been strong and held him high in the air as a boy, pretending to be about to drop him to the ground, hanging him upside down by his feet and then tickling his tummy with fingers that were the size of sausages.
‘Times are changing. They have changed. We are all in danger.’ A cry from the corner had Isaac rising and going to his younger sister Annagrette. At thirty-five she was only five years his junior, but she had the mind of a child. On her knee she nursed the baby of their younger brother Jhona’s children, a cute little girl of six months. Jhona had three children: Axya, a fine boy of seven years, Jhani, his second son of four years, and Anya, this adorable little baby. Isaac’s own son, Pierre, named by his French mother, was at university in France. He had never felt so grateful for anything in his life. Pierre’s mother, Isaac’s beloved wife, was away on a visit to her parents and Pierre. He’d contacted her and told her to stay until what looked like the inevitable occupation of Poland ended. He didn’t know if she would or not.
‘Father, we know, of course we do, but what are your plans? Do you really believe all the rumours?’ Jhona stood in the corner where the window curved around two walls. The drapes of rich velvet framed him, and the autumnal sun lit up his silhouette.
‘I chose to look as if I didn’t for a long time, but I have done and have been planning for our future.’
‘But, Father—’
‘The evidence is around us, Jhona. Fellow Jews are disappearing. Some are fleeing, but others . . . Look, the details are too much for the children.’ Father rang a bell next to him and summoned the nanny. Silence held them all like statues as they watched her take the children away. As the door closed behind them his father’s voice sounded like a death knell: ‘The Rabbi has been murdered . . .’
Their horror showed in their collective gasp.
‘How? When? How did you hear of this?’
‘Burned.’ Again a silence of fear and disbelief. ‘Just an hour ago – the telephone call, it was Peter warning us to get out.’
‘Are we going? We can’t. The shops, our home, everything . . .’
‘Possessions, Jhona, just possessions. I have a great deal of money in an American bank. We will be alright. But we have to take action, and take it tonight.’
‘We can’t get to America. The airports are all closed, and the boats are not sailing. We’re trapped . . .’
‘We will go to France. We can’t all go together. Isaac, you will go first. You will leave tonight.’
‘But the curfew . . .’
‘There is danger whatever we do. We just have to take the chance. We need to get to France, and from there to America. The journey will be long and hazardous. Isaac is the first to go as he is fluent in German, English and French. Dressed as a farmer he can easily get passage. Besides, his family is in France and his wife’s family will have connections. He will pave the way for us. You will have money available to you along the way, Isaac. I have made prior arrangements. Here is where you will call to make the pick-ups.’ His father handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Learn it by heart and then destroy it. Your first leg is on foot. You will start tonight at three a.m. Go through the garden into the wood. Make your way through there to the main road. Cross over to the railway and follow that in a north-easterly direction to Lithuania—’
‘Lithuania! But that’s miles in the wrong direction!’
‘I know, Jhona, but it is safest. I have his journey mapped out. I have been sending ahead all he will need to where I know the rabbis are trusted. Business associates are taking care of the rest. I have wired money to them. There is no one who will betray you. Along the route through Lithuania and across the Baltic to Sweden, you should not have a problem. Those countries are as yet free. From Sweden you will fly to France. Memorize and follow my instructions to the letter. Find out the best way for us to make the journey – the pitfalls and the best mode of transport for the children. Act quickly and telephone the number on the page, which again you must memorize. They will get a message to me.’
‘Father, this is a lot for me to take on. What if I fail?’
‘You will not fail. You cannot. All of us must be out of here within the month.’
‘If it is that urgent, Father, I want to move my family away now.’ Marika, Jhona’s lovely, delicate wife, went to his side. Tears trickled down her cheeks and yet no sound came from her. Jhona held her close. No one spoke for a moment. The silence clothing them held an almost tangible fear.
‘Very well. You leave tomorrow. It is difficult. Maybe you could visit your mother-in-law in Russia, for a time at least? Thank goodness, Marika, that you had the good sense to teach the children Russian. But though I didn’t want this – the separation of us all – it is maybe for the best. Germany, or any other country for that matter, wouldn’t dare to invade Russia. But you will face anti-Jewish factions there, and that worries me.’
‘What about you and Annagrette? We cannot leave you here.’
‘We will hide in an old factory building I bought just outside Warsaw. I have had men working for weeks now. Trusted men. They have built an undetectable inner wall, and behind it there is room enough for us to live for a short time. There is a labyrinth of rooms, each big enough for a family to occupy. There is access to the cellar, which is huge. Here I have built a communal kitchen and showers. I have stored food. The story will be that we have fled and no one knows where to. When we get Isaac’s message, we will be safe to leave, as they will not be looking for us.’
‘And you have enough room for me and Marika and the children in this hide-out?’
‘Yes, and it is very safe; from the outside it looks derelict. I had seen this coming and had all the material delivered in plenty of time. My planning was in place as soon as the Nazis rose up and that evil Hitler with his anti-Semitic views started to vilify us. The work was carried out during the night. I didn’t want you to know it was happening; I didn’t want to frighten you. The workers were picked carefully from the Polish peasants whose work on the land had dried up. They are from fifty miles away from here – uneducated, but they have the natural skills of the builder. Their families are near to starving. They were transported here each Monday and taken back home on each Friday. They knew that if they left a trace of their work or any word got out about what they were doing, they would not have their pay. Until it was completed they were paid with food only. They finished the work three months ago and have probably spent their money and forgotten the project by now.’
Isaac wanted to ask why he hadn’t got them all out instead of preparing for them to do so later. But then, that would have been futile, as ‘what ifs’ always were. His father must have had hope that it wouldn’t happen. Jhona asked the question he was about to: ‘How do you know you can trust these men?’
‘They didn’t even know where they were coming to. I told you they were illiterate. They had no idea about what was happening in Germany or anywhere outside their own farming community.’
‘What of our neighbours, our workers? Can you trust all of them?’
‘There is room for them and their families, and enough supplies. None of them will betray us, as this is a means of saving their own skins as much as ours.’
‘God! Father, you don’t expect us to live with all of our neighbours, do you? How will their absences be explained?’
‘Have you noticed any of them missing?’
‘No, but . . . well, yes . . . you mean . . .’
‘Yes, over the last weeks they have gone one by one into the hiding place. Everyone has assumed they have left, as is natural for any forward-thinking Jew to do . . . or that they have disappeared, as has been happening. Oh, I wi
sh I had taken the route of leaving, but then, I thought this the best way. The Germans will come, but the British won’t allow it. They will intervene . . .’
‘But how will we leave, Father? We cannot live down there for ever, and none of us knows how long this will take. How will our stock of food be replenished? How do we get in and out for fresh air?’
‘We don’t, Jhona. The rooms are well ventilated. Comings and goings will be noted by someone, so there can be none. Our access is through the lockers in what was the cloakroom. One of them has a false back. It is small, but none of us is very big, and I have had the biggest, Mrs Goldsmith, pass through without problems. It will be sealed once we are all inside, but in such a way that we can open it again when we need to. Each family has made their own arrangements for when they can leave. That is up to them. Through my work on the Jewish Council I am party to information gathered through intelligence. The Nazis have many plans to exterminate all Jews. They have already incarcerated the Jews of Piotrków Trybunalski, and we believe that is where those that are disappearing around us have been taken. Our last piece of information told us that in an area where five to six thousand Jews lived, there are now an estimated twenty-eight thousand people. And, worse, we have heard the area they live in has been sealed . . . The water and electricity have been cut off . . . They have no food other than what the Germans allow them . . . and that is very little . . . They are starving . . . Disease is rife . . . Oh, God! Though I miss her every waking moment, I thank God for taking your mother before all of this began.’
No one moved. Isaac looked around at his devastated family. It wasn’t that they hadn’t heard rumours or seen things going on, but they had all been in denial. None had let in the fear of reality. Holding his sister close, Isaac said, ‘Father, you should have talked to us. We should have had a say, but you have done well. Your plan, which you shouldered alone, will work, if we can get out soon. It will stop us all being taken while the world sorts out the Germans and stops their invasion. The Polish have formed an army and are fighting back, but they have very few resources and wouldn’t allow us Jews to join them. But we should have offered money to help them, as it is us that will suffer the most. Now, I don’t think we can wait another moment. We have to go tonight . . . now. Let us get you all safely housed in the factory whilst I am here to help you. Have we much that we must take with us?’