by Jay Parini
Whenever his attention locked onto me like this, my heart raced. Although I considered us equals in most regards, he was also my teacher, and there is no holier connection between two people than teacher and pupil. Indeed, the word torah simply means “instruction,” though not as the mere transmission of information, as in school. What Benjamin taught, by example, was a way of regarding everything in the world as a text that, with sufficient intellectual pressure, one could interpret.
“You must know that I want nothing but your friendship,” I said.
This awkwardly formulaic fragment pleased him, and he said, “Tomorrow we shall begin reading Kant together, as we planned. You would like that?”
“Yes, that would be good,” I said, tentatively, not wishing to appear overly eager. I had indeed just finished Hermann Cohen’s insipid but fashionable book on Kant’s theory of experience, and I was full of questions, guesses, inklings. As usual, Benjamin had been able to anticipate my intellectual growth, and he would lead me forward. Even if he didn’t, I knew there could be no better way to spend one’s days than reading Kant with Benjamin.
“Will Dora participate?” I asked, nervously.
“Just you and me,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. It would have been unkind to say more, to put into words a feeling that was better left unexpressed. Sometimes, in friendship, it is important to know what not to say. And sometimes only the stout of heart are willing to say nothing.
WALTER BENJAMIN
Of all the ways of acquiring books, writing them oneself is often regarded as the most praiseworthy method….Writers are merely people who write books, not because they are poor and cannot afford them, but because they are dissatisfied with the volumes they could buy in a bookstore.
6
LISA FITTKO
It was late June 1940, in the camp in Gurs. I remember waking up one morning convinced that Paulette and I must flee that day or be captured by the Nazis. There was no doubt about it: The Germans were coming. One did not know where they were exactly, but they were close. You could see them coming, their boots and buttons flashing, in the eyes of the French guards, who had been languid for days, hesitant to command; the stuff that makes a person willing to give an order and stand behind it had been drained from them. They were dummies filled with straw.
“We’re going today,” I whispered to Paulette.
“How can you say that?”
“Going,” I said.
“Going where?”
“South. As far south as we can get.” I knew that south was the only possible direction.
I had managed to steal release certificates from the commandant’s office, and I gave one to Paulette. We wrote our names on them and forged the commandant’s signature: These might come in handy one day for purposes of identification. I doubted that we could really use them today.
“How did you get these?” Paulette asked.
“Nosy people don’t survive in times of war,” I said. “Ask fewer questions.” I don’t know what came over me, but I was no longer in a mood to let events dominate me. I was also a little frustrated by Paulette, who seemed to lack initiative. She wanted to pretend that a war wasn’t really on.
“What are you girls doing?” the guard asked, watching us from a distance of fifty yards.
“I’m writing a dirty novel,” I said. “Do you want to read it, Jacques?” His name was not Jacques, but he looked to me like a Jacques, so I called him that. It seemed to annoy him, which made me that much happier to have found the name.
He just scoffed, turning his back to light a cigarette. I don’t think he had any notion of what to make of us. We were all, in his mind, deeply peculiar.
“I’m not sure about this,” said Paulette. “The Germans are everywhere. That’s what the radio says. Even in the south.”
“You can’t trust the radio,” I said. “It’s propaganda, whatever they say.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “Look,” I said, “if we stay here, we’re finished. At least in the countryside we have a chance. We can hide. It’s easy!”
“I want to find Otto,” she said.
“And I want Hans. But we’re not going to find them here. Not in Gurs. If the Germans capture us, we’ll be shipped back to the Fatherland. We’ll be shot in a ditch. Tortured first, then shot in a ditch, and you know it.”
The rumors from Germany, Poland, and Belgium had been drifting through the air like poison, and we all knew that some of them must be true. The Germans were committing atrocities on a scale new to modern history.
Paulette, who was usually quite composed, suddenly began to tremble. Her lips were blue and tightly drawn. Tears glistened on her cheeks. “I can’t go with you,” she said. “I’ll stay behind.”
I don’t know why I did this, but I slapped her. “You mustn’t lose your nerve, not now!” I whispered loudly. “If you want to see Otto again, you have got to hold steady.”
It was quite unlike me, but I put my arms around her. Paulette was still a child, really. She required comfort, and clear boundaries. I must use whatever authority I had; Paulette needed that. She needed me to remain strong.
“You’re so kind to me, Lisa,” she said, her head on my shoulder.
“We’re friends, aren’t we?” I patted her back lightly.
Jacques, meanwhile, stared at us from his end of the barracks, smoking. I simply stared back, and that was enough to get him to avert his eyes.
That morning the commandant himself came to visit with us; it was the first time anybody had ever seen him here, in a barracks. The women swarmed around him, shouting, “What’s going to happen to us, monsieur commandant? What’s the plan?”
The plan: a comic notion. Everybody wants to believe that somebody is in charge and has a program. This is doubtless why religion is so popular, especially among the masses, who have no sense of being able to control their own fate.
“Where are the Germans?” one of the women shouted above the others. “Tell us the truth!”
“The situation is under control,” he said.
“They say we are losing the war! Is this so?” another woman asked.
He waved at her to dismiss the allegation. “Don’t believe these things you hear,” he said. “There is too much wagging of tongues.”
“The Germans have taken Paris, and they’ll soon be here!” the same woman maintained.
“It’s all rumor, nothing more,” he said with a firmness that revealed a lack of hard information. Like an aging, third-rate actor’s, his chest swelled and his voice grew comically rotund. “You must not panic, ladies. The French government assumes full responsibility for your protection.”
It has always amazed me how platitudinous and empty people in official positions can sound. Having purposefully donned the mask of their function, they quickly lose touch with anything resembling a human voice.
“They will kill us!” the woman shrieked.
The commandant pointed a chubby finger at her. “You must not listen to those who try to frighten you,” he said. “If everybody stays put, there will be less trouble. We will guarantee your safety.”
I whispered into Paulette’s ear: “We’re getting out of here!”
By now, she understood that we had no choice. The Germans would eat this petty commandant for lunch and the rest of us for dessert.
At midday, a shiny black Hispano appeared at the gate of the camp: the kind of car only a high-ranking officer would use. Several men rushed out to greet the gentleman, who despite his polished brass and crisp uniform looked quite desperate; his eyes had the wild look of the hunted, and he was hunched and squinting. He was accompanied by two obsequious underlings and a driver.
There was general confusion in the courtyard, with soldiers leaving their posts and rushing about. A current of panic spread among the detainees, with shouts and cries, an
d the guards, for the first time, seemed not to care. Many appeared to have gone back to their own quarters, perhaps to pack their belongings.
I knew in my gut that the Germans were close and that we must leave at once. “Stay right beside me,” I told Paulette. “When the guard asks where we are going, flash your certificate. Don’t tell him anything, even if he asks.”
“We’re going to do this, aren’t we?”
I nodded, then grinned.
Fortunately, Paulette went along with me. I had not so much convinced her as not allowed her the possibility of opposing me. The idea that she might remain behind, without me, was on another level quite unthinkable. Paulette and I were, for the time being, a couple.
A dozen or so women had gathered in the courtyard, arguing among themselves about the progress of the Germans, while only two guards chatted to each other by the front gate. Dogs were barking, and a few chickens squawked. I remember seeing a red shirt flap in the breeze on a makeshift clothesline. An occasional plane zoomed over. I had not had the foresight to pack my things the night before but, like Paulette, managed to stuff what I really needed into a rucksack.
With studied nonchalance, we strode toward the gate.
“Hey, where are you girls going?” one guard asked us. His voice did not register great concern, however, and he was almost at once distracted by some shouting elsewhere in the camp.
“I have a pass,” I said, waving my certificate. “So does she.” I nodded in Paulette’s direction. “Ask the commandant if you want—he has released us.”
The young man looked temporarily confused, but we didn’t wait for more questions. We just walked out of Gurs, not looking back.
It’s odd how easy the impossible tasks in life can seem, and how difficult the simple ones. The notion of merely walking out of Gurs had never struck me before this morning. But there we were, free and strolling under sunny skies. Not even our shadows followed us.
At last, I could not resist playing Lot’s wife and looking back: The guard was now preoccupied with someone else. Other women were obviously trying the same thing. I could see that nobody was going to come after us, and I made a slight leap in the air. A thrill like I’d not felt in years—part fear, part exhilaration—coursed through my body.
We just kept walking, steadily, heads slightly down, at a fair pace. We walked down a dirt road lined with plane trees. In an hour or so, Gurs had disappeared behind us: a blur of bad memories. We had no food, no money, nothing, but it hardly mattered. For the moment, we were free.
Then I heard a vehicle closing in behind us, and I thought all was lost, especially when this drab military car stopped only a few paces ahead of us. A young officer rolled down the window to greet us in passing. He had sharp blue eyes and yellow hair, parted neatly in the middle. His teeth were ridiculously straight and white. “Hey, girls! Want a lift?” he said.
It was obvious from his tone that he was not taking us back to Gurs, so I got in. It was important to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and Gurs. Paulette, though hesitant, followed me.
“Where are you girls coming from?” he asked.
“We’re Belgians,” I said, making sure to catch Paulette’s eye. She nodded, assuring me that she understood.
The officer grunted, as if my remark explained everything. He soon launched into a monologue about a summer holiday that he had spent, years ago, in Belgium. In time of war, people become obsessed with their own past, with the story of their lives; they begin to live everything all over again, sifting for evidence of a kind that cannot be found.
I was by now exhausted, and nodded off in the back seat, leaving Paulette to listen and respond to our driver, whose name was Lieutenant Ratié. The snatches of talk I overheard did not inspire my confidence in the leadership of the French army.
By the time we pulled into Pontacq, a rural village with long sloping hills rising just beyond it, I was refreshed and wide-eyed. The adrenaline surged as we stopped directly in front of police headquarters, a stone building with shuttered windows. Paulette reached for my hand like a frightened child.
“You girls wait here,” the lieutenant said, and went inside.
Paulette’s instinct was to flee, but I trusted our rambling officer, who emerged from the building with two overweight policemen at either elbow. “These women are Belgian refugees,” he explained. “The Gestapo wants to kill them. I will hold you personally responsible for their safety.” For the first time, his manner seemed plausible.
Inside the station, we showed our false certificates of release. (I held in reserve my old Czech passport, which would have complicated our already complex story.) I had become Lise Duchamps. My companion was Paulette Perrier. Nice names, I thought. I should have been a novelist.
The constable in charge assured us that we’d be looked after, and we were. They drove us to a farm at the edge of town, where the elderly farmer’s wife, Madame Derauges, welcomed us with feigned enthusiasm, anticipating a nice subsidy from the police. We were given beds in a rough wooden bunkhouse beside the garden; it had high rafters, a hayloft, and cracked windows, but it was private and not uncomfortable. That night we ate our first decent meal in months: thick bacon slices, fresh bread and salt, turnips, dandelion salad. There was even a carafe of syrupy local wine.
“There’s a village pump at the end of the road,” Madame Derauges said. “Wash yourselves and your clothes there. And don’t forget to close the gate! We keep hens, you see. If they get loose, it’s impossible to find them.”
She pointed to the outhouse that she and her husband used. “Just ignore the outhouse,” she said. “That belongs to us. Use the garden. It’s good for the plants.”
When the police left, the old woman began talking more freely. “Nobody knows where the Germans are,” she said. “There are rumors. I have no idea how safe you are here. How safe am I?” She cocked her head to one side, almost threateningly. “I may not be able to lie to protect you,” she said. “This farm…it’s all we have in the world. I can’t risk it, you see.” Her husband was not to be seen, though she referred to “we” on every possible occasion. Apparently the old man was living with their daughter in a nearby town, having quarreled with his wife very badly just a few days before we arrived.
For most of the week, we stayed put. After Gurs, it was agreeable to return to a semblance of normalcy. We washed our clothes at the pump, helped the old woman around the farm with various chores, did a lot of cooking. In the second week, toward evening, we drifted into the village to sit under a huge linden tree on a bench and chat with locals. Refugees would stagger by, often moving in small clusters like ghosts, and we’d question them about the progress of the war. Several of the women from Gurs passed through, and we heard from them that soon after we escaped the entire camp was broken up. The women were scattered like chicken feed into the countryside. Once, a motley group of soldiers came through the village, but even they seemed ignorant of what was really going on. One of them actually assured me that the war was over! “I am going back to Paris,” he said. “My mother will be so pleased.”
One night a motorcycle pulled up to the bench where Paulette and I were sitting, and we couldn’t believe our eyes. It was Alfred Sevensky, a Pole whom we had both known in Paris. When the war broke out, he joined the Polish Legion and they had fought the Germans on their march toward Paris. He told us they had been thoroughly routed near the Somme; those who were not killed, injured, or captured were on the run, like himself. For the time being, Alfred would come to stay with us. It was oddly comforting to be with someone whom one knew, however slightly, from an earlier, easier time.
One day in the late afternoon the bus from Pau, a neighboring village, stopped in the square at Pontacq, and a small group of refugees got off. Although the chances of knowing any of them were slender, one nevertheless grew attentive. These were people like oneself, after al
l. My gaze was drawn to a perilously thin old man with long white hair and yellowish eyes; he leaned on a cane as he approached. Paulette suddenly grabbed my arm tightly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I am seeing things!”
“What are you talking about?”
“My father!”
The old man was indeed her father. Der Alte, as we called him, the Old One. He had made his way to Gurs in search of his daughter, and he had just kept going. It was a miracle that he had found her.
This was obviously a moment of tremendous feeling for both of them, but what surprised me was the casualness of the encounter, the way they suppressed strong emotions. The two walked in slow motion into each other’s arms, and they remained for some time quite still. I could see der Alte’s eyes, their yellowness like the late-afternoon sky, dusty and worn, with a touch of wildness in it, as in a lion’s eyes.
“Come,” I said at last. “Let’s bring der Alte home. He looks hungry.”
“Please,” he said. “We must go quickly to Lourdes. The Germans will be here in a day or two.”
“We can hide in the forest,” I said. “They’ll never find us.”
Der Alte shook his head. It was quite possible that Paulette and I could blend with the French people, but there was no way to hide him. He was a German Jew: There could be no doubt about his origins.
“It is not safe here,” he said. “Ask the women who were on the bus.”
Paulette did her best to reassure him, and (reluctantly) he agreed to come back to the farm with us. The lure of a good meal and a bunk was not easily resisted. He had been traveling for days on end without sufficient food or rest; indeed, he was on the brink of collapse when he found us.
One of the other refugees from the same bus was Joseph Kaminski, another Pole. He bore horrifying tales of his escape from a camp that was overrun by the Germans. That night, he joined us as well, and we made a campfire and fried bacon and potatoes. Much to my amazement and joy, he said he had seen Hans, and it thrilled me to have confirmed what I already knew in my heart: Hans was alive.
