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July, 1942
We live on rue Damremont in the
18th arrondissement, in Paris. It is vacation time, and despite the war, since
Maman is working, 1 have to go to the countryside to find a nanny for my sister
and brother. I take the July 14th holiday. Alas! When I return the Germans have
already been to the house. I should have said the French: the police, and one
civilian. They took them away in their pyjamas. I run everywhere, first to the
city hall for our arrondissement, then to the Velodrome d'Hiver. I circle
around it, but the police are there, and there's no way to get closer. I don't
have the proper documents and I'm not wearing the Star. I get bits and pieces
of information here and there. I learn that they are going to be sent to
Pithiviers in the Loiret. I decide to follow them there with food and clothing.
With no money to my name, this was not an easy thing. I arrive in that small
town. The shutters were closed; in a cafe I learn it's because the women in the
camp scream in anguish every morning when their children are torn away from
them. That the children stayed in the camp. I arrive at the gates with the
utmost care. I hide in the grass. A lady is walking toward the camp and I ask
her weeping if she can find out something for me. I give her their names:
Marguerite, 11, and Claude, 7. She tells me they all have numbers. I draw a
little closer. The woman was successful; in the distance I see my sister all
alone. She gives me to understand that my brother has been sent to have his
head shaved; at first I don't understand.... And Maman? I ask. "She left this
morning. Far" What do you need? "Food." There is a guard pacing up and down who
pretends not to notice me. I seize the opportunity to advance several steps
toward the entrance to the camp and shout, "I'll be back soon," to my sister.
There were officers guarding the littlest children. I asked one of them if I
could leave some suitcases. After emptying them and removing any objects with a
cutting edge, he promised to return them. I left in a state of utter despair.
In Paris I tried to come up with enough money to pay the officers. But no more
family, no more friends. The following week I returned with a modest parcel.
The camp was empty. Where were they? Whom to ask? The local people refused to
answer any questions. Back in Paris I asked everyone; no one knew anything. The
Germans sent a truck to our house marked "Gift of the French people to the
German victims of war" They took everything, and the people in the building and
the concierge took what was left. And I waited ... waited ... When the war was
over I stood in front of the Hotel Lutetia. Deportees were arriving home. But
mine never returned.
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FRENCH
CHILDREN OF THE HOLOCAUST A memorial
Serge Klarsfeld
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