Our car zigzagged between the broken threads of a dying world, and when we reached the train station, I thought we would be swallowed up by the advancing army for sure. So many people had had the same idea – escape by train.
As I stepped out of the car, Sergeant De Waden yanked my suitcase from the boot. I stood on the suitcase to try and see what was happening, while he helped Hava. No matter where I looked, people surged together, shuffling back and forth: the tops of their heads, hats, scarves, luggage, hands waving in the air. No one, it seemed, was moving forward.
‘Sergeant!’ I called to him. ‘Sergeant, it’s impossible. There are too many people!’
Hava looked left and right. People bumped into her, twisted her around. She dropped her suitcase, scrambled for it quickly, then stood up like a post, stiff and firm.
‘Hava, take my hand! My hand, Hava. Take my hand!’
Her soft white hand reached out to me through the crowd and the panicked chatter. I grabbed it and locked into her palm and fingers. Sergeant De Waden pulled out a whistle from his pocket and blew; a loud, long strident squeal of authority. The people around us suddenly stopped moving, and then my sergeant blew his whistle again and again after every fifth or sixth step. People before us stopped, turned and, seeing a military uniform, stepped aside as Sergeant De Waden, Hava, and I made our way to the train.
How foolish I was to drag that suitcase behind me. You would have thought that I was pulling a treasure chest. Finally, Hava said, ‘Simone, let the suitcase go! Drop the suitcase!’
She pulled on my hand as I held the handle of the suitcase, refusing to release it.
‘You can’t take it with you, Simone! Let it go!’
And so I did. It was immediately swallowed by the crowd behind us, and as we took a few steps, I suddenly remembered: my journal!
‘I have to go back, Hava!’
‘Are you crazy, Simone? The Germans are coming! Your house is probably burning as we speak! You can’t go back!’
‘Not to the house. I left my journal in my suitcase. I need to get my journal!’ I let go of Hava’s hand, and disappeared back into the tumult.
CHAPTER 33
As Belgium collapsed under the Nazi invasion, its government was able to negotiate a plan with Hitler: Belgian factories would only produce what was needed for the population, and not military equipment for Germany. So, Berlin instituted the compulsory deportation of 200,000 Belgian workers to Germany. This was one reason so many Belgian citizens tried to flee the country and/or go into hiding.
To my right, the black engine of the train wheezed, exhaling steam, and churning coal; a creature low on the tracks, like a serpent anxious to swallow me. But before I succumbed to its venomous bite, I had to find my journal.
My journal had always been my secret companion. Since I could write, I had catalogued things that had happened to me, recorded events in my life from when I was a child, as I had transformed from a small, ugly larva to a not-quite-beautiful 18-year-old butterfly.
I had to find my suitcase and recover my journal.
I pushed my way through the crowd, back to where I thought I left the suitcase. And there it was, broken apart, my sheets strewn on the cobblestones like abandoned sails, ripped, covered with dirt and mud. I saw one of my pillows trampled, shredded like paper, my other pillow embraced by a man wearing a dinner suit and a top hat. He looked like John Charles Tillman, and I half-expected him to sing.
I looked again at the man in the dinner suit. He was hugging my pillow as if it were a woman, his mother, or his soul perhaps. His eyes were closed and he swayed back and forth, pressed against the back of the pillow.
Under the man’s clenched hands was my journal.
Planes continued to fly overhead, their mechanical hum competing with the chug, chug, chug of the train’s engine. My heart thumped inside me.
‘Monsieur!’ I cried out as I stood before the man. ‘Monsieur!’
He seemed to be in a trance. Flames crackled from a dress shop opposite the train station.
‘Monsieur, can I speak to you for a moment?’ I tapped his shoulder.
The man opened his eyes and said, ‘Ah, Matilda, you’ve come to get me.’
To my left, two men carried a woman on a stretcher. Across the street, in the dress-shop window, two mannequins in silver evening gowns caught fire, the flames providing a relentless golden backdrop. Ash drifted down from shop’s burning roof.
‘Non, monsieur. I’m not Matilda. My name is Simone. You have my little book.’
‘It is so nice dancing here with you, Matilda.’ The man closed his eyes, hugged my pillow and began to sway back and forth again.
Fire crept up the legs of the mannequins.
‘Monsieur, can I have my book? You have my book in your hand.’ I touched the back of the man’s smooth hands.
He opened his eyes again, looked at me and said, ‘Matilda, after all these years, I’ve missed you so.’
The mannequin to the left fell forward, and crashed through the dress-shop window. Glass exploded outwards, followed by a draught of hot air. The man in the dinner suit closed his eyes, and as I touched his hand again, he released my journal, took my hand, and held it tightly. He opened his eyes.
As I looked at him, more planes flew overhead, casting their deadly shadows above the flames. The man leaned over, kissed my hand, and said, ‘I’ll see you tonight, Matilda, when I return from the office.’
‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ I whispered.
The dress shop imploded as the walls and roof collapsed, setting light to the bakery next door as it fell.
‘Simone!’ Hava yelled from a distance. I saw her, and then I didn’t. Then I saw her again. As people rushed between us, she waved and jumped up to see me better. ‘Simone! The train!’
The train’s engine exhaled great amounts of steam. The whistle blew. I forced my way through the throng, to reach Hava. ‘I’ve got my journal.’ I waved it above my head.
She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd, pulling so hard that I thought I would end up looking like the Venus de Milo after all.
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. That is what I remembered as Hava and I held hands and ran to the side of the train. Like a bull, the train bellowed, inhaling and exhaling smoke. The heat of the steam billowed around my legs, as we managed to reach the first car behind the engine. I wanted to touch the side of the train, to feel its skin, its heart; to tame the beast and beg it to take us away from the planes. People pushed us from behind; others were crushed ahead of us. The conductor tried to maintain order.
‘We must get on the train!’ Hava yelled. ‘We must.’
Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after. Either I was going to tumble and break my crown, or Hava was going to tumble and break hers. It was clear that we were not getting on that train. The engine settled into a steady huff, huff, huff. Steam poured from its nose. There was a sudden lurch, as the engine’s large wheels began to spin, then stopped.
‘Step aside!’ someone ordered. ‘Step aside!’ Hava squeezed my hand. We stood in place, immobile with horror and disappointment. Jack and Jill.
‘Step aside! Step aside!’ The voice increased in intensity, followed by a loud whistle. ‘I command you to step aside.’ People behind us made room for a man in uniform, a soldier, a man with a whistle: Sergeant De Waden. ‘I said, step aside.’ He blew his whistle once more.
Sergeant De Waden walked right up to me, looked into my eyes, and said in a voice much louder than necessary, ‘You are the daughter of Major General Joseph Lyon?’
‘Sergeant, you know who—’
‘Mademoiselle, I asked you a question,’ he repeated, making sure the conductor heard him. ‘Are you Simone Lyon, daughter of Major General Joseph Lyon?’
A woman carrying a brown piece of luggage leaned over and said, ‘I saw your father on his horse in the king’s garden.’
A man with a beard and a purple h
andkerchief protruding from his shirt called out ‘Vive la Belgique!’ and he tried to pat my shoulder, but Sergeant De Waden pushed him aside.
The conductor then raised his voice: ‘Make way for the general’s daughter!’
Hava and I began walking slowly towards the small steps that led onto the train. It seemed that everything had stopped. People stopped pushing. What I thought was the train’s heart was my own heart banging inside my chest. Hava let go of my hand and stepped up on to the train.
I turned to Sergeant De Waden before following her in and said, ‘You bought two tickets. You bought one for Hava too. I thought you warned me to stay away from her because of who she is.’
Steam from the train filled the platform.
‘I knew I’d have an easier time convincing you to leave if she was leaving too. Also, I know what she means to you, and I wanted to honour that. I wanted to honour you, Simone Lyon.’ And then finally he kissed me, before pushing me gently, but fimly, on to the train.
I took a step, then a second, and when I stood just inside the train, I turned around. There was a sudden roar. People clapped. People exclaimed, ‘Vive la Belgique!’ ‘Long live General Lyon!’ ‘Long live the general!’ Then they began to wave their hands and I looked at the people with compassion as the bakery continued to burn.
Sergeant De Waden didn’t wave. He just stared at me.
The train lurched forward once again, but this time the wheels engaged. I waved back to the crowd, which had suddenly turned back into individuals: children wearing brown hats; women in long black coats; men carrying sacks on their shoulders.
I looked down at Sergeant De Waden. He looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back and bowed my head slightly, grateful for what he had done.
I never saw him again. He died in the Battle of the Bulge, and was found curled up in a ditch, with a bullet in his chest.
CHAPTER 34
Many Jews and Romanies were spared the concentration camps because of the Belgian Resistance. One group, the Comité de Défense des Juifs, successfully attacked a train carrying over 1,500 Belgian Jews on the way to Auschwitz.
‘Mademoiselle Lyon,’ the conductor said, as he touched my shoulder, ‘Your friend is in her seat waiting for you. Some people gave up their seats for you.’ He smiled and led me to my seat next to Hava, who was looking out of the window.
As the train gained speed, trees, people, and buildings began to blur into each other. No one spoke. We were escaping. We were leaving Brussels. We did not know where the train was going, but I did know we were going west, in the direction of the setting sun and the sea. East was Germany, Hitler, the invasion, the attacking soldiers. West, we were going west. No one spoke. I saw a man smoking, his lips were shaking, making his cigarette bob up and down. A woman leaned her head against the widow, her cheeks stained with silent tears. The conductor slowly adjusted his necktie, exhaustion etched into his face. My legs felt cold against the hard seat and I was glad Hava was with me.
The train rumbled onwards, jerking slowly and swaying from side to side along the tracks. My eyes became heavy and my fears subsided a bit. When chased by a dragon, you have to find a place of safety and rest, renew your strength, and eat a little. Somehow, I had dropped our food in the confusion of reaching the train, so Hava and I had nothing to eat, but at least we could rest as it seemed we were pulling away from the dragon’s fire.
Hava leaned her head against the window. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. I wanted to sleep. I had to sleep, but then I heard Hava. She whispered my name. And then she began to speak.
I opened my eyes.
‘Where are they?’
‘Who, Hava?’
‘My parents. Is my father here?’
‘Hava, we’re on the train. Your father isn’t with us.’
‘Did my mother remember to bring us liquorice?’
‘Hava?’
She looked at me. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks sunken.
‘Do you have any liquorice, Simone?’
‘No, I have no liquorice.’
‘Ask my mother. She always has liquorice in her bag.’
‘She’s not here, Hava. She’s with your father.’
Hava closed her eyes again, and leaned her head back against the window glass. Behind her, trees and hayfields blurred past like modern paintings.
Then, for no reason it seemed, Hava began to tell me the story of Rosh Hashanah. The wheels of the train created the background cadence of her words; the houses, trees, factories, and fields passing by added to the motion in Hava’s story. She was half-asleep, dreaming, speaking.
‘Rosh Hashanah is when we practise tashlikh. It means “casting off”. On the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah last year, I took Benjamin to the duck pond in the park. You’re supposed to find flowing water, a stream, a river, even the sea. But with no flowing water in the city, I decided the duck pond in the park was good enough. On Rosh Hashanah we cast off our sins. We throw bits of bread into the water, sending off our sins from the previous year.
‘Benjamin and I carried bread in a small basket to the pond. Anyone would have thought we were there to feed the ducks, but we were really there for atonement. Well, I was there for atonement. Benjamin really did just want to feed the ducks.’
The train car jostled back and forth.
‘Tashlikh, Simone, tashlikh. When we throw the bread into the water, when we throw our year’s sins into the water, we say the words from Micah: Who is a God like you, who pardons sin and forgives the transgression of the remnant of his inheritance? I asked for God’s forgiveness.’
‘Hava, I don’t understand,’ I said, wishing I could reassure her.
‘Simone, where’s my father? Where are Benjamin and my mother? The rabbi said that they were gone. Where’s forgiveness? Where are they?’
Hava looked at me as if I were a sage with answers. Then she leaned back once again and closed her eyes. We were moving in time, in colour, to the sound of the train, moving west towards the sea.
Shortly after her story, the bombing raids started again. I hadn’t expected bombs or planes. I thought that once we had escaped Brussels, we would be able to outrun the Germans. At first, I thought the dull thud was a mechanical error in the engine. It sounded like someone had dropped a heavy sack in the next carriage. When it happened a second time, we heard screams coming from another car. The train slowed. The shadow of a plane rippled over the distant field; the shape of its wings bent with the hills, its dark tail swaying back and forth as it moved over the trees.
I remember the conductor as he walked through the carriage. His uniform was clean and blue. His cap was round, flat on the top, his visor giving him just enough authority to suggest he had everything under control. He looked at me and said, ‘The Nazis have captured Eben-Emael.’ That was the second day of the German invasion: 11 May 1940.
I sighed and looked out of the train window. Shadow after shadow of planes sped over the landscape. The trees were wounded, some blown apart to the roots. Telegraph polls were slumped, their wires cut and dangling to the ground. It felt as if Belgium had been ransacked by a plague. My momentary sense of calm gave way to a new rush of dread.
Hava looked up at the diseased sky. ‘The monkeys, Simone! Remember the witch’s monkeys in the Land of Oz?’ Would we be caught, like Dorothy?
We heard the voice of the train conductor in the distance arguing with a passenger. The train stopped. The black aircraft kept flying overhead.
‘Monkeys,’ Hava said as she closed her eyes in fear. The planes droned above us, biting the air. ‘They’re coming closer. We can’t hide in the train, Simone.’
The conductor re-entered our carriage. ‘We can’t continue. There’s word the tracks have been blown up. We must evacuate.’
‘Where are we?’ I asked the conductor.
‘Roeselare.’
Then he pulled out a silver whistle from his pocket, blew into it three times, and announced as he walked through
the train, ‘Everybody out. End of the line. Everybody out. End of the line.’
‘Roeselare!’ I turned to Hava. ‘My cousin lives in Roeselare. She’ll help us.’
My cousin, Marie Armel, was eighteen years older than I was. She was my father’s niece. Both my uncle and aunt had died in a car accident when Marie was twenty-five, and she had inherited their house on the outskirts of Roeselare, as well as some money. She was a banker and an influential citizen of the town.
‘She has a large home, Hava. I visited there once as a girl.’
Just as we stepped down from the train, a German plane dived overhead, its machine gun opening fire rapidly and viciously. Bullets flew in all directions, pelting the train, shattering the windows. People ducked and cried out in fear. A piece of glass cut my cheek. I grabbed Hava’s hand. ‘Run!’ I gasped.
Hava and I rushed down a small hill, through a narrow field, and towards the dark woods. I saw another plane in the distant sky, dropping lower and lower. Hava picked up a rock and threw it in the air as if believing she could hit the plane and knock it from the sky. The pilot began shooting; I saw a man to my left fall as bullets tore through his body. A woman jumped into a ditch and threw herself over a little girl in a blue jacket. I yanked Hava’s hand as we ran across the field and into a thick grove of peach trees.
The train was exposed like a defenceless snake in the road. People didn’t know whether to stay inside, or jump and run. The train’s engine still churned and groaned. More planes flew overhead, shooting and snarling. People screamed. That’s when Hava began to laugh.
Blood oozed from a woman’s leg. Children were crying. But Hava laughed. She stood up and reached for a branch. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said. ‘Look at the peach blossom. It’s really beautiful. My mother always celebrates New Year of the Trees. It’s a minor festival, Tu B’Shevat. She buys spring fruit: a piece for Benjamin and one for me. Then Benjamin and I go from door to door collecting money to plant trees. We celebrate the trees. See how beautiful it is? Stand up, Simone. Look at the peach blossom.’
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