No Light (12 page)

I stood up and reached for my pistol.

Hope is the thing with feathers 
that perches in the soul 
and sings the tune without the words 
And never stops at all

(Emily Dickinson)

They drag me down the stairs and out into the square where they throw me in to a covered truck. I have little time to notice the mayhem. The air is on fire. There are people everywhere running and shouting some screaming, soldiers, gendarmes, trucks with large arc lights trained on the buildings and the inevitable German voices. They look at me with grotesque faces and I watch their lips move when they speak to me,

“Wie ist dein name Juden? Wer bist du?”

I cannot understand what they are saying. Sitting in the truck and looking out into the square I feel like I am watching a movie. In the distance I see two gendarmes interrogate someone. He protests angrily and they hit him with punches to the head. He falls to his knees and they kick him demanding he stands up. A German soldier enters right and stands with his back to me. He looks around nervously then exits. Someone else is bundled on to the truck and another and another until we are half full. I recognise them all, Monsieur Lunel who owns the bakery, my neighbour Monsieur Rehal and his wife Marianne, Gaston Piquet who was the caretaker of the Synagogue before they burnt it.

The burning of the Synagogue was a catastrophe. We tried pleading with them but they threatened to throw us into the flames. These were mostly young French men infected with a self indulgence and ignorance that nourished sordid desires and corrupted their reasoning. They gazed upon us with contempt or worse, complete indifference. Their inspiration, Monsieur Hitler, had surely contaminated their minds with an ideology of cruelty and violence. I understood him to be an artist and often thought how someone who willingly engaged in the creative process could have so many certainties regarding life. Paul is an artist and he struggles with life. Often he inhabits a space between darkness and light and he is attracted to both. I don’t have the luxury of uncertainty. The space where artists dwell does not exist for me. As Rabbi I am required to clarify uncertainties through my understanding of the Torah. That is why it was written. It presents human beings with a blueprint for life. Without it we would quickly descend into darkness and it is in darkness where we find our sins. Some call them demons others refer to them as defects but whatever they are they cannot live in light.

I am now sitting in the dark surrounded by people who were once my friends and neighbours. Most are silent except for Gaston who protests against the injustice of what is happening.

“They have no right. The government promised us immunity.”

Someone tells him to be quiet. I want to tell him to be strong but I do not feel strong. I am aware of the tightening muscles in my leg. Soon I will visited by a relentless pain. So I remain silent and concentrate my mind on conquering the pain by grasping my knee tightly in the hope of silencing the debilitating ache.

Someone else is dumped on to the truck. I am shocked to see it is Paul. He is alone and he looks bewildered. His face is covered in blood. I call his name. Surprised, he stumbles to the back of the bus and sits beside me. I can see now that his nose appears to be broken. What has happened? He grasps his forehead and mutters something about Camille.

“She has been shot!”

At that moment my soul is gripped with uncertainty.

“Who shot her?”

“The German?”

Paul tells me what has happened.

“Your nose?”

“Someone hit me with a rifle when I ran into the street.”

I ask if anyone has a handkerchief. They all shake their heads. I take Paul’s hand.

“Courage son.” but my words sound futile. He tries to nod probably out of kindness and respect for me. I am fearful now that the German will come and discover him in the truck. I keep looking at the scene outside. German officers strut around with one arm behind their back. They seem to be trained to walk in that manner.

The truck starts up and we are driven from the square past Esther Guillard’s shop now dark and empty. I do not see her and pray that she is safe. We are taken along dark narrow streets and I hear the occasional scream in the darkness. I lean against the back of the truck and try to straighten my leg. This sometimes helps but on this occasion a sharp pain in my thigh forces me to abandon the exercise.

“Where are they taking us”, someone asks?

“God knows, I hear they have camps where they put people they do not like.”

I have also heard that but to my knowledge these camps are in the East towards Poland and hundreds of kilometres away.

“Surely not”, I reply.

Paul looks at me. His face is streaked with matted blood and his nose is twisted to one side.

“These people are capable of anything. Hartmaan shot Camille without even blinking.”

I know he is angry and I sit out the rest of the journey in silence, watching Paul trying to manipulate his nose back into shape, listening to him groan with pain and grab his head. I feel helpless.

The truck eventually stops. They have taken us to the
Vélodrome d'Hiver.
 I recognise it immediately. We came here once to see the circus. A gendarme with a clip board orders us off and begins checking our names. I have difficulty leaving the truck. I recognise the gendarme. It is Anshel Drezner. He scans his list and places a tick beside my name. He tells Paul that he shouldn’t be here, only me as I was not born in France.

“Add me to the list”, Paul replies. “I won’t leave my father.”

Anshel looks confused.

“If you go in there you will have to board the trains. And you need treatment for that nose.” He looks at me.

“Tell him Solomon!”

I smile at Paul. I tell him that Anshel is right. Paul is now distraught and angry. Put me on the list he shouts. Anshel shrugs his shoulder.

*

We are now part of the multitude packed tightly along the concrete steps that surround the cycle track. The stench of urine is unbearable as is the heat. The enormous glass ceiling that covers the stadium has been painted blue to protect it from air raid attack but that only serves to prevent the heat from twelve-thousand bodies escaping into the sky. The ceiling has turned the colours to blue and grey, faces appear waxen and deathly. At first the only sound I hear is an incessant moan amplified by the confines of our prison to such an extent that it literally appears to hang in the air as a dark cloud. Then I hear the tannoy voice telling us to sit anywhere and Paul manages to find a space at the back that is not so crowded. The tannoy is relentless, a monotone voice constantly giving instructions.

Sit where you can. Do not try to escape. Help your neighbour.

Surrounding us are many gendarmes. The track itself is a bowl at the centre of the stadium about nine feet below the front row of seats. The high-banked wooden track used for cycle races has been dismantled and the area is full of German soldiers and more gendarmes. I am certain that this has been carefully planned. The gendarmes at the truck had a list and Hartmaan knew I was a Rabbi. The speed of it all frightens me. Only last month we were ordered to wear the star. Paul refused of course but since the burning of the Synagogue they have continued to pass laws and ordinances restricting our rights. My biggest disappointment was when they banned us from owning a radio. I couldn’t understand why they did that.

There seems to be a lot of children here, babies and small children who cry incessantly. Near us sits a man with a child, a little girl about six years old. She is pretty with a mop of black curly hair and her sweet innocent face smiles at me. The man introduces himself as Martin Cheym originally from Hungary. His wife Anais was born in Paris so they did not take her. I ask him why the little girl is here.

“An officer decided that Annabelle looked different. Roma he called her. Poor Anais is out of her mind with grief. We all are. Would you like some water?”

He tells me that he managed to pack some food and water in a satchel before they took him, along with a children’s book and a blanket for Annabelle. I gratefully drink a little of the water and Paul uses a small handful to wash the blood from his face before going off to speak to some of the gendarmes who are guarding us. Martin and I continue talking and trading our stories. He is a butcher who works at Les Halles preparing both Kosher and Teriefa meat. He tells me he has attended my Synagogue on occasion so my face is familiar to him. I apologise for not recognizing him and tell him about Anna and Paul and poor Camille.

“I fear we may have more of that”, he replies.

Paul returns and tells us that the guards do not know how long we will be here or what will happen to us when we leave. He has also learned that the toilets have been sealed to prevent us from escaping. He asked about food and they laughed at him.

A shot rings out and Annabelle screams. I notice a commotion occurring at the far side of the stadium. Some soldiers on the track have rifles pointed towards a group on the steps. Another shot and a body falls. It looks like a woman. The atmosphere immediately changes. People are on their feet some remonstrating with guards. A man stumbles past me clutching his face. A guard has hit him. The tannoy begins barking orders for everyone to sit down. Very slowly the turmoil subsides under the heat and the stench. I desperately need the toilet but shame prevents me from doing anything. Annabelle also complains. Her father takes her hand and leads her to the back of the steps. I notice a guard pointing further down. When Martin returns he tells me that a toilet of sorts has been set up near the race track but it is not very private.

They keep us here for five days without any help. After the first day I am beginning to think that we shall starve. Imagine my delight when on the second day two women come to us carrying a basket. They are Quakers and they offer us some cheese and bread and more importantly water. It is not much and they show even more kindness towards Annabelle by giving her a little chocolate. We only see them once though I occasionally notice others doing the same thing in other parts of the stadium.

Some of my time is spent talking to those around me, doing exercises and taking short walks with Paul to ease the pain in my leg. Once I read to Annabelle from the book her father has salvaged. It is
The Kingdom of Bees
by Francois Crozat. She enjoys looking at the pictures and asking me questions about the lives of bees. I tell her that she has to go to the countryside to see them properly. There are more flowers there.

“Will you take me”, she asks her father? He smiles and promises he will.

My main time is taken with performing my duties as Rabbi. After the first day with Paul’s help, I organize the Shacharit, the Minchah and the Maariv, our daily prayer times. Martin does not want to participate.

“I pray when I feel like it”, he says. I tell him that is good but it is also good to pray at regular times during the day. This keeps our lives focused on God. When we begin praying he takes Annabelle for a walk. I wish he didn’t do that. The stadium is now drenched with despair. There are bodies lying everywhere, some have succumbed to exhaustion and others are dead. Paul tells me that people have taken to committing suicide. I am having difficulty maintaining my focus. There are times when I want to scream and curse the world. Some do! Earlier today I saw a man his mind tormented by fear and despair leap to his feet and demand mercy.

“Why?” he screamed over and over! “We are human beings.”

He ran to the cycle track and began pleading with the guards for water. They taunted him by drinking from their canteens and spitting on the ground. Finally his desolation forced him to attempt to climb on to the track. That was when they shot him. He fell on to the track, a guard poured some water over his lifeless body and his comrades laughed as they dragged him away.

Paul does not want to participate in prayer either. I can see he is struggling with his emotions. I can only pray that they will not destroy him. I try to talk to him sometimes but he does not want to remember anything positive about his life. He has forgotten about his art and finds it difficult to speak about Camille. I tell him she was a beautiful woman.

“She was so full of life! It was strange for me when she first came to live with us; a woman in the house who was not Anna. But I quickly grew to like her especially when she played the piano. It reminded me of the sing-songs we had when you were young. Do you remember? And her voice! When she sang she lit up my soul. Oh my! How fortunate you were to have found her voice.”

“Please stop! I can’t bear thinking about her.”

At night I am unable to sleep properly. The heat is still intense and the stench of excrement is even more stifling. The moaning subsides and thankfully the tannoy stops but at night people attempt to escape so the air is regularly punctuated with gunshots and screams. When I do sleep my dreams are vivid and mostly about my life with Anna. I thank her soul for comforting me at such a time. My favourite dream and the one that comes to me most is time we spent in the Alps. She loved mountains and in my dream we are flying together through the valleys and coming to rest on a hillside covered in buttercups and meadow-rue, St. Bruno’s lilies and yellow globeflowers. She lies among the colours bathing me in the brightness of her spirit. She holds her arms out to embrace me and I fall between them feeling her body soften, feeling her lips on mine, her hands in my hair and gently caressing my back. I hear her voice singing sweetly among the birds overhead. They all descend to listen. Then I inevitably wake in the darkness and the fresh fragrant smell of her hair is quickly washed away by the stink of cruelty. At those moments an unfathomable longing empties my heart of love.