Shhh (17 page)

About 7:15 a.m., still the same day, having climbed the six flights of stairs to aunt Basha's apartment, my cousin and I explain to her what is happening.

Aunt Basha bursts into Yiddish lamentations and keeps repeating
Oy Vey Oy Veys Mirh!
while dragging a big suitcase out of a closet and frantically shoving into it, not clothing, but silver objects, jewelry, documents and handfuls of large bills that she pulls out from under the mattress. She carefully locks her apartment, and we rush down the stairs, Simon and I struggling with the big suitcase, while behind us aunt Basha is puffing and mumbling more
Oy Vey Oy Vey,
and telling us to hurry up. Outside in the street, aunt Basha waves to a taxi going by, she shoves a bill in the hand of the driver as she explains in her broken French where she wants to go. Simon and I push the suitcase into the back seat of the cab. Aunt Basha climbs in, slams the door close, and the taxi speeds away. Through the back window of the taxi our aunt Basha waves to us leaving us baffled on the sidewalk.

I have never understood what that waving gesture meant.

Not much more to say about this scene. I have settled my account with aunt Basha in
To Whom It May Concern.

Federman, do you really need to elaborate that much? Didn't your old friend Sam once say, less is more, and that we must seek fundamental sounds?

Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm trying to say less, but I have to finish telling how my childhood came to an end.

The only thing I want to add here, is that at the very place where aunt Basha's apartment building stood, the Beaubourg Museum of Modern Art was built. Right there, at the corner of Rue Rambuteau and Rue Beaubourg. What a colorful substitution. The immorality of history replaced by the insolence modern art.

About 7:30, still the same morning, back to my aunt Ida's apartment. The police are there. One of the policemen asks which of us is Simon Bialek. My cousin points to himself. The policeman asks who I am. My Aunt Ida quickly says that I am a friend of her son's, but not Jewish.

It is true that when I came out of the closet I had the presence of mind to tear the yellow star off my shirt.

The policeman asks my name. Hesitantly I say Federman. He looks at his list, and then tells me I can go. My name is not on his list. He explains that he can take only those people whose names are on his list, If we take just anybody that will cause all kinds of bureaucratic problems, we have enough problems already finding all the people who have to be moved out. Even though he says I could go, I stay. The policemen don't seem to mind. They are doing their job.

I walk along with my aunt, my uncle and my two cousins and the policemen to Place des Vosges. On the way, my aunt keeps whispering to me that I should go away.
Va-ten! Va-ten! Sauve-toi!
She pleads in my ear. But I want to see where they are being taken. Perhaps my parents and sisters will be there, and I can join them.

Big army trucks with canvas covers are stationed around the entire periphery of the square. People escorted by policemen are pouring into the Place des Vosges from all directions. They all have a yellow star on their clothing and are carrying small suitcases or bundles. Even though it is summer, many are wearing overcoats. Some even have blankets with them. It's like a gathering of people going on vacation to a cold place. There is no screaming, no shouting, but people have tears in their eyes.

It was on that historic Place des Vosges, that I kissed my aunt, my uncle, and my two cousins before they were pushed up into a truck crowded with frightened faces.

Before getting on the truck, my cousin Simon showed me the little pocket knife he had with him. It could be useful where we're going, he said.

About 8:00 a.m., still on July 17, 1942, the trucks roared out of Place des Vosges leaving behind a trail of dark smoke. I stood there for a while, unable to move, wondering why I was not in one of those trucks. Who had made that decision? Who had chosen me?

No, I am not going to fall for that divine intervention crap. And I'm sure that the boy that I was then didn't think of that. His mind was a blob of confusion. It is I, more than sixty years later, who continues to wonder why me? Why was I left standing on that square?

I stood there a long time. No one was paying attention to me. It was as though I had become invisible.

About 9:00 a.m., still the same day, I walked all the way back to Montrouge. I had convinced myself that my parents and sisters were back in our apartment. That they had been sent home. That they were waiting for me. Worrying about me. I imagined my mother looking into the closet to see if I was still there.

Walking at a frantic pace, I am replaying in my head what happened since my mother closed the door. Everything was so confused, so incomprehensible. Especially the fact that the policeman who asked my name did not react when I said Federman.

Federman, such a good Jewish name. And with my big crooked nose and my biddy dark eyes I look like such a
Youpin.
Maybe the policeman noticed that, but ... But what?

Could it be that he thought, at least one of them will be saved?

The other day, when I told my lovely daughter Simone that I felt more French than Jewish, she said with her typical federmanesque humor: Pop, your circumcision is written all over your face.

About 9:10 a.m., hidden behind a tree in our street, I observe our house. I don't dare go into the building because of the people on the main floor. The wooden blinds of our apartment on the third floor are shut. Also those of aunt Marie and uncle Leon's apartment. But theirs were like that already a few days ago. They closed their apartment and left several days before
La Grande Rafle.
I stay hidden behind for a while. The street is deserted. I don't know where to go.

Suddenly I remember that a woman who used to wash people's laundry at the public
lavoir
with my mother lives down the street. She was not a friend of my mother, but she was a nice lady, they often talked about how difficult life was. Maybe she knows where my parents were taken. Maybe she can tell me what to do.

About 9:20 a.m, I knock on her door. She opens and seems surprised to see me, I suppose because everyone in the neighborhood must know by now what happened the day before. She looks furtively down the stairs and pulls me by

the arm into her apartment. I tell her how my mother hid me in a closet when the police came, where I stayed all day yesterday until this morning. The tears are in my throat while telling her. She asks if I am hungry. I say yes. She gives me a piece of bread and a glass of milk. She seems concerned. I suppose she doesn't know what to do with me. Her husband who works in a factory will certainly be furious when he sees me. She told my mother on many occasions that her husband beat her. The woman asks if I was seen going into her building. I say, I don't think so. She goes to the window several times to look down the street.

About 9:45 a.m., the woman says to me, I have an idea, you know what we're going to do? I'm going to take you to the
commissariat de police,
and there they'll know where your parents and sisters are, and they'll put you with them. I don't see any problem with that. Besides, I'm sure your family will be sent home soon.

So about 10:00 a.m., I'm walking towards the Montrouge police station with this woman holding my hand. Suddenly, abruptly I pull my hand away from hers and start running in the opposite direction, away from the police station. I hear the woman shouting behind me, Come back, come back, don't run away. They'll catch you. I keep running.

Still on July 17, 1942, I wander aimlessly in the streets of Montrouge, far from where we live. All is calm now. All the Jews in Montrouge have been taken away. I am afraid to go back to Rue Louis Rolland, so I'll wait until after dark to go see if there is light in our apartment. When I see a policeman and some German soldiers, I quickly go inside the doorway of a building.

Tired of walking, I sit on a bench in a public park. Children are playing. Mothers are gossiping while knitting. I almost fall

asleep, sitting up. I am still hungry. When it starts to get dark, I walk back to our house. The blinds of our apartment are still closed. No light. I now know that my parents have not return. I must leave Paris. But go where? How?

I go to
La Gare Montparnasse
to see if I can sneak on a train. Any train going anywhere, away from the city. I know that's what I must do. I heard my mother often say, If we had the money I would get on a train and take the children to Monflanquin. They would be safe with Maurice. But of course, we never had enough money to ...

No need to speculate. At least, I knew then, that somehow I must try to reach the Free Zone.

Even though it's late in the evening, the train station is full of policemen and German soldiers. I am afraid to go into the departure hall. I wander in the streets around the train station. It‘s very late now. Everything is dark in the city. All the stores are closed. And there are no lights in the windows of the buildings. People have closed the shutters or used blankets to cover the windows, so the light wouldn't be seen. The streets are deserted. It's the curfew.

Hard to remember what time it was when I tried to fall asleep curled up on the floor in the corridor of a building whose entrance door had not been locked. I was no longer afraid of darkness. The night was protecting me.

I must have fallen asleep when a man who was coming home late, in spite of the curfew, woke me by kicking me in the leg and shouting, What the hell are you doing here,
petit voyou!
Get out of here!

I found another unlocked door, and again I curled up on the floor of the corridor, but I couldn't sleep. I was hungry. I didn't know what I was going to do in the morning. I was afraid to go back to the station because of the policemen and the soldiers.

As soon as it was light outside, I walked back to Montrouge. It was as though something was pulling me there, still hoping that my parents and sisters had been sent home. The blinds of our apartment were still shut.

About 7:00 a.m July 18
^th
, I go back to the Gare Montparnasse. Maybe this time I can sneak on a train.

The station is crowded with people, regular travelers, but not as many policemen and German soldiers. The round-up must be over. I'm determined to get on a train going in any direction.

I study the train schedule. No one is paying attention to me. When I see a policeman or a German soldier coming towards me, I stand next to someone as if I were with that person. Next to a woman with children, pretending that I am one of her children.

Several trains are leaving that morning, but I notice that policemen and German soldiers are checking people's papers and tickets as they board the trains. I am afraid to try sneaking on. I go into the waiting room. I don't know what to do. I feel like bursting into tears. I go back out into the departure hall to see if there is a way I can get on one of the trains. It looks impossible. I go back to the waiting room. I sit there in a corner for hours. In the toilet I drink some water from the faucet. Late in the afternoon two young men walk in and sit on a bench across from me. They are not much older than me. I walk up to them. I need to talk to someone. They look friendly. They ask me what I'm doing here, alone.

Even though I don't know who they are, I tell them everything that happened in the past two days. I tell them that I have no

money and that I am trying to sneak on a train to get away from Paris. They tell me they want to do the same thing.

But not in a passenger train, they explain, because the police and the Germans inspect all the trains. They are going to try to sneak onto a freight train. In fact, they tell me, they have already picked out a freight train that will leave for the south of France later that evening. For the free zone, they explain. I ask them if I can go with them. They say yes. But we'll have to be careful, and quick to get on that train after it has been inspected.

The two young men tell me that they come from Belgium, and that they are trying to get to Spain, and from there to North Africa to join the free forces of General de Gaulle. They are both eighteen years old.

Not to attract too much attention we decide to go for a walk outside the station. Both young men carry a small backpack. We walk around, but not far from the station. One of the young men asks if I'm hungry. I tell him, I haven't eaten for two days, except for a piece of bread and a glass of milk. I had told them about the lady who wanted to take me to the police.

He opens his backpack and takes out a piece of bread and some salami, and gives it to me. He explains that they cannot go into a grocery store to buy food because they don't have food tickets for French stores. And besides, they don't have much money. So they brought some food with them. I thank them, and I eat the bread and salami while we continue to walk.

Finally when it's starting to get dark we go back into the station. There are fewer people now, and less policemen and soldiers too. OK, let's go the young men say. The train is leaving soon. It has already been inspected. Together we

quickly sneak on the side of the train which it not along the loading platform. We slide open the big door of one of the cars, and we climb in. The car is full of large wooden crates. We hide between them. We can hear voices outside. We crouch further between the boxes. Someone closes the door on the side of the platform. We made it. The two young men smile at me, while holding a finger over their mouths.

About 11:00 p.m. the train starts rolling slowly, and then gains speed. Soon we are out of the city.

The young men open their backpack and take out sandwiches made of meat and cheese, and a bottle of water. Together we eat and drink. From time to time one of the young men slides the door slightly open to see where we are. According to the names of the stations the train is passing without stopping, we are traveling Southwest, towards
La Zone Libre.
That's what the young men tell me. This means that before arriving to the border that separates the occupied zone from the free zone, we'll have to get off this train, otherwise we'll be caught. All the trains crossing into the free zone are being inspected by the Germans. We'll have to get off before.