I stood for a moment on the edge of a fountain and looked out over the heads of people. As far as I could see there was chaos. Like oil from a motor car that had spilled onto a wet road, everything on that first morning of the war tried to mix in with the new world, but failed, finding resistance – like oil floating on rainwater.
I jumped from the wall and realized I had lost Hava. She had been swept up in the crowd.
‘Hava,’ I called. ‘Hava!’ I jumped up and down trying to spot her blonde hair in the throng of people. ‘Hava!’
I remembered where she lived, and knew the streets to take, but it was like trying to walk in a vat of treacle. People were packed tightly in the streets. Fear choked the movement of every step, and every heartbeat. My legs felt heavy, my arms weak. I pushed my hair from my face. Each step forward was a challenge. People pushed me from behind, from the side. I felt like a puppet, my movements orchestrated by the machinations of others – people trying to escape, trying to save themselves. More planes flew overhead. More blasts. More destruction. The dragon had been unleashed.
As I approached the end of the square, I felt a firm grip on my shoulder. ‘Hava!’ I gasped in relief, as I twirled around. ‘Hava?’
‘What are you doing here?’ a voice of command and authority barked at me. ‘What are you doing here?’ Sergeant De Waden asked again, his tone laden with anger and frustration. I tried to smile. His boots were polished, his uniform crisp. The visor of his hat was pulled nearly over his eyes. I had always been taught that if you hid your eyes, you hid your soul.
‘We are trying to get everyone to return to their homes. They’ll be safer there, inside.’
‘But the Nazis are coming,’ I said as I rubbed my arms. ‘They’re coming! Everyone says we need to leave!’
‘The Nazis won’t harm us if we listen to them.’ Sergeant De Waden said stiffly.
I looked at this boy in a man’s uniform, and for the first time I did not like what I saw.
‘The Nazis won’t harm us?’ I repeated in disbelief. ‘Is this not harm?’ I pointed to a little girl dragging a suitcase, and the frightened mob swarming around us.
‘You are all running for nothing,’ De Waden said as I watched the girl disappear into the crowd.
‘Nothing? They shot my father in the First World War, and now this? Invading our country?’
‘Your father belongs to the old world of Resistance, the underground, Simone. This is the new world now. I have given up believing in resistance. The Germans are coming and we can’t stop them, so we might as well accept the new order, and give up our struggle. It’s safer that way – to do as they say. Where is your friend, Simone?’
‘But the war has only begun. How can you say give up?’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from the mouth of this man, my horse-riding companion, a man I thought I might have loved.
‘Look, Simone. Look up! Those are not Belgian planes. You must go back home! Where is your friend?’ he repeated.
‘I’m helping her find her family. They weren’t at the synagogue. They’ve disappeared.’
‘She’s Jewish. You’re better off keeping your distance from her. Go back to your house.’
And there it was. I wanted to shake my wooden rattle, my gragger, in disgust.
‘Yes, she’s Jewish,’ I said as I looked directly into the eyes of the man hidden under a black visor. ‘She’s my friend. And she needs me.’
And I need her, I thought.
‘The German troops have already crossed the border. Go home. It will be safer for you there. Just go home and I’ll check up on you when I can.’
And just like that, he was gone again, and I was left alone in maelstrom.
CHAPTER 27
The German forces advanced rapidly. Holland fell quickly as the Dutch tried to defend their country with outdated First World War weapons. Belgium held out against the Nazi invasion for eighteen days against overwhelming odds.
Suddenly, a distant hum caught on the breeze; a persistent drone that grew louder and closer, like the vicious onslaught of a swarm of bees.
Pandemonium ensued. Children wailed. People shouted, ‘Get down! Get down!’
I looked up and no longer saw the clouds and spring leaves, but something much darker that seemed to shroud the entire city. Outstretched wings soared high above my head, and what looked like the belly of a dragon.
I broke away from the mob, pushing my way between men in clogs and woman carrying crying children and baskets of bread, forcing my way towards Hava’s house.
The plane swooped lower, lining itself up above the straight road leading to the square. Something ricocheted past my head and thudded into the ground at my feet. More projectiles hurtled through the air, missing me by a whisper, others not so fortunate. Bullets sprayed indiscriminately from guns attached beneath the wings of the aircraft. The gunner visible from below, unmoved, relentless . . . able to see the frantic expressions of those who ran for cover; the faces of those he targeted: women, children, infants . . . innocents.
I ran and managed to cower in a doorway, just as the plane turned round and came again. Once more bullets ripped through the air, through those unable to find protection.
Then the bullets stopped and the plane disappeared. All was silent for a brief moment, as if the world took a deep breath. And then there was a scream. It was almost as if the wheels of a train had locked and strained against the railway tracks, a high-pitched sound like the wail of metal against metal. Tragedy embodied that scream. Horror conveyed in a singled, anguished cry.
Before me, the cobblestones ran red with blood. The wounded moaned. Others keened their loss, clutching their lifeless loved ones to them. I thought again of the sergeant’s words: The Nazis won’t harm us if we listen to them.
When did we have the chance to listen? The enemy had spoken, not in words but actions. No one was safe.
Run! I thought. Run! Run! They must not get me.
I knew Hava would be in her house. I knew that was where she would be.
I ran down a familiar side street. I could see the windows of Hava’s home. They were dark.
CHAPTER 28
The battle beginning today will decide the fate of the German nation for the next thousand years.
Adolf Hitler’s proclamation to the soldiers on the Western Front, 10 May 1940
I have never liked the dark. I feel as if I am in a closed box and the only way out is to find a bit of light. That is why I love the stars. They always seem to say, ‘This way.’
The city lights were extinguished. German planes continued to fly throughout the dark morning. I heard voices in the streets.
I had memorized a poem, in English, for Sister Bernadette, ‘The Light of Stars’ by Longfellow. I still remember a section:
Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know erelong,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
One night, Hava and I were walking home from the opera when she pointed out the appearance of the first star in the dark sky. I told her it was not really a star, but the planet Venus. I was proud to tell her this because for once I was teaching her something she did not know.
‘It was named after the Roman goddess of beauty and love,’ I said as we walked through the park.
Hava took off her shoes and socks and said, ‘Let’s dance on the surface of Venus.’
‘Hava,’ I said. ‘People will . . .’
She cut me short. ‘Oh, Simone, stop worrying about what other people think. Someday you will want to be brave, eat chocolate all day, read D. H. Lawrence in church . . . and you will no longer care what others think.’ Hava ran through the park, clapping her shoes above her head and whooping loudly.
At that time, the star of Hava’s world was not Venus but the opera singer, John Charles Tillman, the love of her dreams.
Back then, Hava and I had no fear of the world. I feared others’ disapproval, but not the world, an
d I did not know how sublime a thing it was to suffer and be strong . . . not yet.
Sister Bernadette had taught us that fire begins when a material that can burn is combined with something packed with oxygen and is exposed to heat. ‘In a chain reaction, the fire burns and burns – like sin,’ Sister Bernadette added. ‘Like sin, which burns in your heart and causes a chain reaction, until your heart is nothing but a black, charred mass from the devil’s oven.’
When I finally reached Hava’s home that morning, I grabbed the cold, brass door knocker and knocked once, then twice. There was no response.
‘Hello!’ I called through the door. ‘Monsieur Daniels? Madame Daniels? Hello? Hava?’
Silence. I turned the doorknob. The door was not locked. ‘Monsieur Daniels? Hava?’
Weak sunlight filtered into the silent rooms, pearl light, blue light, nothing like the light of Venus or the opera. ‘Hava?’
In the corner of the large room I saw her sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest, head in her arms. Her legs were covered by her plain, dark dress.
‘Hava?’
I found a candle and some matches. As I struck a match, a small cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling. The smell of sulphur hung in the air. The flame illuminated my hand. I lit the black wick as the flame leapt willingly from the match to the top of the candle. I carried it across the room as the candlelight danced in the darkness.
I lowered the candle and knelt next to my friend.
‘Hava?’
She lifted her head and looked at me. ‘Your face is yellow, Simone,’ she whispered. I did not recognize the voice. When Hava spoke, you could usually imagine that you were at a circus and she was the ringmaster. But there, in the light of the candle, Hava’s whisper was weak. ‘They’re gone.’ She waved her hand in a wide, broad gesture towards the empty room. ‘They’re gone.’
‘Perhaps they’re visiting relatives.’ I said quietly. ‘Perhaps they were shopping when the planes arrived and now they’re with relatives or friends.’
Hava stared at me. ‘Let’s pretend the moon is burning. Let’s go swimming.’
‘Hava, are you all right?’
‘The moon, the cow . . . let’s jump over the moon and go swimming, Simone.’
Hava and I had always loved the moon. Sometimes we rolled old newspapers into pretend telescopes and looked directly into the moonlight.
‘I see John Charles Tillman,’ she’d say.
‘I see Clark Gable,’ I’d say.
I remember when Hava and I went swimming in Ixelles Pond. We dared each other to leap from a large rock and dive into the cool water. We took turns: back dives, flips, shallow dives, cannonballs, belly flops, all accompanied by much laughter.
The real idea was to impress a boy we knew, André Van Acker, the butcher’s son. We knew he liked to fish at the pond early on Saturday evenings. We knew his skin was bronze and his hair the colour of wheat. Each time we swam close to where he sat, André complained that we were disturbing the fish. ‘Go away,’ he said irritably.
Hava and I pretended that we had turned ourselves into fish and swam closer to the boy with the fishing rod in his hand. André Van Acker reeled in his line, stood up, placed his fishing pole on his shoulder like a soldier going off to war, and then said, ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Simone Lyon.’ Then he walked away into the undergrowth and disappeared.
‘You see, Simone! Too many people know you and are always turning a dream into a dull Saturday night.’
That’s when I jumped into the water. The moon had just risen into the early night sky. When I rose to the surface, Hava was standing on the rock in the fresh moonlight. She looked out at me and said, ‘I salute you, Daughter of the General.’ Then she too jumped into the water, and we swam together like newborn dolphins, our skin rippled with goose bumps.
The moon is one of the saddest objects in the sky, for it seems to go through much pain as it changes shape, enduring a passive position at the mercy of the brave sun. As the German invasion cast an evil melancholy over everything we had taken for granted, now we too found ourselves at the mercy of events beyond our ability to resist or comprehend.
PART IV: EVACUATION
CHAPTER 29
Thousands of Belgian refugees, trying to escape the Nazi invasion, took to the Brussels–Louvain road, fleeing westward.
I didn’t realize how animated objects become in a house filled with people. Tea cups jiggle on plates. Chairs move forwards and backwards under the leaf of a table. Flowers arrange themselves with dignity in a glass vase. Peanut shells tumble into a flat hand, swept suddenly into a wastepaper basket. But without people, a straw broom becomes a monument, as solid and motionless as an obelisk. Shoes seem cemented to the floor. Pencils, books, umbrellas, shawls . . . they all seem to be dead.
Hava sat on the floor in her parents’ home, willing the silk robe to jump onto the warm shoulders of her mother, aching to see the little paper crown jump up and adorn the beautifully shaped head of her brother. ‘Where are they?’ Hava asked repeatedly.
‘Perhaps they’re with friends?’ I suggested again. ‘The Arnoffs, or the Bergmanns live near the synagogue. Perhaps they’re there. Sergeant De Waden said that the Germans were already across the border, heading this way into Brussels. We must leave!’
More planes marred the morning sky. The windows began to rattle under the thrum of their latest approach. I looked outside and saw an intermittent glow rise and fall over the northern section of the city.
‘Hitler is very close, Hava! Pack some clothes and come with me. We’ll go to my house. I need to collect some things as well. We can’t stay here. We’ll be killed.’. A German invasion was no longer a theoretical possibility. It was happening. People were dying in the streets. We needed to leave. But Hava wasn’t moving. She seemed to mirror the inanimate household objects. She didn’t look up at me. She didn’t move her hands. She just sat on the floor like a brass Buddha, immobile, expressionless.
‘Hava!’ I pleaded with her. ‘We can’t stay here! Hava!’
I slumped down beside her and spoke slowly and directly. ‘Hava. The Germans are coming. We can’t stay here. Find a bag and some clothes. Do you know if your parents have any money in the house?’
Hava finally looked up at me and said, ‘Yes, of course. Perhaps they’re with the Bergmanns. I know the Bergmanns. They sit next to us in the synagogue. We can go to their home and look for my parents.’
The windows rattled again, tormented by the blasts of the latest bombing raid. ‘Hava,’ I begged. ‘There’s no time. We must hurry.’
CHAPTER 30
Many Belgian convents hid Jewish children during the Nazi occupation of 1940–1945, presenting them as Catholics. Among these institutions were the Franciscan Sisters in Bruges, the Sisters of Don Bosco in Courtrai, and the Sisters of Saint Mary near Brussels.
Hava stood up, her hair over her face, her shoulders slumped. I stepped up to my friend, brushed back her hair, and as she leaned into me, I whispered, ‘All will be well, but we must go. Your family isn’t here, but we’ll find them. We need to hurry. I need to get something from my house.’
Hava, the beautiful Jewish girl, wept silently in my arms. Then she looked up and licked one of her tears. ‘It tastes salty.’ Hava of the opera. Hava Juliet. Hava Salomé. A Jewish girl with salty tears.
‘Come on. We must hurry,’ I said gently.
‘Yes, okay. Let’s go back to your house, Simone.’
Once in the crowded, afternoon streets, my renewed confidence quickly vanished. I wanted to be brave for Hava, but the noise, the chaos, the apprehension in the air, all filled me with a sudden and overwhelming anxiety.
As I stood on the street corner not knowing where to turn, a man nearly knocked me down. ‘Run, you silly girl,’ he yelled. ‘Run! The Germans are coming!’
My mind spun, dizzy with helplessness. An ambulance squealed past. We are Belgian, I thought. We are strong. We must endure. We must find someon
e to help us. Just then, I thought about Sister Bernadette. The convent! Sister Bernadette will protect us. She will know what to do.
My panic subsided. I stood still and adjusted the sleeves of my dress. I will pretend that Hava and I are just visiting a friend. I will pretend that this is an ordinary day and we are just visiting Sister Bernadette. I grabbed Hava’s arm and said, ‘Maybe my teacher can help us. The convent should be safe, and if she’s there, I know she’ll help us.’ Hava nodded, looking dazed at the surrounding confusion, but with renewed hope to continue our journey.
I knew my way to the convent. It was across the street from my school, an old building with many floors. When I knocked on the door, there was no answer. I looked back at the school. It was dark. The gates were closed. Everything seemed to have stopped as soon as the planes arrived. I stood at the convent door hoping someone would hear us.
‘Knock again,’ Hava suggested.
I turned and knocked again. ‘We are brave Belgians,’ I muttered to myself.
‘Yes? May I help you?’ a harsh voice called from behind the door.
‘I am Simone Lyon. I’m a student at the school. Is Sister Bernadette here?’
Silence.
‘She’s my teacher. The planes . . . the bombs . . . I must speak to Sister Bernadette. We need her help . . . please . . .’ And then like the child I was, I just cried, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to prevent the tears from sliding down my cheeks. In that moment, it felt as if all of Belgium wept with me.
When I opened my eyes, the door was unbolted and there was Sister Bernadette. ‘Come in, my child. Come, Simone.’ I fell into her arms. The aroma of her cloth habit, the tenderness of her embrace, made me nearly say ‘Mother’. And I cried some more.
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