The Young Survivors

by Debra Barnes

  ‘YES!’ She almost spat out the word as she walked past and pointed at me.

  ‘OK, girls, come in one by one,’ said one of the monitors. The first girl in the queue was taken into the medical room.

  ‘What are they going to do to her?’ someone asked. Before anyone could answer, we heard crying coming from inside. The door was open allowing the girls who were next in line to peer in to see what was happening. They gasped in horror! Henriette grabbed me, and we hugged each other tightly. What was this horrible thing they were doing to that girl? Were they going to do the same to us? When the girl came out of the room we stared at her in horror. She had gone in with pretty curly dark hair, but she came out with just fuzz on her head. Her pale face was streaked with tears and she stared down at the floor refusing to look anyone in the eye. We tried to smile to make her feel better but we were all upset because we knew we were next.

  Henriette and I had worn our hair in the same short bob since we were babies. Lots of girls had this hairstyle but people tended to make a fuss over us because we looked the same. We enjoyed the attention that came with being identical twins.

  When it was our turn we had to be dragged into the medical room. I sat down first, trembling as the angry lady came towards me with the clippers in her hand. She told me if I didn’t keep still I would be tied to the chair, so I closed my eyes and pretended to be a statue. It was a game we used to play with our brothers. I felt the cold metal of the clippers against my head and the hair brushing my face as it fell to the floor.

  It didn’t take long. I got up and Henriette sat down instead. There was no mirror, but we didn’t need one to see what we looked like, we only had to look at each other. Our beautiful hair gone. I reached up to touch my head. It felt strange, like a soft, furry ball. I quickly pulled my hand away, worried in case I broke this new delicate part of me. It was easier for Henriette and I to touch each other’s heads than our own, and we each told the other it didn’t look so bad after all.

  ****

  A week after Samuel left the children’s home, Jacqueline ran into our dorm early one morning.

  ‘Girls, get dressed and pack your things as quickly as possible. We need to leave right away.’

  ‘Are we going home?’

  ‘No, but it’s not safe for us to stay here now. Please hurry!’

  Pierre

  Sarry

  June 1943

  With my siblings gone to Paris, I set my mind to working as much as possible, trying to save up some money for the family. I had to stay home in the evenings because of the curfew, so I wanted to keep busy during the day to stop myself from going stir-crazy. I was nearly eighteen and totally alone. When I had nothing to do, I felt guilty for being the only one in my family who hadn’t been arrested or sent away. Why me?

  The loneliness exacerbated my desire for a girlfriend. You would think there would be plenty of opportunities, with most of the men away at war. I wasn’t bad-looking and I knew my manners, but I didn’t know how to speak to girls; the only girl my age in the village had been my cousin Anna. Samuel had had better luck with girls than I had, for goodness sake.

  And so it was work that kept me busy. I was still working with the mason, preparing bricks and roof tiles for urgent repairs to buildings damaged in air raids.

  At the weekend I would meet up with the few friends who were still around, mostly Jews born in France to immigrant parents who had been arrested. One Sunday three of us decided to go into Poitiers. If we didn’t get the chance to speak to girls, at least we would see some walking around or having coffee in the terrace cafes. We wore our jackets with the yellow star and carried our papers stamped ‘Jew’ in red ink.

  ‘Those Milice bastards,’ said one of my friends, spotting a table of young French men sitting outside a cafe wearing the Milice uniform of brown shirt, blue jacket and wide blue beret. They were catcalling after girls and generally acting like a bunch of yobs.

  ‘When I join the Resistance I’ll teach them a lesson,’ I said quietly, aware that any one of the ordinary French citizens walking around could be a collaborator. I was desperate to join the forces working with de Gaulle, but I hadn’t yet been able to find a way to contact them. I suspected that Rabbi Epstein had been working with them, but he had been arrested months before and there was no one else I could think of to approach.

  ‘The Milice are more dangerous than the Boche,’ said one of my pals, spitting on the ground. ‘They arrested one of my neighbour’s relatives in Limoges and he never came back. They say he was tortured to death. They were after names of the Resistance. He was a farm worker; I doubt he knew anything.’

  ‘I have no idea who’s a freedom fighter. If I knew, I would beg them to let me join,’ I said.

  My friends walked on while I took a moment to light a cigarette. One of the young Milice spotted me and called me over. I walked up to him. I wasn’t worried. The Milice only operated in Vichy France. We were mere kilometres from the demarcation line, but Poitiers was out of their jurisdiction. As I got closer he shouted to me to get off the sidewalk.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re a Jew. We don’t want you here.’

  ‘You’re the one not wanted.’

  He jumped up, grabbed my lapel and dragged me inside the cafe. ‘This Jew was walking on the pavement. What should I do with him?’ he said to his officer, who was sitting at a table.

  ‘He has done nothing. Let him go on his way and finish your coffee,’ the officer said indifferently without looking up from his newspaper.

  The young Milice looked furious, but led me back outside and pushed me away. I walked away quickly and caught up with my friends, heart thumping. My plan of meeting girls couldn’t have been further from my mind now. We carried on walking and got to the plaza behind the cathedral. We stopped to smoke a cigarette and I was telling the guys what had just happened to me when I saw two men walking towards us. They weren’t in uniform but I was worried they might be more Milice idiots.

  ‘We are Freemasons. Be proud to wear that,’ they said, pointing to our yellow stars.

  I didn’t know any Freemasons, but I knew they were being targeted by the Nazis, like us. I wasn’t eager to start a conversation with strangers, so I said politely, ‘Merci, Monsieur,’ and we walked away.

  ‘What was that about?’ my friend asked.

  ‘Who knows? Best to keep to ourselves.’

  ‘I’ve heard Freemasons are enemies of the state. Apparently, there’s a Jewish–Masonic conspiracy going on.’

  ‘Pity no one told us about it! People are crazy. Are we going to get the blame for everything?’

  ****

  I was desperately lonely. I wrote to Papa’s good friend Henri Reiss, who lived in Le Blanc in Vichy France, some seventy kilometres from Sarry. Henri’s son Adam was a friend of mine and I hoped they could help me. I wrote:

  Everyone has gone. I’m living in Sarry by myself. Could you help me find work so I can come and live near you?

  When Adam wrote back, he told me to come over and they would see about finding me a job.

  I went round the house and collected up the last of our belongings – Maman’s handbag, a few family photographs, some clothes – there really wasn’t much, but what I found I hid in a box under the floorboards. Let the Germans take the kitchen utensils! I packed my suitcase, locked up the house and left on my bicycle.

  The demarcation line was now mostly unguarded. The Germans were too busy fighting the Russians in the east. I crossed into Vichy France without issue and arrived safely at Adam’s home in Le Blanc.

  Adam and his father gave me a warm welcome. They took me to meet Monsieur Deschamps, a crop farmer who agreed to give me a job. I had never worked on a farm before, but I would give it my best shot. It turned out farm work was more difficult than I had imagined. It didn’t help that my new boss was a misery to work for. It soon became clear he didn’t want me around. He spoke only to shout orders and then tell me I was doing it wron
g. After a few days, he told me not to bother returning. I felt bad for Adam and his father who had gone out of their way to find me the job. I apologised to them for messing up the opportunity, but they agreed to help me once again.

  They put me in contact with Monsieur and Madame Masson, who had a farm in Bazaiges, around forty-five kilometres east of Le Blanc. When I arrived at their door I instantly liked them; they were friendly and kind. ‘There is plenty of work to do on the farm. Which crops do you know about?’

  ‘I haven’t worked on a farm before, but I’m strong and healthy and a quick learner. If you give me a chance, I promise I will work hard for you,’ I said.

  ‘I admire your honesty,’ said Monsieur Masson. ‘Let me be honest, too. The work is not difficult to learn, but it is hard-going. My son Lucas worked on the farm with us, but he was taken to the German work camps.’ Madame Masson sighed at the mention of her son’s name. Monsieur Masson held her hand to comfort her. ‘Now, now. We know that Lucas is alright. We get regular letters from him. He can’t tell us what work he’s doing but he says he’s fine and he has plenty to eat. He’s a strong lad. But how near-sighted to take all our young men without thinking about who is going to work the land when they’re gone. Then the Germans will want our crops. Don’t they realise if we had our young men to help us then we could produce more food for them?’

  ‘No, Monsieur, the Germans don’t think like we do.’ I could have said more, but I was learning to keep my opinions to myself.

  ‘So, we have a lot of work to be done but not much money to pay you. We can offer you somewhere to sleep and food to eat and maybe a few francs. We have a friendly bunch working here and I think you’ll fit in nicely.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ah! Here is our daughter,’ said the farmer. I turned to the door and caught my breath at the heavenly sight in front of me. She was about my age, dressed for farm work, her hair tied up in a scarf with a few curls hanging down over her cheeks, smudged with dirt. If there had been any doubts about taking the job before, there were certainly none now.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Aimee, this is Pierre. He’s thinking of coming to help us on the farm, even though we can’t pay him much at all,’ said the farmer, stressing the latter.

  ‘Don’t worry, Monsieur. I’m grateful for the work and I think I’ll be happy here. Thank you for the offer, I accept the job.’ We shook on it.

  ‘Aimee, can you show Pierre to the barn, please?’

  ‘It will be my pleasure, Papa. Come on, Pierre. This way.’

  Wow, I couldn’t believe my luck! As we walked out of the farmhouse, I frantically tried to think of something to say to stop myself looking like a fool, but I needn’t have worried as this lovely girl started asking me questions. Where was I from? Where were my family? The conversation flowed until we reached the barn. The other farmhands had just arrived back from the fields.

  ‘Here we go. Martin, Jules, Henri… this is Pierre. He will be helping us on the farm. Please show him the ropes.’

  ‘Sure, Aimee, anything for you!’ said one of the guys. ‘Come on, Pierre, let’s find you a bed.’

  ‘Yes, let’s find Pierre a bed!’ said another.

  ‘Here you go. This bed is perfect for you. Try it on for size.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said as I went to sit down and ended up in a heap on the floor. There was no board under the blanket. Everyone, including Aimee, fell about laughing.

  ‘Sorry, pal. It’s the broken bed gag. All the new guys get it. Nothing personal!’ They all came to shake my hand and pat me on the back.

  ‘Oh, Pierre, your face when you fell on the floor!’ said Aimee through tears of laughter.

  I was mortified, but put on a brave face. ‘Oh yes, ha ha! Great joke, guys!’

  ****

  That first night I convinced myself that Aimee didn’t like me because she had walked me straight into the broken bed gag. I thought it best to avoid her from then on, but she worked with the rest of us on the farm and it was impossible not to see her. From my first morning working in the fields she was charming to me; chatting, sitting next to me during our breaks, and even giving me a bit extra when she helped her mother serve the food. I wasn’t sure if she felt bad for her part in my humiliation, or was perhaps setting me up for another fall, so I was a bit wary. The other guys noticed and eventually one of them said to me, ‘Pierre, you fool. Can’t you see the girl’s sweet on you? What’s the matter, she not good enough for you?’

  ‘What? No, no, she’s great. Do you really think she likes me?’

  ‘You don’t know much about girls, do you?’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘I think Aimee must find it charming. Yes, she likes you!’

  ‘I thought maybe one of you guys…’

  ‘You have our blessing, mon ami. Aimee is a nice girl, a bit too nice for us lads, if you get my drift.’

  I thought I knew what he was talking about. I smiled and nodded, keen to bring the conversation to a close. I wished Papa was here and I could ask his advice.

  ****

  My family were always on my mind. Where were my parents and when would they come back? Would they come back at all? How were my brothers and sisters doing in Paris and had I made the right decision to let them go? These were questions I couldn’t answer, but that didn’t stop them tormenting me. I knew though, that none of this was my doing and no one would blame me for making the most of my time on the farm. I allowed myself to make some good friends and they helped turn me into a farmer. The days were long and hard, but we spent the evenings together talking and laughing. Aimee worked as hard as the men, and she helped her mother cook for everyone too. She lit up the room when she walked in and everyone liked her, especially me. I was awkward around her at first, but she was just like one of the guys and we soon became good friends. We talked about our lives before the war and what we would like to do when this madness was over. I was desperate to ask her on a date, maybe go for a walk or something, but I was afraid of being rejected and I didn’t want to upset her parents, who had been so good to me. Then again, if I didn’t act soon she might grow tired of waiting…

  ****

  We were in the fields and Aimee smiled at me. My heart started beating quickly. It was a hot day so my flushed face and sweaty palms didn’t give my feelings away. When we stopped for a water break, I sat down on a log and she sat next to me, so close our legs were almost touching. After a long moment of silence, I made up my mind to ask her to take a walk with me.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘Hi,’ she said back.

  ‘Beautiful day.’

  ‘It is.’

  What to say next? Should I say something about her being as beautiful as the day, or should it be the day is as beautiful as she? Yes, it sounded better that way round. I took a drink of water. For God’s sake, my hands were shaking! Here goes, I’m going to ask her now…

  ‘Look!’ She pointed at a gendarme who was walking across the field towards us. What horrible timing!

  ‘I am looking for Pierre Laskowski.’

  I stood up.

  ‘I am Pierre.’

  ‘Come with me,’ said the gendarme and he escorted me off the field. As we walked away, I looked back at Aimee who was watching me leave. Our eyes met briefly, then the policeman ordered me to turn around and face forward.

  ****

  The gendarme took me to a cafe in the village. He sat me down at a table and took out his notebook.

  ‘Pierre, you have not been arrested. That is why I have brought you to the cafe and not a police station. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’ He was reading from his notebook.

  ‘I was born in Metz, but my family were relocated to Sarry, near Poitiers.’

  ‘What is your father’s name?’

  ‘Albert.’

  ‘Who is Jankiel?’

  ‘My father’s Polish name was Ja
nkiel, but when he settled in France he changed it to Albert.’

  ‘Show me your identification papers.’

  Everybody carried their papers with them all the time – you couldn’t be found without them. I handed mine over.

  ‘You may return to the farm now but tomorrow you must come to the police station and I will give you back your papers.’

  This didn’t sound good. I had no idea what he wanted with me, but I had to do as he said. By the time I walked back to the farm everyone was finishing work for the day. I went to the field and looked for Aimee among the group of guys, but she wasn’t with them. Some of them came up and asked me what had happened. I told them what little I knew. Then I went to knock on the farmhouse door and Aimee answered. Her face lit up when she saw me. ‘Pierre! Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m fine. I need to speak to your father, please,’ I said.

  She looked disappointed. ‘Oh, yes of course. I’ll call him for you.’

  ‘But, Aimee, I wanted to see you too. I was going to ask you if—’

  ‘Pierre! What happened to you?’ Monsieur Masson came to the door and ushered me into the house. ‘Come in!’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ I said. While we stood in the hallway of the farmhouse I told him what happened. ‘I’m sorry but I need to go back to the police station tomorrow to pick up my papers,’ I said. ‘I will go first thing in the morning and come back to work as soon as possible.’

  ‘Of course. That’s fine. We’re happy to see you back. We were quite worried for you, weren’t we?’ He turned to smile at his daughter. ‘I will see you later. Aimee, please see Pierre out.’ And he left us alone.

  ‘Pierre, what were you going to ask me?’