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  “Your nose?”

  “Someone hit me with a rifle when I ran into the street.”

  I ask if anyone has a handkerchief. They all shake their heads. I take Paul’s hand.

  “Courage son.” but my words sound futile. He tries to nod probably out of kindness and respect for me. I am fearful now that the German will come and discover him in the truck. I keep looking at the scene outside. German officers strut around with one arm behind their back. They seem to be trained to walk in that manner.

  The truck starts up and we are driven from the square past Esther Guillard’s shop now dark and empty. I do not see her and pray that she is safe. We are taken along dark narrow streets and I hear the occasional scream in the darkness. I lean against the back of the truck and try to straighten my leg. This sometimes helps but on this occasion a sharp pain in my thigh forces me to abandon the exercise.

  “Where are they taking us”, someone asks?

  “God knows, I hear they have camps where they put people they do not like.”

  I have also heard that but to my knowledge these camps are in the East towards Poland and hundreds of kilometres away.

  “Surely not”, I reply.

  Paul looks at me. His face is streaked with matted blood and his nose is twisted to one side.

  “These people are capable of anything. Hartmaan shot Camille without even blinking.”

  I know he is angry and I sit out the rest of the journey in silence, watching Paul trying to manipulate his nose back into shape, listening to him groan with pain and grab his head. I feel helpless.

  The truck eventually stops. They have taken us to the Vélodrome d'Hiver. I recognise it immediately. We came here once to see the circus. A gendarme with a clip board orders us off and begins checking our names. I have difficulty leaving the truck. I recognise the gendarme. It is Anshel Drezner. He scans his list and places a tick beside my name. He tells Paul that he shouldn’t be here, only me as I was not born in France.

  “Add me to the list”, Paul replies. “I won’t leave my father.”

  Anshel looks confused.

  “If you go in there you will have to board the trains. And you need treatment for that nose.” He looks at me.

  “Tell him Solomon!”

  I smile at Paul. I tell him that Anshel is right. Paul is now distraught and angry. Put me on the list he shouts. Anshel shrugs his shoulder.

  *

  We are now part of the multitude packed tightly along the concrete steps that surround the cycle track. The stench of urine is unbearable as is the heat. The enormous glass ceiling that covers the stadium has been painted blue to protect it from air raid attack but that only serves to prevent the heat from twelve-thousand bodies escaping into the sky. The ceiling has turned the colours to blue and grey, faces appear waxen and deathly. At first the only sound I hear is an incessant moan amplified by the confines of our prison to such an extent that it literally appears to hang in the air as a dark cloud. Then I hear the tannoy voice telling us to sit anywhere and Paul manages to find a space at the back that is not so crowded. The tannoy is relentless, a monotone voice constantly giving instructions.

  Sit where you can. Do not try to escape. Help your neighbour.

  Surrounding us are many gendarmes. The track itself is a bowl at the centre of the stadium about nine feet below the front row of seats. The high-banked wooden track used for cycle races has been dismantled and the area is full of German soldiers and more gendarmes. I am certain that this has been carefully planned. The gendarmes at the truck had a list and Hartmaan knew I was a Rabbi. The speed of it all frightens me. Only last month we were ordered to wear the star. Paul refused of course but since the burning of the Synagogue they have continued to pass laws and ordinances restricting our rights. My biggest disappointment was when they banned us from owning a radio. I couldn’t understand why they did that.

  There seems to be a lot of children here, babies and small children who cry incessantly. Near us sits a man with a child, a little girl about six years old. She is pretty with a mop of black curly hair and her sweet innocent face smiles at me. The man introduces himself as Martin Cheym originally from Hungary. His wife Anais was born in Paris so they did not take her. I ask him why the little girl is here.

  “An officer decided that Annabelle looked different. Roma he called her. Poor Anais is out of her mind with grief. We all are. Would you like some water?”

  He tells me that he managed to pack some food and water in a satchel before they took him, along with a children’s book and a blanket for Annabelle. I gratefully drink a little of the water and Paul uses a small handful to wash the blood from his face before going off to speak to some of the gendarmes who are guarding us. Martin and I continue talking and trading our stories. He is a butcher who works at Les Halles preparing both Kosher and Teriefa meat. He tells me he has attended my Synagogue on occasion so my face is familiar to him. I apologise for not recognizing him and tell him about Anna and Paul and poor Camille.

  “I fear we may have more of that”, he replies.

  Paul returns and tells us that the guards do not know how long we will be here or what will happen to us when we leave. He has also learned that the toilets have been sealed to prevent us from escaping. He asked about food and they laughed at him.

  A shot rings out and Annabelle screams. I notice a commotion occurring at the far side of the stadium. Some soldiers on the track have rifles pointed towards a group on the steps. Another shot and a body falls. It looks like a woman. The atmosphere immediately changes. People are on their feet some remonstrating with guards. A man stumbles past me clutching his face. A guard has hit him. The tannoy begins barking orders for everyone to sit down. Very slowly the turmoil subsides under the heat and the stench. I desperately need the toilet but shame prevents me from doing anything. Annabelle also complains. Her father takes her hand and leads her to the back of the steps. I notice a guard pointing further down. When Martin returns he tells me that a toilet of sorts has been set up near the race track but it is not very private.

  They keep us here for five days without any help. After the first day I am beginning to think that we shall starve. Imagine my delight when on the second day two women come to us carrying a basket. They are Quakers and they offer us some cheese and bread and more importantly water. It is not much and they show even more kindness towards Annabelle by giving her a little chocolate. We only see them once though I occasionally notice others doing the same thing in other parts of the stadium.

  Some of my time is spent talking to those around me, doing exercises and taking short walks with Paul to ease the pain in my leg. Once I read to Annabelle from the book her father has salvaged. It is The Kingdom of Bees by Francois Crozat. She enjoys looking at the pictures and asking me questions about the lives of bees. I tell her that she has to go to the countryside to see them properly. There are more flowers there.

  “Will you take me”, she asks her father? He smiles and promises he will.

  My main time is taken with performing my duties as Rabbi. After the first day with Paul’s help, I organize the Shacharit, the Minchah and the Maariv, our daily prayer times. Martin does not want to participate.

  “I pray when I feel like it”, he says. I tell him that is good but it is also good to pray at regular times during the day. This keeps our lives focused on God. When we begin praying he takes Annabelle for a walk. I wish he didn’t do that. The stadium is now drenched with despair. There are bodies lying everywhere, some have succumbed to exhaustion and others are dead. Paul tells me that people have taken to committing suicide. I am having difficulty maintaining my focus. There are times when I want to scream and curse the world. Some do! Earlier today I saw a man his mind tormented by fear and despair leap to his feet and demand mercy.

  “Why?” he screamed over and over! “We are human beings.”

  He ran to the cycle track and began pleading with the guards for water. They taunted him by drinking from their cantee
ns and spitting on the ground. Finally his desolation forced him to attempt to climb on to the track. That was when they shot him. He fell on to the track, a guard poured some water over his lifeless body and his comrades laughed as they dragged him away.

  Paul does not want to participate in prayer either. I can see he is struggling with his emotions. I can only pray that they will not destroy him. I try to talk to him sometimes but he does not want to remember anything positive about his life. He has forgotten about his art and finds it difficult to speak about Camille. I tell him she was a beautiful woman.

  “She was so full of life! It was strange for me when she first came to live with us; a woman in the house who was not Anna. But I quickly grew to like her especially when she played the piano. It reminded me of the sing-songs we had when you were young. Do you remember? And her voice! When she sang she lit up my soul. Oh my! How fortunate you were to have found her voice.”

  “Please stop! I can’t bear thinking about her.”

  At night I am unable to sleep properly. The heat is still intense and the stench of excrement is even more stifling. The moaning subsides and thankfully the tannoy stops but at night people attempt to escape so the air is regularly punctuated with gunshots and screams. When I do sleep my dreams are vivid and mostly about my life with Anna. I thank her soul for comforting me at such a time. My favourite dream and the one that comes to me most is time we spent in the Alps. She loved mountains and in my dream we are flying together through the valleys and coming to rest on a hillside covered in buttercups and meadow-rue, St. Bruno’s lilies and yellow globeflowers. She lies among the colours bathing me in the brightness of her spirit. She holds her arms out to embrace me and I fall between them feeling her body soften, feeling her lips on mine, her hands in my hair and gently caressing my back. I hear her voice singing sweetly among the birds overhead. They all descend to listen. Then I inevitably wake in the darkness and the fresh fragrant smell of her hair is quickly washed away by the stink of cruelty. At those moments an unfathomable longing empties my heart of love.

  I am shocked at how human life can so quickly be manipulated. We appear to be in a medieval madhouse. I see a man defecating in full view of everyone. People tell him he is disgusting. Another is crawling on his hands and knees licking the steps. We pity him for losing his mind. A woman goes completely crazy, tears her false teeth out of her mouth and throws them at a group of gendarmes. Everyone laughs. The tannoy begins playing popular music and some begin dancing. There are constant fights and brawls. People are robbed or worse, murdered. At night there are always the sounds of more basic desires. Couples copulate openly. There are also rapes, again quite open. Then one day, in the middle of this bedlam I see a small fat bald man sitting on his suitcase and playing his violin. He is playing Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major, practicing the same passages over and over again. I know now that we are living on the edge of nothingness.

  By the fifth day we are weak and desolate and living in a perpetual state of anxiety. I still continue praying but the numbers who attend now are very small, four or five at most. Annabelle does not speak anymore. She lies asleep in her blanket most of the time her lips cracked with thirst. Martin tries to comfort her but he too seems lost. I haven’t seen Paul since yesterday and my concern for his safety is making me angry. He left when he said he recognised someone and disappeared into the crowd. When he does return he is carrying a walking stick.

  “I found this lying beside the body of an old man.”

  At first I am horrified.

  “Take it back. Maybe he was sleeping.”

  “He was dead.” I reluctantly accept it. The stick is a polished hawthorn with a brass handle shaped as a bull’s head and looks expensive. I say a quiet prayer and try walking with it. It is slightly too long but I am grateful.

  “Where have you been?”

  Paul tells me he has spent some time with friends. I wonder who they are but he doesn’t elaborate. He does tell me that tonight we are being moved to an internment camp. Our ordeal seems to have ended. I do not really know what an internment camp is or what happens there but it seems a better proposition than this hell hole.

  Later the tannoy tells us to line up at exits. A lot of people can barely walk and I am grateful for my new friend. Paul carries Annabelle and we make our way to the nearest line. Then I see Anshel. He is walking quickly towards us with his clipboard. When he reaches us he grabs Paul’s arm.

  “Come with me, now!” he exclaims.

  Paul resists and almost drops Annabelle.

  “I can save you and the child”, Anshel continues. But you must come with me now.”

  Everyone is confused and frightened. Suddenly I see an SS officer approaching us. I recognise him immediately. It is Hartmaan. Under his cap I can see a bandage. On the side of his face is an angry wound. Paul freezes when he sees him.

  “Show me the clipboard.” he demands. Anshel hands it to him. He scans it.

  “Your name is not on the list Monsieur. Why are you here?”

  “I am with my father”, Paul replies.

  “This is your father?” Hartmaan asks, pointing at me. Paul nods. He looks in despair.

  “Your father is being re-settled in the east. You cannot accompany him.”

  He calls two soldiers over.

  “Whose child is this?” he asks Paul.

  “She is mine.” Martin replies.

  “Gib sie ihm.” He orders. The soldiers pull Annabelle from Paul and hand her to Martin.

  “The child stays. Nehmen sie ihn weg!”

  The soldiers grab Paul’s arms. Hartmaan looks at him before leaning over and whispering in his ear,

  “Go home and bury your wife Monsieur.”

  The soldiers lead Paul off. He looks back, tears streaming from his eyes. Hartmaan follows.

  Outside we are herded on to buses and driven to the outskirts of the city. It is late and the streets are empty save for a few army patrols scouring for anyone who has dared ignore the curfew. Occasionally we pass a group of soldiers interrogating those who have either forgotten to go home at the prescribed time or simply ignored the order. An hour or so later the buses stop at what looks like a housing complex. I have heard of this place. It is a high rise project called Drancy. There are many soldiers here. We are taken from the bus and formed into lines. The soldiers now pass through the lines and they seem to be particularly interested in the children. When they reach us one of them grabs Annabelle and attempts to prize her from Martin’s arms. He begins imploring them not to take her.

  “She is only six years old. How can she survive on her own?”

  Annabelle begins crying and wraps her arms tightly around her father’s neck. The soldiers ignore our pleas and push us aside. One strikes Martin on the back with his rifle butt.

  “Sie gehen lassen!” he shouts.

  Another soldier raises his rifle and points it at him. Instinctively I move between them.

  “Stop! I will take her.”

  I turn to Martin and he reluctantly lowers Annabelle to my side. He wipes the tears from her face and straightens her clothes.

  “Monsieur Politzer is going to look after you for a while.”

  She holds on tightly to Martin. The soldiers have no patience and one grabs Annabelle arm and drags her screaming from her father towards the housing complex. I try to follow but the soldiers prevent me. Martin frantically tries to push his way past. The guards use their rifles to push him back. He again rushes at the soldiers. One raises his rifle and smashes the butt against his face. Martin recoils and falls to the ground. In the distance I can barely see Annabelle disappearing into a throng of children, all crying and screaming for their parents.

  I have never experienced such cruelty. We are ordered to move and they begin to push us away from the houses and towards the railway. It is clear to me now that there will be no mercy for us.

  We are now standing on a platform. Martin seems to have recovered a little but he is disorientated an
d keeps calling Annabelle’s name. Now we are being loaded on to boxcars and told to keep moving. The soldiers appear calm telling us we are being relocated to the East. Surely not Poland I think. It will take days to reach there. We reach the wooden platform leading to the carriage. Some people help Martin and I have difficulty using my stick. Finally we are inside and I jostle my way towards a corner. Then I hear a voice.

  “Rabbi! Solomon!”

  I am surprised and search for the source of the voice. To my delight I see Esther Guillard’s smiling face.

  “Esther! Oh how lovely to see you. You have been with us all along.”

  She pushes towards me and we embrace warmly. I can feel her damp face against mine.

  “Please allow the Rabbi some room”, she says. Those around us comply willingly and soon we are sitting on the wooden floor, our hands clasped together.

  “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you before now.”

  “I thought I saw you once in the stadium but you were on the other side.” she replies, “I recognised your wonderful beard”

  I laugh and stroke my beard. Esther turns to Martin who is slumped beside us.

  “This poor man’s eye has been badly damaged.”

  She reaches down and tears off a piece of her skirt. Suddenly the carriage shudders and the train slowly leaves the station. I feel very nervous, but Esther is now carefully removing the blood from Martin’s face.

  “Do we have water”, she shouts?

  No one replies. I stand up. There must be fifty packed into the carriage, mostly older people and there appears to be more women than men. I can see only two small windows to provide light and air. People are already coughing and the heat inside is beginning to build. I enquire about a latrine and am told there is a bucket in the corner. I decide to take some action and push my way to the centre of the carriage. I announce that I am Solomon Politzer and I am Rabbi at the Synagogue in Rue de Pavee. Most turn to listen.

  “We must try and help each other survive this journey. We have no idea where we are going and how long it is going to take. There are only two windows so I suggest we rotate to give everyone an opportunity to breathe fresh air and cool down. We have been given one bucket as a latrine. That is completely inadequate and will soon be overflowing, so please think of everyone and only use it as a last resort. We do not seem to have any food or water so life will become difficult for us the longer we travel. If anyone has food please be generous and share it with those most in need.”