And the image of simultaneously seeing and not seeing suddenly pinpoints that elusive disquiet; my insistence on dating its source has obscured the fact that it’s caused by the date itself. This was the day when the great raid on Jews was to have taken place in 1942, but the authorities quietly postponed “la grande rafle” for a couple of days when they realized that hunting down and rounding up people on a day consecrated to liberty, equality, fraternity, would be a blunder of, shall we say, historic proportions.
Lost in my thoughts, I become aware that the festivities have finally ended, the crowds are thinning out, leaving silence on the streets, rubbish in the gutters. Under the Arc de Triomphe, the unknown soldier slumbers in his tomb undisturbed, like a hero of antiquity in the Elysian Fields, the Champs-Élysées where neither snow nor rain disturb his eternal dream. Up above the city, the wind sounds like the whips of a mighty God, or the fluttering banners of invisible hosts. I smile at my fancifulness, I who pride myself on having my feet firmly planted on the ground. But here, in the company of chimeras, it is hard not to imagine things. Shivering a little, I come down from the heights and walk along the quays.
A homeless man who habitually lies against a metro grate for warmth has quit his post to celebrate this festive night by the river. We share the bench in silence as he swigs away, brandishing his bottle in wordless toasts. When he turns his head in my direction I instinctively recoil, but the visions he sees are fueled by wine, not mortality. He tips his head back, swallows the last drops, and tosses the bottle to the ground. With no more drink to ward off the chill, he thinks of his snug grate and staggers to his feet. “Vive la France!” he shouts, “life’s a whore, but vive la France! all the same.”
I stay where I am, alone. The mist rising from the river nibbles at the sharp outlines of things, blurring the boundary between water and land. How dark seems the night, how profoundly dark. The revolving light atop the Eiffel Tower flashes like a beacon, and those lost in the city find their bearings by its measured scan. Against the unending march-past of history, each individual life seems but a beam from a lighthouse, a brief dazzling illumination, and then darkness once more.
By contrast to the dazzle of the night before, the day seems drab to Alice, the entire city hungover. Even the island’s usually sedate quays are littered with broken glass and the streets are deserted; like the judge and his wife, many of the island’s residents have fled the city to avoid the holiday crowds. She whistles for Coco, who is sniffing with interest at something unspeakable in the gutter. Every morning now Alice finds the neighboring door ajar, Coco waiting to conduct her around the island. The little terrier is perfectly amiable toward the shopkeepers sweeping their stoops and the children dawdling on their way to school, but he never passes up the opportunity to lunge ferociously at the Rottweiler outside the Hôtel de Lauzun.
It’s nice to have some company when she runs, not that she expects Will to join her here, when he never has at home. The street sweepers turn into quai d’Anjou, their brooms and brushes stirring up the decidedly ripe odors on the street, and Alice changes her route. She takes the stone steps to the lower quay, whistling for Coco, who refuses to budge. She ends the tussle of wills, saying sternly Coco, come here, and he patters after her in a sulk.
The river’s lower verge has an entirely different feel, wilder somehow, no wonder youngsters like to hang out there, smoking pot and playing music loud enough to be heard even up in the apartment. At her approach, a lizard sunning itself on a rusty mooring ring wriggles into a stony crack, and Alice thinks of the great floods that breached the wall in the past; you can still buy postcards of the island’s streets transformed into Venetian canals. But the river is as sluggish as the street today, with only an occasional bateau-mouche to break the silence. No fishermen either, angling for the minnows they like to fry up, though she would hesitate to eat anything from the polluted waters, dirtier than usual this morning with the detritus of yesterday’s celebration. A rat floats by on a raft of plastic bags, but even that fails to rouse Coco as he slinks close to the wall, his tail between his legs. He seems as scared of the water as she is.
A police launch thrums closer and closer to shore, its diesel fumes making her choke. Two policemen lean over the side, dredging the water with a net. One of them shouts voilà, and lifts his catch, a head wrapped in a clear plastic bag. Alice watches in horror, not the gruesome head, it is obviously a rubber mold, but the wake of the departing launch. As it washes up on the bank and the water laps at her feet, she realizes the ledge connecting two staircases is already submerged, it won’t take much to engulf that narrow strip of stone. Overcome by a sudden wave of nausea, she bends over and throws up. The vomit swirls in the water now rising above her ankles, and she stands there unable to move, unable to cry out, firmly in the grip of an old nightmare.
Coco, already halfway up to the street, stops and barks sharply. But the street cleaners muffle the sound and no help comes. He shivers and whines, staring fearfully at the water lapping the steps. Then, screwing up his courage, he leaps onto the watery ledge where Alice stands as if turned to stone herself. Coco presses himself against her legs, and the feel of his wiry coat steadies her. She edges her way to the balustrade and at the touch of cold metal, her head clears, her nausea recedes. Ana Carvalho, spraying down her birdcages in the courtyard, watches Alice crossing the street, surprised to see the American looking quite peaked, and no wonder, everyone knows le footing shakes up your insides, it’s downright unhealthy but Coco seems to enjoy it, look at the rascal, wagging his tail for all he is worth.
The Rottweiler outside the Hôtel de Lauzun keeps a wary eye on his nemesis, but Coco does not bother to lunge at him, savoring his recent triumph over a more powerful foe.
When the sun rises on the sixteenth of July, the sabbath sky loud with church bells, my thoughts return to another dawn, almost half a century ago. I was in London then, ruins and rubble all around me from the German blitz the year before, those months of bombing when fires engulfed the city and it seemed that the Twilight of the Gods had descended from the sky. I spent many nights at the bomb shelters in a strange camaraderie with people I would never have met otherwise, and coming out of a shelter one morning I saw a freshly painted sign on a neighborhood restaurant: Keep Calm and Curry On. The unquenchable spirit of Londoners seemed as much a miracle as the sight of St. Paul’s Cathedral rising serenely toward the sky from its wreath of smoke, its ring of fire. And then the bombings stopped as Hitler set his eyes on the Eastern Front.
Of course the Germans had no need to bomb Paris, which had fallen into their hands like a ripe golden plum, a delicious reine claude, and they strutted around the city with pride of ownership. A phrase from my youth flashed into my mind: Wie Gott in Frankreich. Happy as God in France.
Across the Channel my thoughts returned again and again to Paris, but blockaded as I was, I had no way of learning the truth. Only later did I discover the sickening details: A July night in 1942. Footsteps turning into rue des Rosiers, then up rue Elzévir. The peremptory knock on the door. I had imagined that scene so vividly while I lived; and now I surge on a wave of emotion to that place, that night.
As the sky turns from black to cobalt, the blue hour, the city seems uninhabited, no light anywhere, the curtains drawn, the shutters pulled. It’s dangerous to be out during the curfew without a pass from the occupiers, but no one asks for my papers; death confers its own laissez-passer.
I am taken aback by a purposeful hum of activity and feel a shiver go through me. What is it? What great bird of prey menaces the sleeping city?
Something big is afoot, some long-planned operation. Green and white city buses idle before garages, schools, gymnasiums. The police are forming teams, some in uniform, some in plainclothes, going over lists. Areas are cordoned off, intersections barricaded, escape routes blocked: a dragnet is tightening under cover of darkness. It’s something they are trying to co
nceal not from the enemy, but from Parisians.
There have been rumors, of course. But this time, something more concrete, fliers, phone calls, whispers: il faut s’cacher. But where to hide in an already besieged city?
Mrs. Grzybyk has found refuge with an old friend. Samuel Fenster might be a Jew, but no one will dare lay a finger on a decorated veteran. He stays up in his living room while she sleeps, smoking one of his hoarded cigarettes, though the doctors have forbidden it, bad for his lungs, or lung, to be more accurate, he has only one since the war. The last war, the Great War they call it, those who have never been in the trenches. There’s nothing great about it, all war is hell.
He lights another cigarette and stretches out on the sofa. He can sleep anywhere, soldiers’ habits, used to sleeping on straw when there was any, on soil when there wasn’t. Rachel Grzybyk was all in a panic when she arrived, poor soul, he almost didn’t recognize her; she’s lost a great deal of weight, looks like a collapsed balloon. Shame about her shop. She’s fed a lot of people in her time, whether they had money or not, couldn’t bear to see anyone leave hungry.
Samy puts out the cigarette and resists the temptation to light another, feeling a tightness in his chest, his own fault, one too many cigarettes today. Rachel snores gently in the next room and it feels good to have someone in the house, he lost Flora that first winter of the Occupation, coldest winter he can remember, to think she died of pneumonia and he with his one lung still hanging on. Life’s funny that way, he used to long for peace and quiet, with Flora it was always “Samy, have you done this, Samy, have you done that?” He used to tease her, saying he deserved another croix de guerre for living with her, but now he finds the house too silent. He would turn on the wireless just to hear a human voice during the long evenings of the curfew, until they came and confiscated the radios. But one day the sodding war will be over, and then they can all get on with it.
Oh, what the hell. He lights another cigarette. “Samy, Samy, you’ll set the mattress on fire.” Well he hasn’t yet, and Flora’s gone and here he is, still smoking. He should try to sleep, what time is it, almost four o’clock? He hears a sound quite some distance away, but noises carry on a windless night. Trouble’s coming, he can sense it. He gets up to put on his jacket, no harm in being prepared. And then it comes.
A loud knock at the door and the curt order, “Ouvrez, police.”
The scene plays out simultaneously in other buildings, on other streets. Boots on the stairs. Knocks at the door. “Ouvrez, police.” Lights go on in darkened windows, frightened eyes peer through the door, alarmed cries ring out. Men argue, women plead, children cry, but the police are implacable. They order people to pack necessities for a couple of days, and since they have no idea where they are going or what they might need, they hastily throw into their valises, bundles, bedrolls, anything that comes to mind, a coverlet, an extra pair of reading glasses, a photo album. An old woman struggles to put in her dentures, but her hand shakes so much that they fall and shatter. A child wants to take his rocking horse, but the policeman shakes his head. “Allez, allez,” he says impatiently. “Allez.”
One woman runs to the window, throws open the shutters, and shrieks out a warning. Her cries are abruptly cut off, the window slammed shut. Those who hear her scurry into cellars and attics, hoping the dark city will swallow them up. But the police are not unduly concerned. They’ll track them down, or someone will give them away. In any event, they won’t be able to return home. The policemen seal the door with tape, move on to the next address.
“Ouvrez, police.”
Some do not answer the door, like the doctor who injected his wife and children with potassium chloride before plunging the syringe into his own arm. Like the woman who leapt off a window ledge with her child, splattering blood and brains on the cobblestones. The writer who disconnected the gas pipe from the stove and put it between his lips. They, and others like them, are beyond the reach of any mortal voice.
“Ouvrez, police.”
Samy opens the door without hesitation, and the first thing the police see is the croix de guerre pinned to his jacket, just above the yellow star. They speak to him respectfully, but the list in their hand trumps his medal.
Rachel Grzybyk is awakened by a policeman shaking her shoulder. Clutching her chest, she gets slowly and unsteadily to her feet, tries to gather a few things. “Allez, allez,” he says, and the words fall unpleasantly on Samy Fenster’s ears, reminding him of the “schnell, schnell” of the guards when he was a prisoner of war.
As they start down the stairs, the samovar drops from Rachel Grzybyk’s hands and the clang resounds in the stairwell, echoing on and on and on. Oh, well, it will be of no use where she’s going, she thinks, and sits down heavily. Her face is pale and covered with perspiration. Samy fans her with his hat. She lets out a long sigh and clutches Samy’s hand. Despite the impatient exclamations from the policemen, he does not move until the cardiac arrest finally stops the beating of that large heart. Then he turns toward the men and says quietly, “We can go now, for her the war is over.”
All across the Marais, the voices continue their stern commands. “Ouvrez, police.”
In the apartment at rue Elzévir, Mathilde lies on the floor, rubbing her cheek and bawling. “Marie hit me,” she wails as Clara comes down the ladder. “She hit me.” Poor innocent, thinks the policeman, no idea of what she’s just done, but God made her that way, she’s not to blame.
He examines Clara’s identity card, with the word “Jew” stamped in red ink, and compares it against their list.
Born: September 6, 1913.
At: Hunawihr.
“In Germany?” he asks, though her nationality is marked française, naturalized, perhaps.
“No. Alsace.”
He wavers, the word “Alsace” carries a deep resonance for men of his generation who remember too well the history of the lost province. But his younger colleague impatiently reminds him the Tulard files are impeccable. In any case, he knows his orders: no arguments, no discussion, no exceptions.
The older man rubs his hand across his eyes. He should have seen this coming when the Germans wanted a census of the Jews, why else start asking about race and religion all of a sudden? A bad business, he wants no further part of it, he’ll hand in his resignation tomorrow.
Marie goes to the door and bars it, daring the men to push her aside in her own house. “You can see how ill the child is,” she says, “let the girls stay.” The younger policeman shakes his head. No exceptions, not for the sick, not for the dying. But the older one asserts his authority. They can stay, he says. But Gigi starts screaming “Maman, mamaaan,” and, alarmed by the feverish glitter in her eyes, Clara picks her up. Gigi wraps her arms around her mother and won’t let go. And if Gigi comes, there is no question of Lilou staying behind, the twins are inseparable.
The uniformed policeman is annoyed at the delay, he’s hoping for a promotion out of this night’s work and they are already behind schedule. Time to move on. He assures Marie if the children go with their mother, she’ll be released sooner.
Grimly, Marie gathers a few provisions, a shawl for Clara, aspirin for Gigi’s fever, a box of crayons to keep Lilou distracted. Mathilde hurries to pack her own things—a packet of Banania chocolate, a straw hat—as if they are going on a pleasure trip, but when Clara and the girls leave, the nice man with the pipe won’t let her go with them, he hands her the doll and tells her to go back to sleep.
Out on the street, there is already a crowd of people asking, “Where are we going? When will we be back?” The policemen don’t answer, but keep them moving toward various primary centers—garages, schools, gymnasiums. “Allez, allez.”
Sleepy and puzzled, the young children cling to their mothers’ skirts. Their parents’ fear transmits itself to them and they start crying. The clamor wakes people in the neighboring buildings, and
they look out of their windows to see what the commotion is about at this ungodly hour. It is not hard to draw conclusions: All the people are wearing yellow stars. Some shake their heads and go back to bed; others call out words of encouragement. A hard-faced concierge standing in a doorway says, “Look how many they are, they breed like vermin.” One of the onlookers says tartly, “I wouldn’t gloat so loud if I were you, I hear they’re coming for harpies next.”
A young nurse returning from her shift at the hospital stares at the piteous scene before her eyes. Suddenly a boy of fifteen or sixteen breaks away and runs down the street, veering off into an alley. Blowing their whistles, a couple of policemen chase him down. While everyone is distracted, a woman pushes against the nurse and before she knows what has happened, she finds a baby thrust into her arms. The nurse tucks the infant into her cloak like a black-market parcel and melts away as the policemen bring back the runaway and push him into line, blood trickling down his face. A woman takes out her handkerchief to dab at the blood, but drops it when she sees a priest hurrying past with his eyes averted. She clutches his soutane, imploring him to save her, she has three small children alone at home. He breaks free of her grip and takes to his heels, his borrowed cassock hiding the yellow star beneath.
Clara and the girls are taken to a primary center chaotic with people pushing, shouting, waving their papers, demanding answers, as if they still believe this is merely more of the bureaucratic harassment they have come to expect. An inspector looks at Clara’s identity card, tells her he’ll deal with her case in an hour. But when she approaches the counter again, there has been a change of shift, and the new policeman motions her to the door. “Allez, allez,” he says, directing people into two lines, one for those with children, another for those without, they are bound for different destinations. The crowd surges out the door and Clara and her daughters are swept into a bus whose deep rumblings vibrate through their bodies. As the bus lurches forward, a woman in a fur coat stumbles, and a factory worker extends a callused hand to steady her. They look at each other without saying a word. Despite the gulf that separates them, they both have the same stunned expression on their face. If this can happen in France, then where in the world can they be safe? The children stand with their noses pressed against the window, and the bus driver curses under his breath, this is not what he bargained for, not the children, and he hunches over the steering wheel until they pull up before the winter stadium.
Haunting Paris Page 16
