The French War Bride (16 page)

1942

W
hen I awoke on the morning of July 16, it seemed like just another day. Bastille Day—the French national holiday of freedom—had been two days before. That was a day that was supposed to be special, but the Germans had forbidden any type of celebration.

I did not learn that this day was different until lunch. I sat down at the table next to Isolde, one of my roommates.

“Isn't it horrible?” she whispered.

I looked at my bowl, thinking she was talking about the soup. It actually looked quite good today—it had small but identifiable pieces of potato, and even held the promise of meat.

My blank look must have tipped her off. “You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?”

“About the
rafle
.”

It meant raid—or roundup. The word made my stomach curl. “What rafle?”

“It started in the dead of night. Around four this morning. The police are rounding up all the Jews. Thousands and thousands and thousands.”

“The police? But the police are French. The Nazis are the ones who hate the Jews.”

Isolde lifted her shoulders. “I guess the Nazis told them to.”

Geraldine leaned across the table. “They're sending them to the camps.”

My stomach sank like a stone at the bottom of a pond. We had all heard of the camps. We knew they were horrible places, but exactly why was a mystery, because no Jew ever escaped and came back to tell us.

Some said they were work camps, where the prisoners were forced to quarry stone or pave roads or do some other type of grueling labor for hours and hours, with not enough food or water. Aside from the lack of water, it didn't sound all that different from the life of the typical Parisian. This was the experience Pierre described when he talked about the prisoner-of-war camp where he'd been held.

There were rumors, of course . . . whispered, bloodcurdling tales of cruelty and torture and murder. They seemed like ghost stories—too outlandish and awful to be real.

“They're even gathering up women and children,” Isolde whispered. “They're taking them to the Vel' d'Hiv.”

The Vel' d'Hiv was what the locals called the Vélodrome d'Hiver—the winter racetrack. It was a large indoor cycle track with a glass roof, not too far from the Eiffel Tower. The roof had been painted dark blue to keep it from being a target for aircraft attack.

“I heard that the police have arrested nearly the entire eleventh arrondissement,” Geraldine said.

—

That is where Joshua lived. That is also where Pierre worked. I could not eat, but I could not just get up and leave. I sat there, nauseous. I needed to see if Joshua and his mother were all right.

When the girls cleared their plates, I stood. I could not stay at work any more than I could stop my heart from beating.

I hurried to my room and quickly changed into street clothes. All hotel personnel were forbidden from wearing their uniforms outside—plus I had to have my papers. One could not go anywhere without papers.

One of my roommates was passing in the stairwell, her arms laden
with linens. “I just got word that my aunt is very sick,” I said. “Please tell Supervisor Leharte that I've had to rush off to tend to her.”

—

I didn't wait for her response. I hurried down the stairs and outside. It was hot, the kind of hot that makes your clothes stick to your skin and causes sweat to trickle down the inside of your brassiere.

I headed to the Métro. I had to show my papers to no less than three German soldiers. I finally disembarked at Le Marais and climbed the stairs out of the Métro to see three policemen hustling two women and five children into the back of a truck. Their loud, frightened, heartbroken sobs tore the air.

I scurried down a side street toward Joshua's apartment. The street was alarmingly empty. The building, usually swarming with people, was silent. I raced up the rickety stairs to the third floor and found the door standing open, hanging from just one hinge. The apartment was in chaos. Furniture was toppled, clothing was strewn all over, and the kitchen counters were bare. The cabinets hung open. Every crumb of food, every teaspoon of flour, was gone. Nothing remained on the walls but a broken mirror.

I hardly recognized myself in it. My eyes were wild, my mouth red from where I had been biting my lips. I had been crying, and hadn't even realized it.

Out the open window, I heard a scream. I turned to see a woman holding a baby, struggling with a policeman. He was dragging her to a truck, and she was resisting. As I watched, another police officer hit her with the butt of a rifle.

The smack of the gun against her skull reverberated in the eerily quiet air. I gasped and watched her fall. The first policeman grabbed her baby as it tumbled from her arms, then loaded it into the truck as if it were a bag of beans. The two officers then seized the unconscious woman and tossed her into the truck beside him.

I closed my eyes and slumped to the floor. I must have sat there for some time, trying to think what to do.

I had no idea where to find Joshua. I could only pray that he had gotten word and taken his family out of there. If not . . . if they were at the Vel' d'Hiv . . . well, I had to find a way to get them out.

Yvette. She always seemed to know what to do. I would go find Yvette, and she would help.

1942

O
h, my God.” Yvette's hand flew to her mouth as we rounded the corner and saw the Vel' d'Hiv. A crowd of buses, lorries, and military trucks were parked in front. French police in their dashing blue uniforms were escorting what looked like entire families—men, women, children, the elderly—into the building.

Nausea rose in my throat.

“Do you think they're here?” Yvette asked.

“I hope not, but I fear they are.”

Yvette looped her arm through mine. “Come on.”

“Do you think we can just charge in there?”

“I don't see why not. They seem to have no problem with women going inside.” Her mouth took on a grim set, and her eyes narrowed with anger. Yvette's anger was a terrifying force, because anger made her fearless.

She marched me up to the door, where two policemen stood guard. “We're looking for our brother, Pierre Michaud.”

“I don't know him,” said the shorter one.

“He's a policeman with the second sous-prefecture, eleventh arrondissement.”

“Well, he's either here, or out in the trucks. All police are on this task today.”

“All of them?”

Both men nodded.

“Why are these people being arrested? What crime have they committed?” I asked.

“They are Jews.”

My temper flashed. “I thought the police were to keep the peace, not do the Nazis' dirty work.”

Yvette elbowed me sharply.

“We're just following orders,” said the taller officer.

“Could you please let us in so we can look for our brother?” Yvette batted her eyes at the younger man. “Our aunt is very ill, the ambulances are not working, and we need his help getting her to a hospital.”

“I have orders to keep this door secure.”

“And so you are. You are letting no one out. But surely no one would mind a couple of French girls going inside.”

“I cannot.”

Yvette pulled a stub of pencil out of her purse. I gasped as she slowly, deliberately unbuttoned the top button on her blouse, her eyes on the officer the whole time, and pulled a piece of paper from her brassiere.

The policeman's eyes ate her up. His mouth opened; he licked his lips.

“Perhaps you could just look the other way for a few moments while we go in,” she suggested. Using the back of her purse as a hard surface, she scribbled something down. “And then perhaps I won't look the other way if you come to visit me tonight.” She dangled the address in front of him.

“If he won't do it, I will,” said the taller policeman beside him, reaching for her address.

Yvette shifted her winsome smile.

With a muttered oath, the first policeman plucked the piece of paper from her fingers. “Very well. But be quick about it. And if you're caught, I had nothing to do with it.”

She blew him a kiss and pulled me along inside.

“What on earth are you going to do when he shows up tonight?” I asked her.

“If he goes to that address, he'll find himself at a butcher shop across town. Come.”

We walked into the dome. It was dim despite the strong sunlight outside; the painted glass roof let in a little light, but not much. The stench of urine and sweaty bodies was overpowering.

“Good heavens! Don't they have any restrooms?”

“No. They closed them off,” a thin woman next to us said. “Apparently they have windows in them, and they're afraid we'll escape.”

“This is horrible,” Yvette said. We worked our way through the standing crush of people, looking for Joshua, for his mother, for Pierre. It was so crowded, it was impossible for me to see much more than the shoulders in front of me. Yvette was taller, but her view was impeded nearly as much as mine.

The track was a steep, paved slant, meant for bicyclists racing laps. A few cots had been set up on the slant. Very old, very ill, and very pregnant women lay on them. Everywhere, children were crying.

“Mademoiselle, avez-vous de l'eau?”

I turned to see a woman holding the hands of two small girls. “There is nothing to drink, and they are very thirsty.”

“I will see what we can do,” I promised.

I went up to a police officer standing off to the side. Yvette tagged along. “Excuse me. My sister and I are looking for our brother, a policeman from the eleventh arrondissement named Pierre Michaud. Do you know him?”

“No, I do not. And you should not be here.”

“Yes, yes, we know,” Yvette said. “Can you tell me where we can get water?”

“There is none.”

“None at all?”

“No.”

“No water, and no restrooms?” I could barely contain my indignation. “How long do you intend to hold these people here in these conditions?”

He lifted his shoulders. “We were ordered to bring them here and guard them. That is all I know.”

We spent hours in the Vel' d'Hiv, going round and round the track
and the seats, looking high and low, questioning every policeman we encountered. At last, in early evening, I finally spotted Joshua's mother sitting on a pile of blankets and coats in the middle of the track. I leaned down toward her. “Mrs. Koper?” I said.

Recognition flashed in her eyes. She clutched at me, sobbing.

I bent down and hugged her. “What happened?” I spoke in German, hoping she could understand that language a little.

A woman beside her with a blue scarf over her head answered me in German. “Around four this morning, there was a hard knock on the door. Before we could answer it, the French police kicked it open. They pulled us out of bed and told us to pack a change of clothes. One asked where we kept our valuables. We have no valuables. We gave him what little we had—a few centimes, a candlestick. They took us to a truck, then brought us here.”

Beside her, a little boy about two years of age started to cry. The woman pulled him on her lap. The child's pants were wet. I watched a wet spot grow on the woman's brown skirt, as well.

My heart sank. “Is Joshua here?”

“No. He was not at home. But the police asked for him by name.”

Joshua's mother grabbed my arm and said something I could not understand. I looked to the other woman. “She says that you must find him and warn him to leave France.”

Joshua's mother said something else. The woman listened to her for a moment, then leaned close. “She believes he is at the railroad yard in Neuilly, in an abandoned boxcar.”

My throat was almost too tight to talk. “I will do what I can.”

“Come with us,” Yvette urged. “We will try to get you out of here.”

The woman translated. Joshua's mother looked around her at the people with her huddled on ragtag blankets beside her, and said something in Yiddish.

The woman looked up at us. “She says, ‘No. I will not leave my family. My family is my fate.'”

“How about you?” I asked.

The woman forlornly shook her head. “I have three other children—and my sisters are here. How can I leave without them?”

Joshua's mother put her hand on mine. It was large-knuckled and dry, with skin the texture of a withered apple. She looked at me with eyes that were very much like Joshua's and spoke in Yiddish.

“She says, ‘I have lived my life,'” translated the woman. “‘But Joshua is young, and you must help him survive. Find him and convince him to leave France.'”

I nodded, my eyes full of tears. “We will go look for him now.”

We started for the door. We had only gone a few steps when a hand gripped my arm. “What are you two doing here?” demanded a familiar male voice.

Pierre! Why, oh why did we have to run into him now? “I could ask you the very same thing.”

“I am doing my job.”

“Rounding up defenseless women and children?” I asked.

Pierre's scowl deepened. “This is not the time or place for such a discussion.” He looked from me to Yvette. “I asked what you two are doing here, in a place where you clearly should not be. What were you discussing with those two women?”

“We are looking for the children of a friend,” Yvette said. To my surprise, Yvette pulled a photo of two young towheaded children from her pocket. “We asked if they had seen them. Unfortunately, they hadn't. But then they wanted to know if we could help them get out of here.”

Pierre gazed at the photo, his attention diverted. “Whose children are these?”

“They belong to the night janitor at the restaurant where I work.” Oh, Yvette was smooth! I envied her facile tongue. “Her name is Bernice Austin, and her husband was a French soldier. Like Thomas, he was killed during the invasion. She came home from work this morning to discover her children and the babysitter were gone. She came back to the restaurant, frantic.”

“Is she or the babysitter Jewish?”

“Non, but they live in the eleventh arrondissement, because it was all
they can afford, and she fears they were picked up in the rafle. We have been looking for you, because we knew you could help.”

Oh, mon Dieu! I could not believe how effectively Yvette worked Pierre. She gave him a gaze so trusting and adoring it would have melted a heart of stone. “Can you check and see if they are here?”

He blew out a hard sigh. “All the names have not yet been compiled into one list. It is an impossible task. But what is the name of the babysitter?”

“Anna Mireaux.”

“And the children's last name is Austin?”

“Yes.”

“I will make a note of those names and give it to the person compiling the master list. It is the best I can do.”

“Thank you, Pierre.” She batted her eyes at him. “Is there somewhere besides here that they're gathering Jews?”

“Some have been sent to Drancy. But there is no point in your going there. Let your friend look for her own children.”

“She is beside herself, and she has no one to help.”

Pierre gave a deep sigh. “Go home, both of you, and stay away from this affair.”

“You cannot tell us what to do,” I told him.

He glared at me. “I suppose you came to look for your Jewish boyfriend.”

“Non! That is over.”

“You were talking to those Jewesses as if you knew them.”

I gave him my most scornful look. “You are too coldhearted to understand simple human empathy.” I grabbed Yvette's arm. “Let's go and leave him to his dirty Nazi work.”

Yvette went along with me, although I saw her cast a longing gaze over her shoulder.

“Where did you get that photo of the children?” I asked Yvette.

“Off the body of a dead German soldier.”

I gasped. “Where?”

Her head inclined. “I cannot say, but I will tell you that it is very handy
to have. It's an acceptable excuse for almost anything.” She tapped the photo before putting it back in her pocket. “I suggest you get one yourself.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately, I do not see a lot of dead Nazis.” I looked around the Vélodrome, at the miserable mass of humanity huddled there. A wave of anger swept over me, so sudden and fierce that it left me breathless. How could they possibly gather up women and children and the elderly and crowd them into a building with no water, no bathrooms, no food? The rumors of what else awaited them made my stomach churn.

Getting out of the Vélodrome was not as easy as getting in. We had to show our papers to no less than five different guards, show the photograph three times, and use Pierre's name twice.

—

We took the Métro to the Pont de Neuilly, all the way at the end of the line. It was nearly dark by the time we arrived. Train tracks ran beside the Métro stop. We followed the tracks some distance away, and finally found an area where a side track branched off. Four boxcars sat apart, unattached to each other or a train.

“Do you think he's in one of those?”

“There's only one way to find out,” Yvette said. She reached up and knocked on the door of the first one.

“Joshua?” I called. “Joshua, are you there?”

No answer. We went to the second and repeated the same drill. At the third one, the door slid slowly open.

“Joshua!”

“Mon Dieu—Amélie! And Yvette! What on earth are you two doing here?”

“We went to the Vélodrome, and your mother said we should come warn you.”

“My mother is at the Vel' d'Hiv?”

“Yes, with all your aunts and cousins. There has been a huge rafle.”

“Oh, dear God.” He hung his head, then ran a hand across his face. “So now they're gathering up women and children?”

“Thousands of them,” Yvette said grimly.

A scuffling sound came from inside the boxcar.

“Is someone with you?” I asked.

He looked both ways, then reached down to help us up. “Yes. Come in. You mustn't stand outside.”

He pulled first Yvette, then me inside, then slid the door closed, leaving it open only a crack for air.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness—but soon I could make out five children sitting against the wall. The oldest looked to be only nine or ten; the youngest was probably three or four.

“Who are these children?” I knelt down beside a girl who was maybe eight, holding a child aged four or five on her lap.

“Polish orphans. I'm trying to get them to Switzerland.”

“You've been doing this all along?”

He nodded. “Many Jewish children were brought to France by friends and family after their parents died or were imprisoned—children from Poland or Austria or Germany or Romania. They came thinking France would be safe, but now . . .” He shrugged his shoulders, not needing to say anything further.

“How will you transport them?”

“There is a network—
L'Oeuvre de Secours aux Enfants
. We use trains and cars and trucks—whatever means we can find. It's nearly impossible to get papers that would allow them to stay here, even if we could find people who will take them in, so we smuggle them to safe houses or convents, or across the border.”