by Debra Barnes
I remembered the competitions at school in Metz to see who could blow the Tekiah HaGadol for the longest. In those days it had seemed like a game but the significance of the blowing of the shofar had never seemed more relevant than it did now.
At the end of the service, when the Torah scrolls had been returned to the makeshift ark, Rabbi Epstein stood in front of us to give his sermon. Nobody knew what to expect. He shifted from one foot to the other and fidgeted with the tassels on his prayer shawl.
‘Shana Tova. Happy New Year. My friends, my neighbours, we can’t know for sure if these wishes for a good new year will be fulfilled. I have been asked to pass on an announcement from the office of Pétain which has chosen today, Rosh Hashana, to pass a new law, the Statut des Juifs.’
****
As soon as the service finished, we returned home. Maman and Aunt Dora had prepared lunch in celebration of Rosh Hashanah: poached gefilte fish followed by chicken cooked with apples and plums with braised cabbage. They had saved rations for weeks to be able to serve such a feast. At the end of the meal they put out slices of cake, made with honey from a nearby farm, to symbolise our hope for a sweet new year. Maman was disappointed she couldn’t get any cinnamon, part of her traditional family recipe. I had little appetite following what I had heard that morning, but I forced myself to eat what was put in front of me.
We decided on the way back from Poitiers that we would wait until after lunch to share what we had learnt. We knew this could be our last festive meal for some time depending on how long it would take to defeat the Germans, and we were determined not to spoil it for the others. Once the meal was over, the young children were told to leave the table. It was now time for Papa and Uncle Isaac to pass on the terrible news.
‘How was the service?’ asked Aunt Dora. ‘What did you men get up to without the women there making sure you behaved yourselves?’ The women laughed.
‘The service was fine, but Rabbi Epstein’s sermon wasn’t what we were expecting to hear,’ said Papa.
‘Go on,’ urged Maman, the joy draining from her face as she registered the look of despair in his eyes.
‘He told us Pétain and his anti-Semitic monkeys have given us a present for Rosh Hashanah. It’s called the Statuts des Juifs.’ Papa’s voice shook with anger as he explained. ‘From today, as Jews, we have lost all our rights.’ He stopped again and looked around the table. The men were silent. Maman, Aunt Dora and my cousins Anna and Simone looked confused.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, as an example, any Jew who still has a business has had it taken away as of today.’
‘What? That’s madness. How can they steal someone’s business?’ demanded Aunt Dora.
‘They can do whatever they want because they are doing it to please the Germans. But wait, there is more.’
‘What else?’
‘Jews may only shop during certain hours in the afternoon.’
‘You mean when there will be nothing left to buy!’ said Bubbe.
‘Jews won’t be allowed to go to the cinema. There will be a curfew and we’re not allowed to go out after dark.’ At this point Papa stopped to take my mother’s hand in his. ‘Rosa, Jews are banned from going to public parks, like the one we went to when we were courting and where I asked you to be my wife.’ We knew the stories of how my father would ‘accidentally’ bump into my mother on the street near where she lived and take her for walks in the parks of Metz. Tears filled my mother’s eyes and I was furious that those bastards had made her cry.
This was the moment when I understood nothing would ever be the same again. We were used to being blamed for the lack of work in France and the state of the economy, being called dirty Jews and chased home from school. Yet the Statuts des Juifs marked the nadir in our lives.
The radio continued to be our best way of finding out what was going on in the world. Radio Londres kept its promise to broadcast every day, sending messages of solidarity from across the Channel and urging the French not to give up hope and to join the fight for freedom, but there was little news of what was happening to the Jewish people.
****
The last three months of the year passed slowly. There was no work for a fifteen-year-old Jew. My irritation at having nothing productive or helpful to do was affecting my mood and I found myself miserable much of the time. Meanwhile, Samuel and Claude were happy enough at school: their teacher Madame Noyer was kind and they had each other and their friends to help pass the time. Samuel had Ernst while Claude had Little Louis, such a sweet kid!
Maman had her hands full with the twins – now running everywhere but bringing everyone much joy as they did so – and having to be incredibly inventive with the limited supplies available. When we left Behonne, Papa had been forced to abandon most of his clothing merchandise. Thankfully he had the foresight to strap a few rolls of material to the roof of the car which Maman was now able to use to clothe us.
Maman was also resourceful when it came to feeding the family as food became scarce. Although she hated it at the time, she now missed the days when Papa had arranged for a shochet to come from Poitiers every few weeks to slaughter chickens in the kosher manner. When we first arrived in Sarry, we had to find a way to continue this tradition.
‘Where will this slaughter take place?’ Maman asked when Papa first announced his plans. ‘There is no abattoir in the village.’
‘I thought we could do it in our barn,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘Albert, please. We have enough screaming and crying from my mother and the twins. I don’t want to listen to screaming chickens too. What of the mess and the smell?’
Maman was determined not to allow the chicken slaughter to happen at our home and instead Papa found a barn near the school to use. It was my job to visit the families and tell them when to bring their chickens. When a chicken is slaughtered in the kosher way it doesn’t die instantly and it was normal to see chickens running around with their heads hanging to the side. People would argue about which chicken belonged to whom as the birds ran around in circles making it hard to keep track. One chicken ran across the street and I had to catch it and bring it back. We laughed a lot at the expense of the poor chickens.
Now there was little left to slaughter and the Statuts des Juifs meant the shochet could come no more. It was a blow to our morale but we thought we could find another way and went to Poitiers to see Rabbi Epstein.
‘The kosher slaughter of animals has been banned,’ confirmed the rabbi.
‘What shall we tell our neighbours?’
‘God will allow us to eat non-kosher meat to save our lives and after the war we will resume our kashrut laws.’
When we returned home we asked Maman what to tell Bubbe.
‘We can tell her what the rabbi said, or we tell her nothing and she will have no reason to think the meat is not kosher,’ Papa said.
‘I think we should tell her the truth. If this is the worst they can do to us, then let it make us stronger,’ I said.
‘I agree with you, Son. But I’m not sure this is the worst they have planned for us.’
Samuel
Sarry
November 1940
Monsieur and Madame Klein, Little Louis’s parents, were a young couple from Metz. Little Louis was six and his younger brother Victor was the same age as my sisters and would sometimes play with them. Monsieur Klein had the brightest red hair I had ever seen; it made him look almost like his head was on fire! The Klein family were allocated a home near the school but on the opposite side of the Route Nationale 10. The road was downhill to Sarry and it was not unusual for cars to pick up speed as they passed through the tiny village. At first Monsieur Klein came to school after class to collect Little Louis and walk him home but after a while he allowed him to walk by himself. Then Monsieur Klein would wait on the side of the road outside his house and tell Little Louis when it was safe to cross.
One cold autumn afternoon we came out of school after
our lessons and a priest was waiting for us. Sarry was too small to even have a church so he only came to teach catechism in a house across the street. The local Catholic boys went, as instructed, but us Jewish kids started to walk away. One of the Catholic boys must have told the priest my name because he called out to me:
‘Samuel! I am talking to you. Come here!’
‘No, I’m Jewish. I don’t need to learn catechism,’ I shouted back.
‘I’m going home before the priest calls my name,’ declared Little Louis, running off towards home. ‘Bye, Claude, see you tomorrow!’
‘Bye!’ replied Claude.
When Little Louis saw his father waiting on the other side of the road he ran towards him. He didn’t hear the German officer’s jeep approaching at high speed, nor did he hear his father warning him to wait and not cross. The jeep hit Little Louis as he ran across the road, the dull thud of the impact stunning us into silence. His small body was lifted up by the collision, twisting in the air like an acrobat and then falling fast like a sack of grain into an awkward pile on the road. His father and school friends watched helplessly; I pulled Claude to my side to protect him from the horrific scene. Monsieur Klein rushed over. He knelt down in the road and lifted Little Louis’s head on to his lap. His cap had fallen off, but his face looked untouched except for one line of blood trickling slowly down his forehead, as red as his father’s hair. Monsieur Klein sobbed as he held the lifeless body. Madame Klein emerged from the house holding Victor on her hip to see what the commotion was and stopped in horror when she realised it was Little Louis lying dead in the road. I looked at the Germans in the jeep. They seemed irritated by this inconvenience, which was delaying their journey. The officer in the front seat shouted at the mourning father, ‘What is your name?’
‘Baruch Klein,’ he whispered, unable to find his voice in his state of shock.
‘I said, what is your name!’ demanded the officer.
‘His name is Baruch Klein and that is his son,’ answered one of his neighbours.
‘Oh well, one Jew less,’ announced the German and drove off, picking up speed again and without looking back.
****
The next day, Papa told us the Klein family had left Sarry, afraid of repercussions from the German officers. Poor Claude was still traumatised by the sight of his friend being hit by the jeep.
‘But why? Those poor people, haven’t they suffered enough?’ asked Maman.
‘The Nazis could return to make sure there is no one to make a complaint against them,’ said Papa. ‘No one wants to draw attention to themselves. They are scared for Victor’s sake. Rabbi Epstein made arrangements for them to stay elsewhere.’
‘But the funeral? The shiva? They should sit and let us help them through this,’ said Maman, who knew the comfort neighbours and friends could bring at times of such sorrow.
‘The rabbi has promised to say prayers for them all week. I said goodbye to the family from all of us. Please God we will see them again when the war is over.’
Pierre
Sarry
March 1941
Jews who had the chutzpah to think we had endured enough discrimination were soon proven wrong. Pétain and the Vichy government established Le Commissariat Général aux Questions Juives (The Office for Jewish Affairs) after the Germans announced plans to set up a similar department in Paris. The French were not trying to protect us by putting themselves in charge – they wanted to keep control rather than handing it over to the Germans. Xavier Vallat was appointed commissionaire. He was instantly recognisable; he wore a black patch over one eye and had a wooden leg due to injuries sustained in the last war. Vallat was responsible for Jewish affairs on both sides of the demarcation line. Bubbe said it was more like he was responsible for anti-Jewish affairs. One of his first actions was to order a census of all the Jews in France.
****
When we first came to Sarry we were surprised by the wild boar that came out of the woods to forage at night. They came right up to the house, practically knocking on the door. My brothers enjoyed seeing the animals so close to our home; a few years before they would have run away from a wild boar, but now they wanted to keep one as a pet. At that time our family had no interest in eating this treif, but as the war progressed and food shortages became a way of life, we were tempted to eat non-kosher meat. As it happened, we never got the chance as hunting went from being a hobby to a survival technique. There were fewer and fewer wild animals. The local game warden, Monsieur Auger, was kept busy patrolling the area to ensure no snares were set or poaching was going on.
We were surprised one evening when there was a knock at our door – few people ventured out after dark anymore.
‘Who can it be?’ asked Papa, rising from his chair. He was at the kitchen table attempting to carve a small toy farm animal from wood, despite not being particularly skilled at woodwork.
‘I don’t think we should answer,’ said Maman, grabbing his arm. She always seemed nervous these days. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to notice that my dear mother appeared to have lost her joie de vivre.
‘Perhaps it’s an emergency, a friend who needs our help,’ replied Papa and he went downstairs where Uncle Isaac had just had a similar conversation with Aunt Dora. They opened the door to find the game warden waiting. People in the village were already suffering from the effects of food rations and difficult living conditions, but Monsieur Auger appeared to be thriving. His tummy hung over his belt and his cheeks were red as if he had recently enjoyed a good meal with plenty of wine. As if that wasn’t proof enough, he even had the nerve to burp when he spoke to us – that enraged me so much I had to stop myself from hitting him straight in his fat gut.
‘Bonsoir,’ he said.
‘Bonsoir, Monsieur. How can we help you?’
‘I have been asked to compile a list of everyone in the village. You must give the names of all the people who live in this house.’
‘What is this list for, Monsieur?’
‘The gendarmerie has asked for it and given me full authority to obtain the information,’ said Monsieur Auger, with an air of arrogance.
‘We are law-abiding people and we have nothing to hide. I will give you the information you ask for.’ Papa listed everyone who lived in our house.
‘From where are you relocated?’
‘We have all come from Metz.’
‘And, finally, you will tell me what religion you are.’
‘Who is this nosey person asking all these questions?’ shouted Bubbe from inside.
‘Mame, sshh!’ said Uncle Isaac.
‘Why do you need to know that?’ Papa asked the game warden.
‘Just tell me!’
‘We are Jewish.’
Monsieur Auger recorded the information in his notebook, said good evening and left.
When he was sure the front door was securely shut, Uncle Isaac said, ‘Albert, I hope we have not made a mistake this evening.’
‘Surely we won’t be punished for telling the truth…’ But his tone was uncertain.
****
That summer a second Statuts des Juifs was passed, forbidding Jews from working in certain professions. This didn’t affect our family as we were simple folk, merchants and labourers rather than doctors or lawyers.
‘Let us not be under the illusion this is all down to Hitler. These laws have been brought in by Pétain,’ said Papa. ‘No doubt he’s looking to pass on the blame for his defeat at the hands of the Germans. We can be sure he is no friend of ours.’
****
Rabbi Epstein came to visit. ‘It will be Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur soon enough. We’re not welcome to congregate in the town hall as we did last year. All other venues we have used since our relocation are now closed and I’m at a loss as to what to do.’
‘We could hold the service here,’ said Papa, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘It’s out of the way and would not attract attention from the authorities. If we empty the house,
we could fit in over a hundred people.’
I looked over to Maman to see what her reaction would be. Unlike the time when Papa had wanted to turn our barn into a chicken slaughterhouse, this time Maman nodded in agreement. ‘That is an excellent idea, Albert. I would be happy to offer our home for the holy day services.’
Uncle Isaac was equally enthusiastic. Everyone agreed it felt good to offer a practical solution and to do something, anything, that would help the community in these hard times.
‘Rabbi, what do you know of what is going on? What is happening to our people?’
‘What I have heard is bad. Thousands of Jews have been arrested in the past few weeks.’
‘For what reason?’
‘There is no reason. Only for being Jewish refugees.’
‘We are Jewish refugees!’ exclaimed Maman.
‘But we have lived in France for over twenty years and we have applied for French citizenship,’ said Papa. No one mentioned that the applications had been made nearly a year ago and we hadn’t heard anything yet.
‘Do you know of the camp de la route de Limoges?’ asked Rabbi Epstein.
‘The camp just outside Poitiers?’
‘Yes. It is an awful place, taken over by the Germans but being run by the French. They’ve split it into two. One half is full of gypsies and the other is full of Jews. I’ve asked the authorities if I may visit the Jewish prisoners – the official name is “internees”, but I think we all know these people are prisoners – but they’ve refused me entry. Thank God for my friend Father Samuel Bisset, the priest of College St Augustus in Poitiers. Father Bisset is permitted to enter the camp every day to visit the gypsies and he has offered to visit the Jewish camp too, even though he doesn’t have permission to do so. He has been there on numerous occasions now and brings me news of the prisoners and takes letters to their families in and out. He is a wonderful man.’
