The Test of Courage: (A Biography of) Michel Thomas

by Christopher Robbins

  The train finally pulled off in the early morning. The whistle blew. ‘That sound! I felt if I did not get out soon my emotions would die, and my body would quickly follow.’

  The Vichy government might have been able to delude itself that by ridding itself of foreign Jews - many of whom, they argued, came from Germany in the first place - they had not lost their moral compass. But the fate of the children of the soon-to-be-murdered was more complicated.

  Whatever reasons were concocted to rationalise the deportations of the adults, the suffering of the children was impossible to disguise. At Drancy the number of orphans grew as their parents were sent to Auschwitz. The children had their names inscribed on wooden dog tags, except for the very little ones, who often didn’t know their family names. Groups of a hundred lived in bare rooms, with buckets for toilets on the landings. A diet of cabbage soup gave them acute diarrhoea. Soiled underclothes were rinsed in cold water without soap. Knots of semi-naked children milling about waiting for their underwear to dry became a permanent feature of the camp. Another was the sound of their weeping.

  At first, Nazi deportation plans excluded children, limiting deportees to the ages of sixteen to forty. Indeed, before the deportation of children began, the Germans had sometimes spirited orphans from the Occupied Zone across the Demarcation Line, although Vichy was not happy to have this responsibility foisted upon them. Prime Minister Laval now requested that children under sixteen from the Unoccupied Zone be deported. He believed that not splitting up families was the right thing to do - a grotesque distortion of Vichy’s pious view on the sanctity of the family.

  The request was passed along to Berlin, where there was a three-week delay, suggesting reluctance even on the part of the Nazis. Finally, after repeated pressure from France, Adolf Eichmann announced that Jewish children and old people could be deported. It was a concession. Previously, the orphans had caused all sorts of troublesome administrative problems, as well as political embarrassment, when their parents were sent separately to their deaths. Prime Minister Laval again made it sound like an act of compassion that in future children would be deported with their parents. Now they would be allowed to die alongside their kith and kin.

  And the orphans created by earlier deportations would also be sent. These unfortunates were packed into freight cars in batches forty to sixty strong. French police accompanied their wretched cargo to the border, where they were handed over. Six thousand children were deported to Auschwitz from Drancy in 1942 alone; more than a thousand were below the age of six.[82] German involvement was minimal. ‘No one and nothing could deter us from carrying out the policy of purging France of undesirable elements without nationality,’ Laval declared.

  Behind the scenes the deportations created diplomatic waves, and the United States remonstrated with Laval. He asked sarcastically why America didn’t take the children, a point the French government had made repeatedly over the years, with some justification, when criticised by foreign powers. This time the US State Department offered a thousand visas with the possibility of a further five thousand for Jewish children, if the French authorities would agree to grant them permission to leave.

  Laval went to the Germans with the proposal. Unsurprisingly, they raised the objection that a mass emigration of children to the United States to save them from deportation would become an occasion for anti-German and anti-French propaganda. As a result Vichy made the unrealistic demand of the Americans that there should be no publicity. Negotiations bogged down. At one stage the French agreed to issue five hundred emigration visas, but added so many qualifications that they were never granted. The instincts of the men in charge supported an ingrained bureaucratic tendency to avoid taking any course that would upset administrative routine, even one that would save children’s lives. The simple truth of it was that the children helped fulfil the quota requirement.[83]

  Michel fought to stave off total dejection by scouring the camp once more for some hiding place where he might disappear for a few hours to avoid the next transport. He was now a fugitive within a prison camp, as the camp authorities continued to search for him. He found nothing - until he reconsidered the sealed wooden passageway that connected the two main buildings. He had initially dismissed the shaft as an impossible option after a close inspection of the doors at either end of the passage. They were not only locked, but had planks of wood nailed across them. However, the view of the structure from the courtyard gave him a new idea. Small windows were interspersed along the passageway’s length, big enough for an undernourished inmate of Les Milles to slip through. The problem was twofold: to reach the windows and remain unseen.

  He took a closer look at the small shack that stood beneath and slightly back from the passageway. The gabled top of its sharply sloping roof was conceivably close enough to one of the windows for an energetic and lucky jump. This was difficult enough, but there was also the problem of climbing on to the roof of the shack in the first place. Michel made his way to the second floor of the barracks and looked out of the window. It was just possible to drop on to the roof, but any attempt would be in full view of the courtyard. ‘If I was seen by the guards I was lost. But what alternative did I have? I was lost anyway.’

  Suddenly, an order came over the loudspeaker to assemble in the yard. Desperate to try his plan, he fought against the human tide swarming from the barracks and made his way up the stairs to the second floor. Guards were already moving people from room to room as he climbed outside the barracks window and leapt on to the roof of the shack below. He expected at any moment to hear a shout or a gunshot, and dared not glance behind him. He looked up at the window of the passageway. It now seemed much further away than he had originally estimated, an impossible distance. He jumped and stretched for the ledge, barely gripping it with his fingertips. He hauled himself up and tumbled through the window.

  Inside he found a rusting conveyor belt that had once been used to transport supplies from one building to the other in the days when the camp had operated as a brickworks. Michel squeezed beneath it. Lying face down he could see through the cracks in the wooden plank flooring into the courtyard below. The sound of people being herded towards the train drifted up to him.

  This time the guards conducted a thorough and systematic search of the building, checking the internal ID cards of the Non-Deportables. He heard a number of guards talking about the need to catch Michel Kroskof and discussing the possibility of the passageway as a hiding place as they looked down upon it. Moments later he heard one help the other down from the window on to the roof of the shed. Michel feared that he had been either spotted or betrayed. ‘It was all over. I knew that my life was being counted in minutes. I felt caught.’ The chase for me was on.

  Michel had never considered himself a pious man, but now he cried out silently to his God. ‘I made a vow. A solemn covenant. “If I survive...”’ The terms of the covenant were to remain a secret between the man and his God until he was able to fulfil them, but he swore to dedicate his life to the task.

  There was a sudden cry and clatter as the guard who had been hoisted on to the roof of the shack lost his footing and tumbled noisily to the ground. His companion shouted out and left the window. He heard scuffling below him and assumed other guards were helping their fallen comrade. Then there was silence. Michel waited anxiously for their return. Time passed. The guards did not come back. The accident seemed to have taken the impetus out of the search.

  Later, different guards gathered in the yard, talking and smoking cigarettes. Michel presumed they had finished their day’s work of loading the cattle cars with their human cargo. The men seemed intent on loitering endlessly in the one spot. He was painfully uncomfortable and longed to change position. The blood to his left arm was cut off and it became dead, while his legs were agonisingly cramped. Added to the discomfort was an ever-increasing urge to urinate. His position made it impossible to cross his legs, and he was fearful that a single drop might fall to the ground and giv
e him away. ‘I had only willpower to fight off the incredible urge to urinate that lasted for several hours until it was dark, when the guards had moved away and I dared to move.’[84]

  The train was full and sealed, but as always it did not move off until late. Once again its doleful whistle took Michel to the edge of despair. Hours passed. He remained cramped in his hiding place and dared not risk leaving it in the dark for fear of breaking his neck. Once again the camp was almost empty except for the Non-Deportables. He remained under the conveyor belt throughout the night and left at first light. He climbed out of the window and dropped on to the roof of the shack with what seemed like a terrible noise. He looked around him. The yard was deserted and he seemed to have attracted no attention. He lowered himself to the ground and crept to the cover of the barracks’ wall, massaging his aching muscles. ‘I had escaped once again, only to remain in hopeless confinement in constant risk of deportation.’

  Early one morning, as the inmates milled about aimlessly in the courtyard or passed the time in their barrack rooms, an order came over the loudspeaker. Women and children were to assemble by the gate. No transport awaited them, but the announcement was ominous. The camp’s families duly gathered, accompanied by confused fathers who stood with them, and Michel loitered to one side ready to seize any opportunity during this unusual procedure that might divert the attention of the guards.

  The cowed, apprehensive crowd listened as an officer made an announcement. Children were to be separated from their parents and bused to orphanages operated by Jewish philanthropists or Quakers. A low moan of anguish went up, and some of the mothers began to scream. A convoy of buses pulled into the courtyard. Men and women who had lost the will to fight for their own lives suddenly rallied and began to struggle with the guards. In the confusion Michel saw that the door to one of the buses was open and unwatched. He made his way towards it, planning to climb aboard and hide among the children. ‘But I was beaten to it by another prisoner who succeeded in doing exactly what I wanted to do. The moment was quickly gone. I was bitterly disappointed by my failure to take the one opportunity of escape that had presented itself.’[85]

  Parents who understood their own fate tried not to pass on the heartbreak to the little ones, even though they feared they would never see them again. Many of the tots clung to their mothers and had to be physically separated. Parents stared at their children as they were herded on to the buses, trying to fix an image to last an eternity. As they drove away an eerie silence fell over the camp.[86]

  That night, Les Milles sank to a new level of misery. Parents lay on their straw mats and sobbed, adding new force to the Siren Song. ‘I remember the sight of children torn from their mothers and fathers as the most emotionally painful of my life. It tears into me.’

  Renewed energy came from the unexpected pleasure derived from a friendship with one of the new arrivals. In conversation it came out that the two men were not only from Lodz but had been born in the same hospital on the same day. The coincidence created an instant bond, and Michel was eager to impart the benefit of his experiences in the camp. He told his new friend about his companions from the logging camp, and how they had succumbed to the Siren Song. He explained the seductive nature and danger of the phenomenon, and told the story of the man running to the guillotine. The man listened attentively, visibly impressed by all he heard. He vowed to remain vigilant against the insidious onslaught of hopelessness.

  ‘At last, I thought, I have found someone. My new friend was a remarkable young man - intelligent, strong, determined to resist unto death. We agreed to stick together and do everything in our power to avoid deportation. And if we were deported we vowed to escape from the train. I felt stronger now, knowing at least I had a friend and ally.’

  The men were constant companions for a couple of days, until circumstances separated them little by little. A week passed. Word came from the woman in charge of the Quakers in Marseille, who was a regular visitor, that another deportation was imminent, although no date was given. Michel sought out his friend to warn him. ‘He turned towards me with a vacant stare. He no longer wanted to speak to me. He was gone.’

  Feeling more forlorn than ever in the knowledge that he was utterly alone, Michel forced himself once again to plan to avoid the next transport. The passageway, risky and difficult as it was to reach, and horribly uncomfortable on arrival, still seemed to be the only hiding place. But he wanted to lessen the risk of being spotted as he jumped from the barracks window to the roof of the shack, and needed to pick his time carefully. ‘If only I had known exactly when the transport would arrive!

  ‘One morning I had a strange feeling deep in my belly that this was the day.’ He walked to the window and looked down at the shack. It was early, and there were few people about - the timing was perfect.’ “Okay,” I said to myself, “this is the moment!”’

  But then he hesitated. A voice within asked, What if the transport is not scheduled for today? The memory of the extreme physical discomfort of the interminable hours in hiding was very fresh. He wanted to limit his time cramped beneath the conveyor belt to the minimum, and could not bear the thought of another day and night - or even longer - in the passageway. He stood at the window debating the issue with himself. He decided against immediate action and turned away.

  He headed for the stairs and was about to go down when the camp’s loudspeaker system sounded. This time everyone was ordered to stay inside the building and to stand by their beds. Guards immediately sealed the exits and prepared for a systematic room-by-room inspection. ‘It was a devious change in procedure and I knew I was caught. Now there was no way out. I cursed myself for not following my original premonition. The moment of flight had passed. Like everyone else I was supposed to return immediately to my assigned room and stand next to my assigned straw mat. The problem was, I did not exist.’

  Since disappearing from the first transport, he was still wanted by the authorities and realised that the new tactic of locking people inside the building was aimed at trapping him and any others like him. He no longer had an assigned place anywhere where he could take up position and stand beside a straw mat. He moved quickly through the building searching for a possible haven. Guards had already taken up position at the doors at the end of each massive room as three camp officials entered calling for Michel Kroskof.

  The officials walked over and Michel stepped forward as if he were the prisoner in charge. ‘Michel Kroskof? No, I don’t know,’ he announced forcefully.

  The official nodded and moved further into the next room while the guards moved from room to room calling for Kroskof.

  A prisoner on the other side of the room who had seen the exchange came across. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, confronting Michel. ‘What the hell are you doing here? You don’t belong in this room - get out immediately! I’m in charge here!’

  The man was a prisoner like all the others, and would be deported along with them, but he had been put in charge of the room and took his duties seriously. The affront to his power, and the terror of reprisals, created genuine rage. ‘Please keep your voice down!’ Michel said, attempting to sound deadly and accommodating in the same breath. ‘Don’t attract the guards’ attention - just keep your voice down!’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do. I’m responsible here and you have to go immediately.’

  ‘You’re right - but please keep calm.’

  ‘I don’t care about calm,’ the man spat. ‘Get out of here!’

  ‘Okay, okay. Just give me three minutes and I’ll be gone.’

  The prisoner seemed somewhat pacified that his pitiful authority had been recognised. ‘Okay,’ he said, relenting, ‘but I want you out of this room.’

  Michel walked slowly away, desperately racking his brains for a plan. He contemplated leaping from the window, or crawling along an outside ledge - wild ideas with no hope of success. He saw a blanket hanging as a curtain in a corner at the far end of the room and made towards it. And when
he was certain neither the guards nor the room leader was looking in his direction, he slipped behind it. The curtain created a private area containing a small table, a couple of chairs and a field bed with cardboard boxes beneath it. He crawled under the bed and concealed himself behind the boxes as best he could. Slowly, the building emptied. The rooms were cleared and the inmates were moved outside and herded into the cattle cars. The silence of the grave fell over the barracks. A train whistle blew.

  Michel lay hour upon hour without moving. He drifted off into a rocky half-sleep until he heard the sound of boots making their way across the room towards him. His first thought was that someone had seen him slip behind the curtain and the room leader had betrayed him. The voices of the guards grew louder and louder and the curtain was pulled aside.

  Michel could see the boots of what appeared to be three guards. They were not searching for anyone but eager to relax after a hard day’s work. Two of the guards took the chairs, while the third sat heavily on the bed. The mattress pressed down, squeezing Michel to the floor. He tried to control his fear by taking short, even breaths. Wine was opened and cigarettes lit. One of the men took out a pack of cards and they began to gamble. There was laughter, and glasses were drained and refilled. ‘Characteristically, the guards seemed entirely unmoved by the fate of the human beings they had just packed into cattle cars.’

  The men played cards and drank for hours until two of them finally stood. They said goodnight and made their way out of the room. The third pulled off his boots, collapsed on to the bed and was snoring loudly within minutes. Michel lay below him, desperate not to fall asleep and give himself away.

  The next morning he remained beneath the bed long after the guard had gone to his post. The noise of building work came from the courtyard. Finally, he ventured from his hiding place and moved carefully among the Non-Deportables. He looked out of the window. The noises that he assumed to be construction actually came from demolition: the passageway between the two buildings no longer existed. Once again luck had intervened to save him. If he had been able to reach the previous hiding place beneath the conveyor belt he would have been caught. ‘How long could I continue this game of cat and mouse?’