Paris
July 16, 1942
The buses came to a stop in front of a large building. The gendarmes jumped out of their cars and stood in a line to prevent the Jews from slipping off to nearby streets. The sun was beating down on the buses, draining the passengers’ energy. Yet Jacob and Moses kept their eyes on the Eiffel Tower, situated behind them. Looking at it made their present reality seem less real.
The French police beat the metal doors of the buses for the drivers to open up. The passengers looked around. No one wanted to be the first to get off the bus. They had held collective silence on the way there, and now uncertainty had taken such a hold of their souls that resignation seemed the only viable response to their unexpected arrest. Most were foreigners, though some French Jews had fallen into the spiderweb woven around them. An elderly gentleman dressed in a work uniform stood and addressed the frightened passengers.
“We need to stay calm. Surely the French are bringing us here to protect us. This country would never let them deport us to Germany. We may be occupied and the German hordes may rule our lives, but the values of the Republic still stand.”
One of the few young men on the bus pushed the older man aside and stared defiantly at the rest of the passengers. “Are you stupid sheep or human beings? Haven’t you noticed that since the occupation began the French government has registered us in their files, forbidden us from working in most trades, and forced us to wear these stars like they do in Germany? What’s waiting for us in there is prison. Then they will send us north by train.”
A woman dressed in a nice gray suit and blue hat made to leave the bus. The younger man stood in her way, but she pushed him aside. “Let me by. Don’t intimidate these poor people. We have no idea what’s waiting for us, but haven’t we always been persecuted? Yet somehow we survive?”
The rest of the passengers filled the aisle and pushed and shoved their way toward the door. Outside the buses, a long line of women, men, and children marched slowly toward a set of enormous doors. Above them hung a sign with stylized letters: VÉL D’HIV.
Jacob and Moses knew the place. Their father had taken them there once to watch a bicycle race. The velodrome allowed Parisians to enjoy cycling competitions throughout the winter, and all sorts of events were held there.
A boy sitting behind them leaned forward and asked, “You’re the Stein brothers, aren’t you?”
Jacob and Moses turned to look at him. It was a relief to know someone in the crowd of strangers. “Yes,” Jacob said, getting to his feet. They were the last ones in the line that had formed in the bus aisle.
“I’m Joseph, the plumber’s son,” the boy said. “We used to study together in the synagogue, but lately my father has let me go with him to his jobs. You haven’t seen him here, have you?”
“No, you’re the only person we’ve recognized today,” Jacob said.
“This morning they beat on the door of our house. My father went out with a wrench in his hands, but he left it in the foyer when he saw it was the gendarmes. They told us to bring one blanket and one shirt per person, nothing else. But we got separated when we got to the buses.”
Jacob answered in kind. “They didn’t come looking for us, but the doorwoman of our building started hollering, and a few policemen ran after us. We tried to get away on the rooftops, but they chased us down.”
A gendarme stuck his head through the door and shouted, “Get out here, you little rats!”
Terrified, the boys ran to the door. Moses caught the eyes of the bus driver for a moment before the man lowered his head. It had been the worst job the man had ever had to do. He did not know what the gendarmes planned to do with these people, but he was ashamed that the French collaborated with the Nazis. Since occupation, he had tried to slip under the radar. Union members and anyone who spoke out for other political parties were accused of high treason against France.
Jacob exited the bus first and faced the gendarme. The policeman scowled and indicated with his nightstick where they should walk. In the brief moments the boys had remained on the bus, most people had already entered the stadium. Moses clung to his brother’s hand, and Joseph followed the rest of the crowd down a wide hallway. As they reached the end, they heard a murmur that grew to a deafening roar. They entered the enormous dome and looked at the stands. Then their eyes wandered to the slanted racetrack and the long rectangle in the center where a few Red Cross tents stood.
“Oh no,” Moses whimpered. His jaw dropped, and his eyes struggled to take in the enormous space. He only vaguely remembered the time they had come to the velodrome with their father.
“There are thousands of people here,” Joseph said, incredulous. It would be nigh impossible to find his family.
A government worker seated at a wooden desk motioned to them. The three boys walked toward him in single file.
“First and last name,” the man demanded without looking up. Round spectacles attached to his jacket by a chain balanced precariously on his narrow nose. “Are you deaf?” he barked when they did not answer immediately.
“Why have you brought us here?” Jacob asked. The man set down his pen and crossed his arms at the boy’s insolence. He finally looked at them.
“Where are your parents? Didn’t they teach you any respect?” he growled.
Jacob’s temper shot up. “Respect? You drag us out of our homes at the crack of dawn, force us to come here, and lock us up like animals. You really expect us to be respectful?” His voice had risen to a shout.
When a nearby gendarme heard the boy’s tone, he pulled out his nightstick and approached with a menacing scowl. Moses grabbed Jacob’s shirt from behind and jerked him back just in time. The nightstick crashed down onto the table, and as the policeman raised it to strike again, the three boys fled into the crowd. The officer chased them, but when the boys hid among the throng, several men closed in around him. “Is there a problem, officer?”
The gendarme saw the futility in inciting further rebellion. The brats would not be escaping any time soon; there would be time enough to find them.
Jacob looked back and saw the gendarme returning to the door. Then he regretted losing his temper. Perhaps he could have learned if Aunt Judith was there or he could have even contacted her somehow.
“What are we going to do?” Moses whined, catching his breath.
“I don’t know,” Jacob said. Moses threw himself into his brother’s arms and began to cry. His quiet sobs were a whisper amid the murmur of the crowd all around. Jacob looked up. Light poured through the enormous glass panes of the ceiling. As they stood at the foot of the racetrack, he recalled that Sunday morning in the velodrome with his father a few years back, just before the Nazis invaded France. He remembered how sweat poured off the racers while the crowd cheered them on. Back then, the stadium was a magical place for Jacob. Now it was a cage, a tomb that brooked no escape.
“I have to find my parents,” Joseph said, turning to walk away.
“Wait,” Jacob called. “We’ll help you. Our aunt might be here too.” The boys began walking along the edge of the racetrack. People had lain down, trying to get comfortable on it. The heat was oppressive. As the day progressed, the place would surely become like an oven.
Moses saw a woman standing alone with twin boys. She wept as her face turned from one child to the other and back again. A little farther on, an elderly man dressed only in his underwear laughed hysterically as his wife attempted to dress him again. Children ran every which way, exploring the area. The world seemed to have been turned upside down, as if the war had twisted both young and old into grotesque reflections of themselves.
Jacob kept his hand on Moses’s shoulder. He did not want to get separated, and nothing guaranteed they would find each other again if they did.
The crowd slowly began to quiet, like a wheat field returning little by little to a calm after the violent buffeting of a storm. The constant murmur dwindled. People had lost interest in talking, complaining, or entreating the gendarmes. They just wanted a place to rest, but the most comfortable areas had already been claimed by the strongest adults. A handful of nurses appeared at the lower doors and headed for the tents in the middle of the track. They closed themselves in to evaluate the situation.
Just then they heard a loud thud. The three boys turned to look, unsure of what it could be. A cry of horror arose, which turned to shouts of panic. People scrambled to get away from something or someone. Jacob stood on the handrail and stretched to get a look. The bloodied body of a woman twitched on the wooden racetrack and began to slide down it, leaving behind a trail of blood.
“What’s happening?” Moses asked.
Before the younger child could get a look, Jacob pushed him back, away from the track. Moses protested and made for the rail again, but Jacob clapped one hand over Moses’s eyes and tugged him back with the other.
They heard more of the loud thuds. The cries of terror welled up like a hurricane wind. Jacob, his eyes still tinged with the sight of blood, knew he had to get his brother out of there as quickly as possible. It was the closest he had ever come to hell on earth. Together they ran for the hallways that led to the different seating tiers. They were on a mission: find Joseph’s family and try to learn what had become of Aunt Judith so they could escape the velodrome before it was too late.