The House of Izieu

by Jan Rehner

  There was also immediate chaos. All the children wanted to try something on right away, and several children wanted to try on the same thing. There was tugging and shoving and shouts of No, me! And Not fair! Sabine felt trapped in a sudden whirlwind of unleashed desire and uncontrollable children with flailing arms and fierce expressions.

  Philippe came rushing from the kitchen, took one look and ran back to the kitchen for a ladle and a cooking pot that he used as a makeshift gong. After several ringing bangs, hands dropped, mouths closed and silence drifted over the room like an icy rain. Philippe glared at the upturned faces staring back at him, each trying to look more innocent than the next. “Who are you lot, then?” he growled. “And what have you done with my good children?”

  Esther, slim and graceful with grey eyes, took the lead and stepped forward. “We’re very sorry, Monsieur Philippe. Aren’t we?” She looked around, but no one else budged and she had to poke her brother, Jacob, in the ribs.

  “Oh. Ouch. I mean, yes, we’re all sorry.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, we’re sorry,” the remaining chorus chimed in, except for one anonymous voice that pleaded, “Please, don’t take the chest away.”

  “All right,” Sabine had steadied herself. “Everyone into the classroom. I want you to sit quietly and think about the best way to play with the costumes so that everyone gets a turn.”

  There were a few audible groans, but of course the children did as they were told. They rested their chins on their hands, and scratched their heads and dangled their legs, but from this rather glum beginning the idea of the Summer Fête was eventually born, and to make it even more exciting, the exact content was to be kept from all the adults in the most cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die secrecy, with the exception of Marcelle, who promised the children time in the classroom to rehearse, and Marie-Antoinette who could be counted on in a pinch for extra props.

  For the next few weeks, there were whispers in corners, sudden halts to conversations whenever an adult appeared, and giggles behind the closed classroom door. If, amid this tumult, any of the adults noticed that Théo and Paulette were spending hours together, their interest soon passed because there was always something else to attend to in a house busy with fifty or sixty children.

  Théo was in a constant state of shy paralysis. A strand of dark hair hanging over Paulette’s forehead made all the difference in the world, as did the slightest glimpse of a collar bone above the top of her summer dress. He wondered how no one else seemed to notice the flawlessness of her skin, or the bottomless dark of her eyes, or the lightness of her voice.

  At first, Paulette showed no signs of being aware of the effect she had on Théo, and she treated him with the same sunny kindness she happily bestowed on everyone.

  Yet, if the slightest opportunity arose—say the chance to pass the salt or bring Paulette a glass of water—Théo would seize the moment, planning to charm her with his manners and pay her pretty compliments. But when she looked at him and smiled a polite thank you for the water, he found his throat had gone so completely dry that he could not say a word. Instead, he drank down the water himself in two noisy gulps.

  Paulette lifted an eyebrow at this piece of rudeness, and Théo, blushing furiously, rushed to the kitchen for another glass. In his brief absence, Paulette, who was as quick-witted as she was pretty, pieced together a previous series of longing glances and shy smiles into a clear picture of love sickness and decided she was more than flattered. She was interested.

  When Théo returned with another glass, Paulette’s knowing gaze made him so dizzy his hands shook and he spilled a bit of the water, and in his nervousness to mop it up, finally succeeded in knocking over the entire glass. Water flooded the table, and scarlet flooded Théo’s cheeks, and while the other children at the table leapt up to avoid getting wet, Paulette whispered into Théo’s ear that she’d like to go for a walk with him later.

  After that fortuitous accident, the two were inseparable. Théo felt he was the luckiest boy on earth, and Paulette believed that every word he spoke was poetry. Perhaps theirs was only a summer romance, but their youth and circumstances infused it with an intensity that even the youngest children could sense.

  They pestered Théo with questions.

  Is she your sweetheart?

  Are you going to kiss her?

  Whenever Paulette passed by, they chanted Paulette loves Théo and made kissing noises with their lips.

  They were thoroughly annoying.

  Eventually, Léa put a stop to all the teasing. She gave her blessing to the yearnings of the two young hearts, because compared to the danger of the real situation they found themselves in, a stolen kiss or two seemed nothing to be worried about. She only wondered in which corner of a crowded house, or in which corner of an uncertain future, this couple would ever find shelter.

  RENÉE PAILLARÉS, COUNSELLOR

  MY SISTER, PAULETTE, fell in love with Théo Reis that summer. At first, I couldn’t believe it and I placed my hand on her forehead to check for fever. He seemed so clumsy and he was always chattering. He ought to have remained a pest, and he would have, if he hadn’t been so beautiful. You had to give him that. He wasn’t as tall as Paul Niedermann, but then no one was. Théo had a wonderful smile and sad eyes. Sad underneath, I intuited. And though Paulette sparkled when she was with him, I tried to warn her. It wasn’t a good time to fall in love with a Jewish boy. At our age, I thought it would be a disaster to meet the one because it would be the wrong time and it would end in sorrow.

  She just looked at me like I was the crazy one, and she had a point after all, because here we were at the House of Izieu. My family had taken in little Diane wholeheartedly, and we’d be taking her home with us at the end of the summer. Loving someone meant you didn’t see the danger, or rather, you saw it, but chose to see past it to a world where difference wouldn’t be a matter of life or death.

  Théo writes letters to his mother, but he confessed to Paulette that he misses her so much that he sometimes tries to invent reasons to love her less. All the children wrote letters to someone. I was glad, though, that Diane was too young to write to her family, because sometimes, when I watched the other children writing letters, I was overcome by the sadness of it—pages and pages filled to the margins with their longings and hopes spelled out in tiny handwriting or slanted printing to parents who would, in all probability, never survive the war.

  Paulette was more resilient than I was. She flung her heart open to joy, searched it out, and laughed at the shadows that made my chest tighten. She fell in love enthusiastically, as if the world would welcome it, and never looked back, or should I say forward.

  JULY 1943

  SABINE CONSIDERED LÉA to be indestructible, which was why it took her so long to realize how ill she was. Her skin had turned a chalky white and her hands trembled as she tucked the children into their beds.

  Sabine touched Lèa’s hand and felt the fire of the fever racing through her friend’s body. Immediately, she shouted for help from Renée and Paulette and the three of them virtually dragged Léa down to the river to dowse her in cold water. Then they removed all her clothes and rubbed her body with towels, wrapped her in blankets, and put her to bed.

  “I’ll stay with her tonight,” Sabine assured the young sisters. “But perhaps you should sleep in the dormitory instead of in your tent. I don’t want the children to be frightened.”

  None of the adults slept that night, with the exception of Léa who dreamed so deeply that Sabine feared she was slipping into unconsciousness. Having employed every skill she possessed as a Red Cross nurse, Sabine finally resorted to prayer and the slim chance of divine intervention. She whispered Léa’s name a thousand times, counted every sigh, and observed every fleeting expression.

  Outside Léa’s bedroom door, Léon paced. Miron ran up and down the stairs with cups of tea that Marie insisted on brewing even
though Sabine refused them all because she would not cease her scrutiny of Léa’s face even for the second it would take to raise a cup to her lips. Sometime after midnight, Marie gave up and convinced Philippe to begin preparing a huge vat of chicken soup, which was the only cure she knew for illnesses that came in the night. Paulette and Renée enlisted the help of Théo, Arnold, Henri, and Paul, and together the teenagers told the children every story they knew and rocked the little ones in their arms until they felt like leaden weights.

  In the morning light, Léa was breathing shallowly, her eyes tightly closed, the lids dark smudges. Her skin was now white marble. Sabine looked upon the woman she loved for her selfless life and her unwavering strength, and feared that Léa’s poor body might simply evaporate into the close air of the sickroom before she could count to ten. The swiftness of the fever shocked her and she knew what she must do.

  Sabine called for Léon, who entered the bedroom so quickly he almost ran her down. “I’m going to fetch a doctor. Stay with her.”

  Without another word to anyone, Sabine pedalled her bicycle all the way to Glandieu, near Izieu. She had no memory of the journey afterwards for her head was filled with the ceaseless repetition of the doctor’s name given to her by Pierre-Marcel and the urgency to find him.

  She must have looked wild from her ride for some of the villagers in Glandieu turned away from her, but eventually an old woman selling flowers pointed to the home and surgery of Dr. Albert Bendrihem. Sabine would not take the seat offered by the young receptionist, choosing instead to pace the small waiting room.

  Finally, he appeared. The doctor was an affable looking man of about fifty, almost completely bald with bifocals that magnified his pale brown eyes. As soon as he had ushered her into his office, Sabine blurted out all of Léa’s symptoms and begged him to return with her to the House of Izieu.

  “This house is The Settlement for Refugee Children from the Hérault, is it not? The one Monsieur Wiltzer told me about?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he also told you about my—shall we say, my reputation here?”

  “Yes. That doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m afraid it does matter, Madame Zlatin. The young receptionist you met is my son. No one else will work for me. If you bring your patient here, indeed if you bring any children here, I’ll gladly treat them. But do you really want me to travel to your front door? I fear my movements are being carefully noted, exactly by whom I don’t know or care as long as they do not wear the uniform of the Milice.”

  “Léa wouldn’t survive the journey. She is the very soul of the House of Izieu, doctor. What can I do?”

  “Save her. You were a nurse? I’ll give you what medicines I can, but you must administer them. Put her on an intravenous drip. Don’t let her get dehydrated. Do you have a telephone? No, of course you don’t. Send a quick boy to the village if her symptoms change. Right now, I’d say she has pneumonia and possibly a viral infection. I’m sorry, Madame Zlatin, but we mustn’t put the whole Settlement at risk.”

  Sabine nodded her assent, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak. She gathered up the equipment and the medicine she’d need and flew back to Léa’s bedside. When she ran into the house, she couldn’t help but notice that every room and hallway smelled like chicken soup.

  Over the next three days and nights, Sabine became an expert in tracing the slightest signs of improvement in the patient. She stroked her hair and pressed cool cloths to her forehead. She adjusted and readjusted the intravenous drip, and breathed in the odour of medications on her skin. Miron and Léon took turns at Léa’s bedside and ordered Sabine to sleep, finally hauling in an extra mattress because she refused to leave the room. When exhaustion overcame her, she sank onto the mattress and watched the light fade, filling the space with shadows, blurring the objects in the room, and transforming Léa’s face into a pale blotch on the pillow.

  On the fourth morning, Léa opened her eyes and asked what day it was. Sabine was euphoric for she knew that her friend had come back to her from the land of everlasting dreams. The good news galloped from room to room, triggering a collective sigh as if the house itself had begun breathing again.

  Strict bed rest was ordered, and the children, clamouring for visits, were only allowed into Léa’s bedroom in pairs, and only allowed to stay as long as it took to deliver their tiny bunches of wild flowers or get well cards coloured in crayon.

  Sabine asked Léon who the fastest runner was among the boys and he nominated Isidore who was always racing about with the cocker spaniel that seldom left his side. “Take him to Glandieu, please, and have him run to Dr. Bendrihem with the good news. It’s the house with the blue door.”

  That night, as Sabine settled down on her makeshift bed, she heard a lovely sound. Since Léa could not sing to the children, they sang to her, French lullabies in high, wavering tones. The music of their sweet voices flowed through the house, soaking into the wooden floors, coursing up the white walls, lapping against the windows. Sabine fell asleep, rocking gently in a sea of song.

  The next morning, under a pale, blue-white sky, Sabine walked down to the road through the fields. She passed the postman and smiled, knowing how excited the children would be to get mail. But she already had a letter of her own, and she was taking it to Belley to show Pierre-Marcel.

  When she arrived at his office, she was disappointed not to find Marie-Antoinette, for her cheerful welcome always made Sabine feel lighter, as if her troubles were no more than a puff of smoke she could blow away.

  “What? No Marie-Antoinette today?” she asked when Pierre-Marcel came to greet her.

  “She’s off running a mysterious errand. Don’t be surprised if it has something to do with an upcoming Summer Fête. Come in, come in. How can I help?”

  “I’ve brought you a letter I received several days ago. Why don’t you read it first, and then we’ll talk?”

  Pierre-Marcel smoothed out the page and began to read:

  Dear Madame Zlatin,

  I have your name from a dear friend in Montpellier, Berthe Mering, and she has told me of your refuge in Izieu.

  I am sure you have heard many stories of struggle, so I will spare you mine, except to say simply that I have a daughter, Lucienne. She is five years old. We are utterly alone.

  If you could welcome us both, I would do any sort of work—cooking, cleaning, mucking out the barn, fieldwork—anything at all. I could help with the other children as Berthe tells me there are many.

  If you do not have room for two, I beg you to take one. Lucienne is a good little girl. She takes up very little space, except in my heart. Please accept Lucienne.

  Awaiting your response and wishing you well,

  Mina Friedler

  Pierre-Marcel folded the letter. When he looked up at Sabine, his face was grave, an expression of genuine sorrow darkening his features.

  “How many children are at the house now?” he asked softly.

  “This would bring the total to sixty-two. Plus seven adults. I don’t count Renée and Paulette Paillarès, or Marcelle, because they’ll be leaving at the end of the summer. Léa has volunteered to share her room with Mina Friedler and we can always squeeze an extra bed into the dormitory for the child, but it seems a lot to ask of you. More IDs to manufacture and more ration cards.”

  Pierre-Marcel waved his hand, as if producing these documents that risked his office and his life was no more than swatting a fly. “We found this shoved under the office door. Read it.” He pushed an envelope with a smudged address across his desk.

  Sabine opened the single folded page inside and stared at the words. Some of the children at the Settlement are Jews.

  She ran her fingers over the words, as if she could erase them. When she looked up, Pierre-Marcel was staring out the window. She studied his profile, the muscles of his jaw tight. “When did you get this?”

&n
bsp; “Two days ago. I showed it to Marie-Antoinette. She was angry. She wants me to hunt down the sender and put the fear of God into him or her.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “Not even Marie-Antoinette can do that. I can think of at least fifteen or twenty people capable of such a denunciation.”

  “As many as that?” Sabine whispered. The betrayal of a child was so immense she didn’t have enough room for it in her chest. She could scarcely breathe. Surely it could be no one in Izieu itself. The neighbours had adopted the children, the farmers had welcomed their labour, and the shopkeepers regularly gave them apples and treats to make up for their misfortunes.

  Pierre-Marcel tried to reassure her. “Look, Sabine. These are people who spy on their neighbours and raise the alarm whenever someone gets a better piece of meat at the butcher’s than they do. The Italians don’t take them seriously.”

  “And the Milice?”

  He didn’t answer her, but neither did he look away. “It’s cause to be careful.”

  “I wasn’t careful. I went to Glandieu to see the doctor. I had to. Léa was ill. Oh, yes, she’s recovered now, but for a while it seemed her life was in the balance. I went in a rush, and I asked people in the village for directions.”

  “Perhaps that’s it, then. Someone watching the doctor and making assumptions that anyone who goes to him must be Jewish. No one followed you on the journey home?”