He ran. He ran as he used to do at school; fast, his chest out, his arms pumping. His lungs were bursting, they wouldn’t draw enough air. His legs felt heavy as lead. He rounded a corner and staggered against a wall, his chest heaving, his head pounding.
He looked behind. There was no-one.
Thank God. Thank God.
How stupid! How stupid! Must be more careful, must be more careful.
He walked slowly on towards home, his heart still hammering, his breath still rasping in his throat. So unfit! So pathetically unfit!
Finally he neared the house and paused. The windows were dark, the front door closed as he had left it.
The house was quiet. The front door yielded easily to the key. He went in quickly and closed the door. The living room looked untouched, as neat and ordered as usual. He peered out of the window into the street. Nothing.
But there wasn’t much time, he knew that now.
He sat for a moment so that his hands would stop shaking and thought: I’m too old for all this, too old and too tired.
Then he got up and looked through the bookcase until he found Cecile’s World Atlas. He knelt on the carpet and studied the map of Europe. He would go west, that was certain; the east was trouble. That meant Switzerland or France or Belgium or Holland. Switzerland was out; they were too uncharitable and, even if you got over the border, it was rumoured that they sent you back again. Belgium or Holland; he wasn’t sure about them. But France … France had taken lots of Jews, he knew that. And even if he couldn’t stay there they would send him on somewhere else, he was sure of that.
France … he turned to a map which showed the Franco-German border more clearly. He stared at the long winding line and wondered where it would be best to cross. It would all be heavily militarised, of course, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to get through, not if he was patient.
A long section of the border ran along the Rhine, so that was no good; the bridges would be heavily guarded and he couldn’t swim. Where the border turned west then, towards Luxembourg. He put his finger on the Saar region. What was wrong with the map there? Of course! He sighed; the atlas was pre-1935 and didn’t show the new border. In 1935 the Saar region had become German again. He didn’t dare cross there; it would be hopeless if he didn’t even know where the border was. That left the stretch to the east of Saarbrucken.
He looked at the railway lines. How far could he get without risking being picked up? Mannheim perhaps. Then what? It was sixty kilometres from Mannheim to the border. He made up his mind: although he was unfit, he would walk. He would make himself walk. He’d been quite a walker in his day. When he was a student he used to go hiking in the Bavarian Alps; he had covered twenty kilometres a day sometimes.
He would need food, money and equipment. He tore the page out of the atlas and put the book away. He stood up and tried to remember what there was in the house. Money: he had enough to buy his train ticket and a few meals, no more; but it should be sufficient. Anyway he would be taking as much food as possible. He went into the kitchen and looked in the cupboards. There were cans of sauerkraut, beef, and fruit. He decided to take them all. But he would need something to carry them in. Not a briefcase; people associated them with wealth and money, and he might be robbed. A shopping bag? Even that wasn’t very safe nowadays. He looked round the kitchen. There was nothing else: the shopping bag would have to do. It was made of woven straw and should be fairly strong. He would make straps for it, to carry it on his back. He thought of the lovely rucksack he had in his bedroom, but that was out of the question; it was far too obvious.
He took a sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and wedged it into the bottom of the bag. What else? A small torch, some string, a can opener … But he mustn’t take too much. He had a long way to walk.
Shoes, he would need good shoes, and some warm clothing. But again he mustn’t take too much. A raincoat, a warm sweater …
Finally it was done. He tried to think of what he might have forgotten, but everything else of use was too heavy and bulky to be carried.
When should he go? It was a long journey to Mannheim – at least a day, even by express. It would be best to start first thing in the morning so that he could complete the rail journey in a single day and avoid arriving at Mannheim in the middle of the night, when they would pick him up more easily. He should leave first thing the next morning then. In the meantime he would rest and go over all the details.
He went to his room and lay on the bed. Occasionally he took out the map and had another look at it. Towards evening he made himself a hot meal of eggs and sausage and then went upstairs for a bath. He removed the package from under his arm and put it in the pocket of his jacket. He would fix it back on in the morning. After his bath he went straight to bed, his clothes for the morning ready folded beside him.
He didn’t sleep immediately, but stared out of the window and watched the clouds darkening in the gathering dusk. He was really quite pleased with his preparations. Ellen had always accused him of never getting on with things. Well, she couldn’t say that now. He had planned it all and he was going to go through with it. And when he got to France he would sell them his secret and buy himself a new life. One day he would send for them, Ellen and Cecile, and they would be proud of him. Yes, proud.
He fell asleep surprisingly easily and awoke only when a dog barked in the next door garden. He flicked on the light and looked at the time. It was five to twelve.
He went straight back to sleep and dreamed that Cecile was in the kitchen, laughing in the sunlight.
When the crash came he thought it was part of the dream, a plate dropped on the floor.
Then he was wide awake.
There was a moment of ear-splitting silence.
Then there was another crash and he heard a loud drumming noise. The noise got louder. It was the sound of people running up the stairs.
David sat up and started to get out of bed.
The door burst open and David knew it was too late. It was too late for everything. In that instant he knew that he would never see his little rabbit again.
There were two of them in the room. They grabbed him and dragged him on to the landing. He heard a dull thud and realised his head had crashed against the door frame. At the top of the stairs he was pushed. He fell forward, putting his arms out to break his fall. He came to a stop halfway down. He got slowly to his knees, holding onto the banisters while he caught his breath.
When the kick came it took him entirely by surprise. He couldn’t understand why the hall was rushing up towards him. He put his arms out in front of him, but he knew he was going too fast, too fast. There was a sickening crunch, he felt his head snap round and he thought: They’ve killed me!
Then he was being pulled to his feet and a terrible pain shot through his shoulder. He cried out. But they were dragging him again, pulling on his shoulder, and he nearly fainted with the pain. He could hear them talking, but it seemed a long, long way away.
They threw him down and, after a while, he opened his eyes. He was in the living room. All the lights in the house were blazing; they hurt his eyes. He could hear movements above and dull thuds and crashes; they were going from room to room. He thought: they’re searching. He groaned: Oh God, they’re searching for the film. It was sitting in his jacket pocket. They would find it straight away. God, how could I have been so stupid?
He sat up gently and leant against an armchair. The shoulder was agony, probably broken somewhere.
Boots drummed down the stairs and David felt his stomach turn. The footsteps went into the kitchen and there was a deafening sound of breaking china and glass. He waited, his heart hammering against his chest.
Finally they came in. David was surprised to see that they were quite young, only about twenty. There were three of them, not two. They had some of Ellen’s jewellery and the nice piece of Meissen china she kept on the dressing table. David felt relief: perhaps that was all they’d been after.
�
��Up Jew! Now!’
David struggled to his feet. Although he had pyjamas on he felt naked and bare. Why hadn’t he slept in his clothes? That would have been the sensible thing to do. Oh God.
Two of them came up to him and David felt his bowels turn to water. One said, ‘Where’s the gold, Jew?’
‘I have no gold.’ David saw this would not please them and added quickly, ‘Only money. Upstairs in my wallet.’
‘Where’s the gold, Jew?’
‘I have none.’
They punched him in the stomach first, then around the head. Then, when he was down, they kicked him.
Then they pulled him to his feet and told him they were going to break his fingers.
Through his swollen face David said, ‘There’s no gold, I promise.’
One of them grabbed his hand and David closed his eyes. He felt himself dirtying his trousers. Then he fainted.
They slapped his face until he came round.
One of them said, ‘Put him in the truck.’
David knew he had to do or say something now, or it would be too late. ‘Please, can I put my clothes on?’
There was no reply.
‘Please, I’ve dirtied myself.’
The leader pulled a face of disgust and indicated he could go upstairs.
David clambered up the stairs to his room and went to his jacket.
The film was still there. Thank God.
He started to pull his pyjamas off. He fumbled with the buttons, then tore at them. He was taking too long: they would come for him. He tried to hurry but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking and his shoulder was agony.
He pulled on his shirt, some underpants, and started to climb into his trousers.
He heard clattering on the stairs again and pulled desperately at the trousers. As he fumbled with the buttons a young corporal came in and started to pull at his arm.
David yelled, ‘My jacket! My jacket!’
The corporal stopped while David picked it up. God, David thought, I nearly lost it again. God!
He ran quickly down the stairs. He was learning, learning: if you didn’t run you got pushed.
They were taking a last look round. David waited by the door, leaning against the wall. When they weren’t looking he took the packet out of his pocket and slipped it into his mouth.
When they had taken all they wanted they took him out of the house and pushed him into the back of a truck. It drove off so fast that David had only a moment to look back at the house. It seemed so strange, its lights still blazing, its front door open. David almost shouted for them to stop so that he could go back and lock up. It was wrong to leave it like that, so vulnerable, so open.
But then he realised it didn’t matter. What hadn’t been smashed or stolen tonight would be taken the next morning anyway.
Part Two
1940–1941
Chapter 7
THE WAITING WAS the worst.
Vasson lay on his bed and listened to the approaching rumble of cannon and the occasional blast of a distant explosion. The cannon was German, he decided, and the explosions were French. The gallant French Army was presumably pausing long enough in its rapid retreat to destroy fuel dumps. About all they had managed to do, Vasson thought with contempt.
By afternoon he knew he was right about the fuel dumps. The sky over the city had turned black with the smoke of burning oil. It was as dark as night. Paris looked like a lost city: there were no lights, hardly any people and total blackness.
Then the rain came. It was a steady downpour and it fell in thick black droplets, streaking houses, pavements, and the odd passer-by with oily grime.
Vasson was annoyed. He had planned to go out for a pastis at about five – assuming somewhere would be open – but now he’d have to stay in or risk having his clothes ruined.
Several times during the afternoon he went downstairs to the front door and looked out. The streets were almost deserted, except for the occasional refugee making a last attempt at flight.
Vasson couldn’t see any point in leaving the city. For days people had been packing up their belongings and setting out with nothing more than a few pathetic bundles tied on to bicycles or handcarts. They had no idea where they were going, nor where they would get food and shelter. It was madness. They would starve – or get shot. It was much better to stay in the city, Vasson decided. The Germans wouldn’t eat everybody. Life would continue, one way or another.
The war had been going on for nine months now. In that time Vasson had been busy. As soon as war was declared he spent all his savings on stockings, petrol and car tyres. It was an enormous risk to spend every penny, yet it was hard to see how he could go wrong. He bought himself a cheap secondhand car and stored the stuff in a rented garage out in the suburbs at Clichy. As soon as things started to get short, he began to sell.
He sold slowly, carefully, realising only enough cash to buy new stock, when he could find it. He travelled to small towns, to the suburbs of northern cities and the outskirts of Paris. When the price was right he bought more stockings as well as perfume and lingerie. He also bought more food: coffee and sugar mainly. The prices were high, but not half so high as the selling prices in central Paris.
It took him five months to double his stock; now he looked forward to the real pay-off. It wouldn’t come for a while of course. He knew he’d have to be patient. It would take time for the Occupation to take effect. But when rationing and severe shortages bit, he’d be ready to clean up.
The war was going to be a little gold mine, no doubt about it.
But the waiting was the worst.
It was a short night. The sounds of explosions and cannon fire continued until two in the morning. Then there was silence. For a long time Vasson did not sleep, but lay awake smoking and thinking about money. Finally, at about three, he dozed off. As the early summer dawn broke, the motorcycles came. They were far away, probably on one of the main boulevards, but the sound carried a long way on the still June air. Vasson was instantly awake. So they were here at last.
Later, at about six, he went to the front door and peered out, but the streets were deserted. The Germans wouldn’t bother with Montmartre yet, he reasoned; they would tie up the city centre and the military posts first. He went back to bed and, at about seven, sank into a dreamless sleep.
He woke at midday. He got up straight away, washed thoroughly and dressed. He chose his best clothes, such as they were. It was silly to bother really, but he wanted to look good.
He left the rooming house and went towards the Etoile and the Champs Elysées, because if anything was happening it would be happening there. He walked because he wanted the exercise and because he wanted to see the Germans.
He saw his first German at Pigalle. There were six of them in an armoured car. They were looking relaxed and at ease. They know they’ve won, Vasson thought, they know there won’t be any trouble. He watched them for five minutes. They laughed and joked and pointed at things which interested them. They watched the Parisians politely, but did not attempt to talk to them. It was just as Vasson had thought: they didn’t want to stir up trouble, they just wanted life to go on as usual.
Most of the cafés were closed, some boarded up, but Vasson found one which was open and stopped for some breakfast. He had no trouble buying a coffee but there was no bread, so he ate biscuits instead. The proprietor and his wife were talking loudly as they served their customers. Death to the Germans! They would rather die, they said, than serve the filthy Boches. They would make the scum realise they weren’t welcome here! Vasson thought: A month and they’ll be serving the Germans happily at double their normal prices.
He walked on towards the Champs Elysées. When he arrived he found a large crowd was already lining the long boulevard. Everyone was waiting, but no-one knew what for. There was no information, but then that was nothing new: there had been no information for weeks. Vasson leant against a tree and lit a cigarette. People should welcome the Germans: they couldn
’t be any worse than the French Government. Not only had the Government left Paris without telling anyone, but they had left everything totally disorganised. There had been no call for resistance, no advice on what people should do, no organised evacuation. All they had done was put up posters telling people to ‘keep calm’. The newspapers had been censored for weeks, so that no-one knew what was happening until they heard the fighting and saw the troops retreating. It was laughable!
The Germans could only be an improvement.
When they came, they came in style. In triumph. There were tanks, armoured cars, mounted troops, and ranks of field-grey infantry marching in precise formation. It was an incredible sight. Most of the people stared in silence, their faces angry or disbelieving; some shouted bitter comments. Vasson watched, his face impassive, and wondered how long it would be before the Germans emptied all the shops and set him up for life.
The first month was all brass bands, martial songs and jackboots. The Germans seemed to be everywhere, their music blaring out day and night in every part of the city. Posters appeared saying: TRUST THE GERMAN SOLDIERS. Strange new newspapers came on to the news-stands: Aujourd’hui, La France du Travail, their pages full of German propaganda. Even the long-established Le Matin and Paris-Soir weren’t slow to be forced into line and before long they too came out with glowing pro-Nazi headlines. The swastika appeared over hundreds of buildings.
The first week was good for the retail trade – or so people believed. The Germans made straight for the shops and swept up all the lingerie, perfumes and stockings they could find. And paid for them. Motor coaches brought hundreds of soldiers up into Montmartre to see the sights – ostensibly the Sacré-Cœur, but really the nightclubs and the girls. The Parisians were pleasantly surprised.
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