I grimaced, realizing that I had just retaliated against a general, but then he wiped his face with a rag, saluted me, and smiled.
We endure. We bend like the trees in an angry wind. We learn fortitude. We fling muck back at the sorrows of our lives and laugh. We are sometimes happy and sometimes not. But in between there is victory, solace, and contentment.
As we continued to mop up the mud and dust in the attic, my father said, ‘I’ll be going to Paris for a few weeks. The war will be over soon and there will be delegations of business people and military personnel from each country to organize the rebuilding of Europe.’
At that point, I knew that I had a fugitive’s spirit. Hava and I had tried once to escape the horrors of indignity and failed. Now that the war was almost over, I felt within me again that urge to break free from the war, from the fear, and from the internal oppression I felt. I wanted to go to Paris with my father.
During the war I found it desperately hard being alone without Hava, and without my father. Belgium was still in the grip of sorrow and hate, and I felt the instability of my soul at the war’s end.
‘We need to begin rebuilding,’ my father said as we climbed down from the attic. ‘You are safe in Brussels, Simone. The war is coming to an end. Can you manage here alone for a few weeks?’
‘But, Papa,’ I said, nearly pleading. ‘I’ve been confined to this house for four years. I’m 22 years old and I have barely been out of Brussels. Can I come to Paris with you?’
‘No. I will be on a military train, and it’s February. It’ll be very cold. There’s no heat, no fuel, and very little food. No. It’s out of the question.’ As we made our way down to the kitchen to clean our hands, I continued to argue. ‘But I won’t get in the way, and I’ll be able to continue my search for Hava!’
‘Simone, it’s a military train. No civilians will be allowed.’
I stepped away and walked back upstairs, to my father’s bedroom. There I unhooked one of his early uniforms from his closet, a corporal’s uniform, which I carried back into the kitchen. I placed his old green corporal’s uniform against my body and said, ‘I can wear this.’
My father looked at me with a slight grin. ‘You know, Simone, there are no women in the Belgian army.’
‘But you’re a general. I’ll be your military attaché. No one will stop us.’
And no one did stop us, as my father and I stepped onto the train to Paris filled with officers in their serious uniforms. No one stopped us as we ate at the American military canteen, where I had white bread for the first time in four years.
In the excitement of Paris and the reparations, I was slowly putting the war behind me, and forgetting about planes, and bombs – but I could not forget Hava.
CHAPTER 52
Noble Belgium, o mother dear, to whom we stretch our hearts and arms.
Words on the wall of the Belgian Embassy in Paris
What does a 22-year-old Belgian girl do in Paris when her father is attending government meetings all day long? First, I tried to find information about Hava. I tried to go to the French Council’s office, but it was closed. Next I tried the Belgian Embassy. I was surprised to see the building was brightly lit from the inside and a new Belgian flag hung over the main door.
I entered the building sheepishly, my footsteps echoing on the hard marble floor. I didn’t know where to begin. On the wide wall were words carved in stone, a few words from the Belgian national anthem: Noble Belgium, o mother dear, to whom we stretch our hearts and arms.
I wanted to stretch my heart and arms around Hava. I looked to my left and there, sitting at a small, single desk was a man in a Belgian military uniform. When I approached, he looked up and asked kindly, ‘May I help you?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m allowed to be here.’
‘What can I do for you?”
‘I’m Belgian. I had a friend during the war. We were separated and I promised that I would find her.’
‘You have come to the right place. My name is Sergeant de Monge. I will take you to the proper office. We might be able to help you.’
I wanted to ask the sergeant if he’d ever ridden a horse in the Royal Park in Brussels, but instead I just said, ‘Thank you. That would be very kind.’
As we walked down a long corridor with windows on either side, the sergeant told me that he was from Ghent, and that he had been in the military all his life. When I told him who I was he looked at me and said, ‘Daughter of the Shovel Hero? Your father is a great man.’
‘He is here in Paris to help with the reconstruction. So I came along to look for my friend.’
‘Right. Come with me, Mademoiselle Lyon.’
As we continued to walk down the hall, the sun bathed me in light and warmth, the most heat I encountered in my entire stay in Paris.
When we reached a door with the words Robert Vizard: Archives painted on the frosted window, the sergeant stopped and said, ‘Good luck. Your friend is lucky to have you. Oh, and please tell your father that there’s a soldier in the embassy who’s grateful for what he did for Belgium.’
I stood before the frosted window and knocked gently.
‘Yes? Come in.’
‘Monsieur Vizard?’
‘Yes, I am Robert Vizard. How may I help you?’
‘My name is Simone Lyon. I’m from Brussels. I had a friend at the beginning of the war and we were separated . . . I was hoping that you might be able to give me some advice on how to find her.’
Robert Vizard was a short man with little hair. He wore a well-fitting blue suit and a matching tie, and he sniffled. On his desk were large, neat piles of red folders and a small pile of yellow folders. To his left, spread out on a work table, I saw many more thick red folders.
‘Forgive my cold. There is so little heat.’ Monsieur Vizard reached for the handkerchief in his pocket and wiped his nose. ‘Sit down, sit down, Mademoiselle . . . ?’
‘Simone Lyon.’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle Lyon. I am not sure I can help you. See those red folders? In each one there are over a thousand names of missing people.’
‘And the yellow folders?’
Monsieur Vizard blew his nose. ‘Found. There are perhaps twenty names in each folder of people who were reconnected to their families or friends. It is not a large number. I keep trying, making phone calls, searching through documents. Each time I can find someone’s husband or son – or in your case, a friend – each time I feel that in my small way I am putting the world back together again.’ Monsieur Vizard sneezed.
‘You will help me?’
‘Yes, of course. What is your friend’s name?’
‘Hava. Hava Daniels.’
Monsieur Vizard sighed. ‘Jewish?’
I was about to stand up immediately and leave the room, when he wiped his nose again and said, ‘So many lost. So many lost. It’s unthinkable. Where was God? How can we find so many when so many have been lost? Let’s see.’
I relaxed a bit and spoke in a sudden rush of hope. ‘She’s from Brussels! She worked for the Red Cross! Her father is Yaakov, Yaakov Yosef Daniels and his wife Avital, and she has a brother Benjamin!’
‘Mademoiselle, not so fast. Let me write this down.’ I watched Monsieur Vizard place a small pad of paper before him. He uncapped a green fountain pen, and I watched him write in elegant script Yaakov Daniels. Avital Daniels. Benjamin Daniels.
‘In 1935, the Nazis took away the right to citizenship and the nationalities from millions of Jews. They had no papers, no passports, no official names, no country. This makes it hard to find people. Do you know from where your friend was taken?’
‘Yes!’ I was excited that I was able to give Monsieur Vizard some concrete information. ‘Dunkirk, she was taken at Dunkirk, at the beginning of the war.’
Monsieur Vizard wrote, Dunkirk.
‘Today people are struggling to stay alive, mademoiselle, and searching for relatives. You said your friend worked for the Red Cross. Ha
ve you contacted them? Have you asked them about your friend?’
‘She and I were volunteers just for a day. That’s where we met.’
‘There’s also the chance that your friend went to Palestine. There is much talk about a new Jewish state. Perhaps she’s there?’
‘She was taken away by the SS in a truck. They said something about a relocation centre.’
Monsieur Vizard looked up from his desk and into my eyes.
‘Have you ever heard of the Kindertransport, mademoiselle?’
I slowly shook my head.
‘The Kindertransport was a rescue plan. Jewish children were taken over to England by steamship. Many were smuggled from convents and hospitals.’
I thought about Sister Bernadette and the children with soup.
‘I will check my lists.’
Monsieur opened one filing cabinet after another, pulling out files, notes, lists. ‘There are many people with the last name Daniels, but I cannot seem to find your friend or her family. I’m sorry to disappoint you. Leave me a number where I can reach you, and I will contact you if I come across anything useful.’
When I left the office, I walked slowly down the long hall of windows. Clouds hid the sun. The corridor was bleak and empty. When I reached the lobby, the sergeant at the desk was gone.
I stepped out of the embassy and onto the grey streets of Paris. I buttoned my coat. The cold air slapped against my cheeks. I walked to the cathedral of Notre Dame, which sat bathed in the grey light.
I entered the building and immediately inhaled the scents of burning candles and incense. The church was nearly empty. A man in a heavy brown coat knelt in the last pew, his head down, his prayer a whisper. Three women in fur coats walked slowly down the main aisle towards the altar. I too began my walk down the aisle, but felt suddenly faint, unexpectedly weak. I leaned against one of the great columns, and then I wept.
‘Mademoiselle?’ Someone touched my right arm. ‘Are you okay?’
It was the man in the brown coat. ‘Forgive me. I couldn’t help but notice you.’
I wiped my tears away with the palm of my hand. ‘No, it is nothing. I’m fine.’
‘To cry in Notre Dame is something, mademoiselle.’
‘The war, it’s taken everything. I was just 18, just a girl. I’m not a girl any longer.’ I looked at this stranger and felt compelled to tell him about the death of my mother. For no reason I told him about my father’s shattered arm, about Sergeant De Waden’s kiss, about the soldier who died in Hava’s arms. I told him about Hava. ‘She’s my friend. I promised I would find her. I’ve tried, but I can’t find her. I don’t know where she went. I promised that I’d find her.’
‘A promise is answered in many unknown ways,’ the man said as he reached into his pocket and placed a coin in my hand. ‘Go and light a candle for your friend and think of her as a single flame of light.’
I felt the coin in my fist. I looked down at my hand and opened my palm. When I looked up to thank the man, he had already walked away, but in the distance, I saw tall candles with a flame dancing on each tip. I approached the rack of candles and dropped the coin into the small slot marked Donations, then I picked up a new candle, held the tip to a flame, and watched the wick jump alive with its own flame.
I placed the candle into a vacant holder and watched the wick burn steadily. I stared at the yellow and white flame. In my mind’s eye, I could see the Virgin of the Rock. I felt that I could see my mother. I could see Hava dancing with the lamp-post. Hava – a single flame of light.
CHAPTER 53
Marlene Dietrich entertained Allied troops at the Stage Door Canteen in Paris, 10 March 1945, and sang ‘No Love, No Nothin”
During my days in Paris I walked just to stay warm. When I wasn’t visiting the Belgian Embassy hoping for news of Hava or her family, I found little other distraction from my loneliness. My father was busy at meetings most days, and I ached for a friend or companion. I visited museums, where there was no heat. I visited cathedrals, where there was no heat. Everything in Paris was gloomy and cold. I was miserable.
My father, recognizing that it had been a mistake to bring his daughter to Paris, asked a business associate if he knew someone who could entertain me. ‘Yes,’ he told my father, ‘I will send you my assistant.’
One day soon afterwards, in the lobby of my hotel, a man approached me and said, ‘I am Pierre St de Coinick. Your father sent me to escort you into the city today.’
‘I am Simone Lyon. I’m cold and tired.’
The assistant was a 32-year-old man, who lived like the Great Gatsby, waltzed every weekend, enjoyed pheasant-hunting, and wanted nothing to do with entertaining the daughter of a Belgian officer. But his boss had insisted, so this disgruntled man, who had practically lived in a dinner suit for the first thirty years of his life, trudged to my hotel through the cold winter air.
When we met, he did not say that he was a Belgian baron. He did not tell me about the size of his summer and winter estates. He didn’t speak about his chauffeurs, gardeners, washerwomen, cooks, and private tutors. All he did was invite me to walk along the River Seine which, to this day, still flows in and out of my imagination.
‘You look exhausted,’ Pierre said as we walked along the river. That is when I told him about Hava, about how I’d made a promise to find her, and how I hadn’t succeeded. ‘It was so many years ago when I saw her last . . . when I made that promise.’
‘Yes, many years ago. A lifetime ago.’
Nothing more was said until the general’s daughter and the baron discovered the famous bouquinistes: the used-book stalls that had existed for over 400 years and still do to this day. People refer to the Seine as the only river in the world that runs between two bookshelves.
Pierre and I quickly discovered that we had the same interests in books and authors.
‘Look at this poetry collection,’ Pierre said. ‘Yeats.’ He picked up the book and turned quickly to a poem, then he read aloud: ‘How many loved your moments of glad grace, / And loved your beauty with love false or true, / But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you.’ It was the way that he read those last words that made me fall in love with him then and there.
‘I love his poetry,’ I said simply.
As we walked to the next bookstall, I found a used copy of Madame Bovary. ‘I’ve always wanted to read this,’ I said.
Pierre said, ‘I love the line in that book that says, “It was the fault of destiny.”’ I thought about my first meeting Hava at the Red Cross so many years before.
At the third bookstall Pierre and I reached for the same book at the same time, a book about the fourteenth-century Italian writer and mystic, Angela of Foligno. We both wanted to buy the book and Pierre said, ‘Well, if we both want it, the only thing to do is to buy it together and get married.’
In three days, Pierre St de Coinick and I were engaged, and three months later we were married.
PART V: LIBERATION
CHAPTER 54
1945
15 April: The liberation of Nazi Concentration Camps begins
25 April: German forces leave Finland
29 April: German forces in Italy surrender
30 April: Adolf Hitler commits suicide
2 May: German forces in Berlin surrender
4 May: German forces in North-West Germany, Denmark, and the Netherlands surrender
At the end of the war Pierre and I listened to the BBC radio as King George VI of England addressed his nation and all of Europe:
Today we give thanks to Almighty God for a great deliverance. The Nazi tyranny that drove all Europe into war has been finally overcome. At this hour, when the dreadful shadow of war has passed far from our hearths and homes, we may at last make one pause for thanksgiving and then turn our thoughts to the tasks all over the world which peace in Europe brings with it.
Let us remember those who will not come back: their constancy and courage in battle, their sacrifice and endurance in th
e face of a merciless enemy.
Let us think what it was that has upheld us through nearly six years of suffering and peril. The knowledge that everything was at stake: our freedom, our independence, our very existence as a people; but the knowledge also that in defending ourselves we were defending the liberties of the whole world.
The war was over. My father continued his work with the Government, representing the military in the reconstruction of the Belgian infrastructure, and was in charge of the repatriation of Belgian refugees. His career advanced at the end of the war with the position of Inspector General of Engineering and Signals for the entire Belgian army and, in 1946, he was appointed Aide de Camp to King Leopold III of Belgium.
Pierre and I returned to Belgium, and Brussels came alive again, resurrected from the death of war. Restaurants stayed open late, the streetlights were lit, the fruit markets spilled out onto each square, and the trams ran on time taking people to work. My husband and I liked to walk in the park on Sundays after church, when it seemed as if all of Brussels had decided that Sunday afternoons were, once again, for walking. I even saw balloons for sale for the first time in four years. The carousel spun with renewed confidence.
I was dazzled when Pierre took me to his summer house: a large chateau with gardens, horses, and a tennis court. I was embarrassed the first time I sat on the veranda with Pierre and a butler stepped outside with two silver cups on a tray. Each cup was filled with thick tomato juice.
I had worn sombre dresses and coats for four years, but with Pierre at my side, I bought a summer suit with a short-sleeved jacket and a flowered skirt. Pierre bought a new tailored, doubled-breasted suit. I was becoming a woman of the world with a husband, money, and a gilded future.
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