by Jan Rehner
Miron still had some apples in his bag, leftovers from the meal we hadn’t been able to finish on the train. We ate them before resuming our journey, sucking hard at the juice and trying not to think about how thirsty we were. We kept to the forest as long as we could, checking the sun frequently to adjust our direction. Eventually the trees petered out and we came upon a dirt road twisting steadily uphill. There wasn’t much cover along the road and the landscape was rocky, but there were still pockets of forest scattered across the hills.
We went up and up and up until my thighs were burning. The palms of my hands were raw from the rocks, and my pants were torn at the knee and every few feet I asked how much farther we had to go until Paul started swearing at me. Miron’s answer was always the same: Just up here, around that bend. The road had ended miles ago. What bend, I thought.
Late in the afternoon, I heard bells, not booming like church bells, but just a tinkling sound. I looked at Paul, wondering if he’d heard them too or if I was just going a little crazy from thirst.
Ahead of me, Miron stopped and waved at someone. It was a goat-herder, a young girl with a kerchief on her head, surrounded by twenty or so goats with strange golden eyes. After some conversation that I was too tired to overhear, she led us to her goat shed and invited us to join her for supper in her hut. Her name was Nicole and she gave us bread and cheese (goat cheese, of course) and plenty of water and directions.
The next morning we arrived safely in Chambéry, a pretty town. We passed a couple of Italian soldiers on the street and my heart hammered when I saw them, but they just walked on by. When we got to the hostel, Madame Zlatin kissed us all and asked me what happened on the journey. I told her we were saved by one girl, twenty goats, and one pig.
IZIEU, APRIL 1943
SABINE SPENT THE NEXT MONTH in a state of heightened excitement and a blur of activity. There was so much to do. With the money that she and Miron had been paid for the farm and help from the OSE, she bought school desks and books, mattresses and beds, dishes and cutlery, towels and blankets. Marie-Antoinette was invaluable—she knew every retail owner in the district and she swore they all owed her favours. After a quick conversation with the shopkeeper, the price Sabine was prepared to pay would suddenly be dropped.
Sabine went to Belley twice a week, every week. Marie-Antoinette would greet her, often with a large box of clothing—sweaters, pants, little dresses, underwear, shorts, and even bathing suits in all sorts of colours and sizes. Donations from her friends she would say, with a wave of her hand, but since almost everything was brand new, Sabine knew Marie-Antoinette was paying from her own pocket. Pierre-Marcel had a more difficult task. Ration cards and false identity papers. How he did it, Sabine never asked, but she knew he was putting his own position, and perhaps even his safety, in jeopardy.
One day Sabine arrived at the office to find a stout little man with a large moustache and the look of someone who thought himself important. His grey suit was impeccable, quite unusual for a country town and for the times: soldiers’ uniforms were often far less shabby than civilian clothes. Sabine might have been properly impressed were it not for the black toupee that sat on top of his head like a crow. Her lips twitched and she dared not look at Marie-Antoinette, whose eyes, she knew, would be dancing.
“Madame Zlatin,” Pierre-Marcel said solemnly, “May I present the mayor of Belley, Monsieur Tissot.”
The formality of the introduction was enough of a signal to warn Sabine that Pierre-Marcel was not sure of the mayor’s cooperation. Would he approve of a refuge for orphaned children if he knew they were Jewish?
“The mayor is interested in The Settlement for Refugee Children from the Hérault,” Pierre-Marcel continued. “I’ve explained that you and your husband will be directing the home.”
“Enchanté, Madame. An unusual name, Zlatin. You and your husband are from…”
“French citizens, Monsieur. May I say this is a beautiful town? You must be very proud of the work you do here.”
Her flattery did not seem to warm Monsieur Tissot to her, though he stretched himself a bit taller. She thought he might come up to her shoulder on his tiptoes.
“How many children are you preparing for?” he asked.
“We think perhaps as many as thirty,” Sabine deliberately underestimated.
“Thirty! My goodness. And how will you feed them?”
“They have French ration cards, of course,” Sabine assured him, not looking at Pierre-Marcel. “And my husband is a farmer. We will grow as much food as we can.”
“I see. Well I may visit on the day of your opening. What do you think?”
What did she think? She thought the immediate thoughts of a person who had something to hide: how to react, how to quell surprise, how to appear natural and casual. “You will be most welcome,” she smiled.
“That’s settled then. When do you hope to move into the home?”
“Our target is the first few days of May.”
“Splendid. Until then Madame Zlatin.” He bowed his head, said his goodbyes to Pierre-Marcel, and left.
Sabine and Pierre-Marcel looked solemnly at each other until they heard the outer door shut and Marie-Antoinette hurry into the office.
“What did he want?” she demanded.
“Just to feel important, I suspect.” Pierre-Marcel said. “He likes to be consulted. But Izieu is too far away for him to be overly concerned.”
“Why on earth did I invite him to visit?” Sabine wailed.
“You had no choice. To refuse him would have been far more suspicious.”
“Could he actually prevent us from moving the children into the house?”
“No, no. He doesn’t have that kind of power. He could ask some awkward questions, however. He’s chummy with the Italians, but there’s not much danger there. It’s just that I don’t know how he would react if he knew the full story.”
“If he knew that the children were Jewish, you mean. He certainly didn’t like my surname.”
“Don’t worry, Sabine,” Marie-Antoinette assured her. “Pierre and I will keep him busy here in Belley.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Pierre-Marcel smiled affectionately at his assistant.
“Well, I don’t know off the top of my head, do I? But there must be dozens of ways. Think of a spring fête to celebrate, or drum up some kind of a parade. Maybe I could arrange for a broken water main or a downed telephone wire.”
Pierre-Marcel looked at Sabine. “You think she’s kidding, don’t you? Never underestimate her. I’ve learned that the hard way.”
But he was still smiling and Sabine could see that he found Marie-Antoinette marvellous.
MARIE-ANTOINETTE COJEAN, HEAD SECRETARY OF THE BELLEY SUBPRÉFECTURE
I REMEMBER THE LOOK that passed between Sabine and me, the kind of look that passes from one woman to another and asks a question about a man.
Of course I loved Pierre. I’d loved him since I was sixteen years old. He was handsome, tall, gentle, and kind, the stuff of every girl’s dreams. I wanted him more than I wanted to breathe.
I used to trail far behind him and his friends when they went cycling on the mountain roads. He’d find me on my bicycle on his way back down the mountain and we’d ride home. I used to think hanging on to that bicycle was the only thing that kept me from floating up into the sky.
But then Pierre met Noelle and married her, and I grew up.
I loved a few other boys, but I never wanted to marry them. I decided I wanted more. Maybe not more, but different. I thought women couldn’t possibly make a bigger mess of the world than men had. I’m intelligent. Why not use my brains?
When the war came I was assigned to a post in the préfecture, and one day I looked up from my desk and there was Pierre, still marvellous, still vital, still married. My teasing, our banter, made for a fragile intimacy,
almost fraternal. Why would I want to ruin such a rich friendship?
He has no idea. Men seldom do. If I were to unleash the depth of my feelings, the poor man would drown if he didn’t first die of astonishment.
CHAMBÉRY, APRIL 1943
BACK IN CHAMBÉRY, the planning continued. Sabine arrived home to find Miron surrounded by half a dozen children, poring over what seemed to be some kind of map.
“What’s all this?” she asked, finding a place to sit on the floor among the children.
The answer came from several voices at once: “It’s a garden!”
Miron had made plans on paper for a vegetable garden—scale diagrams of the distance between rows of carrots that the children had coloured orange, streaks of green for runner beans, and red polka-dots for tomatoes. He’d even marked down his best guess for the angle of the sun at particular times of the day. The children who’d never lived on farms regarded these diagrams much as they might a pirate’s map, certain that all the digging that had to be done would lead to some kind of treasure.
“What if it doesn’t grow?” asked Jean-Claude.
“Of course it will,” said his brother, Jacques.
“It will need sunshine and rain and fertilizer,” Miron said.
“What’s that?” asked little Claudette.
Sabine listened, trying to keep up with the names—she hadn’t learned them all yet. Jacques and Jean-Claude had another brother named Richard, she remembered, and Marie-Antoinette had already found a family in Izieu to care for their baby sister, Yvette. Claudette’s sandy hair was always in pigtails. She shuddered to think how confused she’d be when Pierre-Marcel gave her a set of new identity papers and the names of the children would all change again.
“Fertilizer makes the soil richer,” Miron explained. “The best is cow dung.”
Several children giggled and those in the know pinched their noses.
“Will we have a cow?” asked Isidore.
Sabine remembered picking him up from the orphanage with Sami and Hans and Alice. “Well, we’ll have a barn. Why not a cow?” she said.
“Please, Madame Sabine. Tell us again about the house.” Alice had scooted across the floor and now leaned against Sabine’s knees.
“It’s so white it shines in the sun. It has big tall windows that light up the rooms. There’s a fountain and a huge yard.”
“Is it a castle?”
“Oh, no. It’s much better than that. It’s a real home. You can sleep in real beds and have desks in your own classroom. And there’s lots of room to play.”
Sabine looked into the circle of faces surrounding her, suddenly conscious that the fidgeting had stopped and the voices had stilled. Some of the children just stared at her, wanting to believe her but not sure. Some of them studied their hands or twisted a strand of their hair, perhaps remembering other homes or other promises.
“And we’ll all be together,” said Max, who long ago had made Sabine promise that he would not be separated from his brother Herman, when she found them hungry and alone in a pension in Montpellier. “Brother with brother, sister with sister, brothers with sisters, right?”
“That’s right. We’ll all be together.”
“Except that Madame Sabine and I will sleep in the barn,” added Miron. “We’ll be the ones picking bits of straw out of our hair at breakfast. Now who knows how to milk a cow?”
With that the children were off again, chattering and asking questions. Sabine slipped away and joined Léa who was busy preparing supper as best she could in the tiny kitchen of the hostel.
“I couldn’t help overhearing. The children sound excited. Is there really enough money for a cow?”
“I think so. Miron and I have a bit left from the sale of the farm.”
“That’s what I mean, Sabine. You’re putting everything you have into this place. What if it doesn’t turn out to be all that you hope?”
“You think my hopes are too high, that I’ve raised the children’s hopes too high? Don’t worry, Léa. You haven’t seen it yet.”
With that, she changed the subject and pushed the niggling thought of the mayor of Belley to the back of her mind. There was so much to do. Miron would need lumber and nails and tools to build a bedroom in the barn. How many men could Pierre-Marcel find to help fix the stalls and the roof? She must remember to ask Marie-Antoinette to look for a suitable teacher for the classroom. And what about a cook? She sat down to make a list and didn’t look up until she heard Miron clearing his throat behind her. “It’s late, Sabine.”
“What? Where are the children?”
“They’re all asleep. Did you even eat supper?”
“I, no, I lost track of time.” She suddenly realized how hungry she was. “Is there any left?”
“Time or food?”
She grinned. “Food please.”
They crept into the kitchen without putting any lights on. Miron found her some bread and cheese and the small miracle of a glass of wine. The room was silent, but for the sound of her chewing.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sabine said.
“It’s too dark. You can’t see my face.”
“Believe me. I know exactly what your face is doing. It’s frowning.”
“You’re pushing too hard.”
“No, I’m not. We can’t wait. We need to get them settled. The children need this.”
She reached out for his hand, felt his fingers curl around her wrist, felt his thumb making small circles on her skin.
“I just want them to be happy again, my darling, for as long as possible, for however long it lasts. Is that so much to ask?”
He stood and pulled her into his arms and rested his cheek against her hair. The stars and the moon, he thought, but all she heard was, “Come to bed, now. Tomorrow you can start again.”
There were inevitable delays. There was enough lumber to build a bedroom in the barn, but not enough nails. Pierre Marcel tore apart his own chicken coop to dig out the old ones, and swore he’d intended to donate his chickens anyway. Marie-Antoinette visited every farmer she knew and sweet-talked them into four more bags of nails. Several of her friends from Belley turned up to help with the hammering.
Miron set a date for the move and then stood at the window with Sabine watching the rain sweep through the town. It rained steadily for a week, while the mountain roads turned into tiny streams and became impassable. The children were restless and cranky, crowded into the hostel and bored with indoor games. Sabine received an urgent telegram from Léon Reifman advising her that he’d picked up a dozen more children who needed housing. When would she be ready to receive them? Léa fretted that one of the children, little Senta Spiegel, who barely spoke even to her sister, Martha, now had stopped talking altogether.
Sabine paced and studied the sky. Finally she saw the sun. One day of sun and then another, then four days in a row of sun and spring winds licking up the moisture from the wet roads. Two school buses and four trucks lined up in front of the hostel. There was a flurry of running feet and last minute searches, telegrams sent and doors slamming and children lifted into the air.
The small, noisy convoy steered its way through the French countryside, gears shifting as it twisted its way up mountainside roads. The house was just past the next village, just ahead, just around the corner, and then, suddenly, there it was. The apple trees were in full blossom. The water in the fountain was crystal clear.
It was the sort of day that seemed sharply real, and yet not real at all. The children ran about the grounds, as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. They whooped and hollered and peered into the barn and dipped their hands in the fountain.
When Sabine opened the door to the house, they stepped in one by one. Their eyes seemed huge in their surprised faces. They touched everything. They ran up the stairs and bounced on the beds. They tested out t
he rows of school desks and ran their fingers over the long tables in the dining area as if they expected these physical things to disappear at any moment.
Sabine knew what they were feeling: one life was ending and another beginning.
SENTA SPIEGEL, NINE YEARS OLD
WHEN I WAS FOUR OR FIVE years old, I thought people were only given a certain number of words to last their whole life. Once my words were used up I’d have nothing more to say. So I saved mine up. I had to say please and thank you, but I wasn’t going to waste words on the weather when you only had to look at the sky.
At the camp we were sent to, my parents and my sister Martha and me, no words seemed to matter, not even please.
Madame Zlatin came to that camp and read out some words on a list. My sister took my hand and I said goodbye to my mother. My father was somewhere else in the camp where no words could reach him.
We went from place to place. Nothing was familiar. Martha spoke for both of us. I stored up the word Mother. I saved it, hoping I might use it again someday. If I wanted anything I could point, but everything I wanted was somewhere else.
Léa tried to get me to talk. By this time I was old enough to know there were endless words, but what did it matter? How many words were there for sorrow and what good would it do to let them out?
Then one day we were all piled onto a bus and we drove through the countryside. Everyone was chattering. I felt like I was on the bus with a flock of honking geese, all those words floating around and bumping into each other in the air.
“We’re going to summer camp,” Martha said, all excited.
I knew what the word camp meant. I thought she was crazy to be happy about it.
Then the bus finally stopped and I looked out through the window. My mouth formed an O. Everyone got off and started running about. I just sat there for a long time.
Léa came to find me. “Senta, are you okay?”
I smiled at her. “This is paradise,” I said.
