Ashes

by Christopher de Vinck

  Pierre and I decided a year later that we would move to America. By that time, I had forgotten the war. I had forgotten Hava, the burning train, the hunger. I was too busy deciding what to take to America, packing large leather suitcases with clothes and books, while Pierre arranged accounts in New York. I felt that I had abandoned childish thoughts and had evolved into a confident society woman.

  I had a new life. We wanted children. We bought a dog, an Airedale, and named her Pamela. Pierre booked us passage on the Queen Elizabeth bound for New York and we were scheduled to leave in September 1946.

  ‘Darling, you know it might not be easy at first when we arrive in the States,’ Pierre said one evening, as we settled into the parlour of our city home. The chairs were comfortable, and the evening breeze caressed our cheeks with warmth and pleasure. I glanced down at the atlas on the coffee table, remembering how much I had liked the sounds of the different states: Connecticut, Florida, Alabama.

  ‘Any new adventure is a bit difficult at first, but I’m sure we’ll manage,’ I said as I shifted in my chair, Pamela at my side, and a glass of wine in my hand.

  Each week, it had become our habit to tune into the Sunday night concert on the BBC. Pierre leaned over the radio, switched it on, and sat in an opposite chair with a glass of wine in his hand. We were content, lulled by the fresh air, and the complacency of wealth and comfort.

  The radio crackled a bit as its tubes warmed up, and then the voice of the BBC resounded: ‘. . . and if you are just tuning in, we have a special broadcast for you tonight. Here is John Charles Tillman, the famous baritone, singing “I’ll Always Remember”.’

  Pamela stretched on the floor. Pierre leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. I held my glass in my hand.

  The music swelled, as the lyrics soared into the air, enveloping me, removing me from my immediate surroundings, taking me back to another time, another life . . . to another person.

  I’ll always remember your laughter, dear,

  The sound of your voice from year to year.

  Each day was a splendid melody,

  The days of adventure not tragedies.

  I’ll always remember the dance and applause,

  Your light the night’s success the true cause.

  Each moment today does not easily compare,

  To the days we were together my dear, my dear.

  I’ll always remember we were a duet,

  I’ll never forget you; I’ll never forget.

  At the end of the song, I stood up, stared at the radio, looked at Pierre – then I fainted.

  When I woke up I was in my bed. Pierre was at my side as he gently placed a cold compress on my forehead. ‘Simone?’

  ‘I promised,’ I kept repeating as I revived slowly. ‘I promised.’

  ‘What, darling?’

  ‘I said I would find her. I said I would remember. I promised, Pierre, I promised.’ Then I cried in his arms.

  ‘Simone, what’s this all about?’

  ‘She loves John Charles Tillman. She loves his voice. I promised that I would find her. That was John Charles Tillman on the radio, singing “I’ll Always Remember”. I heard those words, but I forgot my promise, Pierre. I forgot about Hava.’

  I had only told Pierre about Hava once. Perhaps I had wanted to forget her. Perhaps I had wanted to eat white bread, buy beautiful clothes, and sit on a cushioned chair with a glass of wine in my hand. Perhaps I had wanted to believe in water lilies again and forget that I had ever been 18.

  ‘Who’s Hava, Simone?’

  ‘Hava Daniels, remember? I told you about her when we first met. She was my friend. She was taken away in the war. The last thing I said to her was that I would find her; that I’d never forget her. I must find her, Pierre.’

  I sat up in bed and began pulling the sheet and blanket away. I tried to stand. ‘I’m going to find her. I’m going to find my friend.’ I felt dizzy.

  ‘Not tonight, Simone. You need to sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow.’

  I protested, and then I slept.

  CHAPTER 55

  I marvel at the resilience of the Jewish people. Their best characteristic is their desire to remember. No other people has such an obsession with memory.

  Elie Wiesel, Romanian-born American writer, Nobel laureate, Holocaust survivor

  That BBC programme had reminded me of who I truly was. I had forgotten about my journal, about Sister Bernadette, and the flowers Hava had picked for me. I had forgotten that I had promised Hava that I would find her.

  ‘I’m leaving for France today,’ I said to Pierre over breakfast the next morning.

  ‘France? Why France, Simone?’

  ‘I must go to Dunkirk. That’s the last place I saw Hava.’

  ‘But Simone, that was six years ago. You’ll never be able to find her.’

  ‘I must try. I promised.’

  ‘I’ll go with you. I can postpone my meetings at work. We can go together. I’ll help you if it means that much to you.’

  ‘No, Pierre, I must go alone. It’s my journey, my pilgrimage. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Our ship leaves for America in three and a half weeks.’

  ‘I’ll be back. I need this time. I need to go alone.’

  Two hours later I was on a train – the same train line that Hava and I had taken when we’d escaped Brussels six years earlier.

  I didn’t go to Dunkirk after all. On the way, I realized I might have a better chance at finding Hava if I started with my cousin back in her town of Roeselare, because, as names and faces started flooding back to me, I remembered the German translator. He was one of the last people who had seen Hava on the day she was taken, and he’d said he’d lived in Roeselare. My cousin had been his banker. Joseph Becker. Maybe this time my cousin would help me.

  The train was comfortable. The trees had grown taller in six years. The cows on the distant hills were healthy. The sky was filled with crows and clouds under the blue light of the horizon. When the train’s whistle suddenly screeched, I shook for a moment, remembering the piercing cry of a woman weeping over her dead daughter: ‘Julie. Julie.’

  When the train stopped at Roeselare station, I hesitated to step off. I touched the seat and remembered the odour of the burning train. I touched the glass in the window and remembered the redheaded soldier’s marriage proposal.

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ the conductor said, ‘your ticket is for Roeselare. We have arrived. This is your stop, the end of your journey.’ That is what I feared.

  I stepped down from the train and pretended that Hava was there waiting for me. I walked from the station to my cousin’s office, pretending I was a grand major-general liberating Roeselare. When I stood before my cousin’s bank, I stopped and became, once again, a lost 18-year-old girl.

  As I sat in Marie’s office, I asked her if she knew a man named Joseph Becker. ‘He said you were his banker.’

  ‘Why do you want to know this, Simone? You know private information about a bank’s client is privileged and not for publication.’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend.’

  ‘That Jewish girl you were with at the beginning of the war?’

  ‘Yes, that Jewish girl.’

  ‘I had to protect the bank’s reputation, Simone. The Germans were taking over and we were told in advance to freeze all Jewish accounts. We were told to gather a list of all the Jewish patrons we knew. I had to do what I was told – I was following orders. I couldn’t help you or that Jewish girl.’

  ‘She has a name.’

  ‘That’s no concern of mine, Simone. The past is past. I was just following orders.’

  ‘Her name is Hava Daniels. She loves the opera and liquorice. She knows the entire play of Romeo and Juliet by heart. And she is missing and I promised that I would find her.’

  ‘She’s just another missing Jew, Simone. What difference does it make?’

  I looked at my cousin and once again couldn’t believe that we shared the same gen
es.

  ‘If one person is missing, Marie, the world is lost.’

  ‘Forget the past, Simone. You can’t change the past, and you can’t blame me. I was just doing what I was told. The law is the law, and I was following orders.’

  ‘Do you know a man named Joseph Becker?’

  ‘Why that man?’

  ‘He was the last person I saw with Hava. He was from here, a Belgian, a schoolteacher who found work in France as a translator for the SS. He told me his name when he came to translate for the Germans: Joseph Becker. He said he lived here, right in Roeselare, and that you were his banker. Perhaps he knows where they took my friend. Perhaps he knows where they took my Jewish friend, Hava. Hava Daniels.’

  My cousin adjusted her hair awkwardly with her right hand. ‘We still have rules, Simone.’

  ‘I made a promise that I would find her. Joseph Becker is the only link I have. She has a mother, a father, and a brother, Benjamin. I made a promise.’

  Marie sighed as she stood up from her desk, walked to a filing cabinet, shuffled through some papers, and pulled out a folder.

  ‘This is not only highly unusual, but it’s against the law. I could lose my job.’ She opened the folder and returned to her desk, grabbing a pencil and pad. ‘You’re foolish to do this, Simone. Millions of people are missing because of the war. One Jewish girl isn’t worth the risk. What difference does one Jewish girl make?’

  She pushed the paper towards me. ‘Here. Make good on your promise. Find your Jewish friend. Now go.’

  Just before I stepped out of her office, I looked back and said ‘She’s in love with John Charles Tillman.’

  My cousin’s face softened then, just a bit, as she said, ‘They threatened my family, Simone. I was afraid.’

  I looked into her eyes. ‘I understand, Marie. I do understand.’ War was not black and white.

  After I walked out of the office, and out of the bank, I stood in the sunlight and unfolded the paper and there, written in a neat script, was the address: Joseph Becker, Vlamingstraat 8800 R.

  CHAPTER 56

  You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.

  Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet, Nobel laureate

  It was easy to find the street and the house. What was not easy was knocking on the door. When I did, I did not expect anyone to answer so quickly.

  From inside the house I heard someone call, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for Joseph Becker.’

  Silence.

  ‘My name is Simone Lyon. I’m from Brussels, and I’m looking for Joseph Becker.’

  The door opened slowly, and I was startled to see a young woman about my age.

  ‘Yes?’ she repeated.

  ‘Is this the home of Joseph Becker?’

  ‘Yes. That’s my father. He’s out in the back garden. Follow me.’

  The young woman led me through the house. The floors were covered in wool rugs. The walls were blue. At each window there was a small shelf, and on each shelf were pots of African violets: blue flowers, white flowers, all pruned and healthy.

  As we stepped outside, I saw a man kneeling at the edge of a small garden pulling weeds.

  ‘Papa, there’s someone here to see you.’

  The man looked up, and squinted in the sun that fell onto his wrinkled face. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Papa, she’s from Brussels.’

  The man stood up with difficulty, wiped his hands on his overall and shuffled slowly towards me.

  The girl turned to me and said, ‘Would you like some tea? I’ve just made a pot.’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ I said as I looked at the man. I did not recognize him. The girl stepped back into the house.

  ‘Yes? How can I help you?’ the man asked as he extended his gnarled hand. I could not bring myself to shake it.

  ‘Are you Joseph Becker?’

  ‘What is this about?’

  ‘My name is Simone Lyon. I’m looking for a friend of mine and I think perhaps you can help me.’

  ‘I don’t know you, mademoiselle. How can I help?’

  ‘Were you ever a translator?’

  The second the word ‘translator’ left my lips, the man lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck.

  ‘Did you ever work for the SS?’

  The girl with the pot of tea stepped back out into the garden.

  ‘Anne, take the pot into the kitchen and wait there, please. I have some business to discuss with Mademoiselle Lyon.’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’

  When the girl left, the man said, ‘Come with me,’ and the two of us walked across the grass and sat on two metal chairs beside a rose trellis.

  ‘Yes, I am Joseph Becker. Yes. I was a translator. It was a difficult time.’

  ‘I’m not here to cause you trouble, Monsieur Becker.’

  ‘It was a difficult time. I had no choice. The Vichy Government took over everything. Food was scarce. Everything seemed to stop, except the war and the German occupation. They offered good jobs to anyone who could speak German. They gave me a uniform, a good salary. I was assigned to various SS commanders during the war.’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. You were there as a translator.’

  ‘But I can’t help you. I was a translator for four years. I translated for the SS commanders hundreds and hundreds of times. I don’t see how I can help you with one case.’

  ‘We were on a bus outside Dunkirk. The German army was coming. Hava and I – that’s my friend, her name is Hava – she and I escaped on the last bus from Dunkirk. We thought we were free.’

  ‘Dunkirk? That was at the very beginning of the war.’

  ‘Yes, the planes were bombing Brussels. Hava and I were looking for her family. The Nazis were coming. We escaped Brussels in May 1940.’

  ‘I had just begun my work for the Germans.’

  ‘We were in a bus, miles from Dunkirk. Hava and I fell asleep and suddenly we were awoken by a man in a black uniform, who was demanding identification. He didn’t speak French. You must remember, Monsieur Becker. There was a soldier with a machine gun and he couldn’t speak French either. The SS officer ordered the soldier with the gun to fetch the translator. You were the translator. Don’t you remember? Hava had blonde hair. You must remember. You’re the only link to her I have. Do you remember? Do you know where they took her?’

  Joseph Becker looked at me and again he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. ‘The reason I do remember, Mademoiselle Lyon, is because of her hair. There weren’t many blonde Jewish girls. And also because that was my very first assignment. What was her name?’

  ‘Hava Daniels. Do you know where she was taken?’

  He paused, then mumbled, ‘Auschwitz.’

  CHAPTER 57

  The German phrase ‘Arbeit macht frei’ [Work sets you free] was embedded into the entrance gate at Auschwitz and other Nazi concentration camps.

  Mr Becker, the translator, said, ‘I can tell you about your friend, but you won’t want to know everything. I was forced to stay with those SS troops all the way to the camp. The people in the cattle cars couldn’t move their arms and legs.’

  ‘Please, tell me everything. I need to know everything. I need to know what happened.’

  Mr Becker stood up, paced back and forth, stopped, and looked at me. ‘When the train arrived at Auschwitz, SS soldiers in black uniforms were waiting. As the people stepped off the train and walked in lines, the SS officer in charge pointed at each Jew who walked in front of him, and directed them to the left or right: left to the gas chamber; right, forced labour. I had to translate for the officer who sat at the desk.

  ‘When your friend stood before the officer, he looked at me and said “Ziemlich blond. Schade, dass sie so krank aussieht.”’

  I asked the translator what that meant.

  ‘What a pretty blonde. It’s a pity she looks so sickly.’ The officer turned from me, looked at your friend again and pointed to the left.’

&nb
sp; In my mind’s eye, I recalled Hava’s father reading aloud. ‘For you, O Lord, did consume her with fire and with fire you will restore her.’

  ‘What was your friend’s name again?’

  ‘Hava Daniels,’ I said. ‘I need to know. I need to find her. Tell me, Mr Becker.’

  ‘Yes, your Hava walked to the left, following the people ahead of her. They were told that they were going to take a shower. As they stood outside a bunker, they were ordered to strip off all their clothes.’

  I closed my eyes and thought about Hava pretending that she was Romeo’s Juliet dying in the damp air of my father’s cellar.

  Mr Becker continued. ‘The SS officer told them, “You will be disinfected and you will bathe.” Then the people were escorted to the black doors of the huge chamber.’

  I opened my eyes.

  ‘I can’t go on, Mademoiselle Lyon,’ the translator said as he paused, overcome with grief.

  ‘You must. I need to know.’

  Mr Becker sat down, bowed his head and said, ‘I saw them – your friend and 600 others – enter the chamber and the doors were locked behind them.’

  I closed my eyes again and remembered the empty pews in the synagogue and the old rabbi telling Hava and me, ‘They are all gone.’

  I opened my eyes. Mr Becker looked at me, his expression blank, reliving the horror of that day. ‘The doors to the shower building were shut and bolted. They were screwed shut before the SS poured gas through shafts in the ceiling.’

  I breathed slowly as Mr Becker lowered his voice and whispered, ‘Should I continue?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Becker. Please. I need to know.’

  ‘I am told that death in the gas chamber occurred after a few minutes.’

  I heard Hava’s voice: ‘I spend my time dreaming, Simone. What do you dream of? Clouds or mountains?’

  The translator looked into my eyes. ‘Afterwards, I was ordered to help remove the bodies from the chamber. I remember your friend because of her hair. Her body was dragged out of the gas chamber and her hair was cut off.’

  I closed my eyes and thought about Joff, and Monsieur Alberg, and how they had touched Hava’s hair with such tenderness.