‘What does that have to do with Sister Bernadette?’
‘Nothing, but it means that thousands of years ago, Neanderthal man liked flowers, Simone, just like us.’ Hava stopped walking. ‘Maybe Sister Bernadette thinks that flowers are far more important than exams.’ Then Hava leaned over a low fence, snapped two sprigs of lilac from a large bush, and pushed them into both sides of my hair. ‘See? Now you have two purple horns on your head.’
The next day, one by one, thirty girls entered Sister Bernadette’s classroom each with a fresh, spring flower in their hair: daffodils, lilacs, columbine, clipped flowers from an azalea. We all received 100 for our exam, and I wore my purple horns.
CHAPTER 43
On 14 May 1940, when Winston Churchill asked the French General, Maurice Gamelin, ‘How many reserve troops do you have?’ the general turned to the new Prime Minister of Great Britain and said ‘Aucune [None].’ Churchill was dumbfounded. It never occurred to him that any commander would be so unprepared.
When I woke the next morning, I was startled to see that Hava was not in bed. She was not even in the room. Her shoes were gone. The sun was up. There was no bombing. All was silent.
I walked down the stairs and asked the concierge if she had seen Hava.
‘Yes, she left early, just after sunrise. She said to tell you she went out to look for some food and that she’ll be back shortly.’
Relieved, I returned to the room and stood at the window that looked out onto the street, hoping to see Hava. The entire world seemed to be spread out on the street that May morning. There was a slow awakening. Already hundreds of soldiers were on the move towards the sea. It was as though I was witnessing the final act of a play: everyone was prepared for the climax, but no one knew what the end would bring.
It was the end of something, the shuttering of the city, the advance of the Nazi troops. Word was that many French and British soldiers were hoping to be rescued from the shore, as England might send boats across the Channel.
All I wanted to see was Hava making her way back to the hotel. And then, there she was, in the distance, among the soldiers and refugees, walking towards the hotel among children, farmers, nuns, all moving in a circle of confusion, trying to decide the direction in which to turn, trying to decide the direction of their fate.
Then their moment of calm indecision came abruptly to an end, as over the horizon German planes materialized once again with their bombs and machine guns. When the first plane flew overhead like a deranged crow, it dropped a bomb directly into the middle of the street, as if there had been a target painted on the cobblestone square. Muffled cries rose from below. The hotel shook so violently that I had to grab the windowsill to stay on my feet. The window panes rattled loudly. A vase shattered onto the trembling floorboards. I looked out of the window and watched the building to my left catch fire.
People ran into the side streets, dodging broken glass and scattered debris. Chairs outside the restaurants were jumbled like broken cobwebs. And thousands of British and French soldiers walked, almost aimlessly, between the buildings, making their way through the chaos.
Two soldiers bent down and gently moved a motionless, blood-soaked body from the middle of the road. Another soldier helped a dishevelled and panic-stricken woman to her feet. When I opened the window, smoke and fumes swirled around me like devils trying to blind me. I rubbed my eyes, coughed, and quickly slammed the window shut. I covered my ears, trying to block out the cacophony of aeroplanes, shouting, terror.
From the hotel lobby a radio announcement blared up the stairs:
This is an urgent message from M. Reynaud, Prime Minister of France: France will soon be unable to count on the help from the Belgian army. There are fears that it must capitulate to the Nazis under the orders of its King and that the roads to Dunkirk will be open to the German dictator. Holland has already fallen and Hitler is advancing quickly through the Netherlands, a barrier we thought would hold.
In the south, the French divisions are trying to hold a new front which follows the Somme and the Alps with the hopes of joining the Maginot Line.
Dunkirk is a critical supply port for the Allies, and we are making every effort to defend this sector. However, it has been reported that our soldiers and the British soldiers are being pushed quickly from Belgium into the northern corner of France. We are doing all we can to defend our borders, but we must be prepared for the inevitable. We will keep you informed, and there may be a time in the near future when all citizens need to evacuate Dunkirk.
I raced down the stairs of the hotel; my shoes untied, my hair a mess. I had difficulty breathing. I was halfway down the steps when I nearly crashed into Hava, who was running halfway up.
‘Hava! Thank goodness! I just heard on the radio, the Belgian army is struggling. The roads to Dunkirk will be open soon to Hitler!’
‘Yes, I’ve come for you, Simone. We’ve got to get out of here.’
She had a long piece of bread in her hand. ‘Here, eat this. We need to hurry.’
She took my free hand as we both ran down the stairs together. Girls our age ought to have been running down a flight of stairs into the arms of our boyfriends. But Hava and I ran for our lives.
‘I found the bus station. There’s a bus – the last bus. It’s leaving in twenty minutes.’
It is odd how, during war, a bus schedule is still maintained. That morning Hava, in her search for food, had also looked for a way out of the city. Everyone was trying to escape. Everyone knew the Germans were advancing.
We had escaped Brussels, run from a burning train, made it through the woods and found our way to Dunkirk, and still the bullets of the Nazi guns were upon us.
‘If there’s a bus, Simone, maybe there’s still a chance we can escape!’
As odd as it may sound, it was an exhilarating moment, running with Hava as if being chased by a bull, the devil, or death. Our legs were strong. We were young, bold in our tattered, bloodstained dresses. We ran past women laden with suitcases, past shops that were shuttered, churches that were silent, and schools that were closed.
‘We can make it, Simone.’ Hava kept up my courage as we ran and ran. ‘There’s the bus station. Just a little more, Simone!’
When Hava and I reached the end of the next street, we turned right and there, surrounded by hundreds of people, was a single bus, its engine running, the driver at the wheel, the ticket agent standing at the door waving his hat in the air, trying to create order from chaos.
Hundreds and hundreds of people had had the same idea: We can leave Dunkirk by bus. The Germans are coming; the bus will take us away.
‘Hold my hand tightly, Simone!’ Hava ordered, as she began pushing her way through the throng of wild people. She didn’t stop. When she said, ‘Excuse me’, people moved aside. When she yelled, people moved aside. When she pushed with her hand in front of her, people moved aside. She just kept dragging me behind her until we were at the front of the mob trying to board the bus.
We were standing near the middle of the bus when the ticket agent called for calm: ‘There are only fifty seats! Only fifty seats! If you don’t move back, I will tell the driver to leave you all behind!’
When people heard that they would be left behind, there was a sudden roar – a combination of fear and desperation.
Then all at once, the ticket agent stepped off the bus and waved his hat at the driver. The driver closed the door to the empty bus and it began to creep forward slowly. When the crowd realized that the bus was moving, devoid of passengers, leaving them behind, there was a sudden surge forward, like a giant wave rolling towards the shore.
Hava and I found ourselves trapped between the bus and the crowd behind us. We tried to stand our ground, to keep our balance, to maintain our place at the front in the hope that the bus would not leave. But the bus advanced slowly, trying to force its way through the people, as the mob continued to shove, pushing, pressing, and propelling itself forwards.
Then, with
a sudden wild yell from behind, the mob thrust itself forward once more, and I lost my footing as I was shoved from behind and fell under the bus. The front wheels rolled forward. The rear wheels moved towards me. I was on my back. I turned my head and saw the large black tyre rolling towards my arms.
That is when I heard, as if from the depth of the universe, a scream, a pleading cry: ‘Stop the bus! Stop the bus!’ It was Hava. She broke through the mob, pushed aside the ticket agent, and pounded on the door. ‘Stop the bus! Please! My sister is under the bus! Stop the bus! You’ll crush her!’
The bus stopped. The driver opened the door, stepped out, and remonstrated with Hava. ‘How dare you interfere with the bus system! How dare you try and stop my bus!’
‘Please! My sister is under the bus. You’re going to crush her!’
The driver looked at Hava, then bent down, and there he found me. I couldn’t move. The rear wheel of the bus had rolled onto my dress. That is how close I had come to being killed. One more rotation of the wheel and I would have been crushed to death. The driver rushed back onto the bus and returned with a small pocket knife. He had to cut the side of my dress so that I could slip out.
He pulled me out from under the bus. I was shaking, my knees were bleeding. Word spread quickly that a girl had nearly been killed under the bus. Hava knelt down beside me and started stroking my hair. ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt, Simone? Are you okay?’ Then she began to cry.
‘Hava, I’m fine. Yes, look, I still have both my arms.’ And with my arms I embraced Hava and held her, then I too began to cry.
‘Because you’ve had such a shock,’ the bus driver said to me, ‘you and your sister may enter the bus first.’
The bus driver helped me onto my feet, and as he led Hava and me to the bus door, the crowd stepped aside. The pushing had stopped. Panic had ceased. After we entered the bus, we walked down the aisle in a daze and took two seats to the left. Then, forty-eight other people entered calmly. Once the bus was full, the driver closed the door and began to drive away as if we were on a normal route, on a normal day. I gazed through the window. Those left behind all had the same look of despair on their faces.
Jean-Paul Sartre wrote that ‘freedom is what you do with what has been done to you’. As Hava and I sat in the bus, as the war vanished behind us with each mile, I felt more and more triumphant and free.
Hava broke off a piece of bread and offered it to me. No one spoke. The groan of the engine was enough for our nerves. We had heard enough engines, planes, bombs, and screams. The steady hum of the bus soothed us, so much so that within minutes Hava and I were asleep.
CHAPTER 44
The best political weapon is the weapon of terror. Cruelty commands respect. Men may hate us. But we don’t ask for their love; only for their fear.
SS Commander Heinrich Himmler, quoted in “Visions of Reality – A Study of Abnormal Perception and Behavior” by Alberto Rivas, Psychology, 2007
The sound of the bombs and planes reverberated through my dreams as I slept, intermingled with random images: the colour of the eiderdown in our room in Dunkirk; the face of our redheaded soldier; the large white Belgian clouds in July against an azure-blue sky. Then suddenly a German word – ‘Papiere!’ – roused me from my slumber.
‘Papiere!! Los, auf geht’s!’
I had never seen an SS officer before.
‘Papiere!! Los, auf geht’s!’
I opened my eyes. A soldier stood in the aisle of the bus, dressed in a black uniform with a red swastika sown on an armband. His hat was peaked, his boots black. I didn’t even realize the bus had stopped. I was groggy. Behind him a regular German soldier held a machine gun. Next to the bus there were three trucks, a tank, and a number of German soldiers sitting on a wall smoking cigarettes.
Hava leaned against me and without warning yanked my chain with the gold Star of David roughly from my neck.
‘Why’d you do that?’ I was startled.
‘Don’t say a word, Simone. I think they’re here looking for Jews.’
People in the bus immediately pulled out documents. The SS officer walked down the aisle, checking each paper. He asked no questions until he came to Hava and me.
‘Papiere!!’
Hava shrugged and offered the man some bread. He slapped it out of her hand.
‘Papiere. Ich habe Ihnen einen Auftrag gegeben.’
Identification papers. I gave you an order.
I didn’t speak German, and it was clear that he didn’t speak French.
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Papiere. Sind Sie Jüdin?’ Are you a Jew? I glared at him blankly. Obviously annoyed that we did not understand, he turned back to the soldier with the machine gun and spoke a few words. The soldier stepped off the bus and quickly returned with another haggard-looking soldier.
‘I speak French,’ the new soldier said to us. ‘I’m a translator, Joseph Becker. My commanding officer asked you for identification, and wants to know if you’re Jewish.’
I didn’t have any form of identification, no passport, or baptism certificate, but I did have something. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded paper that I waved in the soldier’s face. I glanced at Hava’s clenched fist, then said, ‘This is all I have. And, yes, I am Jewish.’
The man in the black uniform grabbed the paper from my hand, unfolded it, and laughed.
‘Juden tragen kein Kreuz.’ And he waved Benjamin’s drawing of God in the air. I didn’t smile. Still laughing, he repeated, ‘Juden tragen kein Kreuz,’ and handed Benjamin’s drawing to the translator.
‘What did he say, Monsieur Becker?’ I asked.
‘He said, Jews don’t carry a cross,’ and he pointed to the two crosses above God’s head in Benjamin’s drawing.
‘They’re not crosses. They’re kites,’ I protested.
The translator looked at me doubtfully and asked, ‘If you are Jewish, tell me . . . what are the Five Books of Moses?
‘Tell me. What are the Five Books of Moses?’ he repeated.
I froze. He repeated the question. I shrugged.
The translator looked at the Nazi officer and said, ‘Not a Jew.’
The SS Nazi officer looked at Hava and asked, ‘Jüdin?’
She was about to speak when I said, ‘Nein’ – the only German I knew. ‘She is Marie Armel. She is a banker. This is Marie Armel, my cousin, and a very important banker.’
Joseph Becker, the translator, laughed and then turned to the man in the black uniform and spoke some words in German. They both laughed.
The translator turned to me and said, ‘Marie Armel is my banker. I’ve lived in Roeselare all my life. I am a language teacher, but I heard they needed translators in France, and they pay well. France has a new order and it’s your lucky day. It’s not clever to lie to an SS officer, but my commander is a compassionate man, and just wants to know if your friend is Jewish.’
I was about to protest again when Hava looked into my eyes and said to the translator at the same time, ‘Yes. I am a Jew. My name is Hava Daniels. Bereishit, Shemot, Vayikra, Bamidbar, Devarim . . . these are the Five Books of Moses, and I am proud of being a Jew.’ Then she opened her hand and showed the translator the gold chain and the beautiful five-pointed Star of David. ‘I wear this all the time. I tried to hide it when you stepped inside the bus.’
The SS officer flatly stated an order. ‘Stehen Sie auf.’
The translator said, ‘Stand up!’
Hava rose to her feet.
‘Es ist eine Schande, daß sie so hübsch ist. Die Jüdin kommt mit uns.’ It’s a shame she’s pretty. The Jewish girl is coming with us.
The soldier gripped Hava’s arm, and tore the gold necklace from her hand. She didn’t resist, but I did. I stood and pushed the soldier away from Hava. The SS officer grabbed my wrist to pull me back.
‘Simone, stop,’ Hava said. ‘Stop! I’ll be alright. Don’t worry. Let me go.’
I looked at the translator and asked, ‘Where ar
e you taking her?’
‘To a relocation centre,’ he replied flatly.
The SS officer let go of my wrist. I had one more chance to save Hava. ‘My name is Simone Lyon. My father is Major General Joseph Lyon.’
Joseph Becker translated my statement and then the SS commander said, ‘Ja, und mein Vater ist Winston Churchill.’
The two soldiers began to laugh. The SS officer joined in. The translator looked at me still laughing. ‘My commander says, sure and his father is Winston Churchill.’
The soldier with the machine gun yanked Hava’s arm to lead her off the bus. Hava turned back and said to me, ‘I dream of clouds.’ Then we embraced.
‘I promise I’ll find you,’ I whispered as I kissed her cheek.
‘Los, auf geht’s! Los, auf geht’s!’
‘Remember me, Simone,’ Hava said as she was wrenched from me and dragged down the aisle.
The SS officer glared once more at everyone in the bus. Then he stepped up to me, smiled and spoke, as Joseph Becker translated:
‘Open your hand.’ He slapped Hava’s Star of David and chain into my palm. ‘Stuff this filth in your father’s coffin.’ Then he turned and marched off the bus, the translator following quickly behind. My fist tightened.
I watched helplessly from the bus as the SS commander grabbed Hava by her golden hair, so hard that she could barely walk upright, until she reached the back of one of the trucks.
I saw the Nazi officer grab Hava by her neck and force her to her knees in supplication. Then the translator lifted Hava and shoved her into the back of the truck, where she disappeared behind a green tarpaulin that flapped back into place. The truck drove off, leaving behind a shroud of dust.
I opened my closed fist. Hava’s star was tangled in the gold chain. And I remembered Mr Alberg’s proverb: When you have no choice, mobilize the spirit of courage.
Later I discovered that the SS officers routinely told Jews, If you can name the Five Books of Moses, you will be spared. In their desperation to survive, people had unwittingly identified themselves as Jews and thus sealed their fate. But Hava had not been tricked. She had made a conscious decision.
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