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

“My identification papers were suspect.”

It was plain to me that Gita was endangering her life by letting Sal stay. The Nazis or French authorities would surely arrest her if they discovered that she was hiding a Jewish fugitive, a man who had escaped from a Nazi labor camp. Still, she insisted on sheltering Sal, at least until a more secure hiding place could be found for him.

We were afraid to risk using the identity card of Georges Keener, the badly forged document The Greek obtained in Paris. So Sal stayed hidden in the house most of the time. I spent my time searching for identity papers, for work, for a place to live. Each of these was necessary if Sal was to melt into the ordinary population of Limoges.

I sought out Rabbi Deutsch who was still the leader of the Jewish community of Limoges. I had turned to him often in the last two years, but this time he was unable to help. Trying not to be discouraged, I made my way to the OSE. The organization was of little help, counseling patience but making no promises.

Just as I thought I had exhausted all my contacts, I remembered Marie Pouillard, the young French teacher at Le Couret.

I had always had a hot cup of ersatz ready for the young woman after she finished classes in the afternoon. She would sit with me in the kitchen and help me improve my French before she left Le Couret. When the first snow fell, I said to her, “Won’t you write down your address for me? When the time comes, I shall send you a card for Christmas.” That was before our arrest in January, 1943. Somehow, through everything that had happened to me, I had kept her address. Now I decided I had nothing to lose by appealing to her.

On Sunday, a day when Marie was sure to be in, Sal and I walked the ten miles to the Pouillard home. The young woman looked at us with such astonishment that I thought I had made a mistake. Then she took my hand and begged us to come inside.

“I was sure I would never see you again,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. “After the police took you from Le Couret, I assumed the worst. And now here you are. I’m so happy you’re back, and you too, Monsieur. Sit, please, and tell me what happened. Where have you been? How did you get away?”

Before I could answer, a man came into the room whom Marie introduced as her father. “This is the kind woman I told you about,” she explained to him. Turning to me, she said, “I can never repay your kindness to me at Le Couret.”

Marie served ersatz coffee and some biscuits. Then she and her father listened quietly while I described Nexon, Gurs, and my return to Limoges. Sal talked about Calais and his weeks in Paris. “And now I sit in your wonderful home,” he said. “But I am again in a bad situation. I have no house, no work, no papers. I am a non-person.”

It was then that Pouillard spoke. “I can help you. I no longer work, but for many years before my retirement, I was a railroad inspector. I know many people. One of them is now the Limoges depot inspector. Go to him, and tell him I sent you. Just show him the papers you have, and I’m sure he will find something for you to do.”

It was exactly as Pouillard said. The director of the Limoges railroad depot barely glanced at Sal’s papers. “We need workers, Monsieur Keener,” the man had said. “Since Pouillard recommended you, I shall be glad to employ you. A fine old gentleman. How did you become acquainted with him?”

“Through my wife,” Sal answered truthfully. “She worked at the same place as his daughter.”

“Very good,” the director said. “You can begin work next Thursday. Of course, before I sign you on, I must have a certificate of health. Just a routine examination, you understand, and then you can start.”

We knew it would not be routine at all, but Sal had no choice. Before the examination, the doctor took Sal’s identification card and did not return it. In the examining room, Sal prayed the doctor would not turn him in. We knew he was risking rearrest each time he had to show The Greek’s mediocre forgery. Those papers identified Georges Keener, born in Muehlhausen, Alsace in 1892, a French Catholic. Sal was prepared to back up his false identity with a home address and the name of the parish church he attended. But the card itself would not stand up under scrutiny.

The doctor entered the room and began the examination. He told Sal to undress. That was what we had anticipated and worried about. Sal remembered the raffle in Paris. He lowered his trousers. Of course, the doctor noticed immediately.

“You are circumcised. How did that happen?” he asked.

“When I was a small child… I don’t really know… my mother died before I started school. I could never explain it.” All the while that Sal was fumbling for an explanation the doctor studied him thoughtfully. He completed the examination in silence and washed his hands.

“All right, Monsieur Keener, get dressed and I shall complete the health certificate. There is no reason for the railroad not to employ you.”

It was difficult to believe that the doctor truly accepted Sal’s preposterous protestations of ignorance. More likely the man was one of countless Frenchmen who stayed outside the Resistance Movement but acted quietly against the Nazis during the occupation. I was convinced of the latter, but I could not think of an adequate way to thank him.

Two priceless gifts came with Sal’s job. The first was the official recognition of the existence of Georges Keener, verified by an identity card from the French railway system. The second was a place to stay; as a certified employee of the railroad, Sal was entitled to sleep at the depot.

We were out of danger, or so I thought. I had just a few worry-free nights with Gita when a member of the Underground came to the house to warn her that she was being watched. “Go into hiding,” the Resistance fighter advised. “We will try to help, but don’t delay.”

The man did not know whether my stay in the house was the reason for the surveillance, but I knew I would have to leave Gita’s home in the morning. If anyone came to question her, my presence could only further endanger my dearest friend.

Gita left before I did, seeking a place for herself and her two small children. An hour later, I walked out the door. From the moment I set out, I was watchful. I walked warily to the offices of the Jewish Committee of Limoges. I scrutinized each man who walked toward me and looked in all directions when I came to a street corner. The one thought running through my head was that my identification papers were suspect. I knew that German soldiers and French collaborationists roamed the dismal streets. What was I to say if one of them stopped me? How would I explain my presence in Limoges? According to the authorities, I was supposed to be working as a cook in Vichy’s OSE home.

When I arrived at the Committee, I was overcome with exhaustion. I had been in grave danger in the past, in more threatening circumstances than I was that day, but I had no strength left. I felt completely depleted. I could not do any more. I wanted to live, but someone else had to take the responsibility.

In the office of the Jewish Committee, I stood in front of the two women working there and began shouting at them. “You must find me a place to hide. Right away. You must!”

“Calm yourself, please,” the older of the two women said. “What you ask is very difficult, Madame.”

“I know that,” I answered. “But I can’t stay with my friend any longer, and I can’t go back to the home at Vichy. Look, I’m not asking for much. My husband is employed at the railroad. They have given him documents and are letting him sleep at the depot. All this we arranged by ourselves. But I have nowhere to go. Don’t you think it’s time I had help? You find me something.”

I did not realize I was screaming. I would not have cared anyway. I knew that the people at Rabbi Deutsch’s Committee had connections with the Resistance Movement. They had to help me! They were supposed to help Jews like me, but it was always others they saved. It was Berlin in 1938 all over again. A dozen times we had reached the head of the list of emigrants to Palestine, and a dozen times we lost that coveted spot. It always went to others, to those deemed in greater danger from the Nazis than the Kanner family.

“You help me now,” I demanded. “It is my turn.” I did not notice that someone had walked into the room. I was jabbing my index finger in the face of the startled woman behind the desk, shouting, “Find me a place to go. I beg you, on my hands and knees! I’ll do anything. I’ll scrub floors all day, if you ask me!”

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and saw a tall, handsome young man. “Do you really mean that?” he asked.

“Yes!” I shouted.

“Then pull yourself together, Madame. Go into the other room. It is possible that we can help each other.”

Shaking, I entered the inner office. A few minutes later, the young man followed. He closed the door of the inner office and pulled out a chair for me.

“Dreyfus is my name,” he said. “I’m a lieutenant in De Gaulle’s Free French Forces. There is a villa and farm in the country about an hour from here. My father-in-law and I own it together. Do you know him, Monsieur Meyer, the banker?”

I shook my head in panic. Dreyfus retained his friendly demeanor and I began to calm down. “I move about a great deal, but Monsieur Meyer lives at the farm with my wife and daughter. I heard you say you were a cook with the OSE. That is a good recommendation. We need someone to work as housekeeper and help with our baby. Do you think that would suit you?”

I nodded, and tears of gratitude spilled down my face.

“You understand, I am with the Underground,” Lieutenant Dreyfus said. “I can arrange proper identity papers for you. You won’t really need them. Nobody ever comes out from the city, and the locals know us well. My father-in-law has owned the property for over twenty years.”

Dreyfus was on his way to the farm and thought it would be wise for me to go with him directly. He promised he would get word to Sal and see to it that Gita would learn where I was going. I let myself be swept along by all these new arrangements, the answers to all my prayers.