How ironic, I thought. The arrival of spring and the arrival of the Nazis.
Hava saw it first, the top of a red roof through the trees. ‘Like Tara,’ she said. ‘Like Tara . . . still standing. Roeselare!’
The small city unfurled like a quilted blanket as Hava and I trudged out of the woods and into the streets. People were in a rush, but there didn’t seem to be any panic, nor people leaving the city. Belgian flags were draped from the windows of apartment buildings. A boy on a blue bicycle hurried past us as he urged on a little girl who lagged behind on her red bicycle. ‘You’re too slow, Veronique! Let’s go!’
Hava looked at herself in the window of a bakery and adjusted her hair. The shelves in the bakery were empty. A woman with a bucket of freshly cut chicken heads stepped out of the next shop.
‘Are you a gypsy?’ the woman asked as she looked at me.
‘No, madame,’ I said. ‘I’m from Brussels. Our train stopped. There were bombs.’
The woman looked at my dirty dress. ‘We don’t want trouble here.’
‘Tell her who you are,’ Hava said as she stood beside me.
‘And you? Are you a gypsy?’
Hava stepped up and said, ‘No, madame. I am a Jew.’
‘What’s your name?’ the woman said turning back to me. She placed the bucket of chicken heads onto the ground and took out a small pad and pencil.
I looked at Hava, and then I said to the woman, ‘I’m Simone Lyon. I’m the daughter of Major General Joseph Lyon.’
The woman lowered her pencil and looked up. ‘General Lyon?’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘Can you prove you are his daughter?’
I reached into the pocket of my skirt and pulled out my father’s Croix de Guerre. His name was engraved on the reverse side: Joseph Lyon.
I handed the medal to the woman. She reached out with her wrinkled hand. I noticed the dirt under her fingernails as she ran her fingers over the cross and the crown. When she turned the medal over and saw my father’s name, she said, ‘He is a great man. He used a shovel to save Belgium.’ She looked at me, then at Hava and, as she handed back the medal, she said, ‘Wait here.’
The woman turned and walked back into the empty shop. Hava was surprised that I had the medal.
‘You always say that my father has army spies all over the world keeping an eye on me. I figured if that were true, and I needed to prove to someone who could help us that I was his daughter, that this might help.’ I stuffed the medal back into my pocket.
The woman returned and handed me a loaf of bread and a chocolate bar. ‘Take this.’ She glanced at Hava, and then said to me, ‘Be careful.’
I thanked the woman as she picked up her bucket of chicken heads and walked down the street in the dim morning light, hunched, grey, the bucket in her left hand, her right arm swinging slightly with the movement of her heavy body.
Hava and I walked for a few moments, looking for a place to rest and eat our bread and chocolate. We were tired and hungry. ‘There,’ Hava pointed, ‘on the steps of that building.’
Across the street sat a large building with columns, tall, wide windows, and steps made of marble. The steps were empty, so we took our seats at the top where the sun bathed them with warmth. I broke the bread in half.
‘I’m not a gypsy, Simone. I’m a Jew.’
‘But you still need to eat, Hava.’
‘That woman didn’t speak to me. I was invisible to her.’
‘We are all invisible to people who are blind, Hava.’
We ate our bread in silence, and as we finished, we leaned back against the wall, the sun and breadcrumbs on our dresses. Then Hava spoke.
‘When I was little my father taught me about Kiddush Levanah, the blessing of the moon. He said that blessing the moon is like saying hello to God, and that each new moon reminds us of creation, how everything was born from the darkness. The light was born, like the moon being born in the night.’
Hava’s dress clung to her body like a collapsed silken tent, conforming to the shape of her shoulders and hips; her arms white, like alabaster, or marble, or covered with a fine white powder.
‘My father says the universe is a masterpiece,’ Hava continued. ‘Often we walk to the park to greet the new moon. We stand together, my father and I, facing east with our prayer books in our hands, and then we recite Psalm 148. And here’s the fun part . . .’ Hava stood up. ‘We lift our heels three times and talk to the moon. We say: “Blessed is your Maker; blessed is He who formed you . . . Just as I leap toward you but cannot touch you, so may all my enemies be unable to touch me harmfully . . .”’
Hava lifted her heels three times. ‘See? Even as we cannot touch the moon, so our enemies cannot touch us. And my father always reminds me that when we say such prayers, we speak about our enemies, so we must also speak of peace.’
Hava closed her eyes. I unwrapped the chocolate bar and placed a piece on the flat of her palm. It was as if I had placed the entire world on her hand: she pulled it to her lips, licked it once, and then popped it into her mouth. The chocolate tasted sweet, warm.
‘What are you two doing here?’ Two men in military uniforms that I did not recognize stepped out of the building. One man had a moustache, the other a riding crop and a briefcase.
‘This is a military post, not a ladies’ lounge.’
I asked the soldier with the moustache if he knew how to get to Rue St Germaine, my cousin’s street. He glared down at us, then sighed.
‘Go straight down there, and take the third street on your right.’ I was going to thank him, but he turned abruptly and marched off with his companion down the long steps.
As we walked, I told Hava about Marie Armel. ‘She’s very smart. She seems to know things about the world.’
‘I hope she knows how to make pea soup. I would love pea soup. I’m so hungry, Simone.’
When we reached Rue St Germaine, I looked down the street. ‘There’s her house! It’s the one with the yellow door. That one!’
CHAPTER 37
Berlin ordered that identification cards of Jews in Belgium be specially marked, and ordered the immediate dismissal of Jews from government employment. Jews could no longer be teachers, lawyers, or journalists.
I was so grateful to see that yellow door.
As Hava and I stood before Marie’s house, she looked at me. I looked at her. I wanted to cry, but instead, I knocked on the door.
A voice from within the house called out. ‘Yes?’
‘Marie Armel?’
‘Yes? What do you want?’
‘It’s Simone Lyon. Your cousin Simone.’
The lock was released from the other side with a small metal click. Marie looked out through the partially opened the door. ‘Simone?’ She opened the door wider. ‘What are you doing here?’
I rubbed my arms as I stood at the door. ‘The Germans have bombed Brussels. We took a train.’ When I said ‘we’, Marie looked to my left and eyed Hava.
‘This is Hava, my friend. She escaped with me.’
Marie looked at me again, but didn’t smile. ‘Come in.’
Under my first step into the foyer, my heel clicked against the polished, marble floor. On the wall was a painting of sea lavender in blossom, with a calm ocean in the distance. A clock ticked. Marie led us into the parlour, a room with overstuffed velvet chairs and a grey couch that looked like an elephant resting on its side.
Marie was the daughter of my father’s eldest brother, a wine merchant. He and his wife had died in an accident when Marie was twenty-five and I was seven. Theirs was the first funeral that I had attended. I remembered the coffins being lifted onto the back of a black wagon pulled by two black horses.
‘How is your father?’ Marie asked.
‘I haven’t heard from him in a long time. When the German planes arrived overhead, I was in the park. I ran home, then Hava came to my house and we went out looking for her family. They said they’d be at the synagogue, but t
hey weren’t there. No one was there, except the rabbi, who told us everyone had gone. We don’t know where they are. We never found them.’ I glanced at Hava, whose eyes were brimming with tears.
Marie stroked her powdered cheek with her left hand when I said the word ‘synagogue’.
‘The planes kept coming, shooting at us! Bombs were dropped. Buildings burned. We ran to the train station and took the first train that was leaving the city.’
Hava sat motionless beside me. She didn’t speak. Her knees were together, her hands folded on her lap.
‘The train couldn’t continue as the tracks had been damaged. Then the planes caught up with us and the bombing started again. The train caught fire, so we ran into the woods. The planes kept shooting at us, but we were protected by the trees. The conductor said that we weren’t far from Roeselare and I remembered that you lived here. A woodcutter let us spend the night in his home, then gave us directions here.’
There was an awkward silence. My cousin stood up from her chair. I heard the ticking from a large clock embedded in the belly of a bronze Greek warrior that sat triumphantly on the mantelpiece of the empty fireplace.
‘I have my profession to think of,’ Marie said as she looked at Hava. ‘I have a delicate position in my bank, Simone.’
Marie looked at me and then back at Hava.
‘Money is built on trust. The people in my community trust me to follow orders . . . The Germans will be here soon, and we’ve been instructed to comply with their instructions. I’m not in a position to disrupt the traditions of my bank or jeopardize my future.’ She stared at Hava, and then she turned to me.
‘I can give you some food and money, but I’m sorry, you can’t stay here. It’s business, Simone. I’m sure you understand. The bank . . . I . . . we have a reputation to maintain.’
I thought about the sea lavender at that moment, how pretty the flowers were in the painting and how smooth and beautiful the marble floors were in Marie’s house. ‘It’s alright,’ Hava said in a near-whisper as she stood up from the couch. ‘We won’t disturb you. Let’s go, Simone.’
I was not going to stand up and I was not going to say it was alright.
‘But Marie,’ I protested, ‘Hava is my friend.’ I felt like kicking the couch and chasing Marie across her marble floors and into the streets.
‘Misguided associations can jeopardize your future too, Simone.’
I stood up then and moved next to Hava. ‘We won’t disturb your delicate position, Marie. We’ll not stain your velvet chairs or scratch your polished floors. But have you really forgotten that the Germans, in the First War, invaded France and marched through Belgium first? And what did we do? We blew up the train tracks and delayed the German advance. Remember? The Germans were so angry that they slaughtered over 6,000 Belgian people who weren’t even soldiers! They murdered over 6,000 innocent people!’
‘Times have changed,’ Marie said. ‘There are other solutions these days.’ She looked at Hava again as she rubbed her powdered cheek.
‘Changed?’ I almost shouted. ‘Changed? The Nazis are invading Belgium! My father was nearly killed trying to protect the people of Belgium the last time, and it’s happening again! The Nazis are in Brussels. People are flying their flags, they’re shooting at us from aeroplanes, and you’re worried about the bank?’
‘The bank,’ Marie replied calmly, ‘is built on the trust of the people and I cannot be seen to have the wrong associations. As I said, there will be other solutions. My manager said the Germans will be here at any time, perhaps even today. There have been planes, yes. And there will be tanks. I cannot take the risk. She – you – must leave. I’m sorry.’
‘Come on, Simone,’ Hava urged. ‘We’ll make our way. Let’s go.’ She took my hand. I was numb. She tugged a bit. We walked past the elephant couch, past the velvet chairs, past my cousin, who stood in the centre of the room like a bronze statue in the park.
Marie walked to a chest of drawers, took out an envelope, counted out a number of bank notes and extended them towards me in her delicate hand. ‘This is all I can do.’
I refused the money.
As Hava and I walked back down Rue St Germaine, Hava said, ‘I’m sorry that I’m the cause of so much trouble.’
I looked at my friend and I said, ‘Hava, I’m sorry my cousin was so horrible in there. I can’t believe I’m related to her. But we don’t need her. We’ll put our feet together, lift our heels, and reach for the moon. No one can touch us if we reach the moon.’
‘I feel like a trespasser, Simone. Perhaps I belong on the moon.’
Hava and I walked aimlessly. The people in the streets shuffled in and out of the shops. The trams in the small city clicked along with the familiar sound of iron wheels on iron tracks. Smoke rose from every chimney on that cool May morning.
‘I don’t really know my cousin,’ I said after a while. ‘I thought because she was my family that she would help us.’
‘I think she only believes in the idea of family. My father says that we’re all one family, one soul.’ Hava squeezed my hand.
‘Marie is afraid for her job.’
‘Your cousin is afraid of me, Simone. She’s afraid of Jews. If you ask my father who he is, what does he say? Something like, he’s a soul that was chosen by God to be a Jew; to be one who prays and lives by the rules of an ancient book.
‘Your father is a great general. People know what a general is, and what a general does, but people don’t know the job of a prayerful man, or a Jew. People are afraid of what they don’t understand.’
Moments later we heard a train whistle. I didn’t know Roeselare had a train station, but I did know we had to leave. In the distance, we heard a low, thumping sound, the sound of a giant moving forward, stomping his heavy feet through the countryside, coming closer and closer. The German army was pushing west, pushing French soldiers and British soldiers west, squeezing them closer and closer to the English Channel.
A dog ran down the cobbled street, a black dog with short hair. Bombs dropped far in the distance and I recognized the muffled sound of man-made thunder.
A man approached us and said kindly, ‘It’s time to get off the streets. The Germans are coming. It’s on the wireless, they’re coming.’
There was another sequence of bombing in the distance, and then a black plane drifted overhead, banking to the left and right in what appeared to be a victory salute to the pilot’s success.
Hava looked at the man and said, ‘Would you like to go to Tahiti? The artist Gauguin lived in Tahiti.’ The man stared at us and said, ‘Are you girls mad? The Germans are here!’ Then hurried down the street.
CHAPTER 38
When Adolf Hitler ordered the invasion of France, German tanks had crossed the River Meuse and had opened up a gap in the Allied front. The Luftwaffe was given the green light to fly low and shoot refugees in the roads to slow down the French and British troop movements.
A train was preparing to leave. The station was deserted, except for a man in a grey suit struggling with three bags of luggage as he stepped up to one of the carriages. A conductor in a blue suit with gold buttons and an official hat helped the man onto the train.
‘Hava, why aren’t there any people?’
She seemed to be in a trance, unaware of the silence, the empty platforms, the solitary train with few passengers.
Once the man with the luggage stepped into the train, the conductor waved vigorously to us. ‘Hurry! You’ll miss the train. It’s leaving now. Hurry.’
I always liked sitting next to a window at the rear of the train and when the train curved to the right, I could see the engine guiding the train between the trees or into a tunnel.
On my first train holiday with my father, we went to the Zwin, a small part of the coast on the North Sea. Holland and Belgium share the Zwin, and their beautiful fields of sea lavender. I arranged the flowers in my hair saying to my father, ‘Look at me! I’m Greta Garbo!’
My fat
her was very angry when I said this. ‘How do you know who Greta Garbo is?’
‘At school, Mary Noel had a magazine about Hollywood. She showed me a picture of Greta Garbo. She had flowers in her hair like this.’ I tried to turn my head as Garbo did in the magazine picture.
‘She’s nothing but a silly German actress. Don’t copy her.’
And my father pulled the sea lavender from my hair and told me to go and swim with a group of girls who were already in the water. She isn’t even German! I had wanted to argue.
That was the first time I heard my father’s disdain for Germany. I was eleven years old, and I had yet to know that my father’s arm had been destroyed in the First World War by a German bullet. I was just annoyed that he didn’t think I looked like Greta Garbo.
For the second time, Hava and I were on a train without knowing its destination.
When the conductor walked by, I asked him where we were heading.
‘Dunkirk, mademoiselle.’
‘Is it far?’
‘No, mademoiselle.’
‘Perhaps we should have taken a later train. My friend and I are so hungry and tired.’
The conductor looked over at Hava. ‘But, mademoiselle, this is the last train. Didn’t you know? The Germans will be here in a day or two. The British and French troops are being pushed into the sea by the tanks and planes. This will be the last train out of the station.’
I thanked the conductor as he continued down the aisle.
Turning to Hava, I said, ‘We’ll be okay. The Germans are quick, but we are quicker. We’re still ahead of them. They can’t catch us. We’re Belgian.’ I took Hava’s hand.
Hava looked out of the window and whispered, ‘Simone! They’re already here!’
Through the window, with each passing moment, with every inch we travelled west, the fields grew thicker and thicker with soldiers; thousands of soldiers in green uniforms carrying packs and rifles.
Hava’s shoulders slumped. ‘They’re already here. We’re lost.’
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