by Debra Barnes
‘Where is Marcus?’ he asked.
‘Inside,’ said Rudy.
‘Get him. We need to leave – RIGHT NOW! Do you have your papers on you?’
We checked our pockets and nodded.
‘Good. Don’t go back to your dorm. Leave everything else.’
Rudy found Marcus in a minute and we ran out the gate and all the way to the railway station.
‘What happened?’ we asked Andre once we were far away from the school.
‘The school cook called the police to say she suspected there were three new Jewish boys who just enrolled. The police said they would come and pick them up at midnight tonight.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘The cook told her assistant, not realising he’s a Jew who works with us. He alerted me straightaway and I came as fast as I could.’
‘So, now where?’ I asked.
‘Now to the next school. This time in Toulouse,’ replied Andre.
It wasn’t until we were on the train that I realised I had left my only remaining belonging – the music book I had brought from Sarry.
****
It was late evening when we boarded the train to Toulouse. After an hour the train stopped, and the guard told everyone to disembark. The allies had bombed the track ahead in an air raid; we would have to walk the short distance to the next station and wait until the track was cleared and repaired before we could continue our journey. There weren’t many of us, and most settled down to get some sleep on the benches of the station waiting room.
It was past midnight when three German soldiers entered. They wore big breastplates – German Military Police! One of them was over six foot tall. He started on the right-hand side of the waiting room and went around demanding papers. When he got to me, I handed over my ‘washed’ ration book. He looked at it, then at me. Keeping my book, he did the same to Rudy, Marcus and Andre. He held our papers, then stepped back and stared at us. My heart was racing; I was sure we were done for. Then he stepped forward, handed us back our papers and said, ‘Let’s go!’ At first, I thought he was talking to us and I was just about to stand up and follow him out, but then I realised he was talking to the other soldiers. They walked out the room, not bothering to check any more papers. I’m sure he knew ours were fake. We had no clue as to why he let us go. We’d had two lucky breaks that day.
Early the next morning we were able to continue our journey.
****
We arrived at the Centre Mercier trade school, just past the railroad yard in Toulouse. It was time for Andre to leave us once again. We were met by the headmaster, Monsieur Fournier, who told us there were already twenty Jewish boys hidden in the school. The other students had no idea we were not Catholic, so we should do our best to not raise suspicion.
‘Next door is a reform school for Catholic boys and both schools share the chapel in between our two buildings. There are services every day, but you boys don’t need to go; you can stay in school while the others are at chapel. Some of the Catholic boys don’t go either, it is not compulsory,’ explained the headmaster. He was a kind man and we instantly liked him.
There were classes in gardening, electrical engineering, woodworking, basket-weaving, leatherwork… we were asked what we wanted to learn. I chose woodworking, taught by Monsieur Labitte. He was an excellent teacher, he showed us how to work by hand as there was no machinery.
We were assigned chores by Monsieur Kraft, the school administrator. Mine was to raise the French flag every morning and bring it down every evening. The Germans had outlawed ‘La Marseillaise’, which then became the anthem of the Resistance, so a new national anthem was created for Pétain – Maréchal nous voilà! Marshall, here we are! We sang it while the flag was raised every morning, even though most of us wished the old fool a quick but painful death.
****
Winter arrived and we settled into our new school. We now knew who the other Jewish boys were. The building was old and parts of it were in need of repair, but it provided a safe place for us. There was one huge shower room, the size of a family home, which had a hot water pipe that went all around the walls with half a dozen taps along it. The boiler was fuelled by coal and it needed two stokers to get the water hot enough for the showers. We made sure two Jewish boys were always on the rota to load the coal and then watch the gauges which would be allowed to rise until they were on the verge of blowing, to create the most possible steam. The rest of us were always first to enter the shower room in front of the Catholic boys. Half of us would go to the left and the other half to the right and we would all face the wall. The first boys in would go directly to the taps and open them up straightaway to let out all the steam and then we would wait for it to fill the room before we turned around, our Jewish modesty covered by the vapour! We did this every morning we were in the school and not once did any of the Catholic boys realise there were Jews among them.
****
I woke one morning with a terrible pain in my stomach. I couldn’t face breakfast, something that was unusual for any of us as food was scarce and we normally ate everything we were given. One of the teachers noticed me suffering, and I was sent back to bed. During the morning the pain got worse and I had diarrhoea. The school nurse was called.
‘You only have a slight fever but along with the stomach pain and diarrhoea it could be appendicitis. I’ll call the doctor to see you,’ she said.
Rudy and Marcus had been waiting outside and when the nurse left, they ran in to see me.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘She thinks it’s appendicitis, so the doctor is coming. I might need to go to hospital and have an operation.’
‘Lucky!’ said Marcus. ‘No school for you, and I bet the food is better at the hospital.’
‘You idiot!’ said Rudy, as he hit his brother around the head. ‘Don’t you realise the doctors and nurses are going to see that Samuel is circumcised?’
‘Oh no, I didn’t think about that,’ said Marcus, as his brother rolled his eyes in despair. ‘What shall we do?’
‘There is nothing we can do except hope they are sympathetic,’ said Rudy.
The doctor came that afternoon. The appendicitis was confirmed, and I was taken straight to the nearest hospital, which was run by nuns. My symptoms were so extreme by now that I was taken straight to surgery, so I really didn’t have time to worry about what might happen.
As the anaesthetic started to wear off I opened my eyes to see the smiling face of a nun, looking down at me. ‘Are you an angel?’ I asked, in my semi-conscious state.
‘No, Son, you’re not in Heaven yet. The operation went well, and you’re going to be fine,’ she said.
My secret was safe; the nurses and doctors did not betray me. The surgeon who came to check on me was also kind and told me the operation had been a complete success despite my appendix being one of the ‘ugliest’ he had ever seen. I think that was meant as a compliment!
After a few days’ recovery, I was sent back to school. Monsieur Fournier called me to his office.
‘How are you feeling, Samuel?’
‘I have a little pain, Monsieur, but I have some medicine to help that.’
‘I heard the operation was a success and I’m sure they looked after you well at the hospital,’ he said.
‘I was worried the nuns would see I am Jewish, but no one said anything,’ I whispered.
‘You have a lot of friends in Toulouse.’
‘Really? I don’t think I know anyone in Toulouse except for the people at school,’ I said.
‘I meant that the Jewish people have friends here. Do you know of Monsignor Saliège?’
‘No.’
‘Monsignor Saliège is the Archbishop of Toulouse and has ordered his clergy and nuns to help hide Jews, particularly children. Unfortunately, the priest of the school next door is not sympathetic to any children, whether they are Jewish or Catholic, so I suggest you keep away from him.
‘While you a
re recovering from your operation you should not take part in sports activities, to allow for your wound to heal. As you will have some free time, perhaps you would like to carry out some errands for me instead?’
‘Of course. What sort of errands?’
‘Mostly delivering letters around town. Nothing strenuous.’
‘I would be happy to help, Monsieur,’ I said. I was genuinely pleased. The next day, when the other boys went outside to play football, I reported to the headmaster’s office. He handed me a small envelope with a handwritten name and address on the front.
‘Please take this letter to Monsieur Blanc at that address. Make sure you give it to him in person. He may give you a letter to bring back.’
We were free to go into Toulouse town centre at the weekend, so I knew it quite well and had no problem finding the address. When I arrived I saw it was the government office in charge of food distribution. I went to the front desk and asked to see Monsieur Blanc.
‘And why do you want to see him?’ asked the lady behind the desk, looking at me suspiciously.
‘I have a message for him from the headmaster of my school,’ I said.
‘You can tell me. I will pass on the message.’
‘Excuse me, Madame, I have to deliver it in person otherwise I’ll be in big trouble.’
I tried to look scared, as if I was worried the headmaster would beat me if I didn’t follow his orders.
‘Very well. Monsieur Blanc is in the office at the end of the corridor.’
‘Merci, Madame,’ I said, hurrying away.
I knocked on the office door and entered. There were four desks, each with a nameplate, but the only one occupied was the desk directly opposite the door. It belonged to Monsieur Blanc, who had been reading some papers but looked up when I approached his desk.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. I wasn’t sure he was talking to me as one eye looked one way while the other stared in the opposite direction, but neither directly at me. How could he see with his eyes crossed like that?
‘What is it, young man?’ he asked again, and I finally found my voice.
‘This letter from Monsieur Fournier,’ I said, handing him the envelope. ‘Shall I wait for a reply?’
Monsieur Blanc first checked that the letter was sealed, which it was. It hadn’t occurred to me to open it. He picked up a letter opener and swiftly slit open the envelope, took out the note and scanned it over, which must have been quite a challenge as he moved the paper from side to side. Having read it he returned the letter to its envelope.
‘What is your name?’ I paused before replying – it was disconcerting answering someone who looked anywhere but right at you!
‘Samuel La… Chastain. My name is Samuel Chastain,’ I replied, the distraction nearly making me forget my new surname.
‘Well, Samuel Chastain. Thank you for bringing me the letter. There is no reply on this occasion. You may return to school.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I left the office, still a bit confused by the appearance of Monsieur Blanc. When I got back I reported to Monsieur Fournier.
‘Ah, Samuel. Any problems?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. Monsieur Blanc said there was no reply on this occasion.’
‘That’s fine. Now you know where his office is, perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking any future letters to him for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Excellent. Samuel, I have another job for you. Is it correct that you know German?’
‘I heard it spoken in Metz before the war,’ I said, ‘but that was a long time ago, so I’m not sure how good my knowledge is now.’
‘I think it would be useful if you tried to retain as much of your German as possible. You never know when it could be needed. We are expecting a group of six Jewish boys who have escaped from Germany and will be staying with us. I’d like you to help them learn to speak French, thinking particularly about their pronunciation. It is important they learn to communicate with the other boys and try to sound as French as possible.’
‘Yes, sir. I already help Marcus and Rudy with their French.’
‘Indeed, and you’re doing a great job. Carry on.’
As soon as the German boys arrived at the school we started with the French lessons, using the time when the other boys were at chapel and any other free moments we could find. The new boys were eager and quick to learn, and within a couple of weeks they were all making good progress. We all became great friends. They taught us German army songs, and we would march up and down the corridors singing them while the new boys shouted words of encouragement to us in their recently acquired French.
Monsieur Fournier had given one of the Jewish boys a radio and every night we would cram into his dorm to listen to BBC Radio Londres. This was another great way to help my new German friends improve their language skills. We were desperate for some news of what was happening to the Jews who had been deported, but they were never mentioned.
Another opportunity for the German boys to better their French was on our weekend trips into the centre of Toulouse. They would read out shop names and street signs to us and we would correct their pronunciation. On one such trip we saw a group of German soldiers marching down the road towards us. Some of the boys started singing a German army song. One by one the rest of our group joined in until we were all singing along at full volume. As the soldiers approached, they gave us a Nazi salute and we saluted them back as they passed us. When they were out of sight we ran off down the road laughing, shocked at our own chutzpah!
Georgette
Louveciennes
November 1943
Jacqueline’s grandmother travelled from Paris to the orphanage to bring her a letter.
Written in tiny writing on a small scrap of paper, it was from her maman and papa. She explained that in the camp where her parents were being held, a list of names would appear every day. If your name was on the list, you would be deported to another place far, far away. Her maman and papa were never on the list, however, because her papa had been an officer in the French reserve army and that made them ‘safe’.
But then one day some prisoners were discovered secretly digging a tunnel out of the camp. Apparently one of the other prisoners had told on them. As a punishment, the Germans wanted many, many more names on the list, even the names of people who had been safe before. Jacqueline’s maman and papa wrote they were being deported, but where they didn’t know. Their letter had found its way through many hands to reach her grandmother.
****
Jacqueline’s grandmother returned to Paris before curfew. Jacqueline was helping us to get ready for bed when Mademoiselle Furst came to our room. She went over to comfort her friend.
‘Oh, Suzanne, I feel so terrible,’ I heard Jacqueline say. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘How is that?’
‘I should never have left Drancy. I should still be there with my parents.’
‘But you were sick with diphtheria, you might have died if you hadn’t gone to hospital.’
‘Then I should have gone back after I recovered instead of going to the children’s home.’
‘What could you have done? I think your mother and father would prefer you here, safe with us,’ said her friend, stroking her hair.
I had always thought of Jacqueline as a grown-up, because she was like a mother to us, but now she seemed like a scared child.
Jacqueline managed to put on a brave face for our sake. Like us, she didn’t know where her parents had been sent, which meant she could at least still hope to see them again.
Life at Place Roux became more difficult by the end of the year. Mademoiselle Furst was let go by Monsieur Denis as he couldn’t pay her anymore. Jacqueline was told she must work harder for her keep by performing more chores at the orphanage and had to cease her studies. I know she was unhappy and thought of running away, but her grandmother would have been punished for her actions, so she stayed. I think she also stayed for us – we all loved her and neede
d her so badly.
****
On New Year’s Day there was little to celebrate. We were told to pack our few belongings because German soldiers would be moving into the orphanage, and we were to go to a house nearby, 18 Rue de la Paix. The Street of Peace! We would stay in our small group; Henriette and I with the other seven children, and Jacqueline looking after us. At least that was good news. Now Jacqueline would be with us all day and all night as she would sleep in our room too.
Samuel
Toulouse
December 1943
With only a fence to separate our school’s courtyard from that of the reform school next door, we often witnessed the brutal punishments handed out by the Catholic priests to the boys, and we considered ourselves lucky to be on this side.
One day, in the middle of winter and despite the freezing weather, some of us were outside kicking a football around when over the fence we saw a priest push a boy into the middle of the yard. He was ordered to take his clothes off and kneel on the ground. The priest held garden shears and began to cut the boy’s hair in wild, violent strokes. He filled a bucket from the outside tap and poured the water over the boy’s head; the water almost froze on the poor lad, who shivered and began turning blue. The priest returned to the tap to fill up the bucket again and again, to torture the boy. My friends ran inside, not wanting to complicate their lives by getting involved, but I couldn’t help myself. I stood and watched in shocked silence, and then disgust took over and I shouted at the priest. I can’t remember what I said, it was anger talking, not me. He glared at me and stormed back inside, leaving the boy shivering for a few minutes and then, when he saw the priest wasn’t coming back, he ran back inside too.
The next day the same priest came to see Monsieur Fournier. ‘Why don’t these children come to chapel?’ he demanded. ‘From now on everyone comes to the services. No excuses. Maybe that will teach your boys some manners and to mind their own business.’ So we all had to go to church. It was the first time I had ever been, and I had no idea of what to do. I stayed towards the back of the line so I could watch and copy the other boys ahead of me. As they filed past the font, each boy put their hand in the holy water to cross themselves when they entered the chapel. When it was my turn I put my left hand in the holy water and then crossed myself. The priest came over and slapped me for using the wrong hand, shouting I was a lazy Catholic who hadn’t been to services for so long I had forgotten which hand to use. I thought I had got away lightly with a slap, but as we were leaving the chapel at the end of the service the priest grabbed me by the collar and pulled me to one side. ‘No you don’t, boy. Not so quickly. I have some jobs for you, so you remember to use the correct hand when you are blessing yourself. You will mark out our new volleyball court with stones.’
