Ashes

by Christopher de Vinck

‘I don’t know where my father is,’ I said finally between sobs. ‘You told me he was working at the Foreign Ministry, but I don’t know where he is. My aunt went back to Luxembourg. We can’t find Hava’s parents; the synagogue was empty. Oh, Sister Bernadette, the planes . . . Before he left, my father said if the planes came, the war would begin. The planes and bombs . . . I’m trying to be brave, but I don’t know what to do. We don’t know what to do.’

  Sister Bernadette unfolded her arms from around my shoulder, and produced a handkerchief from under her robe. ‘Simone, you are not alone. Who is this with you?’ Hava stood patiently outside in her simple dress, a small smile on her lips.

  ‘Sister, this is Hava Daniels.’ I pulled Hava closer. ‘She’s my friend. We tried to find her parents and brother at the synagogue, where they said that they’d be waiting for us, but no one was there. Just the rabbi, all alone. They weren’t at her home either. We don’t know where they are.’

  ‘Come with me, Simone. And Hava, you too, you are also welcome, always welcome. You need something to eat, some hot soup. We cannot fight the war on empty stomachs.’

  At the word ‘soup’ I smiled meekly, thinking about my Maginot Line, thinking about my own war soup. ‘We would love soup, Sister.’

  Sister Bernadette led us down a dark hall. On the wall hung pictures of saints: Joan of Arc, Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, Saint Elizabeth of Hungary. ‘Now, girls, there are examples of brave women. Let’s be brave women and have some soup.’ With a small wave of her hand, Sister Bernadette pushed open a swinging door, took my hand and Hava’s hand and smiled. ‘Welcome,’ she said, ‘to a bit of hope.’

  Sitting at a long table were four children, each with a yellow napkin attached to their necks, each with a bowl of hot soup, steam rising from each bowl. Sister Bernadette looked down the length of the table and said ‘Children, say hello to Mademoiselle Lyon, and her friend Mademoiselle Daniels.’

  In unison, the children called out politely ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lyon. Bonjour, Mademoiselle Daniels.’ A girl with pigtails stood up from her seat, walked over to me, and pulled off her yellow napkin. ‘Here, mademoiselle, so you won’t spill soup on your beautiful dress.’ The child handed me the napkin, curtsied and ran back to her seat.

  As I held the napkin in my hand, I turned to Sister Bernadette. ‘Do you have a little school right here in the convent?’

  ‘We have a secret,’ Sister Bernadette whispered. ‘Come with me.’ Then she turned and said to the children, ‘I will take our new friends to the kitchen to get them each a bowl and help put on their napkins.’

  As Hava and I followed Sister Bernadette, I watched for a moment as all four children blew into their bowls, some taking small sips with their spoons, other stirring the soup. The sound of the spoons hitting their bowls reminded me of broken bells tolling.

  I asked, ‘Where did the children come from?’

  ‘They’re our secret,’ Sister Bernadette answered. ‘They’re from the neighbourhood. We weren’t expecting the war to start so soon, but there were rumours. We have nuns in Germany and they sent us letters about Hitler and Russia invading Poland. Apparently, Hitler’s navy sank a British liner, the SS Athenia. Priests have been publicly executed in Poland, and all Jewish businesses in Germany have been closed.’ Sister Bernadette took the yellow napkin from my hand and began to knot it gently around my neck.

  ‘They’re all Jewish children. Their parents asked if we could keep them here in secret and pretend that they’re Christian orphans. Their mothers and fathers know what’s happening in Germany to the Jews. When the planes arrived this morning, the parents arrived with their children. It’s been prearranged for them to stay here as long as they need to.’

  ‘They look so brave sipping their soup.’

  ‘They are innocent. They have been told that they will be with us for a long holiday.’

  ‘But where are their parents?’ Hava asked hopefully.

  Sister Bernadette pulled out another yellow napkin from a drawer, and as she adjusted it around Hava’s neck she looked into her eyes and said, ‘We don’t know where they are. They said that they will come back when they can. They asked that we pretend their children are Christian. That’s all I know.’

  When we returned to the dining room, the children looked up. One girl with a bow in her hair called out, ‘Mademoiselle Lyon, you look lovely in your yellow napkin.’ Another child, a boy with freckles, patted the empty chair beside him. ‘Mademoiselle Daniels, come and sit here.’

  As Hava and I took our seats, Sister Bernadette placed bowls of soup before us. ‘Do as the children do. Blow on the soup. It’s very hot.’

  The boy said, ‘Like this, mademoiselle,’ then he leaned forward, his mouth just at the edge of his bowl, and gently blew across the top of the soup. ‘It’s like the wind. Blow like you’re a breeze, Mademoiselle Daniels. Pretend the soup is the ocean.’

  ‘Like this?’ Hava asked, and then I, too, leaned over and blew like the wind across the surface of the sea.

  ‘When you’re finished with your soup, Mademoiselle Lyon,’ a girl in a red dress chimed in, ‘you should lift your napkin and wipe your lips like a lady. My mother says we always have to wipe our lips like ladies, like this,’ and the little girl lifted the edge of her napkin, pursed her lips, and gently tapped her mouth. Just then, a vast explosion shook the building, accompanied by the drone of planes overhead.

  But the children continued blowing calmly on their soup. I gasped and looked up. Sister Bernadette lowered her eyes a bit and said gently, ‘The children, Simone. Think of the children.’

  Another blast. More planes. I leaned over my soup and blew and blew.

  ‘We’re here on holiday,’ the girl with the bow in her hair said.

  And again, there was silence. No bombs. No aircraft. After the soup the children, one by one, walked their empty bowls to the kitchen sink. Hava and I did too.

  ‘Now, off you go with Sister Thérèse,’ Sister Bernadette called out with a clap of her hands. ‘Say good bye to Mademoiselle Lyon and Mademoiselle Daniels.’

  As each child shook our hands, another nun ushered the group out of the dining room, and they disappeared through the door towards the dark hall of brave women.

  ‘Hava, you might like to accompany them,’ Sister Bernadette said kindly. Hava nodded and followed the children into the hall.

  ‘Simone,’ Sister Bernadette turned to me. ‘Your father might not return for some time. The war has begun, and he’s part of the Resistance. Here at the convent we will play our part. But you must also play your part. You must be brave and stay at your home, like your father told you. You’ll be safe there. Look how brave these children are. You must be brave too.’

  ‘But what about Hava’s family? What should we do?’

  ‘You can’t save everyone, Simone.’

  ‘No, sister, but I can try.’

  ‘That’s all any of us can do,’ she said. ‘Listen.’

  From a room nearby, the children’s voices rose in unison, as they began reciting a Jewish prayer.

  ‘Here, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is One

  Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is One.

  Praised is the Lord by day and praised by night,

  Praised when we lie down and praised when we rise up.

  I place my spirit in His care, when I wake as when I sleep.

  God is with me, I shall not fear, body and spirit in His keep.’

  In the background, Hava’s voice could also be heard, as she recited the words with the children.

  Minutes later, she walked back into the room and smiled gratefully at Sister Bernadette. ‘It’s the bedtime prayer version of the Shema for children,’ she said. ‘We ask God for peace and protection in the evening. It may not yet be fully night, but it feels like the end of the day.’ She closed her eyes and repeated the last line again: ‘God is with me, I shall not fear, body and spirit in His keep.’

  ‘It is a beautiful praye
r,’ agreed Sister Bernadette, ‘but I will need to teach them the Hail Mary if we if we are going to pretend that they’re Christian children.’

  At the door to the convent, Sister Bernadette once again held my hand and said, ‘You’re not alone. God is with you both.’

  We thanked Sister Bernadette for the soup and her calm reassurance and as she closed the door, and we walked down the steps, I thought about the pictures of brave women hanging in the tranquil hallway of the convent.

  CHAPTER 31

  It is estimated that between 220,000 and 500,000 Romany people were killed by the Nazis and their collaborators between 1939 and 1945.

  By the time Hava and I reached my side of the city the moon was out, the early evening light a pale blue. I looked at the shadows of trees branching out, their wide shapes dusting the buildings. Tendrils of low mist caressed the ground.

  The people in the streets seemed less frantic. There was an odd moment of calm.

  ‘The silence, Simone,’ Hava exclaimed. ‘Do you hear the silence?’

  There was no sound: no cars, no one selling bread. The bakery, the fishmonger, the butcher all closed, their empty windows covered with dark shutters.

  ‘We must hurry.’

  Hava and I walked briskly beside each other, her hand in mine; the hand of a pianist, an artist, or potter; the hand that washed her hair, picked lilacs, held a book or two. Hava could have been a conductor of a grand symphony. I was grateful she was my friend.

  As we walked there was a sudden, vague jingling in the distance.

  ‘Do you hear that, Simone?’

  We stopped walking. Hava let go of my hand and held her hand to her ear. ‘I hear them!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Listen, Simone. They’re getting closer.’

  There was a distinct jingle and jangle. Bayonets? Helmets? Belts of bullets and brass medals on proud chests? I folded my arms, ready to protect my arms, ready to flee the advancing Nazis troops.

  ‘They will not cut off my arms, Hava. I won’t let them.’

  ‘Who?’ Hava said.

  ‘The Nazi soldiers. They’re coming, I hear them too.’

  The approaching noise included wheels against the cobblestones, pots and pans clanking together, the hooves of horses in a slow cadence.

  ‘Simone, they aren’t soldiers. They’re gypsies!’

  I had been on my way to school the last time I’d seen them, before the war began: two brightly painted horse-drawn wagons full of gypsies.

  The wooden wheels bounced on the cobblestones and the buckets and tools that hung from the rear made a magical clatter. The horses had paper flowers stuck in their harnesses, just over their ears. Beautiful brown women, their heads wrapped in colourful silk scarves, leaned out of the small windows. Barefooted, curly headed children ran alongside.

  I had been enchanted! For a girl painfully conscious of the narrow limits of home and school, the gypsies had brought awareness of the open road, the reality of other, more exotic cultures . . . the possibility of freedom.

  ‘Look, Simone. Gypsies!’ Hava repeated, as a brightly coloured wagon appeared under the linden trees; a brightly coloured wagon that looked like a little house on large wagon wheels. The wheels were painted yellow. The side of the ‘house’ was decorated with scrolls of swirls and lines. I remember the images of fruit and horses, birds and vines. The paint was maroon, dark blue, and green. Two strong, colourful horses pulled the wagon through the rising mist. A man sat high atop the wagon, guiding the horses with reins that were entwined with strings of little bells.

  ‘I don’t think they’ll hurt your arms, Simone,’ Hava said as we watched from the side of the road.

  The wagon made its way up the street and as its shadow passed over Hava and me, the man at the reins looked down, nodded, and drove on. As it continued, a small door at the back of the wagon opened and a girl, wearing a bright purple dress and a crown of wildflowers, stood in the door frame. She waved, smiled, and then blew us a kiss.

  CHAPTER 32

  Julius Schreck, an early confidant of Hitler in the Nazi Party, developed the use of the skull and crossbones on the military caps of Hitler’s bodyguards – the Stabswache, the Storm Detachment. This special unit evolved into the brutal special unit, the Schutzstaffel, the Protection Squad – also known as the ‘SS’.

  When we arrived at my house, we were both so exhausted that we managed to sleep through the night. The next morning we found Sergeant De Waden sitting on the doorstep.

  ‘I was worried about you.’ he said. ‘I’ve been ordered to the front. The Germans are coming with their tanks and their trucks filled with soldiers. I was wrong – we aren’t safe. Their paratroopers are dropping from the sky. The Albert Canal fortification has already been taken, and the Luftwaffe destroyed all of our planes at Schaffen Airfield. The border has been breached. They’re coming!’

  I looked at Sergeant De Waden’s lips as he spoke to us about the unfolding war. They were thin, soft, the colour of raw beef.

  The streets were already crowded with thousands of people evacuating the city. I remember seeing a man leading a horse attached to a country hay wagon loaded with luggage, three children, and an old piano. I’ll never forget that piano – a black grand piano strapped to a hay wagon – as if challenging the German planes to destroy such an instrument of beauty.

  ‘They have fast planes – Stukas,’ Sergeant De Waden continued. ‘The pilots are shooting civilians. And it’s said that Rommel is leading the way.’ He stared at the ground.

  Everyone knew of Rommel, the greatest German general. My father thought he was a turnip.

  ‘I’ll take you to the train station,’ Sergeant De Waden continued. ‘The trains are still running, but I can’t say for how long. I thought you’d be safe at home, but I see now that you must leave. Pack what you can, and I’ll take you to the station. Hurry!’

  He waited outside. There were no children asking about my father’s horse. Hava and I rushed back into the house. ‘I’ll pack quickly,’ I motioned to Hava. ‘You go to the kitchen and see what food we might be able to bring.’

  As Hava rushed down the narrow hall, I ran upstairs to my bedroom. I knew exactly what I wanted to take: my journal, my yellow dress, my blue dress, my shoes, my black suitcase with brass hinges, my sheets, and my pillows. I wanted to take those dresses because when my father had been promoted, I had been able, for the first time, to buy some new clothes: a yellow dress from Paris; a pair of leather walking shoes from London, and a blue dress from Brussels. I’d had plans of being a woman of the world at eighteen, and I thought I had to look the part. I wanted to shock the world with my fancy dresses. But the world was about to shock me.

  I have no idea why I wanted to take my sheets and pillows. I quickly folded the dresses and gently placed them into the suitcase, and then I hurriedly tossed in the rest, slammed the suitcase shut, and secured the brass lock.

  ‘Simone! You must hurry,’ Sergeant De Waden called from downstairs. ‘We must go now. They’re coming!’ He rushed back into the street to check on the chaos.

  I dragged the suitcase down the stairs, and it made a loud clump, clump, clump. Poor Hava. She came running from the kitchen with a loaf of bread in her hand, thinking I had fallen down the stairs.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Hava asked as the front door opened. Sergeant De Waden had heard the same noise and run inside.

  ‘I heard a crash. Are you alright, Simone?’

  When I explained about the suitcase and sheets, we all started to laugh, and then a loud explosion shook the house.

  ‘Come on. We must hurry,’ Sergeant De Waden said as he lifted my suitcase and carried it through the door.

  Hava and I gathered our provisions, her little suitcase, some bread and some cheese, and just before we followed the sergeant through the front door, I gasped. ‘Wait, Hava! Wait!’

  I dropped the bread and ran back up the stairs, down the hall, opened the top drawer of the dresser, reached in rever
ently, picked up my father’s Croix de Guerre, and buried it in my pocket alongside Benjamin’s drawing.

  ‘Simone, hurry! We must leave!’

  I ran back through the house and locked the front door behind me, perhaps for the last time.

  When we walked outside the sun was bright and the sky clear except for small black dots high above us, planes flying over the city, their wings spread out like the arms of the devil.

  ‘Get in!’ Sergeant De Waden shouted as he slammed the boot of the car. The car had balloon tyres. That is what I remember – the tyres were white and thick.

  Hava sat in the back with her suitcase on her lap. I sat in the front, holding our food.

  Just as Sergeant De Waden closed the car door, Nicole appeared. She just looked at me as the car began to roll away. I looked back at her. She didn’t smile. She didn’t wave.

  As we drove through the streets of Brussels, I felt like a string puppet tethered to the planes above me. If the car made a right onto the boulevard, it seemed as if the planes turned in the sky above us. If we zoomed to the left, the planes were right there.

  A huge number of people were leaving the city using cars, bicycles, and wagons. Many people simply began to walk out of Brussels into the countryside.

  A man pushed a bicycle, on which sat a little boy in a grey suit ready, it seemed, to attend church. A woman followed behind wearing an elegant red coat. She looked at me as I sat in the seat of the car with balloon tyres and I turned away.

  I didn’t know where we were going. To the train station, yes, but beyond that we had no idea. Sergeant De Waden, using his military influence, had arranged for two train tickets for Hava and me. He didn’t know where the train was going. All we knew was that we were escaping the invasion. The point was to flee Brussels in any way possible, as quickly as possible.

  As we drove through that sombre morning scene, the German army advanced like lightning, splitting Belgium asunder, without mercy. Artillery tracked across the sky, slamming into buildings, reducing beautiful facades to rubble. Shattered stone lintels reached upwards like supplicating fingers, silhouetted eerily against a skyline that glowed red with fire and flame. Church steeples wreathed in smoke and dust guided crying children and families towards the city limits, before they fell. One by one, Brussels’ landmarks collapsed like dominoes, disappearing in the wake of the evacuees as they left behind everything they had known. The city was collapsing.