And so Melly went home from the hospital a few days later with her second child, Irene, in her arms, and with permanent birth control in place. It was March 1943, the darkest time in European history, when it seemed that hope was truly gone.
Melly and Genek immediately started making plans to hide this child too. They had to. Every day in Brussels could be their last. But this time they did not have two years in which to bond with their child, nor she with her parents. They would have only a few weeks, maybe a few months at most. Knowing that the baby would only be with them very briefly, Melly and Genek held their emotions in check. They loved her but they were preparing themselves for letting her go. Neither could survive a repeat of the grief they were enduring over sending Bobby away. They had to maintain some emotional distance. And so right from the onset there was distance between Irene and her parents.
And they were faced with an additional concern. If they gave Irene up, sent her into hiding, how would they recognize her when the war ended? Granted, it was a long shot that they would be reunited. But if they survived, how would they identify their tiny baby once she had become a little girl? She had no identifying marks on her. How would they know she was theirs?
Eventually they hit upon a plan. They would create a scar on her perfect little body. With a permanent mark on Irene, they would know that she was the right child if they came to find her years later.
Somehow they found a sympathetic doctor willing to help them. They brought the newborn to him and the doctor carefully made an incision on the baby’s right thigh. It was about an inch long. He then sutured it back up, but not perfectly. He wanted a scar to remain. A week later he removed the stitches. Irene was left with a permanent mark on her thigh, one that could identify her to her parents in the future.
Melly
A Wartime Baby
One good thing happened in January 1943. I was maybe seven months pregnant with Irene and I was terribly depressed, so I remember this event because it really boosted my spirits. The most hated building in Brussels, the most terrifying place in this time of terror, was bombed! An Allied pilot flew a small plane over Brussels, and bombed the Gestapo headquarters on Rue Louise, shattering the windows, killing four Nazis and wounding many more. Then he let loose hundreds of Belgian flags that fluttered to the ground, a tremendous morale booster for his countrymen.
The hope this event brought us! We dared to believe that maybe the Nazis were not invincible, that the Allies could win this terrible war. I learned that the pilot was a Belgian named Jean de Selys Longchamps. He was flying for the English. Apparently he defied orders and flew his Hawker Typhoon airplane from England without permission, with the sole intention of bombing the S.S. headquarters in Brussels. We heard that the Gestapo had brutally tortured and killed his father, and he was determined to get revenge. So de Selys flew this plane over the city and discharged his entire load of bombs onto the detested building on Rue Louise. English schoolchildren had colored Belgian flags, de Selys had stuffed them into a sack and brought it aboard his plane, and, after the bombing, he sent them flying down to the streets of Brussels as a sign of solidarity. The chutzpah! It was fantastic.
Of course the Nazis were enraged, and they sought retribution as was their way, rounding up innocent Belgians and executing them. But even so, this was a day to remember. We had almost forgotten that the Nazis were just people too, that they could be defied, killed. They were not invincible. I dared to hope that we would make it, that I would give birth to this baby, and then be reunited with my boy. Maybe we would survive this.
Later, when I lay in my hospital bed after giving birth, I heard more bombing. The Allies were getting closer. I heard anti-aircraft fire too, as the Germans retaliated against the Allied planes, trying to shoot them out of the sky. It was a fitting tribute to poor little Irene’s birth in war-torn Brussels in March 1943. I gazed at this innocent child lying beside me and wondered if she would survive to adulthood, if I would be there if she did. And what of her brother?
When Irene was a couple of months old, before we sent her away, we got a message from the CDJ. It was the spring of 1943. Bobby was very sick. We found out that over the winter he had been hidden in a convent (much later we found out it was in Charleroi; at the time we weren’t told anything). Now the nuns thought he was too sick to stay in hiding, they thought he was dying. They were sending him home.
My child was dying! My child was coming home! My emotions were all over the place. I was terrified and ecstatic, worried sick and breathless with anticipation.
Soon the same courier who had picked Bobby up six months earlier returned, holding our little son in her arms. He was pale as paper, thin as a reed, weak as a feather. But he was home. The escort spoke to Genek for a few minutes but I heard nothing, all my focus was on my little son. What was wrong with Bobby? What kind of illness did my child have? I held his emaciated little body in my arms, rocked him and wept.
Genek and I placed Bobby between us in our bed and prayed that he would recover. He stared at us with his giant blue eyes in his gaunt little face. I thought my heart would break. My poor baby.
But thank God Bobby got better. Within a couple of days he was eating, talking, even running around the apartment. Yes, he was undernourished, yes, he had an awful cough. But I think my child had been dying of a broken heart. He was too young to comprehend what was happening, too young to be separated from his parents and everything familiar. It almost killed him. And once he was back with his family he got well. I understood. My heart was breaking too.
I begged and made deals and scraped together every scrap of butter and sugar and flour that I could get my hands on. And it was tough to do, believe me. I took great risks. Crazy risks. But I needed to feed my son. Every day that I had enough ingredients, I browned butter, added sugar, then flour, then milk to make the sweet treat, papy farine, that Bobby loved. I wanted to feed him meat, eggs, something more substantial, but those items were no longer available. With joy I watched the color come back to his wan cheeks, and then some flesh return to his skinny limbs.
These were the few brief weeks when I had both my babies with me. I didn’t want to sleep because I didn’t want to miss a moment of this precious time. I wanted to cherish every second of having both my children home. Especially Bobby. I had missed that little boy more than words can express. I stared at him as he slept, memorizing his beautiful face. I even hired a photographer to take a family picture so I would have that as a memento. I tried to live in the moment, to ignore the warning bells going off in my head about how dangerous it was to keep these babies with me and Genek.
There wasn’t enough money to feed us all. Even Irene was hungry; my milk supply was running out again. Genek’s furs weren’t selling. It was spring; nobody wanted fur coats. And anyway, people didn’t have the money to buy even necessities anymore, never mind luxury items like fur coats. The Jews had disappeared, and the goyim were broke. Even the Germans were finally struggling; the war was dragging on, and the Germans were feeling the pinch too. Even Nazi officers were no longer buying fur coats.
The only way I was able to make ends meet was through illegal activity. I told you I took great risks. The black market was flourishing. People were desperate for food, and there were opportunities for those who were willing to risk their lives by smuggling contraband into Brussels. Remember, I was passing as a German Aryan. The Resistance had supplied me with forged documents. It was still insane to risk carrying illegal food supplies. Anyone who was caught by the Nazis could expect to be shot. We heard plenty of stories. But I didn’t know what else to do. Genek couldn’t do it, he couldn’t pass as a goy. It was up to me.
So I started smuggling sugar. Every week I boarded the train out of the city and went to a rendezvous with a black market purveyor. No names. My job was to carry a few pounds of sugar in my bag and to deliver it to an address in Brussels. Every time I went I was given a new address: I never dropped the sugar off at the same place twice. I made su
re to walk back to the apartment via a different route each time as well. I took the train back to the city. I went to the address and delivered the smuggled sugar, liquid gold in those days of rationing and hunger. I got paid when I made the delivery. I went home. I had money to buy my family food, also on the black market.
One day the worst happened. When I stepped off the train in Brussels a German officer approached me. My knees went weak. But I flashed him what I hoped was a friendly smile and said, Schönen Tag! He took my elbow and walked a few paces with me, chatting in high-class German. Then he asked me for my papers. I showed him the forged documents, my heart pounding. What if he realized I was a Jew!
I looked at his uniform. Wehrmacht. At least he wasn’t the dreaded Gestapo. But still. I was carrying illegal sugar, and the punishment for this offense was death. And if he suspected I was Jewish I would be in the camp at Malines before the day was through. The officer handed me back my papers after a moment. He sighed. Miss, I need to see what’s in your bag.
I stared at him. What to do? What to do?
Maybe it was that sigh before he asked to see what I was carrying, maybe it was some sixth sense, I don’t know. But I had the feeling that this German might have a shred of humanity in him.
I was very young, only twenty-one, and he couldn’t have been much older than me. I smiled, tossed my hair, batted my eyes. You know, sir, what young women carry in their bags, I said, feminine items. It would be very embarrassing for me to show them to you.
The officer stared at me. Well, miss, if it’s too embarrassing to open your bag here on the street, perhaps you will feel more comfortable inside headquarters. He took my elbow again and started walking. He brought me to the German headquarters in Rue de la Loi. I was terrified. If only I could get rid of the bag I held, the incriminating bag full of sugar. I comforted myself by thinking that at least I wasn’t being taken to Gestapo headquarters in Rue Louise. That was the most sinister address in Brussels. Nobody returned from that chamber of horrors.
Once inside the building the officer escorted me into his office. He asked me to take a seat. He looked at me quietly for a moment. Well, miss, let’s take a look in your bag.
I was desperate. Whatever happened next, I had to make sure it only happened to me. I had to concentrate on not divulging that I had children, or where they were right at this very minute. Why did this have to happen when the children were not in hiding? Why, oh why, had I taken this risk? I took a deep breath.
Sir, I said, I’m going to tell you the truth. I am carrying sugar. I know it’s illegal. I’m very sorry. I have never done anything like this before. But I was very hungry and … well, I was just very hungry.
I expected, I don’t know, a blow, a kick, maybe to be thrown to the ground. But the German just looked at me silently. I saw his eyes roam up and down my body. I had given birth just a couple of months earlier. My stomach was still swollen, my breasts full.
You’re a German woman, yes? He said.
Yes. I was born in Chemnitz. I lived there until I was eleven, then my family moved here.
Ah, yes. I thought you were from Saxony. I am from Dresden.
We made small talk for a few minutes.
You’re very beautiful, he said. I have not seen a beautiful German woman in quite some time. It is lovely to look at you. A pleasure to speak to you. Your accent reminds me of home.
I nodded.
You’re with child?
I gulped. What was the right answer? Yes, I finally said.
So you are doing your duty, bringing a child into the world to serve the Reich.
Yes.
And you are hungry because you are pregnant, is that right?
Yes.
And because you are pregnant and hungry you smuggled sugar.
Yes.
Well. I think that the Reich would be best served by you carrying that child to term, do you not?
Yes. Yes, I do.
Then here is what we are going to do. You are going to leave that package on my desk. And then you are going to walk out of this office and down the hall and back out of that door we came in. Do you think you can do that?
Yes. Yes, of course. Yes. Thank you.
And you are obviously never going to do this kind of illegal activity again, am I right? Because if you do it again, my dear, you will get no mercy. Am I clear?
Yes, sir, you are. Absolutely.
Was this Nazi really letting me go? Or was it some kind of sick sadistic prank? I had heard stories like this. But I sprang up, removed the bag of sugar from my purse, dropped it on his desk, and practically ran out of that office, down the hall and out the door, onto the Rue de la Loi.
Once on the street my whole body started shaking. I had to duck into a cafe and lock myself in the bathroom until my trembling came under control. Had I really been picked up by a Nazi officer and then allowed to walk away? The closeness of this call was devastating. If I had been interrogated, tortured, what would I have said? How much would I have given away? Would I have divulged that I was Jewish, that my husband and children were right now in an apartment in Rue Rogier. That my sister and brother were in Rue Chazal? This was exactly why we weren’t allowed to know where the little ones were hidden. It was too dangerous. And if that Nazi had known he’d let a Jew walk out of his door … oh my God. I was afraid to leave the cafe, afraid of the street, afraid that I would be picked up again.
Eventually I made my way home to Genek and the children.
I told Genek the story. He was incredulous.
What? he kept saying. What? You were picked up and let go? How can this be? Neither of us had ever heard of such a thing. Melly, Melly, it’s a miracle. A miracle.
And then we looked at each other and we both came to the same realization. The children were not safe with us. We would have to send Irene into hiding as planned. And Bobby had to go back too.
Bobby
1943
He cried when he saw the lady with the yellow hair again. He ran to his room and tried to hide under his bed. But Papa dragged him out. Mama and Papa were both crying. They told him he had to go away again, but they promised it would not be the same place, this time it would be a nicer place, and it would only be for a little while, and they would visit soon. Please, Bobby, please, be a good boy. Go with this nice lady and don’t make a fuss. Bobby could not stop crying.
The lady with the yellow hair picked him up and carried him outside. She gave him a piece of chocolate. Shhhh, she told him. He knew it was dangerous on the street. So he stopped making noise. On the outside. Bobby nischt dreiden. But inside he was still crying, screaming, Nooooo!
Once again there were streetcar rides and train rides, and once again she sang him songs and patted his head and smiled at him. But he knew she was bringing him somewhere bad and inside he kept crying.
The new place was just like the other one. There were children and they spoke funny and he didn’t know what they were saying. There were bird ladies who watched the children but they weren’t very nice. The food was bad and the blankets were scratchy and it was dark and cold and everybody cried and coughed.
Why, oh why, had they sent him here? Bobby curled up in a ball on his bed and waited for this to end, for his mama and papa to come bring him home. His world became very small, very dark, very quiet.
Days went by. Weeks went by. Months. Years.
Irene
Namur, 1943
By now the attempt to save Jewish children was at its peak in Belgium, and despite the risks many outraged non-Jews joined with courageous Jewish men and women who were orchestrating this remarkable effort.
After Irene’s birth the members of the CDJ and the Resistance responsible for placing Jewish children in hiding received notice that a newborn baby needed placement. This was a tricky situation – at only a few months of age she was too young to be placed in an orphanage or convent. This child would have to be taken in by a family. And that was tricky too. Because a family that sudde
nly acquired a new baby out of thin air could arouse suspicion, and would be at risk of denunciation. This placement would require some finessing.
The Resistance sent out feelers. A Catholic seminary student, Rene Bouchat, based in Namur, a city situated about forty miles southeast of Brussels, offered to help. Bouchat, a year prior to being ordained as a priest, was already active in the Belgian Resistance. As a Belgian he felt compelled to resist the invaders who were occupying his beloved country for the second time in his life. His home city of Namur had suffered terribly during World War One, and was suffering horribly again under the hated Germans. And as a man of the cloth he felt it was his duty to try to help the persecuted and beleaguered. So he aided the CDJ in finding hiding places for Jewish children whenever he could do so without arousing suspicion.
Rene Bouchat made inquiries about placing baby Irene. A few promising leads fell through. The CDJ was getting anxious. The child’s mother had narrowly escaped being picked up. It was the summer of 1943. The only Jews still free were those in hiding. There was no time to lose.
Eventually, in desperation, Bouchat thought of his own parents. Would they be willing to take in a newborn? Mama and Papa were no longer young. They had raised him and his sister, and were now in their forties, happily leading a quiet life without the hubbub of young children. But Fernand and Marie-Antoinette Bouchat had been warm and wonderful parents, and they loved babies. Since he obviously would never be giving them grandchildren, maybe this child would fill a void?
Bouchat set out for his parents’ house to talk to them. His only hesitation was about placing them in danger. He realized they would be safer if they didn’t know the baby was Jewish. His parents were trusting souls. They had no practice in deception. He wanted them to be able to answer questions without hesitation. To have a candid story for their neighbors. He feared that if they knew the child was Jewish, and they were ever questioned by the Germans, they would not be able to hide the truth. And he would not be able live with himself if something happened to them. He hoped God would forgive this sin of deception.
Among the Reeds Page 10
