The book is enchanting, despite the time and era of holocaust that the story is set in, because of an innocence brought to the telling by the protagonist. It's as if it's the young girl, Ruth Schütz, renamed Renee, speaking to the reader at age of five, seven, thirteen, ... and often she writes as if reminiscing or conversing, so it's not strictly linear all the time.
How a holocaust survivor retains that sweetness and innocence of the pre holocaust young girl within her survivor self is a far greater miracle than the sheer physical fact of survival of the person, considering how determined the murdering nazis were to exterminate all Jews of Europe and how far they did go to the purpose even during last days of the war, what huge portion they did murder.
And above all, one has to admire the amazing spirit of the very young girl, courageous in the face of life and death situations, not only surviving but helping others, taking decisions and observing, judging, thinking, and educating herself through it all. Is she has to do farmwork, housework, resistance work by choice, still, she goes back to reading, choosing the luxury of a library membership when she can.
Little Bronia becomes as much a heartache for the reader as she was for her elder sister the protagonist and author, and that's how much she touches the reader.
At one point, she's sheltering at a convent near the Swiss border.
"The work distribution among the nuns was permanent. When she entered the convent, each nun brought a “dowry” of sorts, according to her parents’ means. The size of the “dowry” and the novice’s education determined her future status and occupation. The poor, low-class nuns were sentenced to the hardest, most demeaning work. The rich ones were given administrative and teaching jobs. The nun’s life in the convent wasn’t determined by her abilities or personality but rather her lineage and her family’s income level."
Anglo-European caste system there in a nutshell, generally universal outside India, but no longer called so since colonialism decided to reserve that word for India instead and use another for their caste system.
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"The question confused me and, for some strange reason, angered me.
"In a typically Jewish manner, I replied with a question. “What do you mean, was I in the Holocaust? Do you mean to ask if I was in a death camp? Fortunately, I wasn’t. I wasn’t in a death camp.”
"And with that, I closed the subject.
"Several weeks later, in a discussion over coffee and cake, my daughter-in-law asked, “Why did you stay in Nazi Germany?”
"Now, as well, I replied with a question. “Do you think it was so simple for a family with children to just up and leave everything—possessions, an apartment, our livelihood? Do you think other countries in the world hurried to open their borders to receive Jewish refugees persecuted by the Nazis?”
"Again, it wasn’t the place and time to expand on this subject. But I was asked similar questions, and on the few occasions that I was forthcoming, I noticed the subject inspired interest, which motivated me to try and write down what I’d been through during those years.
"I’m not the only one. Thousands of Jewish girls like me wandered through Europe and tried to survive. It’s very hard to dredge from the recesses of memory events that happened more than fifty years ago—without the aid of diaries, letters, and documents. I tried to tell my story without adding or detracting, without embellishing or deleting. Perhaps my friends, who made part of the journey with me and experienced the same events, remember something else."
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"My father, Josef, called Yosel by the family, was born in Dukla, a small Polish town in the Carpathian Mountains next to what is now the Polish-Slovakian border. ... During the First World War, he was drafted into the army of Emperor Franz Josef, and when the Austro-Hungarian Empire collapsed, he went, alone, to Germany. My father was short of stature, with a pleasant face that wasn’t typically Jewish. He had beautiful brown eyes and high cheekbones. When I read about the Khazars on the Crimea peninsula who converted to Judaism, I imagined my father as a descendant of those people."
"My father was an observant Jew who embraced religion with all his heart. Every morning, he put on phylacteries, shaved with a special ointment, and washed his hands, and he prayed before every meal. He would say to me, “When all the Jews of the world observe the Shabbat, the Messiah will come.”
"His words confused me. I couldn’t understand why all the Jews couldn’t observe the holy Shabbat at least once."
"My father admired Germany greatly for its order, cleanliness, and precision. I remember we received postcards in the mail from Poland, and my father said, “You see, Ruth, here’s the Polish mail seal. You can’t discern a thing. Look at the German mail seal—everything is clear. The date, the hour, the place. That’s Germany for you!”"
"My mother was born in Korczyna, a town not far from my father’s birthplace. She lost her mother when she was thirteen. My grandmother died from the typhus epidemic that plagued the town during the First World War. Mother had to leave school to look after her two-year-old twin siblings and take care of the house. She wasn’t sad to leave, as the Polish girls bullied her because she was Jewish."
The family shifted to Berlin, too, walking across the border one night, and the two met at a traditional get together for matchmaking and married.
"Although our living accommodations were crowded, I enjoyed a warm, loving, lively home. My uncle and aunt, Max and Betty, were eleven years older than me. Max would take me for rides on his bicycle, take me to the cinema, and spoil me with sticky candies. Betty and her friends played with me and included me in their board games. At the age of four, I already knew how to recognize German poets and authors—Goethe, Schiller, Lessing, and others. I would sit on Grandfather’s lap, and he would teach me the Hebrew alphabet."
They stayed together with her parents for a few years and the first daughter was five before they shifted to another, larger house in a non-Jewish locality.
"When I was five, my sister was born. Her name was also Betty, like our aunt’s name. By then, my parents had left Grenadier Strasse and rented a spacious apartment in the building where my father’s shop was situated. We lived on the first floor, just above the shop. My life had changed very much—from a pampered only child, I became a big sister with responsibilities. We left the atmosphere of an extended family and lived as a nuclear family—a father, a mother, and two daughters. We moved from a bustling, dirty area to a quiet neighborhood with beautiful parks, avenues lined with chestnut trees, and tidy playgrounds. From a neighborhood that was populated mainly by Jews who emigrated from Poland to an area of mainly Christian Germans."
"Our new environment also influenced my mother. Geraniums and petunias bloomed on our balcony, as on our neighbors’. On weekdays, we ate potatoes with herring or potato patties with applesauce, and for dessert, chocolate pudding with vanilla sauce. Instead of the bagels and onion rolls that we consumed when we lived on Grenadier Strasse, we ate simple black bread. The gentiles’ food."
She describes Shabbat in detail.
"Sunday also had a special feel. Like the gentiles, we’d go to Grunewald, a forest of pines by the city. We would pick red berries and wildflowers. We would sometimes enter a café, and Papa would order bubbly drinks in various colors. Once in a while, we would board a tour boat that sailed the beautiful lakes. After our excursion to the forest, we would enjoy Mother’s excellent sandwiches. Sundays were also for visits at the famous Berlin Zoo or beautiful Botanical Garden. There, in the greenhouses, Papa would point at the lemon and almond trees and proudly say, “In Eretz Israel, trees like this grow outside, not trapped in greenhouses.”"
She began school in March 1931.
"It wasn’t long before I learned to read German, and by my second year at school, Papa decided it was time for me to learn the holy language. So twice a week I went to Hebrew lessons. It was then that I became familiar with the Bible stories that the rabbi told us. I especially liked the story about Joseph the dreamer and the story about wise Abraham, who knew the idols were worthless and broke them. Compared to those, I found the stories of the Nibelungen—about the adventures of Siegfried and the god Wotan, which I studied at school—frightening and repulsive with their cruelty."
"Papa sold leather for shoe repairs and all the tools and instruments a shoemaker needed, as well as shoe polish and shoelaces. In short, it was a kind of “shoemakers’ department store.”"
"The shoemakers would buy on credit and were late settling their debts because most of their customers were unemployed and had difficulty paying them. “Meister” was what they would call Papa, a title credited to someone who successfully finished his apprenticeship and was allowed to teach new students. And indeed, Papa would teach many unemployed who couldn’t afford to pay for shoe repairs. He would advise them on the best leather to choose to repair the soles of their shoes and how to get the job done themselves. I was a witness when he told one of them, “You chose low-quality leather. Don’t buy this merchandise.”
"Usually, the buyers weren’t in a hurry, and when they came to buy leather, they’d linger to discuss their daily problems as well as matters of the world. Sometimes, the shop became a place where anarchists, Trotskyists, and communists argued. I spent a lot of time there and helped my father hold the bales of leather—which he cut into squares—absorbed their smell, and knew my way around the merchandise. Mostly, I listened to the customers’ conversations.
"Fifty years later, when I visited Berlin, I found Papa’s shop, which had become a jewelry shop. The door to the building was the same one I remembered: brown, heavy, and impressive. The house had a layer of new paint, and on the balconies, geraniums bloomed. I didn’t enter the building itself. Several more years passed, and in February 2003, I visited Berlin again with my oldest son and his wife. Once again, I returned to the building that was once my home. We climbed up the stairs and hesitantly knocked on the door. After several minutes, when we didn’t hear a thing, we turned to go. Just then, a young man arrived and offered to open the door and show us the apartment, which was now empty and for rent.
"I was brimming with excitement when I entered the apartment that I left as a child, sixty-four years ago. It felt as though time had frozen. Nothing had changed in the apartment. The high ceiling was ornamented with cast flowers, the unique fireplace covered with china tiles, and even the little window seat where I would sit, my nose buried in a book, taking advantage of the last light before the Shabbat came in, was still there. I went to the park named after the poet Schiller, and just around the corner, I found the same cart that sold fruit, in the exact same place. Here, Mother would buy bananas and oranges for the road. In the park, I discovered the same hidden, romantic niches and arbors covered with white and pink wild roses. Just the same as many years ago.
"I visited the big park called Rehbergen (“Deer Hills”) again, and on the way there, I came across small wooden shacks with dahlias blooming in front of them. Brown squirrels cavorted in the park and cracked acorns, while timid deer skipped in the grass. Only the trees had grown in the meantime, and their shade now was wider and deeper. Not much had changed about the lake where we used to swim in the summer and where I made my first ice skating attempt in the winter. What was new was the boat marina.
"An entire world had been destroyed. Faith in man, culture, and progress had been undermined. A third of our people went up in smoke, and those who survived carried deep scars that left their mark on the second generation as well. And here in Berlin, nothing had changed."
Nazis came to power in 1933.
"On the sidewalk, before Papa’s store, someone wrote in huge letters, “Germans don’t buy from the Jewish pig!”
"The unemployed were recruited for jobs outside of the city and disappeared from the streets. They proudly wore the brown uniform, with the shiny boots and the swastika on their sleeve, and marched in formation. On Sundays, at dawn, swarms of brown-uniformed people marched down our streets and sang marching songs. “Today Germany, tomorrow the whole world!”
"There was something hypnotic about it, both threatening and mesmerizing. It was frightening to see so many people wearing brown uniforms, walking in sync, in straight rows, waving flags, and pounding on drums. At school, in the morning before entering the classroom, all the children gathered in the yard, and the swastika flag was raised to the top of the pole. The principal would shout while raising his hand, “Heil Hitler!” and the girls would repeat loudly after him, “Heil Hitler!” Only I, an eight-year-old child, stood there, still and quiet, waiting for the assembly to end.
"In German lessons, new subjects were added to composition writing, such as “With Hitler—toward a strong Germany” or “We all listen to Hitler’s speech.” I wrote such a composition as well, based on a speech that appeared in the newspaper. My teacher was impressed, read it before the entire class, and also showed it to the principal. Perhaps she forgot that a little Jewish girl wrote the best composition. The matter died quietly.
"Frequently, when I left the school, boys would bully me, hit me, and sing derogatory songs about Jews. I hoped one of the passersby would interfere, scold the bullies, and rush to help me. But nothing happened. German citizens didn’t see, didn’t hear, and didn’t know what was happening around them. I would run home, to Papa’s shop, and he would say, “It will all pass. The German people won’t put up for long with this madman’s rule.”"
"In the summer, as in previous years, we went away for several weeks to the Baltic Sea. Mother took her cooking utensils with her, to keep kosher, and we rented a room in one of the fishing villages. Papa would come to visit us only on the weekends. We spent time on the beach from morning till evening, splashing in the water, playing in the sand. Sometimes I helped pick fruit; in the yard of one of the farmers, there were plum trees, apple trees, and tiny berries that grew on bushes. Sometimes I’d go out to the fields with him and return on a wagon piled with fragrant harvest. In the evening, Mother would buy smoked fish with an alluring smell and fresh bread baked by the farmers. Weeks of simple joy meandered by, causing us to forget the fears that darkened the skies in Berlin."
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"Every year, Papa would travel to Poland to visit his father’s grave and call on his mother and brothers. I was nine the first time I traveled with him to meet my grandmother and the rest of my family there. I remember taking in the sights beyond the border, the different landscape. It was October and the days were cold and rainy, but the farmers in the fields worked barefoot while the women wrapped their feet with rags. A strange man passed by us, his face covered with a filthy scarf tied on the top of his head. My father explained to me that the man was suffering from a toothache. I saw people wearing rags, with poles on their shoulders, carrying buckets of water. Sights of poverty here were different than the poverty I knew from Berlin. There, poverty was institutionalized, with welfare services and unemployment compensation."
She describes the visits vividly with a child's taking in what seemed relevant. That was the first and the last she saw of them.
"This is how my family’s story in Poland ends. No one knows how, when, and where everyone was murdered."
In January 1935, her baby sister Bronia was born. Renee and Betty were sent to stay with uncle Marcus and his family, and Renee loved the ruckus as the kids played. They came home and saw the new sister.
"I loved that mischievous, lively baby from the first minute, with her little hands with tiny pink fingers, her fluff of hair, and the fragrant milky smell of her body. I was ten years old, and I wondered if I’d ever love my own children this way."
"In 1933, the Jewish community in Berlin had more than one hundred and sixty thousand members, out of a population of 3.5 million. In other parts of Germany, there were communities that were much older, but there was no doubt that Berlin was the center of attraction for Jews from all over Germany as well as Jews who arrived from the “East,” from Poland and Russia, and were called “Ostjuden.” Many Jewish artists, whose names and fame had spread beyond Germany’s borders, made important contributions in the fields of theater, art, music, and literature, as well as science, medicine, and philosophy. Large publishing houses in Germany, and a majority of the newspapers, were in Jewish hands. Berlin’s large department stores belonged to Jews, among them the prestigious department store Israel.
"This rich and established community provided not only religious answers; in addition to lavish synagogues scattered all over the city, there were also schools, two very good hospitals, and establishments for social welfare, such as retirement homes, orphanages, and social services for those in need. During the years 1933–1938, the activities of all the Jewish establishments expanded and eased the hardships of the Jewish public. The Jewish community’s high school, in which four hundred and fifty students studied before Hitler’s rise to power, received double the number of students during those years.
"In 1935, I finished four years of primary school and continued my education in the Jewish high school on Grosse Hamburger Strasse. It was an institution recognized by the authorities, and the tuition was much lower than what the private schools charged. I felt good there. After the pressure and loneliness of primary school, I felt as free as a bird. No more morning assembly with students shouting “Heil Hitler,” no more Nazi songs about knives spilling Jewish blood. I felt good, although I had to get up early to catch the tram, which passed by our house at 7:10 a.m.
"The classes were crowded, with up to fifty girls in each classroom, the curriculum was busy, and school went on until the afternoon hours. I accepted everything with love. Most of the girls lived in the area and would go home at noon, while I’d stay in the classroom with stale sandwiches. But as far as I was concerned, this difficulty was nothing compared to the nice feeling of unity and the interest I found in school.
"The school was located in Berlin’s ancient quarter and stood on the first lot purchased by the community, three hundred years before. The entrance was a lovely little garden, and in it, on a high pedestal, was the bust of the head of Moses Mendelssohn, a philosopher and the pioneer of the idea of Jewish emancipation who claimed, “Be a Jew in your home, and a human being when you leave.” On the wall of the foyer, there was a motto written in bright large gold letters, “May the school be a workshop of humanity.” And those who climbed halfway up the staircase came across a huge photo of the statue Moses by Michelangelo. The entire place exuded culture."
"School was conducted according to the mandatory curriculum for all high schools, with the addition of Jewish literature and history. We read the books of the German authors Schiller and Goethe as well as Shalom Aleichem and Peretz. In history, we learned about the legendary king Barbarossa, about Frederick the Great, king of Prussia, and also about ibn Gabirol, about the Golden Age in Spain, and about the Inquisition. We learned about medieval troubadours and the poems of Yehuda Halevy. We learned English intensively as well as modern Hebrew, as opposed to Hebrew with an Ashkenazi dialect, which was used only for praying. French was an optional subject. And I managed to reach a level of fluent reading and knowledge of grammar. I could read Hebrew and understand the stories of the righteous Joseph in the stories of Genesis."
"Famous Jewish stage actors, who lost their source of livelihood because of the Nazi racial laws, founded a theater for adolescents, and like the rest of my classmates, I bought an annual subscription to these plays. They put on plays by Shakespeare, Molière, Goldoni, and Kleist, as well as a play about Shabbetai Tzvi. Jews were forbidden from entering cinemas and theaters as well as swimming pools and ice rinks. At the entrance to the cafés, signs were hung reading, “Jews and dogs aren’t wanted here.” So instead, the Jewish community organized its own cultural activities.
"During the First World War, the Jews of Germany fought in the German Army. Twelve thousand Jews lost their lives. There was a memorial wall in every synagogue with the names of the fallen community members. Among our teachers were many who served in the army during that war and saw themselves as Germans of Jewish faith. They worked hard to convey that perception of their identity to their students.
"On the other hand, many of the students came from families that emigrated from Eastern Europe and had roots deeply embedded in Judaism. They, myself among them, knew we were born in Germany, that German was our language, and an important part of our culture was German. Nevertheless, we weren’t Germans, but Jews. I remember a song I learned in Hebrew lessons. Its words expressed what I believed in and wanted to achieve.
"“Oh, until when will our people live,
"Without a country, wandering here and there?
"Until its sons will unite as a people,
"Until they will learn the language,
"And return to their country.”"
She visited it fifty years later, and it was in East Berlin. It wasn't just dilapidated, but every vestige of culture had been removed, paintings and statues gone, and the cemetery no longer recognisable as the park it had been. A keeper of sorts met them at the school gate.
"“We both went to school here before the war,” I said. “Yes, yes. I remember. Those were difficult days.”
"Really? Difficult for whom?
"The man was curious to hear where we came from. We told him.
"“Israel? Ah, Palestina! That’s very far.”
"“Only a four-hour flight,” I said."
"Every year, Papa would travel to Poland to visit his father’s grave and call on his mother and brothers. I was nine the first time I traveled with him to meet my grandmother and the rest of my family there. I remember taking in the sights beyond the border, the different landscape. It was October and the days were cold and rainy, but the farmers in the fields worked barefoot while the women wrapped their feet with rags. A strange man passed by us, his face covered with a filthy scarf tied on the top of his head. My father explained to me that the man was suffering from a toothache. I saw people wearing rags, with poles on their shoulders, carrying buckets of water. Sights of poverty here were different than the poverty I knew from Berlin. There, poverty was institutionalized, with welfare services and unemployment compensation."
She describes the visits vividly with a child's taking in what seemed relevant. That was the first and the last she saw of them.
"This is how my family’s story in Poland ends. No one knows how, when, and where everyone was murdered."
................................................................................................
In January 1935, her baby sister Bronia was born. Renee and Betty were sent to stay with uncle Marcus and his family, and Renee loved the ruckus as the kids played. They came home and saw the new sister.
"I loved that mischievous, lively baby from the first minute, with her little hands with tiny pink fingers, her fluff of hair, and the fragrant milky smell of her body. I was ten years old, and I wondered if I’d ever love my own children this way."
................................................................................................
"In 1933, the Jewish community in Berlin had more than one hundred and sixty thousand members, out of a population of 3.5 million. In other parts of Germany, there were communities that were much older, but there was no doubt that Berlin was the center of attraction for Jews from all over Germany as well as Jews who arrived from the “East,” from Poland and Russia, and were called “Ostjuden.” Many Jewish artists, whose names and fame had spread beyond Germany’s borders, made important contributions in the fields of theater, art, music, and literature, as well as science, medicine, and philosophy. Large publishing houses in Germany, and a majority of the newspapers, were in Jewish hands. Berlin’s large department stores belonged to Jews, among them the prestigious department store Israel.
"This rich and established community provided not only religious answers; in addition to lavish synagogues scattered all over the city, there were also schools, two very good hospitals, and establishments for social welfare, such as retirement homes, orphanages, and social services for those in need. During the years 1933–1938, the activities of all the Jewish establishments expanded and eased the hardships of the Jewish public. The Jewish community’s high school, in which four hundred and fifty students studied before Hitler’s rise to power, received double the number of students during those years.
"In 1935, I finished four years of primary school and continued my education in the Jewish high school on Grosse Hamburger Strasse. It was an institution recognized by the authorities, and the tuition was much lower than what the private schools charged. I felt good there. After the pressure and loneliness of primary school, I felt as free as a bird. No more morning assembly with students shouting “Heil Hitler,” no more Nazi songs about knives spilling Jewish blood. I felt good, although I had to get up early to catch the tram, which passed by our house at 7:10 a.m.
"The classes were crowded, with up to fifty girls in each classroom, the curriculum was busy, and school went on until the afternoon hours. I accepted everything with love. Most of the girls lived in the area and would go home at noon, while I’d stay in the classroom with stale sandwiches. But as far as I was concerned, this difficulty was nothing compared to the nice feeling of unity and the interest I found in school.
"The school was located in Berlin’s ancient quarter and stood on the first lot purchased by the community, three hundred years before. The entrance was a lovely little garden, and in it, on a high pedestal, was the bust of the head of Moses Mendelssohn, a philosopher and the pioneer of the idea of Jewish emancipation who claimed, “Be a Jew in your home, and a human being when you leave.” On the wall of the foyer, there was a motto written in bright large gold letters, “May the school be a workshop of humanity.” And those who climbed halfway up the staircase came across a huge photo of the statue Moses by Michelangelo. The entire place exuded culture."
"School was conducted according to the mandatory curriculum for all high schools, with the addition of Jewish literature and history. We read the books of the German authors Schiller and Goethe as well as Shalom Aleichem and Peretz. In history, we learned about the legendary king Barbarossa, about Frederick the Great, king of Prussia, and also about ibn Gabirol, about the Golden Age in Spain, and about the Inquisition. We learned about medieval troubadours and the poems of Yehuda Halevy. We learned English intensively as well as modern Hebrew, as opposed to Hebrew with an Ashkenazi dialect, which was used only for praying. French was an optional subject. And I managed to reach a level of fluent reading and knowledge of grammar. I could read Hebrew and understand the stories of the righteous Joseph in the stories of Genesis."
"Famous Jewish stage actors, who lost their source of livelihood because of the Nazi racial laws, founded a theater for adolescents, and like the rest of my classmates, I bought an annual subscription to these plays. They put on plays by Shakespeare, Molière, Goldoni, and Kleist, as well as a play about Shabbetai Tzvi. Jews were forbidden from entering cinemas and theaters as well as swimming pools and ice rinks. At the entrance to the cafés, signs were hung reading, “Jews and dogs aren’t wanted here.” So instead, the Jewish community organized its own cultural activities.
"During the First World War, the Jews of Germany fought in the German Army. Twelve thousand Jews lost their lives. There was a memorial wall in every synagogue with the names of the fallen community members. Among our teachers were many who served in the army during that war and saw themselves as Germans of Jewish faith. They worked hard to convey that perception of their identity to their students.
"On the other hand, many of the students came from families that emigrated from Eastern Europe and had roots deeply embedded in Judaism. They, myself among them, knew we were born in Germany, that German was our language, and an important part of our culture was German. Nevertheless, we weren’t Germans, but Jews. I remember a song I learned in Hebrew lessons. Its words expressed what I believed in and wanted to achieve.
"“Oh, until when will our people live,
"Without a country, wandering here and there?
"Until its sons will unite as a people,
"Until they will learn the language,
"And return to their country.”"
She visited it fifty years later, and it was in East Berlin. It wasn't just dilapidated, but every vestige of culture had been removed, paintings and statues gone, and the cemetery no longer recognisable as the park it had been. A keeper of sorts met them at the school gate.
"“We both went to school here before the war,” I said. “Yes, yes. I remember. Those were difficult days.”
"Really? Difficult for whom?
"The man was curious to hear where we came from. We told him.
"“Israel? Ah, Palestina! That’s very far.”
"“Only a four-hour flight,” I said."
................................................................................................
"Back to my childhood, to 1933. In the building where our apartment was, over Papa’s shop, lived all sorts of important people—doctors, other professionals, and businesspeople. After Hitler’s rise to power, they and their families stopped greeting us when we met in the stairwell. My little sister Bronia would greet them every time with a cheerful good morning accompanied by a graceful curtsy, but they didn’t even blink back. Only the common police officer, who lived on the fourth floor beneath the roof, felt the need to apologize. As he checked nervously to see if anyone saw him, he addressed my mother. “I have nothing against you. On the contrary, I actually like you and your family. But please understand, Frau Schütz, I have a wife and children. I cannot risk my livelihood.” Mother understood."
"After school and during the holidays, I took care of my little sisters. We took walks in the park, and I played with them at home. In any event, I didn’t have Jewish friends my age in the neighborhood."
"In the city square, huge posters appeared, portraying Jews in a monstrous-demonic manner accompanied by slogans such as “Jews are our disaster” or “Jews, like rats, live on the blood and sweat of the German people.” These pictures made me nauseous with terror. I was gripped with a fear that maybe we really were subhuman. On street corners, the newspaper Der Stürmer was distributed. The newspaper was full of propaganda regarding “the contamination of the race,” including pornographic descriptions that cautioned against sexual abuse of the German women by Jewish vermin.
"Every so often, new decrees were imposed that deprived Jews of their civil rights. Jews of desired professions, who owned property or had ties abroad, managed to leave Germany back in 1933. But as the time went by, the European countries closed their borders. Visas to the United States were almost impossible to obtain. The British Mandate government distributed very few permits to immigrate to Palestine. In 1938, the situation was desperate. Papa tried to obtain an entry visa to Palestine and was rejected. He was willing to immigrate even to Hong Kong, but it didn’t work out.
"The Jewish newspapers advertised vocational programs that would help one to change professions. Philosophy professors studied carpentry, high-society women studied hairdressing and manicure. I was especially impressed by a course to create chocolate delicacies and hoped my mother would attend the program. There was a new section in the newspaper: Jewish families in the United States offering to foster Jewish children. One ad especially set fire to my imagination. A family from Texas with a big house, a garden, and a swimming pool, horses, and dogs, wanted to adopt a girl my age. I showed my parents the ad and asked if we should contact them. Mother started crying, and Papa was terribly angry and said, “Our family will stay together, no matter what.” I was ashamed and said no more."
"My uncle Max moved to a training farm in the Czech Republic, and in 1934, he immigrated to Palestine. His twin sister, Betty, married young and moved to Stettin with her husband, Paul, and after a year, Max managed to bring them to Israel. My cousin Batya and her brother Jacob also immigrated, as part of the “Youth Aliyah” organization. They took the train from Berlin to Trieste, a port city in Italy, and from there boarded a ship to Haifa. I can still see the scene of our farewell. It was at the train station in Berlin. My aunt Chatchah cried, and Papa told her, “You should be happy they’re leaving. We, the ones who are staying, are those to be cried over.” How right he was.
"My aunt and her daughter Gusti hid in Berlin during the war. In 1943, they were caught and sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp. The Red Army liberated them at the end of the war."
"Back to my childhood, to 1933. In the building where our apartment was, over Papa’s shop, lived all sorts of important people—doctors, other professionals, and businesspeople. After Hitler’s rise to power, they and their families stopped greeting us when we met in the stairwell. My little sister Bronia would greet them every time with a cheerful good morning accompanied by a graceful curtsy, but they didn’t even blink back. Only the common police officer, who lived on the fourth floor beneath the roof, felt the need to apologize. As he checked nervously to see if anyone saw him, he addressed my mother. “I have nothing against you. On the contrary, I actually like you and your family. But please understand, Frau Schütz, I have a wife and children. I cannot risk my livelihood.” Mother understood."
"After school and during the holidays, I took care of my little sisters. We took walks in the park, and I played with them at home. In any event, I didn’t have Jewish friends my age in the neighborhood."
"In the city square, huge posters appeared, portraying Jews in a monstrous-demonic manner accompanied by slogans such as “Jews are our disaster” or “Jews, like rats, live on the blood and sweat of the German people.” These pictures made me nauseous with terror. I was gripped with a fear that maybe we really were subhuman. On street corners, the newspaper Der Stürmer was distributed. The newspaper was full of propaganda regarding “the contamination of the race,” including pornographic descriptions that cautioned against sexual abuse of the German women by Jewish vermin.
"Every so often, new decrees were imposed that deprived Jews of their civil rights. Jews of desired professions, who owned property or had ties abroad, managed to leave Germany back in 1933. But as the time went by, the European countries closed their borders. Visas to the United States were almost impossible to obtain. The British Mandate government distributed very few permits to immigrate to Palestine. In 1938, the situation was desperate. Papa tried to obtain an entry visa to Palestine and was rejected. He was willing to immigrate even to Hong Kong, but it didn’t work out.
"The Jewish newspapers advertised vocational programs that would help one to change professions. Philosophy professors studied carpentry, high-society women studied hairdressing and manicure. I was especially impressed by a course to create chocolate delicacies and hoped my mother would attend the program. There was a new section in the newspaper: Jewish families in the United States offering to foster Jewish children. One ad especially set fire to my imagination. A family from Texas with a big house, a garden, and a swimming pool, horses, and dogs, wanted to adopt a girl my age. I showed my parents the ad and asked if we should contact them. Mother started crying, and Papa was terribly angry and said, “Our family will stay together, no matter what.” I was ashamed and said no more."
"My uncle Max moved to a training farm in the Czech Republic, and in 1934, he immigrated to Palestine. His twin sister, Betty, married young and moved to Stettin with her husband, Paul, and after a year, Max managed to bring them to Israel. My cousin Batya and her brother Jacob also immigrated, as part of the “Youth Aliyah” organization. They took the train from Berlin to Trieste, a port city in Italy, and from there boarded a ship to Haifa. I can still see the scene of our farewell. It was at the train station in Berlin. My aunt Chatchah cried, and Papa told her, “You should be happy they’re leaving. We, the ones who are staying, are those to be cried over.” How right he was.
"My aunt and her daughter Gusti hid in Berlin during the war. In 1943, they were caught and sent to the Ravensbrück concentration camp. The Red Army liberated them at the end of the war."
................................................................................................
She gives a lovely description of holidays, remarking that weekdays in 1938 were gloomy, and her favourite was Passover.
"A bottle of Carmel wine made in Palestine stood by a decorated silver goblet. For us girls, Mother prepared sweet golden raisin wine, which was a delicacy. In a five-armed candlestick, white candles burned."
"In Shavuot of 1938, like every year, the house was decorated with green branches, bright-blue star-thistle flowers, and stalks of grain, and Mother would prepare dairy dishes. I loved the taste of the cheese-filled dumplings in butter sauce. In the synagogue, they read the story of Ruth, one I loved.
"Summer vacation that year was sad. Jews weren’t allowed to do anything. Fortunately, somehow the prohibitions didn’t include the huge lawn in the park next to our house. The park was open to the public only during vacations, and during the rest of the year, it was explicitly forbidden to go there.
"This time, for some strange reason, they forgot to put up the sign that read “Jews and dogs aren’t wanted here,” and every morning we’d go out to play ball there. Mother accompanied us, carrying a basket bursting with sandwiches and fruit. She had a weakness for fruit. Our pantry was always full of sour yellow cherries, sweet black cherries, blueberries that painted our tongues blue and that we ate in sweetened milk, juicy pears, plums of every kind, and various types of strawberries. Perhaps she wanted to compensate for the lack of meat in our diet because of the prohibition of kosher slaughtering in Germany."
"When summer vacation ended, I was happy to go back to school and see my friends. But then I found out that many girls had left. Some of the teachers also managed to leave Germany, and the school hadn’t found their replacements.
"The New Year arrived. Papa said the blessing, gave us an apple in honey, and wished us a good, sweet year. But our hearts were heavy. We knew we shouldn’t expect a good year, but we had no idea it would be the last holiday we would spend together and that soon, each of us would go his or her own way and to his or her own fate.
"Things got worse. In October 1938, Germany invaded Austria. The Austrians and Germans went on a rampage against the Jews of Vienna. Before that, Germany conquered the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia. The Germans were drunk with victory and full of enthusiasm for Hitler’s reign. There were rumors that men of Polish citizenship would be imprisoned, so Papa slept for a week at the home of one of his German colleagues, who was a shoemaker and a sworn communist. He returned home on a Thursday night because he missed us and wanted to spend that Shabbat at home. At four in the morning, we heard pounding on the front door and loud shouting. I cringed in bed in fear, and Mother asked, “Who’s there?”
"“Gestapo! Open up.”
"My two little sisters burst into tears. Two Gestapo men with black uniforms stood in our hallway and told Papa to get up and get dressed. I also got dressed and ran down the stairs. A black car stood before the building. Papa was shoved into the car, and I clung to the door and gripped it while screaming, “Papa, Papa!”
"The uniformed man shoved me, and I fell on the sidewalk. At that moment, I knew I would never see my father again. I felt a bitter hatred and a desire for revenge. It was the first and last time I wanted to choke and kill every German I saw."
................................................................................................
"Papa’s incarceration was part of an operation: At the end of October 1938, seventeen thousand Jews of Polish citizenship were exiled from Germany. The exiled Jews were allowed to take only a small bundle of personal belongings and some money. They were taken to the Polish border. The Polish government refused to let them into their territory, and in the dead of night, the Germans used violence, threats, and shooting in the air to force the prisoners to cross the border.
"Most of those Jews arrived at Zbaszyn, a small border town. Thousands of Jews crowded there, in that small territory, without food or water or sanitary conditions. They sat there, exposed to the elements, without a roof over their head. Winter approached and added to their torment. The Polish government wouldn’t allow them to leave the town, in an attempt to force the Germans to take them back to Germany. After some time, Jewish institutes organized aid for them.
"Papa stayed at Zbaszyn all winter, and at the beginning of summer, he managed to make his way to Krakow. In one of the few letters we received from him, he begged Mother to find a way to send him some money to survive. When the war broke out on September 1, 1939, we lost touch with Papa, entirely and forever.
"I’ll skip several years forward. The first time I saw my mother after the war was in 1950, when she came to visit the kibbutz. In 1955, I visited Mother in London for the first time, and only then, she told me that, during all those years, she lived in hope that Papa would return. She also showed me a roll of a high-quality English textile that she’d bought to have a suit made for him. She told me she met a man who knew Papa in Buchenwald, and he told her, “I wish Josef Schütz had survived instead of me. He would have found his wife and daughters, while I lost my entire family and the desire to live.” That’s what the man said and added no more.
"Recently, I came across an official document that stated that in September 1944, Papa had been transferred to Buchenwald Camp in Germany, and in January 1945, to Bergen-Belsen. There, according to the German document, “he disappeared without a trace.” This information shocked me greatly; in 1945, I was already in Israel, in a safe place, and I never even imagined my father was alive. Was it his faith in God that sustained him? Or perhaps his hope that he’d find his family? He probably survived all those years in the camps thanks to his profession as a shoemaker, for the Germans needed professionals."
She gives a lovely description of holidays, remarking that weekdays in 1938 were gloomy, and her favourite was Passover.
"A bottle of Carmel wine made in Palestine stood by a decorated silver goblet. For us girls, Mother prepared sweet golden raisin wine, which was a delicacy. In a five-armed candlestick, white candles burned."
"In Shavuot of 1938, like every year, the house was decorated with green branches, bright-blue star-thistle flowers, and stalks of grain, and Mother would prepare dairy dishes. I loved the taste of the cheese-filled dumplings in butter sauce. In the synagogue, they read the story of Ruth, one I loved.
"Summer vacation that year was sad. Jews weren’t allowed to do anything. Fortunately, somehow the prohibitions didn’t include the huge lawn in the park next to our house. The park was open to the public only during vacations, and during the rest of the year, it was explicitly forbidden to go there.
"This time, for some strange reason, they forgot to put up the sign that read “Jews and dogs aren’t wanted here,” and every morning we’d go out to play ball there. Mother accompanied us, carrying a basket bursting with sandwiches and fruit. She had a weakness for fruit. Our pantry was always full of sour yellow cherries, sweet black cherries, blueberries that painted our tongues blue and that we ate in sweetened milk, juicy pears, plums of every kind, and various types of strawberries. Perhaps she wanted to compensate for the lack of meat in our diet because of the prohibition of kosher slaughtering in Germany."
"When summer vacation ended, I was happy to go back to school and see my friends. But then I found out that many girls had left. Some of the teachers also managed to leave Germany, and the school hadn’t found their replacements.
"The New Year arrived. Papa said the blessing, gave us an apple in honey, and wished us a good, sweet year. But our hearts were heavy. We knew we shouldn’t expect a good year, but we had no idea it would be the last holiday we would spend together and that soon, each of us would go his or her own way and to his or her own fate.
"Things got worse. In October 1938, Germany invaded Austria. The Austrians and Germans went on a rampage against the Jews of Vienna. Before that, Germany conquered the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia. The Germans were drunk with victory and full of enthusiasm for Hitler’s reign. There were rumors that men of Polish citizenship would be imprisoned, so Papa slept for a week at the home of one of his German colleagues, who was a shoemaker and a sworn communist. He returned home on a Thursday night because he missed us and wanted to spend that Shabbat at home. At four in the morning, we heard pounding on the front door and loud shouting. I cringed in bed in fear, and Mother asked, “Who’s there?”
"“Gestapo! Open up.”
"My two little sisters burst into tears. Two Gestapo men with black uniforms stood in our hallway and told Papa to get up and get dressed. I also got dressed and ran down the stairs. A black car stood before the building. Papa was shoved into the car, and I clung to the door and gripped it while screaming, “Papa, Papa!”
"The uniformed man shoved me, and I fell on the sidewalk. At that moment, I knew I would never see my father again. I felt a bitter hatred and a desire for revenge. It was the first and last time I wanted to choke and kill every German I saw."
................................................................................................
"Papa’s incarceration was part of an operation: At the end of October 1938, seventeen thousand Jews of Polish citizenship were exiled from Germany. The exiled Jews were allowed to take only a small bundle of personal belongings and some money. They were taken to the Polish border. The Polish government refused to let them into their territory, and in the dead of night, the Germans used violence, threats, and shooting in the air to force the prisoners to cross the border.
"Most of those Jews arrived at Zbaszyn, a small border town. Thousands of Jews crowded there, in that small territory, without food or water or sanitary conditions. They sat there, exposed to the elements, without a roof over their head. Winter approached and added to their torment. The Polish government wouldn’t allow them to leave the town, in an attempt to force the Germans to take them back to Germany. After some time, Jewish institutes organized aid for them.
"Papa stayed at Zbaszyn all winter, and at the beginning of summer, he managed to make his way to Krakow. In one of the few letters we received from him, he begged Mother to find a way to send him some money to survive. When the war broke out on September 1, 1939, we lost touch with Papa, entirely and forever.
"I’ll skip several years forward. The first time I saw my mother after the war was in 1950, when she came to visit the kibbutz. In 1955, I visited Mother in London for the first time, and only then, she told me that, during all those years, she lived in hope that Papa would return. She also showed me a roll of a high-quality English textile that she’d bought to have a suit made for him. She told me she met a man who knew Papa in Buchenwald, and he told her, “I wish Josef Schütz had survived instead of me. He would have found his wife and daughters, while I lost my entire family and the desire to live.” That’s what the man said and added no more.
"Recently, I came across an official document that stated that in September 1944, Papa had been transferred to Buchenwald Camp in Germany, and in January 1945, to Bergen-Belsen. There, according to the German document, “he disappeared without a trace.” This information shocked me greatly; in 1945, I was already in Israel, in a safe place, and I never even imagined my father was alive. Was it his faith in God that sustained him? Or perhaps his hope that he’d find his family? He probably survived all those years in the camps thanks to his profession as a shoemaker, for the Germans needed professionals."
................................................................................................
The exile of Jews to Poland was followed by the assassination of a nazi official in Paris which in turn triggered Kristallnacht. Renee's home was not in a Jewish neighbourhood and the last name sounded German, so it wasn't until much later at night that someone remembered and threw a stone that broke the window and landed with a thud. She went to see her schoolmates and teachers. On the way she saw the main synagogue on Oranienburger Strasse burnt and ravaged, the library of thousands of books strewn on pavement.
"We didn’t study at school. Students and teachers sat together, tried to encourage each other, tried to find a solution. That was where I heard that the community was organizing shipments of children to Belgium and Holland. That day, I visited school for the last time, and I never returned to it again. I had more important things to do. About the fates of my forty classmates, I didn’t hear a thing.
"Fifty years later, when I visited East Berlin, I saw the synagogue and the nearby structures standing abandoned, and it seemed as though the stench of fire still stood in the air. A tiny blurry sign indicated that there stood the institutions of the small Jewish community of East Berlin. Dadi and I approached the neglected yard and didn’t find a trace of the activity or a living soul we could question.
"On November 15, 1938, we received notice that our license to hold the store wouldn’t be renewed. We had until January first to hand it over to Aryan ownership. If that wasn’t enough, the landlord notified us that in three months, our rental agreement would end and, according to the authority’s orders, we had to leave our apartment and move to the city center."
Uncle Marcus and his family left for England, promising they'd get Renee and her family, but Renee couldn't wait. She went around Berlin inquiring, and made a plan - she and Betty would join the Jewish children leaving for Belgium, and people there would look after them until their mother could get them on her way to England with Bronia. Renee's mother agreed and even bought her a watch along with their tickets. They managed to arrive, and had a family take them for a few days until they were arranged to be at a children's home.
"The Home General Bernheim was hurriedly founded to receive the influx of children who escaped from Nazi Germany. Its managing board, the “Committee,” was a voluntary organization of the Jewish community in Brussels and was composed of high-society ladies who accepted the task. Their main concern was providing the children’s basic needs: food, hygiene, and healthcare. When we arrived at the children’s home, the educational staff there was understaffed, temporary, and unprofessional. The situation improved after the arrival of a couple, Elka and Alex Frank. The Franks were very young and also inexperienced, but full of enthusiasm and devotion."
"My entire childhood I lived with Betty, but there, in the children’s home, we were separated. Betty was placed in the little girls’ wing, while I was put in a large dormitory with the older girls. Meals were the same. There were days I was so busy that I almost forgot Betty. Only when someone harassed her did I become the big protective sister who didn’t hesitate to raise a hand at her bullies if necessary.
"Betty missed Mother terribly. I missed all the things my parents’ home symbolized: the welcoming of the Shabbat, the fun-filled holidays, the magical twilight hours on Saturday evenings when we waited for three stars to appear in the sky in order to turn on the light, taking walks with Papa in the park. I missed it, and I knew it was gone, never to return, and there was no point in getting my hopes high."
Renee saw a new girl trying to jump out through the window, and managed to stop her. They became friends.
"I found out that in 1942, a group of three girls and two boys, Inge among them, tried crossing the border from France to Switzerland. A German patrol stopped them and took them to the guardroom. Inge managed to jump out of the window and escape; this time she jumped to save her life. The others were sent to Auschwitz. Inge managed to make her way to Switzerland and, after the war, immigrated to the United States.
"However, that isn’t the end of her story. Decades later, in 1994, I received a phone call from the United States. The caller, a young man who introduced himself as Inge’s nephew, asked me to tell him everything I knew about her. He told me Inge was a tragic figure and she suffered from survivor’s guilt for abandoning her friends. That guilt haunted her all her life and was the cause of her early death. Years after her demise, her nephew stumbled upon her diary and decided to retrace the story of her life and publish a book in her memory. The book was published in the United States in 2004, under the title Inge: A Girl’s Journey Through Nazi Europe and was very successful.
"After the incident with Inge, I noticed that every girl in the home had her own problems, and they all struggled to adjust to their new reality. I realized that at least I was fortunate enough to grow up in a loving family, something that many girls didn’t have, and I stopped feeling sorry for myself."
"At the end of August, several days before the German attack on Poland and the outbreak of World War II, my mother came to Brussels with Bronia. Mother was on her way to England—she’d managed to secure a job there as a housekeeper for a crippled old man. Betty and I were overjoyed, and Mother, as usual, brought us a basket full of fruit."
Renee convinced her mother to leave Bronia at the home until she could get them all to England officially, since she'd heard of women being in dire strait because of trying otherwise.
"Ten years would pass until I’d see Mother again. When I said goodbye, I was a fourteen-year-old girl. The next time we met, I was married, a mother with a one-year-old baby. It was at the Port of Haifa. I stood there, trembling with excitement, and waited, trying to identify Mother from among all the women who stood on the deck. I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize her. Perhaps it was that woman with the hat, or maybe it was that one with the light-colored dress? I turned to Dadi, who stood by my side and supported me. Mother, on the deck, nervously surveyed everyone standing on the dock. Suddenly our eyes met and that was that. My mother’s luscious black hair was completely white, but her face was the same face, with wrinkles of sorrow and signs of the passing years.
"When I returned to the children’s home, I found Bronia petting a little kitten. Every day, she sat in the corner of the room, petted it, and told it, “My mother went to London and left me here all by myself.”
"Bronia was four years old, and the home wasn’t suited to her age. After a while, she was sent to a Belgian orphanage, far away from Brussels. I asked for her address and begged for permission and the means to visit her. It was the height of winter when I finally succeeded, and I went to see her for several hours. The director called for Bronia, and the sight that greeted my eyes shocked me. Before me stood a withdrawn child, wearing faded clothes, and when she saw me, she clung to me, sobbing bitterly. The director said she was a bad girl who spoke German even though it was forbidden, who wet the bed and had to be punished until she ceased that bad habit. I declared that at home, Bronia was a clean, happy, easy child. But it was to no avail. The manager insisted that Bronia was a bad girl. When we were alone, Bronia told me that she was locked in a dark and tiny room for hours. I don’t know if this approach helped her stop wetting the bed, but it was obvious that it scarred her tender soul terribly. Her situation horrified me, and I tried to convince the Committee women to transfer her to another place. The answer I received was, “We’ll try, we’ll check, we’ll see what we can do.” In the meantime, precious months passed."
The exile of Jews to Poland was followed by the assassination of a nazi official in Paris which in turn triggered Kristallnacht. Renee's home was not in a Jewish neighbourhood and the last name sounded German, so it wasn't until much later at night that someone remembered and threw a stone that broke the window and landed with a thud. She went to see her schoolmates and teachers. On the way she saw the main synagogue on Oranienburger Strasse burnt and ravaged, the library of thousands of books strewn on pavement.
"We didn’t study at school. Students and teachers sat together, tried to encourage each other, tried to find a solution. That was where I heard that the community was organizing shipments of children to Belgium and Holland. That day, I visited school for the last time, and I never returned to it again. I had more important things to do. About the fates of my forty classmates, I didn’t hear a thing.
"Fifty years later, when I visited East Berlin, I saw the synagogue and the nearby structures standing abandoned, and it seemed as though the stench of fire still stood in the air. A tiny blurry sign indicated that there stood the institutions of the small Jewish community of East Berlin. Dadi and I approached the neglected yard and didn’t find a trace of the activity or a living soul we could question.
"On November 15, 1938, we received notice that our license to hold the store wouldn’t be renewed. We had until January first to hand it over to Aryan ownership. If that wasn’t enough, the landlord notified us that in three months, our rental agreement would end and, according to the authority’s orders, we had to leave our apartment and move to the city center."
................................................................................................
Uncle Marcus and his family left for England, promising they'd get Renee and her family, but Renee couldn't wait. She went around Berlin inquiring, and made a plan - she and Betty would join the Jewish children leaving for Belgium, and people there would look after them until their mother could get them on her way to England with Bronia. Renee's mother agreed and even bought her a watch along with their tickets. They managed to arrive, and had a family take them for a few days until they were arranged to be at a children's home.
"The Home General Bernheim was hurriedly founded to receive the influx of children who escaped from Nazi Germany. Its managing board, the “Committee,” was a voluntary organization of the Jewish community in Brussels and was composed of high-society ladies who accepted the task. Their main concern was providing the children’s basic needs: food, hygiene, and healthcare. When we arrived at the children’s home, the educational staff there was understaffed, temporary, and unprofessional. The situation improved after the arrival of a couple, Elka and Alex Frank. The Franks were very young and also inexperienced, but full of enthusiasm and devotion."
"My entire childhood I lived with Betty, but there, in the children’s home, we were separated. Betty was placed in the little girls’ wing, while I was put in a large dormitory with the older girls. Meals were the same. There were days I was so busy that I almost forgot Betty. Only when someone harassed her did I become the big protective sister who didn’t hesitate to raise a hand at her bullies if necessary.
"Betty missed Mother terribly. I missed all the things my parents’ home symbolized: the welcoming of the Shabbat, the fun-filled holidays, the magical twilight hours on Saturday evenings when we waited for three stars to appear in the sky in order to turn on the light, taking walks with Papa in the park. I missed it, and I knew it was gone, never to return, and there was no point in getting my hopes high."
Renee saw a new girl trying to jump out through the window, and managed to stop her. They became friends.
"I found out that in 1942, a group of three girls and two boys, Inge among them, tried crossing the border from France to Switzerland. A German patrol stopped them and took them to the guardroom. Inge managed to jump out of the window and escape; this time she jumped to save her life. The others were sent to Auschwitz. Inge managed to make her way to Switzerland and, after the war, immigrated to the United States.
"However, that isn’t the end of her story. Decades later, in 1994, I received a phone call from the United States. The caller, a young man who introduced himself as Inge’s nephew, asked me to tell him everything I knew about her. He told me Inge was a tragic figure and she suffered from survivor’s guilt for abandoning her friends. That guilt haunted her all her life and was the cause of her early death. Years after her demise, her nephew stumbled upon her diary and decided to retrace the story of her life and publish a book in her memory. The book was published in the United States in 2004, under the title Inge: A Girl’s Journey Through Nazi Europe and was very successful.
"After the incident with Inge, I noticed that every girl in the home had her own problems, and they all struggled to adjust to their new reality. I realized that at least I was fortunate enough to grow up in a loving family, something that many girls didn’t have, and I stopped feeling sorry for myself."
"At the end of August, several days before the German attack on Poland and the outbreak of World War II, my mother came to Brussels with Bronia. Mother was on her way to England—she’d managed to secure a job there as a housekeeper for a crippled old man. Betty and I were overjoyed, and Mother, as usual, brought us a basket full of fruit."
Renee convinced her mother to leave Bronia at the home until she could get them all to England officially, since she'd heard of women being in dire strait because of trying otherwise.
"Ten years would pass until I’d see Mother again. When I said goodbye, I was a fourteen-year-old girl. The next time we met, I was married, a mother with a one-year-old baby. It was at the Port of Haifa. I stood there, trembling with excitement, and waited, trying to identify Mother from among all the women who stood on the deck. I was afraid I wouldn’t recognize her. Perhaps it was that woman with the hat, or maybe it was that one with the light-colored dress? I turned to Dadi, who stood by my side and supported me. Mother, on the deck, nervously surveyed everyone standing on the dock. Suddenly our eyes met and that was that. My mother’s luscious black hair was completely white, but her face was the same face, with wrinkles of sorrow and signs of the passing years.
"When I returned to the children’s home, I found Bronia petting a little kitten. Every day, she sat in the corner of the room, petted it, and told it, “My mother went to London and left me here all by myself.”
"Bronia was four years old, and the home wasn’t suited to her age. After a while, she was sent to a Belgian orphanage, far away from Brussels. I asked for her address and begged for permission and the means to visit her. It was the height of winter when I finally succeeded, and I went to see her for several hours. The director called for Bronia, and the sight that greeted my eyes shocked me. Before me stood a withdrawn child, wearing faded clothes, and when she saw me, she clung to me, sobbing bitterly. The director said she was a bad girl who spoke German even though it was forbidden, who wet the bed and had to be punished until she ceased that bad habit. I declared that at home, Bronia was a clean, happy, easy child. But it was to no avail. The manager insisted that Bronia was a bad girl. When we were alone, Bronia told me that she was locked in a dark and tiny room for hours. I don’t know if this approach helped her stop wetting the bed, but it was obvious that it scarred her tender soul terribly. Her situation horrified me, and I tried to convince the Committee women to transfer her to another place. The answer I received was, “We’ll try, we’ll check, we’ll see what we can do.” In the meantime, precious months passed."
................................................................................................
"May 10, 1940. An interminable dull rumbling woke me up. The windowpanes shook, creating a clear, high sound, as though they were screaming in fear. I jumped out of bed to see what had happened and froze in place when I saw flashes of light and heard explosions that were replaced with an eerie, expectant silence. The sirens wailed, a long, nerve-wracking sound.
"Planes bombed Brussels. The Nazi regiments had invaded Holland and Belgium. The Wehrmacht marched down the roads, and the skies filled with the white parachutes of German paratroopers. The atmosphere was one of fear and terror.
"In the dining room at dawn, the Schlesingers and Elka Frank, a young woman in her twenties, sat surrounded by many frightened girls. From the home’s single radio, we heard inconsistent announcements and instructions. Obviously, Belgium was at war. Elka Frank, whose husband Alex had been drafted into the Belgian Army, was solely responsible for fifty girls. All day long, as well as the next day, she tried to contact the Committee women, but to no avail.
"For years, we’d thought that the Committee women had abandoned us, but recently, documents were found indicating that they were well aware of their responsibilities and that they feared for the fate of the young people under their supervision. They’d truly tried to find a solution. Following the death of one of the women, Mrs. Feldiger, dozens of letters that she wrote to the U.S authorities, appealing to them to open their gates to all the children, were discovered. The women also managed to collect a considerable sum for the matter. Eventually, they managed to send sixteen children to the U.S. with the help of a Quaker Christian organization. But the children could enter only if they had relatives in the United States.
"Masses of terrified Belgians fled south to France, and the roads were full of people and various vehicles. Elka Frank thought Belgium would have to surrender in several days and went to her brother-in-law, a high official in the government, for help. Two days later, we were ordered to leave the children’s home within a matter of hours, and each of us was allowed to take only a small bundle.
"I ran in panic to the nearby telephone in a desperate attempt to call Bronia’s orphanage. All the lines were down. I told Elka I couldn’t leave without finding my sister first. Somehow, she managed to convince me that Bronia was being evacuated as well. I collected my most precious possessions: a photo album and amber necklace I received from Papa."
They were taken to a place near Toulouse.
"The next day, we were told we were in a village named Seyre, in the region of Haute Garonne."
The food and hygiene conditions were abysmal, and there were severe problems.
"It wasn’t the harsh conditions that weighed on me, nor the food shortage, nor the cold, nor the diseases. These were hardships that we all suffered from. I was haunted by my concern for Bronia. I didn’t know what had happened to her. Mrs. Frank’s assumption was proven false, and according to the news I managed to gather, the children of the orphanage where Bronia had been staying never made it to France."
"I wrote to the Swiss Red Cross and asked them to help me locate her. After several long months, an answer arrived, and I found out that Bronia was in a Jewish orphanage in Brussels. It was only then that I wrote the truth to my mother."
"In 1942, when she was just seven years old, she was sent with the rest of the children of the orphanage to the Malines camp in Belgium. From there, most of the children were later sent to a death camp. According to one version, one of the English officers, who was a prisoner of war, grew extremely attached to little Bronia, and he managed to smuggle her to the Bal family. According to another version, it was the members of the Belgian Résistance who managed to find a way to smuggle some of the children out of the camp and bring them to families who wanted to foster the persecuted young ones.
"Bronia was welcomed with open arms by the lovely Bal family, who lived in the little town of Sint-Niklaas, and suddenly she had a Paps and Maps (“Mother” and “Father” in Flemish), an older brother and sister, a spacious house with a garden, a dog, and a cat. From then on, she was called Brigitte, and the Bals introduced her as a distant relative so as not to arouse suspicion. Bronia forgot Papa’s home in Berlin. She forgot German. The only things she remembered were that her real name was Bronia and she had a mother in London and two sisters named Ruth and Betty. With that scant knowledge, the Bals went to the Red Cross and managed to contact us when Belgium was liberated.
"When the war ended, Henri Bal traveled to London to meet my mother. He wanted to make sure he was leaving his beloved adopted child in good hands. For Bronia, it was once again a painful separation. Mother and Betty were strangers to her, as was the culture of poor, anxious, orthodox Jewish immigrants.
"It was 1955 by the time I finally managed to see my sister. Bronia was twenty years old and wore thick-lensed glasses. It was hard for me to see in her the mischievous four-year-old I’d remembered. One evening, Betty, Bronia, and I left a concert in Albert Hall. We were in high spirits, when Bronia suddenly cut off the conversation and said, “Maybe I’m not really your sister?”
"That sentence contained the entire tragedy of her childhood. She didn’t have any shared memories with us. She felt isolated and foreign, and even with Mother, she never established a real closeness. Perhaps she was angry that she’d been torn away from her beloved home in Belgium. And as for Mother, I always felt she secretly resented me for convincing her at the time to leave Bronia in Brussels at the children’s home."
Little Bronia becomes as much a heartache for the reader as she was for her elder sister the protagonist and author, and that's how much she touches the reader.
"May 10, 1940. An interminable dull rumbling woke me up. The windowpanes shook, creating a clear, high sound, as though they were screaming in fear. I jumped out of bed to see what had happened and froze in place when I saw flashes of light and heard explosions that were replaced with an eerie, expectant silence. The sirens wailed, a long, nerve-wracking sound.
"Planes bombed Brussels. The Nazi regiments had invaded Holland and Belgium. The Wehrmacht marched down the roads, and the skies filled with the white parachutes of German paratroopers. The atmosphere was one of fear and terror.
"In the dining room at dawn, the Schlesingers and Elka Frank, a young woman in her twenties, sat surrounded by many frightened girls. From the home’s single radio, we heard inconsistent announcements and instructions. Obviously, Belgium was at war. Elka Frank, whose husband Alex had been drafted into the Belgian Army, was solely responsible for fifty girls. All day long, as well as the next day, she tried to contact the Committee women, but to no avail.
"For years, we’d thought that the Committee women had abandoned us, but recently, documents were found indicating that they were well aware of their responsibilities and that they feared for the fate of the young people under their supervision. They’d truly tried to find a solution. Following the death of one of the women, Mrs. Feldiger, dozens of letters that she wrote to the U.S authorities, appealing to them to open their gates to all the children, were discovered. The women also managed to collect a considerable sum for the matter. Eventually, they managed to send sixteen children to the U.S. with the help of a Quaker Christian organization. But the children could enter only if they had relatives in the United States.
"Masses of terrified Belgians fled south to France, and the roads were full of people and various vehicles. Elka Frank thought Belgium would have to surrender in several days and went to her brother-in-law, a high official in the government, for help. Two days later, we were ordered to leave the children’s home within a matter of hours, and each of us was allowed to take only a small bundle.
"I ran in panic to the nearby telephone in a desperate attempt to call Bronia’s orphanage. All the lines were down. I told Elka I couldn’t leave without finding my sister first. Somehow, she managed to convince me that Bronia was being evacuated as well. I collected my most precious possessions: a photo album and amber necklace I received from Papa."
................................................................................................
They were taken to a place near Toulouse.
"The next day, we were told we were in a village named Seyre, in the region of Haute Garonne."
The food and hygiene conditions were abysmal, and there were severe problems.
"It wasn’t the harsh conditions that weighed on me, nor the food shortage, nor the cold, nor the diseases. These were hardships that we all suffered from. I was haunted by my concern for Bronia. I didn’t know what had happened to her. Mrs. Frank’s assumption was proven false, and according to the news I managed to gather, the children of the orphanage where Bronia had been staying never made it to France."
"I wrote to the Swiss Red Cross and asked them to help me locate her. After several long months, an answer arrived, and I found out that Bronia was in a Jewish orphanage in Brussels. It was only then that I wrote the truth to my mother."
"In 1942, when she was just seven years old, she was sent with the rest of the children of the orphanage to the Malines camp in Belgium. From there, most of the children were later sent to a death camp. According to one version, one of the English officers, who was a prisoner of war, grew extremely attached to little Bronia, and he managed to smuggle her to the Bal family. According to another version, it was the members of the Belgian Résistance who managed to find a way to smuggle some of the children out of the camp and bring them to families who wanted to foster the persecuted young ones.
"Bronia was welcomed with open arms by the lovely Bal family, who lived in the little town of Sint-Niklaas, and suddenly she had a Paps and Maps (“Mother” and “Father” in Flemish), an older brother and sister, a spacious house with a garden, a dog, and a cat. From then on, she was called Brigitte, and the Bals introduced her as a distant relative so as not to arouse suspicion. Bronia forgot Papa’s home in Berlin. She forgot German. The only things she remembered were that her real name was Bronia and she had a mother in London and two sisters named Ruth and Betty. With that scant knowledge, the Bals went to the Red Cross and managed to contact us when Belgium was liberated.
"When the war ended, Henri Bal traveled to London to meet my mother. He wanted to make sure he was leaving his beloved adopted child in good hands. For Bronia, it was once again a painful separation. Mother and Betty were strangers to her, as was the culture of poor, anxious, orthodox Jewish immigrants.
"It was 1955 by the time I finally managed to see my sister. Bronia was twenty years old and wore thick-lensed glasses. It was hard for me to see in her the mischievous four-year-old I’d remembered. One evening, Betty, Bronia, and I left a concert in Albert Hall. We were in high spirits, when Bronia suddenly cut off the conversation and said, “Maybe I’m not really your sister?”
"That sentence contained the entire tragedy of her childhood. She didn’t have any shared memories with us. She felt isolated and foreign, and even with Mother, she never established a real closeness. Perhaps she was angry that she’d been torn away from her beloved home in Belgium. And as for Mother, I always felt she secretly resented me for convincing her at the time to leave Bronia in Brussels at the children’s home."
Little Bronia becomes as much a heartache for the reader as she was for her elder sister the protagonist and author, and that's how much she touches the reader.
................................................................................................
They were relocated to a beautiful real castle.
"At the beginning of 1941, a pioneering group of youths went to Château de La Hille to prepare the place for us. The castle had stood abandoned for dozens of years. Therefore, all the rooms were in dire need of cleaning, the plumbing had to be repaired, and electricity had to be installed. In March, we all moved to the château, which was about thirty kilometers from the ancient city of Foix, near the Pyrenees Mountains.
"I was charmed by the surrounding view and the château’s romantic visage. It was a real castle, with a heavy, impressive gate that led to an inner courtyard, with two side towers and walls covered with ivy. The dining room floor was made of wood tiles. Green hills surrounded us, and a stream bubbled nearby, its water as pure as crystal. The air was clear and intoxicating, and plane and cypress trees contributed to the beauty of the landscape.
"In the dormitory, we found a bed for every child and two good blankets. From Switzerland, there was a shipment of powdered milk and chunks of yellow cheese sliced for Sunday’s breakfast. Every Thursday, we received an egg with our corn porridge."
"Ms. Naef made sure we wouldn’t have any free time. Her motto was “Idle hands are of the devil.” The boys worked for the farmers in the area, and the girls were in charge of cleaning the house, doing the laundry, helping in the kitchen, and taking care of the vegetable garden. We grew cabbage, carrots, lettuce, and radishes. As for reading, Ms. Naef didn’t allow anyone to open a book during the day. If one of us was caught committing such a sin, she immediately found them something to do.
"Before long, a group started rising before dawn to read the textbooks, before the official wake-up call. The pages of those books were yellow and stained and gave out a faint smell of dust and mold, but we didn’t care. I read about the French chemist Lavoisier, an eighteenth-century scientist who discovered the role oxygen played in combustion. For the first time, I learned about atoms, molecules, and the laws of chemical reactions. I was sorry I couldn’t repeat the experiments described in the book. We sat there, boys and girls, each with his or her head in a book in the predawn gloom, fascinated by what we were reading despite the cold and the uncomfortable seating arrangements on the hard wood benches."
"The main thing was that Eugen Lyrer was a man of the book. He traveled to Toulouse and bought books for us there, perhaps with his own money, and after several months, our library contained approximately one hundred novels. Assisted by a dictionary, I read all of Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. There were chapters that were extremely tedious because of the archaic style and the flowery language, but it was worth the effort, and from then on, I could enjoy reading fluently in French."
"To my joy, I was chosen to be the librarian and helped the children find books according to taste and age. There wasn’t a book I hadn’t read in our library.
"In the evening, we crowded around Monsieur Lyrer, who read chapters from books he’d chosen to us. He had a quiet voice, and it was pleasant listening to him. We looked forward to the evening so we could listen to the adventures of The Mother by Gorky, the hardships of the man from The Death Ship by Traven, or the stories of the English Brontë sisters. We enthusiastically put on plays, mostly by Molière, such as The Misanthrope, Tartuffe, and The Imaginary Invalid. Walter and Heinz continued playing and performing concerts. Sometimes Ilse sang the songs of Schubert and they accompanied her."
"It can be said that, thanks to Lyrer’s and Alex Frank’s mother’s contributions, that year was rich with culture."
In summer they worked with local farms.
"Once, one of the peasant women asked me where I was from, and when I said I was Jewish, she startled, crossed herself twice, and felt my head to see if I had horns. In the end, she said it was impossible, because I looked just like any other human being, and it couldn’t be that I was a spawn of the murderers of Jesus, the son of God. Even in places where there were no Jews, Christianity spread hatred against them. This is something that still exists, even in places where Jewish communities have been annihilated."
"At the same time, Ms. Naef’s discipline grew worse, and she imposed new, strict Swiss rules. Every morning, she checked the angles of the folded blankets, and on the door, she hung a piece of paper on which she stated the achievements of each child in precise folding and similar tasks. I was sixteen, the world was on fire, I was worried about my parents’ welfare, the future was threatening and uncertain, and our director treated us as though we were mentally challenged children. I felt terribly insulted. I rebelled, and in a rage one day, I tore the list from the door. The conflict between Ms. Naef and myself lasted several weeks and became unbearable.
"In the end, I found a solution. I found out that the Schmutz’s, a family of Swiss farmers with a farm that was a two-hour walk from La Hille, were looking for a maid. I hastily offered myself for the position without even meeting my employers, and that same week I left the château. Betty was devastated I was leaving, and I consoled her and promised to visit as frequently as possible. I packed my few possessions and started walking toward the hills, some of them still covered with snow. I walked from hill to hill without meeting a living soul or seeing a house on the way. After an hour and a half, I reached a road that led to Tambouret village and from there to the yard of the Schmutz’s farm."
"During all the months I lived with the Schmutz family, I never heard them raise their voices at each other, nor did I notice signs of impatience or complaint. They spoke sparingly, contented themselves with little, and were happy with their lot. They didn’t have visitors, and the war was a distant thought as far as they were concerned. Their circle of life was small and safe and contained the fields, animals, and house.
"On Christmas 1943, when I was a member of the Résistance, I received, to my surprise, a postcard with a picture of a fancy lady in the arms of a slick, polished man. On the other side, in French, were the words “I love you and want to marry you.” It was signed “Rudi.” Apparently love bloomed slowly with Rudi. I had no idea how he found out my name and address. Probably through Eugen Lyrer from La Hille. At the time, I changed my name frequently, and my address also changed regularly. I didn’t reply. How could I even respond to such a declaration of love?"
"In the last week of August 1942, at noon, I returned with a basket of fresh vegetables from the garden. From afar, I noticed a black car parked in front of the house and two brawny men wearing the black uniform of the French militia standing next to it. I froze in place and took a deep breath. I had a flashback of the black car and the SS men wearing black uniforms who took my father in Berlin four years ago.
"They addressed me. “Is your name Ruth Schütz?”
"“Yes, that’s my name.”
"“We have a warrant for your arrest. You have five minutes to collect your stuff.”"
"I asked, “What did I do and where are you taking me?”
"They answered, “To a labor camp. It’s about time you Yids work!”
"I wanted to say, “But I am working,” but their demeanor was threatening.
"I remained silent. Several minutes later, I stood with my bundle in my hands. The officers went through my stuff, checking to see if I had hidden scissors, a knife, or a razor. And if that weren’t enough, they then checked to make sure I hadn’t hidden a weapon on my person. I was filled with rage. “You think that I want to kill myself?” I protested insolently.
"They kicked me into the car, and Mother Schmutz managed to push a paper bag with food for the journey into my hand.
"After half an hour, the car stopped before the police station in the town of Pamiers. Without another word, I was put into a holding cell, a heavy door closed on me, and I found myself in a tiny room with a barred window looking out to the street."
She was taken to Vernet concentration camp later.
They were relocated to a beautiful real castle.
"At the beginning of 1941, a pioneering group of youths went to Château de La Hille to prepare the place for us. The castle had stood abandoned for dozens of years. Therefore, all the rooms were in dire need of cleaning, the plumbing had to be repaired, and electricity had to be installed. In March, we all moved to the château, which was about thirty kilometers from the ancient city of Foix, near the Pyrenees Mountains.
"I was charmed by the surrounding view and the château’s romantic visage. It was a real castle, with a heavy, impressive gate that led to an inner courtyard, with two side towers and walls covered with ivy. The dining room floor was made of wood tiles. Green hills surrounded us, and a stream bubbled nearby, its water as pure as crystal. The air was clear and intoxicating, and plane and cypress trees contributed to the beauty of the landscape.
"In the dormitory, we found a bed for every child and two good blankets. From Switzerland, there was a shipment of powdered milk and chunks of yellow cheese sliced for Sunday’s breakfast. Every Thursday, we received an egg with our corn porridge."
"Ms. Naef made sure we wouldn’t have any free time. Her motto was “Idle hands are of the devil.” The boys worked for the farmers in the area, and the girls were in charge of cleaning the house, doing the laundry, helping in the kitchen, and taking care of the vegetable garden. We grew cabbage, carrots, lettuce, and radishes. As for reading, Ms. Naef didn’t allow anyone to open a book during the day. If one of us was caught committing such a sin, she immediately found them something to do.
"Before long, a group started rising before dawn to read the textbooks, before the official wake-up call. The pages of those books were yellow and stained and gave out a faint smell of dust and mold, but we didn’t care. I read about the French chemist Lavoisier, an eighteenth-century scientist who discovered the role oxygen played in combustion. For the first time, I learned about atoms, molecules, and the laws of chemical reactions. I was sorry I couldn’t repeat the experiments described in the book. We sat there, boys and girls, each with his or her head in a book in the predawn gloom, fascinated by what we were reading despite the cold and the uncomfortable seating arrangements on the hard wood benches."
"The main thing was that Eugen Lyrer was a man of the book. He traveled to Toulouse and bought books for us there, perhaps with his own money, and after several months, our library contained approximately one hundred novels. Assisted by a dictionary, I read all of Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. There were chapters that were extremely tedious because of the archaic style and the flowery language, but it was worth the effort, and from then on, I could enjoy reading fluently in French."
"To my joy, I was chosen to be the librarian and helped the children find books according to taste and age. There wasn’t a book I hadn’t read in our library.
"In the evening, we crowded around Monsieur Lyrer, who read chapters from books he’d chosen to us. He had a quiet voice, and it was pleasant listening to him. We looked forward to the evening so we could listen to the adventures of The Mother by Gorky, the hardships of the man from The Death Ship by Traven, or the stories of the English Brontë sisters. We enthusiastically put on plays, mostly by Molière, such as The Misanthrope, Tartuffe, and The Imaginary Invalid. Walter and Heinz continued playing and performing concerts. Sometimes Ilse sang the songs of Schubert and they accompanied her."
"It can be said that, thanks to Lyrer’s and Alex Frank’s mother’s contributions, that year was rich with culture."
In summer they worked with local farms.
"Once, one of the peasant women asked me where I was from, and when I said I was Jewish, she startled, crossed herself twice, and felt my head to see if I had horns. In the end, she said it was impossible, because I looked just like any other human being, and it couldn’t be that I was a spawn of the murderers of Jesus, the son of God. Even in places where there were no Jews, Christianity spread hatred against them. This is something that still exists, even in places where Jewish communities have been annihilated."
................................................................................................
"At the same time, Ms. Naef’s discipline grew worse, and she imposed new, strict Swiss rules. Every morning, she checked the angles of the folded blankets, and on the door, she hung a piece of paper on which she stated the achievements of each child in precise folding and similar tasks. I was sixteen, the world was on fire, I was worried about my parents’ welfare, the future was threatening and uncertain, and our director treated us as though we were mentally challenged children. I felt terribly insulted. I rebelled, and in a rage one day, I tore the list from the door. The conflict between Ms. Naef and myself lasted several weeks and became unbearable.
"In the end, I found a solution. I found out that the Schmutz’s, a family of Swiss farmers with a farm that was a two-hour walk from La Hille, were looking for a maid. I hastily offered myself for the position without even meeting my employers, and that same week I left the château. Betty was devastated I was leaving, and I consoled her and promised to visit as frequently as possible. I packed my few possessions and started walking toward the hills, some of them still covered with snow. I walked from hill to hill without meeting a living soul or seeing a house on the way. After an hour and a half, I reached a road that led to Tambouret village and from there to the yard of the Schmutz’s farm."
"During all the months I lived with the Schmutz family, I never heard them raise their voices at each other, nor did I notice signs of impatience or complaint. They spoke sparingly, contented themselves with little, and were happy with their lot. They didn’t have visitors, and the war was a distant thought as far as they were concerned. Their circle of life was small and safe and contained the fields, animals, and house.
"On Christmas 1943, when I was a member of the Résistance, I received, to my surprise, a postcard with a picture of a fancy lady in the arms of a slick, polished man. On the other side, in French, were the words “I love you and want to marry you.” It was signed “Rudi.” Apparently love bloomed slowly with Rudi. I had no idea how he found out my name and address. Probably through Eugen Lyrer from La Hille. At the time, I changed my name frequently, and my address also changed regularly. I didn’t reply. How could I even respond to such a declaration of love?"
"In the last week of August 1942, at noon, I returned with a basket of fresh vegetables from the garden. From afar, I noticed a black car parked in front of the house and two brawny men wearing the black uniform of the French militia standing next to it. I froze in place and took a deep breath. I had a flashback of the black car and the SS men wearing black uniforms who took my father in Berlin four years ago.
"They addressed me. “Is your name Ruth Schütz?”
"“Yes, that’s my name.”
"“We have a warrant for your arrest. You have five minutes to collect your stuff.”"
"I asked, “What did I do and where are you taking me?”
"They answered, “To a labor camp. It’s about time you Yids work!”
"I wanted to say, “But I am working,” but their demeanor was threatening.
"I remained silent. Several minutes later, I stood with my bundle in my hands. The officers went through my stuff, checking to see if I had hidden scissors, a knife, or a razor. And if that weren’t enough, they then checked to make sure I hadn’t hidden a weapon on my person. I was filled with rage. “You think that I want to kill myself?” I protested insolently.
"They kicked me into the car, and Mother Schmutz managed to push a paper bag with food for the journey into my hand.
"After half an hour, the car stopped before the police station in the town of Pamiers. Without another word, I was put into a holding cell, a heavy door closed on me, and I found myself in a tiny room with a barred window looking out to the street."
She was taken to Vernet concentration camp later.
................................................................................................
"The French policemen did their job efficiently, and every day dozens of Jews arrived at the camp."
"By the time all the girls and boys of La Hille who were older than sixteen arrived at Vernet, I felt experienced in the ways of the camp. They told me that ten policemen had surrounded the château in the early morning hours, and at dawn, they barged inside and arrested everyone despite Ms. Naef’s protests. She shouted, “The children are my responsibility and are under the protection of the Swiss Red Cross!”
"Although I was upset they’d been arrested as well, I was happy to be reunited with my friends.
"On the morning of September 1, 1942, we felt something strange in the air. The roll call took place later than usual. The camp commander entered the barracks escorted by policemen and shouted out, “All prisoners must pack their belongings and stand by their bunks. When your name is called, go to the train.”
"The train tracks crossed the camp, and cattle cars stood, ready to receive the masses. The policemen read name after name, and I tensely waited for them to call my name. Finally, the only two girls left in the barracks were myself and another young woman who’d managed at the time to marry a Frenchman and waited for her release. The guards disappeared without another word, and I wondered what I should do. I went to the barrack where the La Hille children stayed and found them full of excitement. Their names hadn’t been called either, and they were told that soon they’d be released.
"Around the train there was chaos. Old men and women lugged heavy suitcases, babies cried, and in this pandemonium, parents searched for their children and belongings. We tried to help those poor people carry their luggage and calm the children. Among them, there were people I’d managed to befriend and heard of their hardships, including those who’d experienced the trauma of the journey on the St. Louis, a ship which left the port of Hamburg in Germany and set sail to Cuba. Nine hundred and thirty Jews were on that ship. They’d tried to save themselves, but when they reached Havana, they weren’t allowed to disembark because their entrance visas weren’t valid. When they appealed to the United States, it wouldn’t receive them either. The ship continued to sail until mid-July, when finally, England, Belgium, and France agreed to give them asylum. Now, they’d reached the end of their journey."
"When we approached La Hille, the children greeted us joyously and with a song. Betty was ecstatic with happiness. She jumped on me and hugged me. But I couldn’t connect to that joy. I couldn’t forget those heart-wrenching scenes I had witnessed just the day before. According to the BBC, which we secretly listened to in Nadal’s room (he was our Spanish janitor), those people were murdered while still on the train. From that day, we realized we were mere mortals."
"It was only many years later that I discovered the circumstances of our release from Camp Vernet. This is what happened: Immediately after the children of La Hille were arrested, Ms. Naef traveled to Toulouse, to the “Secour Swiss” branch there headed by Maurice Dubois. One of the organization’s activities was hosting French children, casualties of the war, for several months in tranquil Switzerland. Mr. Dubois acted quickly. He traveled to Vichy, where Petain’s government sat, tried to make his way to the Ministry of the Interior, and persisted until he managed to meet with Prime Minister Laval. He demanded from Laval that he release all the children of La Hille and threatened to cut off all assistance to the children of France if he wouldn’t acquiesce to his request.
"Laval complied, and that evening, he issued an order that we be released, twelve hours before the camp was evacuated and the detainees were sent east. Concurrently, Dubois’ wife traveled to Bern to meet the Swiss prime minister and requested entrance permits for all the Jewish children under the organization’s protection, claiming that they were in mortal peril. Her request was denied. Eleven La Hille children were murdered during those horror-filled years.
"Maurice Dubois saved our lives, but in doing so, he had overstepped his authority and acted against government instructions. Dubois was found incompetent and was dismissed from his high position. Ms. Naef also lost her job. Disappointed, she left the country and lived the rest of her life in Switzerland.
***
"In 1990, on a clear winter day in Jerusalem, Mr. Dubois, who was more than eighty years old, planted a tree in the Garden of the Righteous in Yad Vashem. More than fifteen of the La Hille children were present, and after planting the tree, we gathered for a ceremony at which he received a certificate of recognition. I will never forget his words. “Everything I did,” he emphasized, “would’ve been for nothing if not for the courage you had shown, your resourcefulness, and your ability to cope with the most difficult situations, to overcome them yet not lose your faith in humanity. I thank you.”
"The French policemen did their job efficiently, and every day dozens of Jews arrived at the camp."
"By the time all the girls and boys of La Hille who were older than sixteen arrived at Vernet, I felt experienced in the ways of the camp. They told me that ten policemen had surrounded the château in the early morning hours, and at dawn, they barged inside and arrested everyone despite Ms. Naef’s protests. She shouted, “The children are my responsibility and are under the protection of the Swiss Red Cross!”
"Although I was upset they’d been arrested as well, I was happy to be reunited with my friends.
"On the morning of September 1, 1942, we felt something strange in the air. The roll call took place later than usual. The camp commander entered the barracks escorted by policemen and shouted out, “All prisoners must pack their belongings and stand by their bunks. When your name is called, go to the train.”
"The train tracks crossed the camp, and cattle cars stood, ready to receive the masses. The policemen read name after name, and I tensely waited for them to call my name. Finally, the only two girls left in the barracks were myself and another young woman who’d managed at the time to marry a Frenchman and waited for her release. The guards disappeared without another word, and I wondered what I should do. I went to the barrack where the La Hille children stayed and found them full of excitement. Their names hadn’t been called either, and they were told that soon they’d be released.
"Around the train there was chaos. Old men and women lugged heavy suitcases, babies cried, and in this pandemonium, parents searched for their children and belongings. We tried to help those poor people carry their luggage and calm the children. Among them, there were people I’d managed to befriend and heard of their hardships, including those who’d experienced the trauma of the journey on the St. Louis, a ship which left the port of Hamburg in Germany and set sail to Cuba. Nine hundred and thirty Jews were on that ship. They’d tried to save themselves, but when they reached Havana, they weren’t allowed to disembark because their entrance visas weren’t valid. When they appealed to the United States, it wouldn’t receive them either. The ship continued to sail until mid-July, when finally, England, Belgium, and France agreed to give them asylum. Now, they’d reached the end of their journey."
"When we approached La Hille, the children greeted us joyously and with a song. Betty was ecstatic with happiness. She jumped on me and hugged me. But I couldn’t connect to that joy. I couldn’t forget those heart-wrenching scenes I had witnessed just the day before. According to the BBC, which we secretly listened to in Nadal’s room (he was our Spanish janitor), those people were murdered while still on the train. From that day, we realized we were mere mortals."
................................................................................................
"It was only many years later that I discovered the circumstances of our release from Camp Vernet. This is what happened: Immediately after the children of La Hille were arrested, Ms. Naef traveled to Toulouse, to the “Secour Swiss” branch there headed by Maurice Dubois. One of the organization’s activities was hosting French children, casualties of the war, for several months in tranquil Switzerland. Mr. Dubois acted quickly. He traveled to Vichy, where Petain’s government sat, tried to make his way to the Ministry of the Interior, and persisted until he managed to meet with Prime Minister Laval. He demanded from Laval that he release all the children of La Hille and threatened to cut off all assistance to the children of France if he wouldn’t acquiesce to his request.
"Laval complied, and that evening, he issued an order that we be released, twelve hours before the camp was evacuated and the detainees were sent east. Concurrently, Dubois’ wife traveled to Bern to meet the Swiss prime minister and requested entrance permits for all the Jewish children under the organization’s protection, claiming that they were in mortal peril. Her request was denied. Eleven La Hille children were murdered during those horror-filled years.
"Maurice Dubois saved our lives, but in doing so, he had overstepped his authority and acted against government instructions. Dubois was found incompetent and was dismissed from his high position. Ms. Naef also lost her job. Disappointed, she left the country and lived the rest of her life in Switzerland.
***
"In 1990, on a clear winter day in Jerusalem, Mr. Dubois, who was more than eighty years old, planted a tree in the Garden of the Righteous in Yad Vashem. More than fifteen of the La Hille children were present, and after planting the tree, we gathered for a ceremony at which he received a certificate of recognition. I will never forget his words. “Everything I did,” he emphasized, “would’ve been for nothing if not for the courage you had shown, your resourcefulness, and your ability to cope with the most difficult situations, to overcome them yet not lose your faith in humanity. I thank you.”
................................................................................................
"On November 11, 1942, the Allied Forces landed in North Africa. With their arrival came the end of the Vichy regime. From then, all of France was under German occupation. The Gestapo invaded every city and district and started rounding up young French men and sending them to labor camps in Germany. The Jews were under strict surveillance, and it was clear to us that the interference of the Red Cross wouldn’t save us again. In December, the first group of five boys and girls left La Hille for another children’s home near the French-Swiss border that was also under the Swiss Red Cross’s protection. The plan was to cross the border, and the first group indeed succeeded with the help of one of the women working at La Hille. Several days later, another group left and also crossed the border successfully. One of the members of that group was Peter Salz, who later became a member of Kibbutz Lehavot HaBashan, as I did. Ruth Klonover, who later on became my sister-in-law, was also among those who managed to cross the border."
But the next group of five was caught; only Inge survived by jumping out of the window, and went across to Switzerland, later migrating to U.S.; rest were murdered at a death camp by nazis.
Renee decided it was time to go, and set off with Lixie, walking across the fields and hills she now knew well. They managed to get to Lyon, but their contact wasn't there. They met Bertrand and Charles, two fellows from La Hille, and tried to get help from the Jewish organisation as they had done. Renee and Lixie almost got caught as the Germans took away everyone working at the organisation. They were all dependent now on the thin soup at a Christian charity for lunch, and the boys decided to return to La Hille despite Renee cautioning them. They were caught and sent East, and murdered by Germans.
"How did we arrive at the convent that was on the other side of Lyon, beyond the Rhone River, on a forested hill? Who sent us there? How did we find the way, and what did we say when we knocked on the hidden little door in the narrow alley? I try to dredge the details from my memory, but the only thing I remember is fragmented pictures and scraps of information. Perhaps the harsh despair of those days, the endless existential worry of finding food and a place to spend the night, avoiding the checks for papers, are what caused this obliviousness."
They spent a few days there. Gestapo came and weren't allowed to enter, so the girls went on to Annecy.
"It was getting late, and curfew was approaching quickly. We wandered the cold, empty streets, searching for the nearest church. A priest saw us and, without asking any questions, directed us to a certain address. I’ve forgotten the name of the landlady and street, but I do remember the spacious house on the outskirts of town and the large proprietress who spent many hours of the day in her bed. The oldest daughter took care of her many brothers and sisters, the older children took care of the younger ones, and chaos reigned. We fit right into the pandemonium, taking huge pots of soup off the burners and distributing a bowl to each child. In the attic hid several men, and the oldest daughter would bring them their food. The children’s father, a doctor, wasn’t present. There were hints that he had joined de Gaulle, who had established the Free France government in London."
They went on to another convent at the Swiss border.
"It was freezing cold there. The meals we received were meager at best and didn’t satisfy us. But harder to bear than the cold permeating our bones and the gnawing hunger was the boredom. I’d lie in bed under the thin woolen blanket until noon, desperately trying to conserve some of the warmth my body had generated."
"The work distribution among the nuns was permanent. When she entered the convent, each nun brought a “dowry” of sorts, according to her parents’ means. The size of the “dowry” and the novice’s education determined her future status and occupation. The poor, low-class nuns were sentenced to the hardest, most demeaning work. The rich ones were given administrative and teaching jobs. The nun’s life in the convent wasn’t determined by her abilities or personality but rather her lineage and her family’s income level."
Anglo-European caste system there in a nutshell, generally universal outside India, but no longer called so since colonialism decided to reserve that word for India instead and use another for their caste system.
"I also felt their excitement for the priest’s weekly visit. The priest would deliver a sermon at the small church. At the end of the sermon, he alone enjoyed a feast in a room set aside especially for that purpose. The table was set according to French tradition, including glasses for aperitif, water, and wine, and the nuns stood there, prepared to serve him. The priest, who had an impressive paunch, made the most of the hour-long feast. Every time he finished a course, he rang a little silver bell on the table and the nuns hurried in with the next dish.
"I watched that absurd scene with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was pleased to see that there remained a sliver of human emotion in these dried-out husks of women, who came to life in the presence of a man, even if he was a fat, gluttonous priest. On the other hand, what was this foolish fawning for? Was it because since childhood, God was depicted as a man?"
"On November 11, 1942, the Allied Forces landed in North Africa. With their arrival came the end of the Vichy regime. From then, all of France was under German occupation. The Gestapo invaded every city and district and started rounding up young French men and sending them to labor camps in Germany. The Jews were under strict surveillance, and it was clear to us that the interference of the Red Cross wouldn’t save us again. In December, the first group of five boys and girls left La Hille for another children’s home near the French-Swiss border that was also under the Swiss Red Cross’s protection. The plan was to cross the border, and the first group indeed succeeded with the help of one of the women working at La Hille. Several days later, another group left and also crossed the border successfully. One of the members of that group was Peter Salz, who later became a member of Kibbutz Lehavot HaBashan, as I did. Ruth Klonover, who later on became my sister-in-law, was also among those who managed to cross the border."
But the next group of five was caught; only Inge survived by jumping out of the window, and went across to Switzerland, later migrating to U.S.; rest were murdered at a death camp by nazis.
Renee decided it was time to go, and set off with Lixie, walking across the fields and hills she now knew well. They managed to get to Lyon, but their contact wasn't there. They met Bertrand and Charles, two fellows from La Hille, and tried to get help from the Jewish organisation as they had done. Renee and Lixie almost got caught as the Germans took away everyone working at the organisation. They were all dependent now on the thin soup at a Christian charity for lunch, and the boys decided to return to La Hille despite Renee cautioning them. They were caught and sent East, and murdered by Germans.
"How did we arrive at the convent that was on the other side of Lyon, beyond the Rhone River, on a forested hill? Who sent us there? How did we find the way, and what did we say when we knocked on the hidden little door in the narrow alley? I try to dredge the details from my memory, but the only thing I remember is fragmented pictures and scraps of information. Perhaps the harsh despair of those days, the endless existential worry of finding food and a place to spend the night, avoiding the checks for papers, are what caused this obliviousness."
They spent a few days there. Gestapo came and weren't allowed to enter, so the girls went on to Annecy.
"It was getting late, and curfew was approaching quickly. We wandered the cold, empty streets, searching for the nearest church. A priest saw us and, without asking any questions, directed us to a certain address. I’ve forgotten the name of the landlady and street, but I do remember the spacious house on the outskirts of town and the large proprietress who spent many hours of the day in her bed. The oldest daughter took care of her many brothers and sisters, the older children took care of the younger ones, and chaos reigned. We fit right into the pandemonium, taking huge pots of soup off the burners and distributing a bowl to each child. In the attic hid several men, and the oldest daughter would bring them their food. The children’s father, a doctor, wasn’t present. There were hints that he had joined de Gaulle, who had established the Free France government in London."
................................................................................................
They went on to another convent at the Swiss border.
"It was freezing cold there. The meals we received were meager at best and didn’t satisfy us. But harder to bear than the cold permeating our bones and the gnawing hunger was the boredom. I’d lie in bed under the thin woolen blanket until noon, desperately trying to conserve some of the warmth my body had generated."
"The work distribution among the nuns was permanent. When she entered the convent, each nun brought a “dowry” of sorts, according to her parents’ means. The size of the “dowry” and the novice’s education determined her future status and occupation. The poor, low-class nuns were sentenced to the hardest, most demeaning work. The rich ones were given administrative and teaching jobs. The nun’s life in the convent wasn’t determined by her abilities or personality but rather her lineage and her family’s income level."
Anglo-European caste system there in a nutshell, generally universal outside India, but no longer called so since colonialism decided to reserve that word for India instead and use another for their caste system.
"I also felt their excitement for the priest’s weekly visit. The priest would deliver a sermon at the small church. At the end of the sermon, he alone enjoyed a feast in a room set aside especially for that purpose. The table was set according to French tradition, including glasses for aperitif, water, and wine, and the nuns stood there, prepared to serve him. The priest, who had an impressive paunch, made the most of the hour-long feast. Every time he finished a course, he rang a little silver bell on the table and the nuns hurried in with the next dish.
"I watched that absurd scene with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was pleased to see that there remained a sliver of human emotion in these dried-out husks of women, who came to life in the presence of a man, even if he was a fat, gluttonous priest. On the other hand, what was this foolish fawning for? Was it because since childhood, God was depicted as a man?"
................................................................................................
They went on to Grenoble.
"The Catholic Church’s approach to the Nazi regime, the occupation, and the persecution of the Jews is a controversial subject. It’s well-known that the Holy See in Rome adhered to the Nazi laws, didn’t issue enough warnings concerning human-rights violations, and didn’t voice protests against the annihilation of the Jews. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that there were areas in France in which senior French church officials refused to cooperate with the Vichy regime, which was subservient to the Germans. There were also priests who supported the Résistance, who fought the Germans and helped save the Jews. Among them was Father Glasberg, who dedicated his life to saving Jews.
"Glasberg was born to a Jewish family in the Ukraine, and he came to France as a child. I don’t know when he was baptized as a Christian, and perhaps his parents converted when he was still a child. He dedicated his life to the priesthood, rose within the Church’s hierarchy, and managed to secure a position in the senior office in Lyon. There, he was aware of the suffering of his people. In 1940, he founded The Christian Brotherhood in order to ease the suffering of the multitudes of Jewish refugees who arrived from Germany and lived in terrible conditions. In 1942, when the Germans’ grip tightened, The Christian Brotherhood served as a cover for Résistance activity.
"The Cardinal of Lyon didn’t support the organization’s activity and even informed on them, but Father Glasberg was warned beforehand and managed to leave town safely. He spent the years until France was liberated in a small southern town, and it wasn’t long before he became an active member of the Résistance.
"I found out about his actions many years after the war, and like the pieces of a puzzle, my memories came together and formed a whole picture. Apparently, we were supposed to meet Father Glasberg or one of his people on Lantern Street, but we arrived there a week after he disappeared. The soup kitchen employees, who continued to help those in need, sent us to the convent until we received fake papers.
"Even after the war ended, Father Glasberg continued helping rehabilitate thousands of survivors and assisted the illegal immigration to Palestine and, later on, the immigration of Jews to the State of Israel. He supported the kibbutz movement and was admired by many in Israel, even though he remained loyal to his calling as a man of the cloth in the Catholic Church."
"At the beginning of February 1943, at the height of winter, a girl called Renée Sorel made her way from Grenoble to Moirans. The girl was born in St. Quentin, a town near the Belgian border. Her family moved to Brussels when she was a child, where her father worked as technician in a textile factory. Her mother died and her father married again. Renée didn’t get along with her stepmother. She left home and cut off her ties with her family.
"I received papers with the name Renée Sorel from Luciole, a girl active in the Jewish Scouts movement. She also found me work on a farm. Thus, I embraced my new identity so convincingly that I think even a polygraph test wouldn’t have revealed the truth."
Renee went to work on a farm, where the young farmer was violent tempered and no good with any of the farm animals.
"It wasn’t long before I discovered the farmer was violent. His relationship with his wife was rocky, and his farm was failing. It was a mixed farm, which included crops, a vineyard, a vegetable garden, and geese for fattening. He also had pigs and dairy cows, though none of it was successful. He was cruel to his animals, and they feared him and rebelled against him. When he whipped his horses, they overturned the wagon. When he kicked the cows while milking them, they kicked over the pails and spilled the milk. I witnessed his violent, silent struggle with his animals. I didn’t see him beat his wife, but her apathy conveyed a kind of rebellion of the weak. The farmer wasn’t a local. He must’ve bought the farm several years before. He had no social ties with people in the area."
"After a month, I received my wages and my first day off, so I traveled to Grenoble to meet Lixie, who was my only contact with the world. Lixie was pretty happy. Her employer, Mr. Fortat, was a lecturer at Grenoble University. He was opposed to the German occupation and willingly sheltered a Jewish girl at his home.
"Grenoble was known for the beauty of its surrounding landscape, the snowy mountain peaks, and its green forests in the summer."
"In 1942, the British defeated General Rommel’s army in North Africa, and at the beginning of 1943, the German Army was defeated in Stalingrad. In July that year, the Allied Forces invaded Sicily and conquered it, and that same month, Mussolini was deposed. News of all these events didn’t reach most of the French population, myself included. We only heard about the Germans’ victories. I knew that all of Europe was occupied, that a bloody war was taking place in Russia, and that England was bravely resisting the Germans.
"France was crawling with Germans, the Gestapo terrorized the people, and those who resisted were tortured in the cellars. Jews were hunted, and those caught were sent to death camps. The young French population was drafted to forced labor in Germany, France was looted of its agricultural products, and the people starved. Vehicles of every kind were confiscated, the roads were empty, and only German cars populated them. Every show of resistance against the Germans resulted in the execution of dozens of hostages."
She left, and found work with a family in town.
"“Renée Sorel?” she asked doubtfully, and examined me from head to toe. The pretentious family name I chose—after Madam Sorel, a lady of the court of Charles VII, King of France, and other famous people in France—didn’t correspond with my appearance and class."
"On my first day, the mistress gave me a tour of the house. We went from one floor to the next, and she gave me various orders. I was surprised to see there was a bathroom on every floor, even though in most houses in France, there wasn’t an indoor bathroom. Finally, she showed me my room in the attic. The ceiling of the room slanted, with the higher side about one-and-a-half meters high and the lower side less than one meter. In order to climb on my bed, I had to wriggle in, and sometimes, when I woke up in the morning, I’d bang my head on the ceiling. I asked the mistress which bathroom I could use, and she glanced at me dismissively and said, “On Sundays the public bathhouse is open.”
"The height of absurdity was during dinner. The table would be set with the best silverware and three types of glasses: A water glass, a wine glass, and an aperitif glass were placed before every person. The mistress weighed, down to the gram, the daily serving of bread. Everyone received their food according to their ration card. Their little girl, who was rationed only 200 grams of bread, received exactly that, after her mother weighed it. Only the head of the family was entitled to talk, and the rest had the right to agree. The master of the house would praise the Vichy regime and criticize the black market and those who needed it.
"The meal menu never changed: The first course was a slice of pickled turnip, the main course was lentil stew cooked in water and seasoned with onion, and the third course was fruit, which was abundant this season. After each course, they rang a little silver bell, and I’d arrive, wearing my server’s costume, to clear the dishes. At the end of the meal, the wife would scrape all the leftovers onto a serving plate, point at it, and say, “Renée, this is for you.”
"I remembered how we sat in my parents’ house in Berlin, my parents, sisters, and myself, around the Shabbat table. We’d talk about everything and laugh at Bronia’s baby talk. I felt as though I were suffocating in this large house under the mistress’s watchful eye. I feared that before long, she’d suspect my accent and wouldn’t hesitate to turn me in. After a month there, my hands were full of sores that refused to heal. I told her I had to take care of the matter urgently and left them."
At the employment office in Grenoble she was befriended by a bleached blonde; she was curt, but the blond persisted. She even gave her a dress, which replaced the one attire Renee had since Belgium. But next day when the blonde brought "the boss" to meet her, Renee realised she'd been conned, and made her escape.
"I found shelter in a place called Protection de Jeunes Filles (Protection for Young Girls), which was managed by nuns. Obviously, given my situation, this arrangement suited me much better. The manager was an older nun who registered me, collected a symbolic fee, and explained the rules of the place. “No guests, keep quiet and clean, and be back at the house before eight in the evening.”
"It wasn’t hard to keep to these rules. I had no friends, curfew started at eight, and I was overjoyed to sleep in a bed with clean sheets in the large dormitory, which had two rows of beds along its walls."
She was sent to a factory that dyed silk scarves, and worked with women who hemmed the edges.
"I was amazed by their openness as they told me about their personal lives, including juicy descriptions of infidelity and love affairs. Another one of their favorite topics was how to get food products. One day, one of the women said that all of the Jews were involved in the black market and knew no shortage, and another woman said, “I hate the Germans but agree with Hitler that the Jews should be destroyed!” They all agreed with her. I kept silent and felt like a coward.
"At the Protection de Jeunes Filles, things weren’t so good either. One day, when I returned from work, one of the girls told me the manager wanted me to go to her office. With a sense of foreboding, I went. She glared at me and said, “Your conduct isn’t modest and isn’t appropriate for a young girl!”
"Apparently, the girls in the room had complained that I undressed and washed myself in their presence. I didn’t deny it and explained that when I returned from work sweaty, I washed myself at the sink in the room. I made it clear that I exposed only my upper body, and not, God forbid, all of it. Then I said angrily, “If it’s a sin, I plead guilty! What’s wrong with maintaining personal hygiene?”
"The nun didn’t expect such insolence. “You’re required to leave within three days,” she said curtly.
"I assumed my immodesty wasn’t the only reason for her decision. I had a feeling I’d aroused her suspicion and she wanted to get rid of the Jew as quickly as possible. And yet, it was the girls who surprised me. Most of them were intimate with random men and proud of it, so what was all the fuss over seeing me bathe?"
They went on to Grenoble.
"The Catholic Church’s approach to the Nazi regime, the occupation, and the persecution of the Jews is a controversial subject. It’s well-known that the Holy See in Rome adhered to the Nazi laws, didn’t issue enough warnings concerning human-rights violations, and didn’t voice protests against the annihilation of the Jews. Nevertheless, there is no doubt that there were areas in France in which senior French church officials refused to cooperate with the Vichy regime, which was subservient to the Germans. There were also priests who supported the Résistance, who fought the Germans and helped save the Jews. Among them was Father Glasberg, who dedicated his life to saving Jews.
"Glasberg was born to a Jewish family in the Ukraine, and he came to France as a child. I don’t know when he was baptized as a Christian, and perhaps his parents converted when he was still a child. He dedicated his life to the priesthood, rose within the Church’s hierarchy, and managed to secure a position in the senior office in Lyon. There, he was aware of the suffering of his people. In 1940, he founded The Christian Brotherhood in order to ease the suffering of the multitudes of Jewish refugees who arrived from Germany and lived in terrible conditions. In 1942, when the Germans’ grip tightened, The Christian Brotherhood served as a cover for Résistance activity.
"The Cardinal of Lyon didn’t support the organization’s activity and even informed on them, but Father Glasberg was warned beforehand and managed to leave town safely. He spent the years until France was liberated in a small southern town, and it wasn’t long before he became an active member of the Résistance.
"I found out about his actions many years after the war, and like the pieces of a puzzle, my memories came together and formed a whole picture. Apparently, we were supposed to meet Father Glasberg or one of his people on Lantern Street, but we arrived there a week after he disappeared. The soup kitchen employees, who continued to help those in need, sent us to the convent until we received fake papers.
"Even after the war ended, Father Glasberg continued helping rehabilitate thousands of survivors and assisted the illegal immigration to Palestine and, later on, the immigration of Jews to the State of Israel. He supported the kibbutz movement and was admired by many in Israel, even though he remained loyal to his calling as a man of the cloth in the Catholic Church."
................................................................................................
"At the beginning of February 1943, at the height of winter, a girl called Renée Sorel made her way from Grenoble to Moirans. The girl was born in St. Quentin, a town near the Belgian border. Her family moved to Brussels when she was a child, where her father worked as technician in a textile factory. Her mother died and her father married again. Renée didn’t get along with her stepmother. She left home and cut off her ties with her family.
"I received papers with the name Renée Sorel from Luciole, a girl active in the Jewish Scouts movement. She also found me work on a farm. Thus, I embraced my new identity so convincingly that I think even a polygraph test wouldn’t have revealed the truth."
Renee went to work on a farm, where the young farmer was violent tempered and no good with any of the farm animals.
"It wasn’t long before I discovered the farmer was violent. His relationship with his wife was rocky, and his farm was failing. It was a mixed farm, which included crops, a vineyard, a vegetable garden, and geese for fattening. He also had pigs and dairy cows, though none of it was successful. He was cruel to his animals, and they feared him and rebelled against him. When he whipped his horses, they overturned the wagon. When he kicked the cows while milking them, they kicked over the pails and spilled the milk. I witnessed his violent, silent struggle with his animals. I didn’t see him beat his wife, but her apathy conveyed a kind of rebellion of the weak. The farmer wasn’t a local. He must’ve bought the farm several years before. He had no social ties with people in the area."
"After a month, I received my wages and my first day off, so I traveled to Grenoble to meet Lixie, who was my only contact with the world. Lixie was pretty happy. Her employer, Mr. Fortat, was a lecturer at Grenoble University. He was opposed to the German occupation and willingly sheltered a Jewish girl at his home.
"Grenoble was known for the beauty of its surrounding landscape, the snowy mountain peaks, and its green forests in the summer."
"In 1942, the British defeated General Rommel’s army in North Africa, and at the beginning of 1943, the German Army was defeated in Stalingrad. In July that year, the Allied Forces invaded Sicily and conquered it, and that same month, Mussolini was deposed. News of all these events didn’t reach most of the French population, myself included. We only heard about the Germans’ victories. I knew that all of Europe was occupied, that a bloody war was taking place in Russia, and that England was bravely resisting the Germans.
"France was crawling with Germans, the Gestapo terrorized the people, and those who resisted were tortured in the cellars. Jews were hunted, and those caught were sent to death camps. The young French population was drafted to forced labor in Germany, France was looted of its agricultural products, and the people starved. Vehicles of every kind were confiscated, the roads were empty, and only German cars populated them. Every show of resistance against the Germans resulted in the execution of dozens of hostages."
She left, and found work with a family in town.
"“Renée Sorel?” she asked doubtfully, and examined me from head to toe. The pretentious family name I chose—after Madam Sorel, a lady of the court of Charles VII, King of France, and other famous people in France—didn’t correspond with my appearance and class."
"On my first day, the mistress gave me a tour of the house. We went from one floor to the next, and she gave me various orders. I was surprised to see there was a bathroom on every floor, even though in most houses in France, there wasn’t an indoor bathroom. Finally, she showed me my room in the attic. The ceiling of the room slanted, with the higher side about one-and-a-half meters high and the lower side less than one meter. In order to climb on my bed, I had to wriggle in, and sometimes, when I woke up in the morning, I’d bang my head on the ceiling. I asked the mistress which bathroom I could use, and she glanced at me dismissively and said, “On Sundays the public bathhouse is open.”
"The height of absurdity was during dinner. The table would be set with the best silverware and three types of glasses: A water glass, a wine glass, and an aperitif glass were placed before every person. The mistress weighed, down to the gram, the daily serving of bread. Everyone received their food according to their ration card. Their little girl, who was rationed only 200 grams of bread, received exactly that, after her mother weighed it. Only the head of the family was entitled to talk, and the rest had the right to agree. The master of the house would praise the Vichy regime and criticize the black market and those who needed it.
"The meal menu never changed: The first course was a slice of pickled turnip, the main course was lentil stew cooked in water and seasoned with onion, and the third course was fruit, which was abundant this season. After each course, they rang a little silver bell, and I’d arrive, wearing my server’s costume, to clear the dishes. At the end of the meal, the wife would scrape all the leftovers onto a serving plate, point at it, and say, “Renée, this is for you.”
"I remembered how we sat in my parents’ house in Berlin, my parents, sisters, and myself, around the Shabbat table. We’d talk about everything and laugh at Bronia’s baby talk. I felt as though I were suffocating in this large house under the mistress’s watchful eye. I feared that before long, she’d suspect my accent and wouldn’t hesitate to turn me in. After a month there, my hands were full of sores that refused to heal. I told her I had to take care of the matter urgently and left them."
At the employment office in Grenoble she was befriended by a bleached blonde; she was curt, but the blond persisted. She even gave her a dress, which replaced the one attire Renee had since Belgium. But next day when the blonde brought "the boss" to meet her, Renee realised she'd been conned, and made her escape.
"I found shelter in a place called Protection de Jeunes Filles (Protection for Young Girls), which was managed by nuns. Obviously, given my situation, this arrangement suited me much better. The manager was an older nun who registered me, collected a symbolic fee, and explained the rules of the place. “No guests, keep quiet and clean, and be back at the house before eight in the evening.”
"It wasn’t hard to keep to these rules. I had no friends, curfew started at eight, and I was overjoyed to sleep in a bed with clean sheets in the large dormitory, which had two rows of beds along its walls."
She was sent to a factory that dyed silk scarves, and worked with women who hemmed the edges.
"I was amazed by their openness as they told me about their personal lives, including juicy descriptions of infidelity and love affairs. Another one of their favorite topics was how to get food products. One day, one of the women said that all of the Jews were involved in the black market and knew no shortage, and another woman said, “I hate the Germans but agree with Hitler that the Jews should be destroyed!” They all agreed with her. I kept silent and felt like a coward.
"At the Protection de Jeunes Filles, things weren’t so good either. One day, when I returned from work, one of the girls told me the manager wanted me to go to her office. With a sense of foreboding, I went. She glared at me and said, “Your conduct isn’t modest and isn’t appropriate for a young girl!”
"Apparently, the girls in the room had complained that I undressed and washed myself in their presence. I didn’t deny it and explained that when I returned from work sweaty, I washed myself at the sink in the room. I made it clear that I exposed only my upper body, and not, God forbid, all of it. Then I said angrily, “If it’s a sin, I plead guilty! What’s wrong with maintaining personal hygiene?”
"The nun didn’t expect such insolence. “You’re required to leave within three days,” she said curtly.
"I assumed my immodesty wasn’t the only reason for her decision. I had a feeling I’d aroused her suspicion and she wanted to get rid of the Jew as quickly as possible. And yet, it was the girls who surprised me. Most of them were intimate with random men and proud of it, so what was all the fuss over seeing me bathe?"
................................................................................................
"It was hard to find lodgings in the city because its population grew during the war years. Many Jews came to the city, which was under the relatively lenient Italian occupation, and the French Résistance established its headquarters there. Rent was high, I earned a pittance, and I paid a high price for the furnished room I managed to find. The remaining money was barely enough for a few rationed products."
"I belonged to a category of youngsters, so I was entitled to a larger bread ration—350 grams a day. I could exchange that ration for noodles, flour, or other kinds of dough. Every month, I received one kilo of sugar and 300 grams of margarine, according to a calculation of 10 grams per day. Wine was also rationed—a bottle of wine per week. I thought it was generous, but for the French it was a harsh decree. Therefore, they were more than eager to swap wine for bread, eggs, cheese, meat, fish, and potatoes, which weren’t included in the rationing during the war. Only toddlers enjoyed a daily ration of milk. The Germans seized all agricultural produce, and the French people were starving."
"During the fruit season, Grenoble was swamped with an abundance of fruit. Cherries, plums, and berries tended to rot quickly, so the Germans didn’t bother confiscating them. I ate fruit, like most of the city folks, until I felt I would burst. It was an almost unbelievable sight—the pristine streets of Grenoble were covered with a thick layer of cherry pits, and the townspeople shuffled through them."
"At the time, I looked for a job that would pay me good wages, and in the end, I found one in a workshop for leather wallets. At the shop’s entrance, I was bombarded with the nostalgic smell of leather, which reminded me of Papa and our shop in Berlin."
"Since I was new, I was sent off on errands, and that’s how I first met the workshop’s accountant, who sat in a separate room and wasn’t seen much. I realized that the accountant was actually the owner of the business, a Jew who had to register his business under the name of one of his French employees. I’m sure he guessed that I was also Jewish and in dire straits. Otherwise, how can I explain the fact that he paid me substantial amounts of money for minor errands?
"There is a Chinese proverb that goes like this: “If you have two pennies, buy with the first penny bread to live, and with the second a flower so you’ll have something to live for.” I didn’t buy a flower, but I did sign up for a library membership. For the first time, I had enough money for a deposit, and I resumed my voracious reading. Although they weren’t my favorite writers, I read mainly Balzac and Émile Zola, because that’s what I found at the library. I also signed up for night school, for a secretarial course, and learned shorthand and typing. My knowledge, including writing, exceeded that of my classmates, and I found out that the French grammar lessons that I took in Germany were extremely beneficial."
She met a new friend whose acquaintance developed from passing one another to nods to stopping to talk.
"Charlotte was a Jewish refugee from Berlin who found herself alone in Grenoble.
"That same week, Charlotte surprised me when she asked, “Renée, would you like to come with me on Sunday to a meeting of the Zionist Youth Movement?”
"“Of course,” I answered enthusiastically. “What, those things still exist?”"
"The Zionist Youth Movement operated under the cover of a youth association for physical education. I was amazed to find about forty young men and women who sang French songs, then moved on to Hebrew songs, and in the end, sang songs in Yiddish. A young man named Claud belted these out enthusiastically. Toto, the leader of the group, followed the activity of the other youth movements in other cities and updated the group regarding the news of the war from what he heard listening to Radio London."
Another member Leon asked if she'd like to work for resistance.
"During my entire period in France, Leon Rottman was like a big brother to me; he guided me, supported me, encouraged me, and demanded of me. He was a modest man, and it was only many years later that I found out about his daring rescue missions."
"It was hard to find lodgings in the city because its population grew during the war years. Many Jews came to the city, which was under the relatively lenient Italian occupation, and the French Résistance established its headquarters there. Rent was high, I earned a pittance, and I paid a high price for the furnished room I managed to find. The remaining money was barely enough for a few rationed products."
"I belonged to a category of youngsters, so I was entitled to a larger bread ration—350 grams a day. I could exchange that ration for noodles, flour, or other kinds of dough. Every month, I received one kilo of sugar and 300 grams of margarine, according to a calculation of 10 grams per day. Wine was also rationed—a bottle of wine per week. I thought it was generous, but for the French it was a harsh decree. Therefore, they were more than eager to swap wine for bread, eggs, cheese, meat, fish, and potatoes, which weren’t included in the rationing during the war. Only toddlers enjoyed a daily ration of milk. The Germans seized all agricultural produce, and the French people were starving."
"During the fruit season, Grenoble was swamped with an abundance of fruit. Cherries, plums, and berries tended to rot quickly, so the Germans didn’t bother confiscating them. I ate fruit, like most of the city folks, until I felt I would burst. It was an almost unbelievable sight—the pristine streets of Grenoble were covered with a thick layer of cherry pits, and the townspeople shuffled through them."
................................................................................................
"At the time, I looked for a job that would pay me good wages, and in the end, I found one in a workshop for leather wallets. At the shop’s entrance, I was bombarded with the nostalgic smell of leather, which reminded me of Papa and our shop in Berlin."
"Since I was new, I was sent off on errands, and that’s how I first met the workshop’s accountant, who sat in a separate room and wasn’t seen much. I realized that the accountant was actually the owner of the business, a Jew who had to register his business under the name of one of his French employees. I’m sure he guessed that I was also Jewish and in dire straits. Otherwise, how can I explain the fact that he paid me substantial amounts of money for minor errands?
"There is a Chinese proverb that goes like this: “If you have two pennies, buy with the first penny bread to live, and with the second a flower so you’ll have something to live for.” I didn’t buy a flower, but I did sign up for a library membership. For the first time, I had enough money for a deposit, and I resumed my voracious reading. Although they weren’t my favorite writers, I read mainly Balzac and Émile Zola, because that’s what I found at the library. I also signed up for night school, for a secretarial course, and learned shorthand and typing. My knowledge, including writing, exceeded that of my classmates, and I found out that the French grammar lessons that I took in Germany were extremely beneficial."
She met a new friend whose acquaintance developed from passing one another to nods to stopping to talk.
"Charlotte was a Jewish refugee from Berlin who found herself alone in Grenoble.
"That same week, Charlotte surprised me when she asked, “Renée, would you like to come with me on Sunday to a meeting of the Zionist Youth Movement?”
"“Of course,” I answered enthusiastically. “What, those things still exist?”"
"The Zionist Youth Movement operated under the cover of a youth association for physical education. I was amazed to find about forty young men and women who sang French songs, then moved on to Hebrew songs, and in the end, sang songs in Yiddish. A young man named Claud belted these out enthusiastically. Toto, the leader of the group, followed the activity of the other youth movements in other cities and updated the group regarding the news of the war from what he heard listening to Radio London."
Another member Leon asked if she'd like to work for resistance.
"During my entire period in France, Leon Rottman was like a big brother to me; he guided me, supported me, encouraged me, and demanded of me. He was a modest man, and it was only many years later that I found out about his daring rescue missions."
................................................................................................
She expected more adventure than accompanying an old man to an old people's home for her first assignment, but later realised there were no small jobs and none without risk. When allies invaded Italy, and Italy surrendered, the neighbourhood she had been living in which was largely Italian was destroyed and people murdered by Germans. She had many a close calls, and saw a colleague taken from her side as she walked away.
"Our group had grown significantly smaller. Most of the young men moved to the Résistance organizations in the mountains, and the remaining girls worked hard to carry out the assignments. We worked diligently to manufacture fake documents and provided the merchandise all the way to Lyon and Nice. We found a new method to ensure the documents would pass all the inspections and checks. We traveled to villages, met with the village mayors, and tried to convince them to “resuscitate” young men and women who’d passed away and delete the clause declaring their death. We submitted these documents, with the pictures of whoever had them, to the Ministry of the Interior for registration and confirmation.
"It wasn’t easy convincing those mayors. At first, the girls applied reasonable moral pressure while hinting that when the day of liberation arrived, they’d be happy to testify that the mayor cooperated with the enemy. Sometimes they also threatened that the Maquis would know how to take care of them. I was never among the girls who used those methods to convince others, nor did I have the agility of Therese, our Parisian, who knew how to turn the clerks’ heads in the offices and leave with stamps or documents that she stole out of the pockets of their coats that hung in the corridors.
"Leaving a good impression, radiating innocence and trustworthiness—those were my advantages. I was the one who submitted—taking on the role of the secretary of a make-believe town—a document with a passport picture to the Ministry of the Interior. I would sit before the clerk, who carefully checked the documents and pictures, and pray that these pictures of young people with Jewish features wouldn’t give me away. I would enter the office with a shy, innocent smile, while in my heart, I wondered whether I’d leave smiling or whether my deception would be exposed. George and Thea would anxiously wait for me outside, and when I’d leave the lion’s den, holding a stack of approved documents, they’d heave a sigh of relief. Had I been arrested, they’d have had no way to help me. Nevertheless, knowing that my friends were waiting for me outside strengthened my spirit, encouraged me, and instilled in me confidence that everything would be all right."
"During the years 1943–1944, our main effort was focused on smuggling children to Switzerland. We smuggled only children, because the Swiss government sent back all the adults who managed to reach the border. From there, they were captured by German patrols. Gathering the children and smuggling them over the border was a difficult operation. First, we located families with youngsters of the appropriate age and convinced them to give us their children. I went from family to family in remote villages. I realized that in order to gain the parents’ trust, I had to speak their language. I spoke broken Yiddish, which was actually broken German. I mentioned my own mother, who was forced to send off her children in 1939 to save them. If there was someone who could feel their pain of separation, it was me. I knew that separation may be permanent."
She was successful in sending off a large group across.
"In La Hille, the only children left were those younger than fifteen, under the protection of the Swiss Red Cross, among them my sister Betty. I started trying to bring her to Switzerland. I sent a letter to Eugen Lyrer. I knew he’d be willing to help. I wrote to him that his “family,” meaning Switzerland, was inviting Betty to stay with them. We set a day and hour to bring Betty to his relatives. On the set day, I waited for Lyrer at a café in Annecy. I wasn’t sure he even understood what I meant, and if he did, whether he’d risk himself and come to our meeting. Of course, I also didn’t know if he’d manage to arrive at the set date. But he did and Betty was with him. He hadn’t let me down.
"Betty, whom I hadn’t seen for an entire year, was now almost thirteen. She hadn’t changed and was still that thin, pale girl who looked younger than her age. We hugged, my eyes full of unashamed tears, and it was only then that I realized how much I’d missed her. Eugen Lyrer left us and hurried back to La Hille. Perhaps he was punished for acting against the accepted rules of an employee of a Swiss institute. Later, I remembered I’d forgotten to reimburse him for his travel expenses, which he must’ve paid from his modest salary.
"The weather was fine, so Betty and I walked through the beautiful town on the shores of placid Lake Annecy. The mountains around were snowy. On the bank facing the lovely promenade, we saw houses with red roofs surrounded by greenery. The bridge railing was made by an artisan blacksmith. The few picturesque streets were covered by arches, and the shop windows were tastefully decorated yet didn’t contain much merchandise. It was the same town in which I’d wandered one year ago with Lixie, hungry and desperate, searching for a place to lay my head for the night. This time Annecy welcomed me, and I viewed it as a sort of personal victory over my hardships.
"I tried to spoil Betty, as much as was possible at the time. I bought her ice cream made from sweet water and cookies made from bran and artificial sweetener. When evening came and it was time for us to say goodbye, Betty clung to me and begged to stay with me. I became tough again and said, “There’s no way you can stay with me. Get on the train!”
"Betty arrived safely in Switzerland, but her years there were hard and miserable. At first, she stayed at a refugee camp for several months. Then she lived with a family in Schaffhausen, a town that was bombed. She was fourteen when she was sent to work for a terminally ill woman. She took care of her day and night without receiving any compensation. At the time, my thin little Betty suffered from weakness and a constant low fever that weren’t treated. Years later, when she underwent tests to find out why she couldn’t conceive, she found out that during her time in Switzerland, she’d contracted tuberculosis. She remained childless."
She expected more adventure than accompanying an old man to an old people's home for her first assignment, but later realised there were no small jobs and none without risk. When allies invaded Italy, and Italy surrendered, the neighbourhood she had been living in which was largely Italian was destroyed and people murdered by Germans. She had many a close calls, and saw a colleague taken from her side as she walked away.
"Our group had grown significantly smaller. Most of the young men moved to the Résistance organizations in the mountains, and the remaining girls worked hard to carry out the assignments. We worked diligently to manufacture fake documents and provided the merchandise all the way to Lyon and Nice. We found a new method to ensure the documents would pass all the inspections and checks. We traveled to villages, met with the village mayors, and tried to convince them to “resuscitate” young men and women who’d passed away and delete the clause declaring their death. We submitted these documents, with the pictures of whoever had them, to the Ministry of the Interior for registration and confirmation.
"It wasn’t easy convincing those mayors. At first, the girls applied reasonable moral pressure while hinting that when the day of liberation arrived, they’d be happy to testify that the mayor cooperated with the enemy. Sometimes they also threatened that the Maquis would know how to take care of them. I was never among the girls who used those methods to convince others, nor did I have the agility of Therese, our Parisian, who knew how to turn the clerks’ heads in the offices and leave with stamps or documents that she stole out of the pockets of their coats that hung in the corridors.
"Leaving a good impression, radiating innocence and trustworthiness—those were my advantages. I was the one who submitted—taking on the role of the secretary of a make-believe town—a document with a passport picture to the Ministry of the Interior. I would sit before the clerk, who carefully checked the documents and pictures, and pray that these pictures of young people with Jewish features wouldn’t give me away. I would enter the office with a shy, innocent smile, while in my heart, I wondered whether I’d leave smiling or whether my deception would be exposed. George and Thea would anxiously wait for me outside, and when I’d leave the lion’s den, holding a stack of approved documents, they’d heave a sigh of relief. Had I been arrested, they’d have had no way to help me. Nevertheless, knowing that my friends were waiting for me outside strengthened my spirit, encouraged me, and instilled in me confidence that everything would be all right."
"During the years 1943–1944, our main effort was focused on smuggling children to Switzerland. We smuggled only children, because the Swiss government sent back all the adults who managed to reach the border. From there, they were captured by German patrols. Gathering the children and smuggling them over the border was a difficult operation. First, we located families with youngsters of the appropriate age and convinced them to give us their children. I went from family to family in remote villages. I realized that in order to gain the parents’ trust, I had to speak their language. I spoke broken Yiddish, which was actually broken German. I mentioned my own mother, who was forced to send off her children in 1939 to save them. If there was someone who could feel their pain of separation, it was me. I knew that separation may be permanent."
She was successful in sending off a large group across.
................................................................................................
"In La Hille, the only children left were those younger than fifteen, under the protection of the Swiss Red Cross, among them my sister Betty. I started trying to bring her to Switzerland. I sent a letter to Eugen Lyrer. I knew he’d be willing to help. I wrote to him that his “family,” meaning Switzerland, was inviting Betty to stay with them. We set a day and hour to bring Betty to his relatives. On the set day, I waited for Lyrer at a café in Annecy. I wasn’t sure he even understood what I meant, and if he did, whether he’d risk himself and come to our meeting. Of course, I also didn’t know if he’d manage to arrive at the set date. But he did and Betty was with him. He hadn’t let me down.
"Betty, whom I hadn’t seen for an entire year, was now almost thirteen. She hadn’t changed and was still that thin, pale girl who looked younger than her age. We hugged, my eyes full of unashamed tears, and it was only then that I realized how much I’d missed her. Eugen Lyrer left us and hurried back to La Hille. Perhaps he was punished for acting against the accepted rules of an employee of a Swiss institute. Later, I remembered I’d forgotten to reimburse him for his travel expenses, which he must’ve paid from his modest salary.
"The weather was fine, so Betty and I walked through the beautiful town on the shores of placid Lake Annecy. The mountains around were snowy. On the bank facing the lovely promenade, we saw houses with red roofs surrounded by greenery. The bridge railing was made by an artisan blacksmith. The few picturesque streets were covered by arches, and the shop windows were tastefully decorated yet didn’t contain much merchandise. It was the same town in which I’d wandered one year ago with Lixie, hungry and desperate, searching for a place to lay my head for the night. This time Annecy welcomed me, and I viewed it as a sort of personal victory over my hardships.
"I tried to spoil Betty, as much as was possible at the time. I bought her ice cream made from sweet water and cookies made from bran and artificial sweetener. When evening came and it was time for us to say goodbye, Betty clung to me and begged to stay with me. I became tough again and said, “There’s no way you can stay with me. Get on the train!”
"Betty arrived safely in Switzerland, but her years there were hard and miserable. At first, she stayed at a refugee camp for several months. Then she lived with a family in Schaffhausen, a town that was bombed. She was fourteen when she was sent to work for a terminally ill woman. She took care of her day and night without receiving any compensation. At the time, my thin little Betty suffered from weakness and a constant low fever that weren’t treated. Years later, when she underwent tests to find out why she couldn’t conceive, she found out that during her time in Switzerland, she’d contracted tuberculosis. She remained childless."
................................................................................................
One of the resistance girls, Mariana Cohen, had conducted many groups of children across. She insisted on taking one more, and was caught, tortured and murdered by Germans. After liberation Renee and the group went and found her body amongst others killed by Germans. There is a garden in Had Vashem in her name.
"At the beginning of 1944, the hunt for Jews and members of the Résistance was at its peak. Under those circumstances, our meetings in the mountain cabin came to a stop."
"Although each of us lived and operated separately, we sometimes craved each other’s company. We gratefully accepted an invitation from Bobby, a seventeen-year-old boy from the MJS, to visit a village near Grenoble, where his mother, a doctor, was staying with his little brother."
"Shortly after our visit, Bobby’s mother and little brother were caught. Bobby was the only one who managed to escape. I was consumed with guilt because I was sure our group’s visit was what caused their arrest. Only later did I find out that Bobby’s mother was a member of the French Résistance and someone denounced her. She and her little son perished. Bobby immigrated to Israel and lives in Jerusalem.
"In the height of winter, I was sent to the hill town of Briançon near the Italian border. This time my mission was a bit different. I wasn’t sent to visit Jews in hiding, but to meet a man named Ricardo Lopus and receive a message from him. As was customary, I didn’t ask questions.
"Briançon was high in the Alps, in what was for me an unfamiliar area.
"When I arrived at my destined train station, I found out that the town was several kilometers from the station and very high up. I had no choice but to start climbing the steep path by foot. After some time, I arrived at the town’s sole main road. From the houses and stores, I perceived that in peacetime the locals made their living from wealthy tourists. On the ridge, which was much higher than the street, I saw many convalescence homes, which I found out were for tuberculosis patients. I could make out the patients lying on recliners on the balconies, covered with wool blankets. They lay in the cold and hoped that the fresh mountain air and sun would help them, just as was written in The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann."
She found the address.
"I stood in the large, dim foyer. Who was this man and what was the purpose of my mission? Several minutes passed, and a tall, handsome man who looked to be about twenty appeared and shook my hand. “Matron told me a Spanish girl was here to visit me,” he said with a smile.
"He tilted his head toward me, and soft brown eyes looked at me and caressed me. Love at first sight, we say in English, but the French expression, “le coup de foudre” (struck by a thunderbolt), is more accurate for what I felt just then. I stood there, as though frozen in place, my entire being electrified by Ricardo’s presence.
"“Let’s get out of here so we’ll be able to talk more freely,” he said, gently touching my elbow and leading me through the corridor outside. That light touch made me tremble."
"Thus began four beautiful days. Ricardo told me about his family in Barcelona. He told me how much he missed Spain and about his passion for music. He came from a large, respectable Spanish family, and many of its sons were well-known musicians. He was supposed to study in the conservatory, but when the civil war broke out, he joined the socialists who fought Franco. His hope was to see the end of Franco’s dictatorship and return to his country.
"Suddenly, I was telling him about me, talking about myself, my parents, the loneliness that was my constant companion ever since I lost my family. These were things I’d never told anyone until now, including my yearning for Israel and my desire to become a pioneer and live in a society that believed in equality and social justice. We made the most of every hour of the day."
They spent the days together until the man came, she was given the message and had to return. She didn't tell anybody about it.
"I wrote several letters to Ricardo without stating my address in order not to endanger our network.
"At the end of the war, when I was already a kibbutz member in Israel, I renewed my correspondence with Ricardo. He was still in the sanatorium. He wrote to me that he admired me for realizing the ideals of socialism. After some time, I received a letter with a different address, in which he wrote that he was leaving the sanatorium and getting married soon. I hurriedly wrote back and congratulated him. But I didn’t receive an answer. Several weeks passed and I found my letter to him in my mailbox. On the envelope, it was written, “Undeliverable. Recipient deceased.” Had his illness returned and finally overwhelmed him? Or had he met some other disaster? I would never know."
One of the resistance girls, Mariana Cohen, had conducted many groups of children across. She insisted on taking one more, and was caught, tortured and murdered by Germans. After liberation Renee and the group went and found her body amongst others killed by Germans. There is a garden in Had Vashem in her name.
"At the beginning of 1944, the hunt for Jews and members of the Résistance was at its peak. Under those circumstances, our meetings in the mountain cabin came to a stop."
"Although each of us lived and operated separately, we sometimes craved each other’s company. We gratefully accepted an invitation from Bobby, a seventeen-year-old boy from the MJS, to visit a village near Grenoble, where his mother, a doctor, was staying with his little brother."
"Shortly after our visit, Bobby’s mother and little brother were caught. Bobby was the only one who managed to escape. I was consumed with guilt because I was sure our group’s visit was what caused their arrest. Only later did I find out that Bobby’s mother was a member of the French Résistance and someone denounced her. She and her little son perished. Bobby immigrated to Israel and lives in Jerusalem.
................................................................................................
"In the height of winter, I was sent to the hill town of Briançon near the Italian border. This time my mission was a bit different. I wasn’t sent to visit Jews in hiding, but to meet a man named Ricardo Lopus and receive a message from him. As was customary, I didn’t ask questions.
"Briançon was high in the Alps, in what was for me an unfamiliar area.
"When I arrived at my destined train station, I found out that the town was several kilometers from the station and very high up. I had no choice but to start climbing the steep path by foot. After some time, I arrived at the town’s sole main road. From the houses and stores, I perceived that in peacetime the locals made their living from wealthy tourists. On the ridge, which was much higher than the street, I saw many convalescence homes, which I found out were for tuberculosis patients. I could make out the patients lying on recliners on the balconies, covered with wool blankets. They lay in the cold and hoped that the fresh mountain air and sun would help them, just as was written in The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann."
She found the address.
"I stood in the large, dim foyer. Who was this man and what was the purpose of my mission? Several minutes passed, and a tall, handsome man who looked to be about twenty appeared and shook my hand. “Matron told me a Spanish girl was here to visit me,” he said with a smile.
"He tilted his head toward me, and soft brown eyes looked at me and caressed me. Love at first sight, we say in English, but the French expression, “le coup de foudre” (struck by a thunderbolt), is more accurate for what I felt just then. I stood there, as though frozen in place, my entire being electrified by Ricardo’s presence.
"“Let’s get out of here so we’ll be able to talk more freely,” he said, gently touching my elbow and leading me through the corridor outside. That light touch made me tremble."
"Thus began four beautiful days. Ricardo told me about his family in Barcelona. He told me how much he missed Spain and about his passion for music. He came from a large, respectable Spanish family, and many of its sons were well-known musicians. He was supposed to study in the conservatory, but when the civil war broke out, he joined the socialists who fought Franco. His hope was to see the end of Franco’s dictatorship and return to his country.
"Suddenly, I was telling him about me, talking about myself, my parents, the loneliness that was my constant companion ever since I lost my family. These were things I’d never told anyone until now, including my yearning for Israel and my desire to become a pioneer and live in a society that believed in equality and social justice. We made the most of every hour of the day."
They spent the days together until the man came, she was given the message and had to return. She didn't tell anybody about it.
"I wrote several letters to Ricardo without stating my address in order not to endanger our network.
"At the end of the war, when I was already a kibbutz member in Israel, I renewed my correspondence with Ricardo. He was still in the sanatorium. He wrote to me that he admired me for realizing the ideals of socialism. After some time, I received a letter with a different address, in which he wrote that he was leaving the sanatorium and getting married soon. I hurriedly wrote back and congratulated him. But I didn’t receive an answer. Several weeks passed and I found my letter to him in my mailbox. On the envelope, it was written, “Undeliverable. Recipient deceased.” Had his illness returned and finally overwhelmed him? Or had he met some other disaster? I would never know."
................................................................................................
Madeleine told them about a young Jewish couple taken by Gestapo, and their baby Corinne who was at the orphanage. Renee rescued the baby and they brought her to safety. Gestapo couldn't find Madeline but took her sister Simone, tortured and murdered her.
"Years later, during the blazing summer season on an especially hot day in the Hula Valley, a dark, dusty car rolled into the kibbutz. Out of the car emerged four characters whom we weren’t used to seeing in the area. There were two men wearing black jackets and black felt fedoras, while fringe peeked from beneath their shirts. With them came two women, who despite the heat wore dresses buttoned up to their necks with long sleeves that covered their arms. The kibbutz was empty. Most of the members were resting behind drawn shutters, waiting for the heat to slightly abate. The guests wandered about, asking about a “French woman named Renée,” and received in response a bemused shrug. Luckily, they found a lone member in the secretariat who was just finishing for the day. Shulamit heard the words “French—Résistance—Renée” and brought them to me. I opened the door, sleep-dazed, and the young woman asked me excitedly, “Hello, are you Renée?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I’m Corinne, the baby you took from the orphanage in Grenoble. Do you remember?”
"Corrine told me her story.
"I was still a little girl when I was told that the Gestapo wanted to take me from the orphanage but that someone from Grenoble’s Résistance beat them to it, kidnapped me right beneath their noses, and saved me. It sounded like a fairy tale to me, and I wasn’t sure if it was just a legend or if there was some truth in it. One day, I came across a book about the Jewish Résistance movement in France, and in it was the story of my rescue. I’ve been on edge ever since, searching for the people mentioned in the book. By chance, I met Rabbi Roitman in Jerusalem, Leon’s brother, and from him I heard that you live on a kibbutz in the Galilee. So I’ve found you, after so many years."
"Corinne arrived in Lehavot HaBashan with her husband and the Martzbach family, both doctors, who were members of the Jewish orthodox community in Paris. She told me that after being moved from place to place, she came to their family at the age of fourteen, received in their home an orthodox upbringing, and immigrated with them to Israel. I told her she was a cheerful, pink-cheeked baby, and she couldn’t get enough of hearing about herself. Together, we went to visit Madame Jeanne, who at the time lived in Jaffa. She, as always, welcomed us warmly with her juicy French and served us French dishes that were unfamiliar in Israel.
"No one could know that several years later Corinne’s husband would succumb to a disease and the Martzbach family would be killed in a car accident. Corinne married again and asked me to come to her wedding. “You’re like a mother to me,” she said. “You gave me my life.”"
Since Renee was being sought by Gestapo, the resistance decided she should leave through a Jewish group sending people to Spain, and thence to Palestine. At the train station in Lyon she met Paul, blond and blue eyed Parisian born and bred, who had been a frequent visitor and friend, who was to travel with her; he was in love with her, she didnt know.
"The train ride to Toulouse, which usually took about twelve hours, now took several days. When we boarded the train, we didn’t know where it would stop, when it would derail because the tracks had been sabotaged, when the damage would be repaired, and from what town the train would make its way to the south. We walked part of the way, from town to town and from station to station. Every time, I was amazed anew at France’s beauty. I said goodbye to the soft green hills, to the snowy mountains, to the raging streams, to the quaint villages with their picturesque churches. I inhaled the heavy fragrance of blooming flowers and the hay reaped in the fields. I thought about Israel, which I imagined as a hot, arid, desolate country filled with stones.
"We walked for hours and were still a long way from Valence. From there, there were rumors that there was a train to Toulouse. The roads were empty because the Germans confiscated most of the cars, so there was zero chance of catching a ride. Suddenly I saw a truck approaching and I waved to the driver, signaling that he stop. He did. I was amazed to see it packed with German soldiers. Paul recoiled, but I whispered, “Get on! That’s the best thing we can do. Who will think to search for Jews in this truck?”
"I sat on a bench in the truck and looked around. Children wearing uniforms. How old were they? Sixteen at the most. Invincible Germany’s situation must’ve been dire if it had to recruit such young boys. The discovery encouraged me, and when the truck stopped, we climbed off and continued walking.
"The landscape changed. We were now in Provence, not far from Avignon. Olive and almond groves replaced the fields of crops. On the side of the road there were fig trees, and their unripe fruit gave off a spicy scent. The bridge at the entrance to Avignon was bombed. I remembered the words from a French children’s song: “Sur le pont d’Avignon, on y danse...” (On the bridge of Avignon, there they dance…)"
They got off, had a meal and were joined by Marcel, a Frenchman, who was going to Toulouse too and walked with them. They spent the night at Nimes which was heavily bombed by allies.
"We looked for a place to spend the night and luckily found a little hotel that remained intact.
"“We have only one vacant room without water or electricity,” we were told. We didn’t hesitate and grabbed it. The boys gallantly went to sleep on the carpet, while I sprawled out in the double bed. In the morning, when I went down to reception to settle our bill, I was received with a cheerful “good morning” and a wink from all those present.
"“Did you have a pleasurable night?” they asked.
"It took some time until I understood what they meant.
"“Yes,” I said. “A wonderful night.”
"Those French, they managed to surprise me every time. Their city was half destroyed, many casualties were buried beneath the rubble, and they only had lustful thoughts in their minds."
Madeleine told them about a young Jewish couple taken by Gestapo, and their baby Corinne who was at the orphanage. Renee rescued the baby and they brought her to safety. Gestapo couldn't find Madeline but took her sister Simone, tortured and murdered her.
"Years later, during the blazing summer season on an especially hot day in the Hula Valley, a dark, dusty car rolled into the kibbutz. Out of the car emerged four characters whom we weren’t used to seeing in the area. There were two men wearing black jackets and black felt fedoras, while fringe peeked from beneath their shirts. With them came two women, who despite the heat wore dresses buttoned up to their necks with long sleeves that covered their arms. The kibbutz was empty. Most of the members were resting behind drawn shutters, waiting for the heat to slightly abate. The guests wandered about, asking about a “French woman named Renée,” and received in response a bemused shrug. Luckily, they found a lone member in the secretariat who was just finishing for the day. Shulamit heard the words “French—Résistance—Renée” and brought them to me. I opened the door, sleep-dazed, and the young woman asked me excitedly, “Hello, are you Renée?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “I’m Corinne, the baby you took from the orphanage in Grenoble. Do you remember?”
"Corrine told me her story.
"I was still a little girl when I was told that the Gestapo wanted to take me from the orphanage but that someone from Grenoble’s Résistance beat them to it, kidnapped me right beneath their noses, and saved me. It sounded like a fairy tale to me, and I wasn’t sure if it was just a legend or if there was some truth in it. One day, I came across a book about the Jewish Résistance movement in France, and in it was the story of my rescue. I’ve been on edge ever since, searching for the people mentioned in the book. By chance, I met Rabbi Roitman in Jerusalem, Leon’s brother, and from him I heard that you live on a kibbutz in the Galilee. So I’ve found you, after so many years."
"Corinne arrived in Lehavot HaBashan with her husband and the Martzbach family, both doctors, who were members of the Jewish orthodox community in Paris. She told me that after being moved from place to place, she came to their family at the age of fourteen, received in their home an orthodox upbringing, and immigrated with them to Israel. I told her she was a cheerful, pink-cheeked baby, and she couldn’t get enough of hearing about herself. Together, we went to visit Madame Jeanne, who at the time lived in Jaffa. She, as always, welcomed us warmly with her juicy French and served us French dishes that were unfamiliar in Israel.
"No one could know that several years later Corinne’s husband would succumb to a disease and the Martzbach family would be killed in a car accident. Corinne married again and asked me to come to her wedding. “You’re like a mother to me,” she said. “You gave me my life.”"
................................................................................................
Since Renee was being sought by Gestapo, the resistance decided she should leave through a Jewish group sending people to Spain, and thence to Palestine. At the train station in Lyon she met Paul, blond and blue eyed Parisian born and bred, who had been a frequent visitor and friend, who was to travel with her; he was in love with her, she didnt know.
"The train ride to Toulouse, which usually took about twelve hours, now took several days. When we boarded the train, we didn’t know where it would stop, when it would derail because the tracks had been sabotaged, when the damage would be repaired, and from what town the train would make its way to the south. We walked part of the way, from town to town and from station to station. Every time, I was amazed anew at France’s beauty. I said goodbye to the soft green hills, to the snowy mountains, to the raging streams, to the quaint villages with their picturesque churches. I inhaled the heavy fragrance of blooming flowers and the hay reaped in the fields. I thought about Israel, which I imagined as a hot, arid, desolate country filled with stones.
"We walked for hours and were still a long way from Valence. From there, there were rumors that there was a train to Toulouse. The roads were empty because the Germans confiscated most of the cars, so there was zero chance of catching a ride. Suddenly I saw a truck approaching and I waved to the driver, signaling that he stop. He did. I was amazed to see it packed with German soldiers. Paul recoiled, but I whispered, “Get on! That’s the best thing we can do. Who will think to search for Jews in this truck?”
"I sat on a bench in the truck and looked around. Children wearing uniforms. How old were they? Sixteen at the most. Invincible Germany’s situation must’ve been dire if it had to recruit such young boys. The discovery encouraged me, and when the truck stopped, we climbed off and continued walking.
"The landscape changed. We were now in Provence, not far from Avignon. Olive and almond groves replaced the fields of crops. On the side of the road there were fig trees, and their unripe fruit gave off a spicy scent. The bridge at the entrance to Avignon was bombed. I remembered the words from a French children’s song: “Sur le pont d’Avignon, on y danse...” (On the bridge of Avignon, there they dance…)"
They got off, had a meal and were joined by Marcel, a Frenchman, who was going to Toulouse too and walked with them. They spent the night at Nimes which was heavily bombed by allies.
"We looked for a place to spend the night and luckily found a little hotel that remained intact.
"“We have only one vacant room without water or electricity,” we were told. We didn’t hesitate and grabbed it. The boys gallantly went to sleep on the carpet, while I sprawled out in the double bed. In the morning, when I went down to reception to settle our bill, I was received with a cheerful “good morning” and a wink from all those present.
"“Did you have a pleasurable night?” they asked.
"It took some time until I understood what they meant.
"“Yes,” I said. “A wonderful night.”
"Those French, they managed to surprise me every time. Their city was half destroyed, many casualties were buried beneath the rubble, and they only had lustful thoughts in their minds."
................................................................................................
They travelled further through Toulouse, where they had to wait, Carcassonne and Quillan where they met the guide taking them through Pyrenees. At the first stop she met Henry and Ilse from La Hille.
"The Pyrenees Mountains are a natural border between France and Spain and run from the Mediterranean in the east to the Atlantic in the west, about 500 kilometers. They are 3,400 meters high. On the French side, the mountain slopes are steep and it’s difficult to cross. When closer to the coast, the passes are easy and there are paved roads."
They celebrated their arrival in Andorra with a meal, bath and sleep. They took a car to Spain.
"I find it important to mention that Franco’s Spain didn’t turn in Jews to the Germans or prevent them from entering the country. Officially, all male refugees between the ages of eighteen and forty were supposed to be sent to a detention camp, but the Spanish weren’t strict about the matter and it was enough to declare, “I’m seventeen and a half,” or “I’m over forty,” in order to gain freedom.
"With our arrival in Lleida, we received money to buy cloth to sew a nice suit. After all, we had to appear in the hotel and on the streets dressed appropriately. Those were the conditions that the Spanish government agreed upon with the “Joint.” Apart from hotel accommodations and three meals per day, each of us received a weekly allowance for personal expenses, thus freeing us from financial worries during those months until we immigrated to Palestine."
"The Dutch group was a close-knit one. Most of them were members of Zionist Youth Movements from Germany who stayed in Holland in training farms. Their journey from Holland to France and from there to Spain is just one of the many examples of Jews finding a way to survive.
"The German organization “Todt” recruited laborers for construction work for the German Army. The Dutch were considered part of the Aryan race and received senior positions within the organization. The fair-haired and blue-eyed members of the group joined Todt as Dutch citizens, and it wasn’t long before they held key positions. Later on, they recruited other members from the training group for the organization, provided them with documents that helped them move freely about occupied Europe, and also managed to contact the Jewish underground members of AJ. Without a doubt, these were daring and resourceful men who managed to save themselves and their friends.
"One of those men was Martin, whom I’d heard of when I was still in France. Raymonde, my friend and roommate, met him once during one of the Résistance operations, and he immediately became her Prince Charming. She talked about him endlessly, and according to her description, there was no other man like him in terms of beauty, wisdom, and gentleness.
"When I found out Martin was in Lleida, my curiosity was piqued and I wanted to meet him. We talked and talked and talked and became close. He was ten years older than me, calm and very practical. He helped me with all the initial matters that I had to take care of, and I saw him as a father figure or a big brother whom I could consult with and rely on. Martin never participated in all the passionate arguments that the other group members had about socialism, communism, the national kibbutz movement or the united kibbutz movement, religion, or the observation of the commandments. Yet his reserve never stopped me from participating."
"I was free of worries, I ate plentifully, and I enjoyed the company of people I liked. It was a break between years of fleeing and hiding and fear before building a new life."
They travelled further through Toulouse, where they had to wait, Carcassonne and Quillan where they met the guide taking them through Pyrenees. At the first stop she met Henry and Ilse from La Hille.
"The Pyrenees Mountains are a natural border between France and Spain and run from the Mediterranean in the east to the Atlantic in the west, about 500 kilometers. They are 3,400 meters high. On the French side, the mountain slopes are steep and it’s difficult to cross. When closer to the coast, the passes are easy and there are paved roads."
They celebrated their arrival in Andorra with a meal, bath and sleep. They took a car to Spain.
"I find it important to mention that Franco’s Spain didn’t turn in Jews to the Germans or prevent them from entering the country. Officially, all male refugees between the ages of eighteen and forty were supposed to be sent to a detention camp, but the Spanish weren’t strict about the matter and it was enough to declare, “I’m seventeen and a half,” or “I’m over forty,” in order to gain freedom.
"With our arrival in Lleida, we received money to buy cloth to sew a nice suit. After all, we had to appear in the hotel and on the streets dressed appropriately. Those were the conditions that the Spanish government agreed upon with the “Joint.” Apart from hotel accommodations and three meals per day, each of us received a weekly allowance for personal expenses, thus freeing us from financial worries during those months until we immigrated to Palestine."
................................................................................................
"The Dutch group was a close-knit one. Most of them were members of Zionist Youth Movements from Germany who stayed in Holland in training farms. Their journey from Holland to France and from there to Spain is just one of the many examples of Jews finding a way to survive.
"The German organization “Todt” recruited laborers for construction work for the German Army. The Dutch were considered part of the Aryan race and received senior positions within the organization. The fair-haired and blue-eyed members of the group joined Todt as Dutch citizens, and it wasn’t long before they held key positions. Later on, they recruited other members from the training group for the organization, provided them with documents that helped them move freely about occupied Europe, and also managed to contact the Jewish underground members of AJ. Without a doubt, these were daring and resourceful men who managed to save themselves and their friends.
"One of those men was Martin, whom I’d heard of when I was still in France. Raymonde, my friend and roommate, met him once during one of the Résistance operations, and he immediately became her Prince Charming. She talked about him endlessly, and according to her description, there was no other man like him in terms of beauty, wisdom, and gentleness.
"When I found out Martin was in Lleida, my curiosity was piqued and I wanted to meet him. We talked and talked and talked and became close. He was ten years older than me, calm and very practical. He helped me with all the initial matters that I had to take care of, and I saw him as a father figure or a big brother whom I could consult with and rely on. Martin never participated in all the passionate arguments that the other group members had about socialism, communism, the national kibbutz movement or the united kibbutz movement, religion, or the observation of the commandments. Yet his reserve never stopped me from participating."
"I was free of worries, I ate plentifully, and I enjoyed the company of people I liked. It was a break between years of fleeing and hiding and fear before building a new life."
................................................................................................
"At the beginning of June, the Allied Forces landed in Normandy, made their way to Paris, and defeated the Germans time after time. At the end of August, Paris was liberated, the Germans retreated, and France was freed. We received this encouraging news much later, and we didn’t know that the fighting in the east was continuing and would continue for many more months. The Nazi murdering machine upped its output, and many more Jews would die a terrible death until the final victory over the Germans in May 1945."
At Lleida they went about joining in celebrations in nearby villages, until they moved to Barcelona.
"As the High Holidays approached, our religious members tried to obtain permission to rent a hall in order to pray, and the unbelievable happened: The Spanish authorities gave us their permission to rent a place in order to conduct public prayer. I remembered what my father had told me, that the Jews had declared a boycott on Spain ever since the expulsion. The Spanish authorities’ permission was no laughing matter, as the Jewish expulsion decree from 1492 was still valid and ended only in 1968. After Hitler’s rise to power, several thousand Jews found asylum in Spain as individuals but weren’t permitted to establish a community. In Spain, Catholicism was exclusive and no other religion was permitted."
"Several days after the Jewish New Year, we were invited to the British Consulate in Barcelona to settle the matter of our entrance permit to Palestine, that same certificate that my father was denied. I still have the letter from 1938, signed by the High Commissioner for Palestine, that rejected my father’s request. Our family history could have been so different if only we’d received a positive answer!"
Renee went around seeing Barcelona with Martin.
"I found a letter from the British Consulate. The consulate was “pleased to announce that following the request of Mrs. Schütz, I would be permitted to immigrate to England.” They added that because of the war, they didn’t know when I’d be able to make the journey. I had to travel to Lisbon and contact the British Consulate there."
She was amazed that her mother, a factory worker with poor wages, had made it happen. But now there was a difficult choice. Ultimately she chose Palestine and wrote to her mother hoping she'd be joined by her mother and sisters. It was five years before she saw her mother, and ten before she could save enough to travel to England and see the sisters.
"She broke her silence only one time, and that was during those tense, nerve-wracking days before the Six-Day War. I received an urgent letter from her in which she wrote, “Send the children to England immediately. I’ve taken care of everything. It’s bad enough that you’re crazy, but for God’s sake, have mercy on the children! Send them at once!” My mother, who at the time had to send us beyond the border without knowing what would become of us and in doing so saved our lives, had the right to demand that from me.
"I replied, “Mutti, until now I’ve run from one place to the other, from country to country. We’re done running. The children are staying with us, no matter what happens. Let’s hope for the best.”"
They travelled to Cadiz by train.
"Little girls wearing long, filthy dresses greeted us at those stations and competed among themselves to sell us water. They were dirty, and their hair hadn’t seen a comb in ages. Yelling and begging, they extended their thin arms toward us, holding cups of water poured from clay jars. This picture repeated itself in every station, and the poverty in those places is seared in my mind as a horrifying thing. I wondered if it was the Spanish Civil War that had brought the Spanish people so low, or was this the situation beforehand and now it had just deteriorated? I felt lucky and even ashamed, because the Jewish people had so generously helped us through the Joint."
"Cadiz is an old city on the west side of the Strait of Gibraltar, an enclave on the Atlantic Ocean. It was built by one of Hannibal’s descendants, and some claim that the source of the town’s name is “Kadesh” (“holy” in Hebrew). Our group was put up in a big hotel outside the city. The hotel walls bordered the sea, and it was the first time I came across the natural phenomenon of ebb and flow, which fascinated me. I tirelessly followed the sea’s withdrawal and discovered the wide plains revealed. Shells and shellfish remained on the beach, giving off a powerful smell, and the revealed territory was like an ideal playing field. We played ball and raced each other. And in the evening, the sea covered everything. When the tide was high, the waves crashed against the hotel wall.
"It wasn’t hot here like it was in Lleida. We enjoyed the clear, sunny days of autumn. I roamed the city with Martin. I loved the purple bougainvillea, which were a stark contrast to the white houses that were one- or two-stories high. ... Andalusia’s laid-back atmosphere charmed me, and I abandoned the heavy, suffocating clothes of the north. I bought some faux silk material—red with white polka dots—and made myself a long wide skirt like the Andalusian women wore.
"On the street corners stood wagons that sold thin strips of deep-fried dough sprinkled with sugar in paper bags. We’d nibble on them as we walked, chattering and laughing, sometimes planning for the future. I especially grew fond of a certain type of halva that almost made me miss the ship leaving Cadiz."
"At the beginning of June, the Allied Forces landed in Normandy, made their way to Paris, and defeated the Germans time after time. At the end of August, Paris was liberated, the Germans retreated, and France was freed. We received this encouraging news much later, and we didn’t know that the fighting in the east was continuing and would continue for many more months. The Nazi murdering machine upped its output, and many more Jews would die a terrible death until the final victory over the Germans in May 1945."
At Lleida they went about joining in celebrations in nearby villages, until they moved to Barcelona.
"As the High Holidays approached, our religious members tried to obtain permission to rent a hall in order to pray, and the unbelievable happened: The Spanish authorities gave us their permission to rent a place in order to conduct public prayer. I remembered what my father had told me, that the Jews had declared a boycott on Spain ever since the expulsion. The Spanish authorities’ permission was no laughing matter, as the Jewish expulsion decree from 1492 was still valid and ended only in 1968. After Hitler’s rise to power, several thousand Jews found asylum in Spain as individuals but weren’t permitted to establish a community. In Spain, Catholicism was exclusive and no other religion was permitted."
"Several days after the Jewish New Year, we were invited to the British Consulate in Barcelona to settle the matter of our entrance permit to Palestine, that same certificate that my father was denied. I still have the letter from 1938, signed by the High Commissioner for Palestine, that rejected my father’s request. Our family history could have been so different if only we’d received a positive answer!"
Renee went around seeing Barcelona with Martin.
"I found a letter from the British Consulate. The consulate was “pleased to announce that following the request of Mrs. Schütz, I would be permitted to immigrate to England.” They added that because of the war, they didn’t know when I’d be able to make the journey. I had to travel to Lisbon and contact the British Consulate there."
She was amazed that her mother, a factory worker with poor wages, had made it happen. But now there was a difficult choice. Ultimately she chose Palestine and wrote to her mother hoping she'd be joined by her mother and sisters. It was five years before she saw her mother, and ten before she could save enough to travel to England and see the sisters.
"She broke her silence only one time, and that was during those tense, nerve-wracking days before the Six-Day War. I received an urgent letter from her in which she wrote, “Send the children to England immediately. I’ve taken care of everything. It’s bad enough that you’re crazy, but for God’s sake, have mercy on the children! Send them at once!” My mother, who at the time had to send us beyond the border without knowing what would become of us and in doing so saved our lives, had the right to demand that from me.
"I replied, “Mutti, until now I’ve run from one place to the other, from country to country. We’re done running. The children are staying with us, no matter what happens. Let’s hope for the best.”"
................................................................................................
They travelled to Cadiz by train.
"Little girls wearing long, filthy dresses greeted us at those stations and competed among themselves to sell us water. They were dirty, and their hair hadn’t seen a comb in ages. Yelling and begging, they extended their thin arms toward us, holding cups of water poured from clay jars. This picture repeated itself in every station, and the poverty in those places is seared in my mind as a horrifying thing. I wondered if it was the Spanish Civil War that had brought the Spanish people so low, or was this the situation beforehand and now it had just deteriorated? I felt lucky and even ashamed, because the Jewish people had so generously helped us through the Joint."
"Cadiz is an old city on the west side of the Strait of Gibraltar, an enclave on the Atlantic Ocean. It was built by one of Hannibal’s descendants, and some claim that the source of the town’s name is “Kadesh” (“holy” in Hebrew). Our group was put up in a big hotel outside the city. The hotel walls bordered the sea, and it was the first time I came across the natural phenomenon of ebb and flow, which fascinated me. I tirelessly followed the sea’s withdrawal and discovered the wide plains revealed. Shells and shellfish remained on the beach, giving off a powerful smell, and the revealed territory was like an ideal playing field. We played ball and raced each other. And in the evening, the sea covered everything. When the tide was high, the waves crashed against the hotel wall.
"It wasn’t hot here like it was in Lleida. We enjoyed the clear, sunny days of autumn. I roamed the city with Martin. I loved the purple bougainvillea, which were a stark contrast to the white houses that were one- or two-stories high. ... Andalusia’s laid-back atmosphere charmed me, and I abandoned the heavy, suffocating clothes of the north. I bought some faux silk material—red with white polka dots—and made myself a long wide skirt like the Andalusian women wore.
"On the street corners stood wagons that sold thin strips of deep-fried dough sprinkled with sugar in paper bags. We’d nibble on them as we walked, chattering and laughing, sometimes planning for the future. I especially grew fond of a certain type of halva that almost made me miss the ship leaving Cadiz."
................................................................................................
In Palestine they were taken first to a detention camp.
"In the camp, there was a row of wooden barracks where the internees lived, and tin structures served as the dining room. Along the walls in the barracks stood beds covered with prickly wool blankets. I lived with the women who boarded the ship in Tangier. They seemed to me extremely exotic and intriguing. They had lush bodies and wore colorful dresses. On their arms, they had many bangles, and they sat cross-legged and at ease on their beds and chatted among themselves in a strange language. They were busy with their own matters and didn’t notice me or even say hello. I felt uncomfortable, as though I’d entered their territory without permission. After all, they were the descendants of the Jews exiled from Spain, whom I’d heard so much about. I was Jewish and they were Jewish, so why were we so different?
"In Atlit, for the first time I met Jews who had escaped the death camps and arrived in Israel after hair-raising journeys. They went through the seven stations of hell and told us horrifying stories. Compared to them, we were spoiled, which, for example, was expressed in our table manners. Before mealtime, we’d wait quietly for the doors of the dining room to open, but the survivors of the camps burst inside the minute the doors opened, shoved us aside, and snatched everything they could. And then they were on their way out again, to the second dining room. The quick ones even made it to the third one. We didn’t stand a chance and couldn’t compete with them.
"We were provided with an endless supply of bread and margarine, and grapefruits as well. By the way, grapefruit was not a known fruit in Europe and many of the internees tried to eat the grapefruit like one eats an orange. But the bitterness repulsed them, and they never touched it again."
Her uncle Max contacted her, and sent her some necessities.
"The first group released from the camp was the group of children and their escorts and mothers with babies. After some time, it was finally my turn. I was summoned to headquarters. A British officer sat behind a large desk, offered me a seat, and started interrogating me thoroughly. Among other things, he asked me when and how I left Germany and what I had done in France. When he heard my answers, he was thoughtful for some time, and then asked again, as though trying to confuse me and find contradictions in my story. Eventually, he was convinced that I was indeed a Jewish refugee from Germany and not a spy. And then he started writing my name, where I was born and on what date, and other things I told him on a lengthy sheet of paper with my passport photo."
She went further and got other documents, and finally was out of the camp, on the bus.
"The bus that had brought me to Haifa stopped at King George Street. I stood on a traffic island in the middle of the road, and an Arab boy tried to grab my suitcase and make a few pennies as a porter. I gripped my suitcase determinedly while also shaking off a Jewish predator who probably preyed on new immigrant girls and offered his room for the night."
She exulted in being finally free.
"As I stood there, the sun suddenly came out from behind the clouds and filled the street with its light. I took a deep breath and a wild joy seized me.
"I was free.
"I was nineteen.
"I had my whole life ahead of me."
In Palestine they were taken first to a detention camp.
"In the camp, there was a row of wooden barracks where the internees lived, and tin structures served as the dining room. Along the walls in the barracks stood beds covered with prickly wool blankets. I lived with the women who boarded the ship in Tangier. They seemed to me extremely exotic and intriguing. They had lush bodies and wore colorful dresses. On their arms, they had many bangles, and they sat cross-legged and at ease on their beds and chatted among themselves in a strange language. They were busy with their own matters and didn’t notice me or even say hello. I felt uncomfortable, as though I’d entered their territory without permission. After all, they were the descendants of the Jews exiled from Spain, whom I’d heard so much about. I was Jewish and they were Jewish, so why were we so different?
"In Atlit, for the first time I met Jews who had escaped the death camps and arrived in Israel after hair-raising journeys. They went through the seven stations of hell and told us horrifying stories. Compared to them, we were spoiled, which, for example, was expressed in our table manners. Before mealtime, we’d wait quietly for the doors of the dining room to open, but the survivors of the camps burst inside the minute the doors opened, shoved us aside, and snatched everything they could. And then they were on their way out again, to the second dining room. The quick ones even made it to the third one. We didn’t stand a chance and couldn’t compete with them.
"We were provided with an endless supply of bread and margarine, and grapefruits as well. By the way, grapefruit was not a known fruit in Europe and many of the internees tried to eat the grapefruit like one eats an orange. But the bitterness repulsed them, and they never touched it again."
Her uncle Max contacted her, and sent her some necessities.
"The first group released from the camp was the group of children and their escorts and mothers with babies. After some time, it was finally my turn. I was summoned to headquarters. A British officer sat behind a large desk, offered me a seat, and started interrogating me thoroughly. Among other things, he asked me when and how I left Germany and what I had done in France. When he heard my answers, he was thoughtful for some time, and then asked again, as though trying to confuse me and find contradictions in my story. Eventually, he was convinced that I was indeed a Jewish refugee from Germany and not a spy. And then he started writing my name, where I was born and on what date, and other things I told him on a lengthy sheet of paper with my passport photo."
She went further and got other documents, and finally was out of the camp, on the bus.
"The bus that had brought me to Haifa stopped at King George Street. I stood on a traffic island in the middle of the road, and an Arab boy tried to grab my suitcase and make a few pennies as a porter. I gripped my suitcase determinedly while also shaking off a Jewish predator who probably preyed on new immigrant girls and offered his room for the night."
She exulted in being finally free.
"As I stood there, the sun suddenly came out from behind the clouds and filled the street with its light. I took a deep breath and a wild joy seized me.
"I was free.
"I was nineteen.
"I had my whole life ahead of me."
................................................................................................
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February 20 - 24, 2020 - February 27, 2020.
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February 20 - 24, 2020 - February 27, 2020.
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