Shattered Crystals - Mia Amalia Kanner (that summer book TXT) 📗

sooner we reach Paris, the better,” Sal replied.

The next morning, The Greek again purchased two train tickets, Their destination was a town farther inland on the railroad line. The name meant nothing to Sal. He knew only that they were getting closer to Paris. There were occasional checks for papers during their second day on the train. They hid in the toilets whenever they heard the increasingly familiar call, “Have your identification ready.”

At one station when they noticed three soldiers board three different cars of the train, Sal said, “I don’t like it. There are too many of them.” They got off and sat in the waiting room until another Paris-bound train pulled in an hour later.

They encountered their first real problem at the junction where The Greek hoped to find a railroad engineer who would let them ride in the engine compartment. They spent three hours on the platform, pleading unsuccessfully with various engineers. It had seemed such a simple plan, but as refusal followed refusal, Sal realized The Greek had miscalculated. He knew about schedules, but not about train engineers, who said taking passengers in their cab against regulations was too risky.

Then Sal spotted a freight train pulling in on a far track and saw they had a chance to ride in one of the cars. “Come on,” he urged. “Hurry, before the train pulls out.”

Walking quickly around the engine to the far side of the freight train, they found an open car and hoisted themselves in. The car was filled with bundles of fresh beets. They buried themselves under the vegetables, remaining motionless though the beets dug into their flesh. They waited impatiently for the train to pull out, so they could shift positions. When at last the train began to move, the blanket of vegetables was scant protection against the cold winter weather.

It was dark when the train pulled into a freight yard outside Paris. The men made sure no one was about and jumped off the beet-filled car. The Greek was jubilant. “I know a local station nearby, and there is no control on those commuter trains. All we have to do is get off before we reach the terminal in Paris, and we should be safe.” He was right. They boarded the local train and traveled to Paris without incident.

The plan was for Sal to stay in a small hotel until The Greek secured false papers. Then they would continue south. They reached the hotel after midnight. The proprietor appeared in his bathrobe. The Greek introduced Sal as his friend who needed a place to hide until he arranged for their papers. The proprietor nodded, and The Greek said, “I’m off to my cousin’s house. Good night, my friends.”

When the proprietor woke Sal in the Paris hotel room at a quarter to six on his first morning there, Sal thought the bed and the white sheet on which he was lying were part of a dream.

“You have to dress and leave,” the proprietor said. “During the day it is not safe at the hotel because you have no papers.”

Sal went to the small sink in the room and washed his hands and face with cold water.

The hotel keeper said, “The Greek told me you know Paris. You should be all right in the city. Just lose yourself among the crowds. Come back after dark, about seven o’clock.

Sal joined men and women hurrying along the streets on their way to work. At ten o’clock, he entered a department store. On the main floor, he inspected underwear and ties. He located the food department, bought some shelled hazelnuts, and melted into the crowd of shoppers. At one o’clock, he went outside and joined shopkeepers going home for their midday meal. He walked on main streets among others, always on the lookout for police and soldiers who might demand the identification papers he did not possess.

When he returned to the hotel after dark, the proprietor was waiting for him. “Come to my apartment,” he said. “You must be hungry.”

“I ate some nuts,” Sal said. “I would be glad to have something to eat.”

The proprietor brought thick, steaming potato soup to the table and said, “The Greek came with forged papers for you.”

Sal grabbed for it excitedly, but the Frenchman said, “It may do for a quick inspection, but it is not a good job at all. It will never do if the police check my register.”

“But then, what shall I do?” Sal asked.

“Every night, I prepare a registration under a false name. That’s just in case there’s a check during the night. They mostly appear during the day, but sometimes they come at night. Then they’re thorough and examine all the documents.” He leaned back in his chair. “Eat, or the soup will get cold, and don’t worry so much.”

The Greek came to the hotel once or twice a week. Each time, he assured Sal that his source was working on their false identity papers. “The next time I come, I’ll have them for sure,” he would promise, only to reappear a few days later without the necessary documents for traveling south. Sal worried that the promised documents would have validity. It was during the wait that Sal decided it was safe to communicate with me and sent me his unsigned greetings from Paris.

The department stores were boons to Sal. They sheltered him from the cold, and they were the only places he could purchase food without a ration card. Fruits and nuts sustained him until the evening when he returned to the hotel proprietor’s hot meal.

With each passing day, Sal became more anxious. He did not think he could stay at the hotel indefinitely. Because of the torment he suffered at Calais and because he had saved himself, he believed the hotel keeper had a duty to help him; at the same time he marveled that this Parisian would risk his life for a total stranger, provide food and shelter and take nothing in return. Early during his stay, Sal offered up most of the money he had left, but the hotel keeper had refused, saying simply, “You need it. I don’t.”

Sal’s greatest fear was that he would get caught in a raffle. Nazi soldiers roaming Paris streets regularly forced all the men on a block to unbuckle their belts and pull down their trousers. The orders came without warning, and not even the best identification card would help a circumcised Jew exposed in such a roundup.

Christmas was a cold and particularly trying day. All the stores were closed, and the streets were almost deserted. Sal passed the office of the Union Generale des Israelites de France, the Jewish organization the Nazis established in November 1941. After the dissolution of all existing groups in France, the UGIF became the only recognized Jewish organization in the country. It was headed by French Jews, and its ostensible purpose was to minister to the welfare needs of the Jewish population. In reality, it was now only a workshop for the Nazis and nothing more. In 1943, it employed skilled Jewish artisans who produced much needed boots and uniforms for the Germans. If not for their talents, they would have been arrested long ago.

Sal walked into the workshop where half a dozen Jewish men and women sat around a large table sewing. “I am a Jew. I have no papers,” he told them. “Help me.”

A woman with a pinched look on her face paused in her stitching. “There are no German Jews left in Paris,” she said.

An old man with a tremor in his voice said, “I don’t understand. Where did you come from?”

“From Calais. I escaped from the Nazi labor camp there. I have to get to Limoges, but I have no papers,” Sal explained. “You must help me secure documents.”

“We can not help you,” the old man said.

“You were mad to come here,” the woman said. “You will get us all murdered.”

Sal was stupefied. A cobbler pulled his billfold out of his pocket. “Ten francs is all I have. Take it and go,” he said urgently.

“No, it is not money I need,” Sal said.

Four others rose, took money out of their pockets, shoved it into Sal’s hand and pushed him towards the door. Jews, unwilling to help a fellow Jew—could that be? Stunned, Sal walked out, their terrified whispers following him. “Please, don’t come back. Please, don’t ever come back here.”

He had walked only half a block when he spotted a raffle two corners away. He backed into a doorway. As two cyclists pedaled by, he opened the door and slipped into a darkened hallway. There he stood immobile, his back pressed against the wall. The hotel keeper said the raffles were over in minutes, even when the Nazis uncovered Jews and arrested them; but Sal waited an hour before he stirred. When he was sure the street was empty, he began to walk back to the hotel.

That night, when The Greek came with promises to have the papers within a week, Sal was adamant. “No, I cannot stay in Paris. I realized it hiding in a hallway while a raffle was being conducted outside. But I had an idea there. We will take the train on New Year’s Eve. We’ll use the papers we have. The Nazis will be so busy celebrating, they won’t check very carefully.”

The proprietor thought it was a good plan.

“Traveling with the train engineer is safer,” The Greek said. “But if I can’t persuade him, I agree. We will take a chance in the train on New Year’s Eve.”

On the last day of 1943, over steaming cabbage soup, Sal bade goodbye to the hotel proprietor. “You saved my life,” he said. “I know you took risks to keep me for so long. I will never forget what you did.”

“We all do what we can,” he said. “Come and visit me after we win the war.”

Sal met The Greek a block from the railroad terminal. They entered the station and strolled through the waiting room toward the ticket booth. “Two to Limoges,” The Greek said.

The train was already on the track, its engineer nowhere in sight. They wandered along the platform to the front of the train as if they were searching for a companion.

“Forget about your engineer,” Sal whispered. “None of these guys will take a chance. Why should they? Come on, let’s board. We’re going to call attention to ourselves if we stay here.” He pulled open the door of the railroad car and walked in. The Greek followed.

They sat next to each other. The Greek checked his watch. “Six minutes,” he said.

Sal said, “I never would have dreamed a time would come when I would be desperate to leave Paris.”

They heard a whistle blast, and the train moved out of the city.

Their car was less than half-filled, and they had a compartment to themselves. They heard raucous laughter and German songs. The Greek rose and walked out along the passageway. When he returned, he reported, “There are three of them, German soldiers. They’re drunk.”

A conductor opened the door of their compartment. They handed him their tickets; he punched them, said, “Happy New Year,” and left.

“Let’s take turns keeping watch,” The Greek suggested.

“I’m much too excited to sleep,” Sal said. “You go ahead if you want to. I’ll act as lookout.”

It wasn’t necessary. Sal had guessed right. There was no check of identification papers at all during the six-hour ride.

Sal smiled at me and Gita. He had come to the end of his saga. “You see, the Germans took New Year’s Day off to celebrate. The Nazis stopped hunting the Jews for a few hours, and I am here with you.”