For almost ten years, the two young women worked as maids for rich Parisians. Rivka’s uncle made a living as a pastry chef in a local patisserie. He was very talented, and though he was paid little, he was usually allowed to bring home enough leftover food to sustain them. Life was not easy, but together the three of them made enough to pay the rent and stay safe. Eventually, Vera grew tired of cleaning other people’s homes and wanted to find a more fulfilling way of making a living. Her French had improved considerably, and after a decade living in Paris, she began to scan the newspaper want ads looking for an opportunity for a better life.
Very few people in France were interested in hiring Eastern Europeans. Vera discovered this from the many rejections she received from one office manager after another. But she was gritty and determined, and she continued to search until one day luck finally shined on her. She found a newspaper ad seeking a Ukrainian-speaking secretary for the regional director of Vaux Securite, a French company offering private security for high-profile individuals and business elites. Vera immediately jumped at the opportunity.
As it turned out, she was the only native Ukrainian speaker to apply for the job. The regional director was a former Ukrainian national named Nikolay Vasiura. He was in desperate need of a secretary who could translate French documents into Ukrainian. The interview was short and sweet, conducted by Nikolay himself. Vera told her potential employer that her father was a metal producer named Volarsky who lived deep in the forest outside of Kiev. Coincidentally, Vasiura was also from Kiev and remembered the old man who used to deal in metal and lived in the forest. The Ukrainian security man seemed pleased that he had finally found a pretty girl who could speak Ukrainian and help him with his work.
Before he concluded the interview, he asked just asked one final question, “You’re not a Jew, are you?”
“No, of course not.” If there was one thing Vera had learned since escaping the death pits of Babi Yar, it was how to keep the details of her identity to herself. She wasn’t surprised to be asked this question. She knew that Ukrainians inherently mistrusted Jews, and it infuriated her. Denying who she was made her sick to her stomach, but she desperately wanted the job and knew she had to keep her faith to herself.
The offices of Vaux Securite were located in Paris’s Latin Quarter at 24 Rue de La Parcheminerie in the fifth arrondissement. It was a two-kilometer walk from Vera’s flat in the Marais district to her office. Her walks to and from work became the highlight of her days. Even in the cold winter, she enjoyed the smell of fresh bread from the many patisseries. She delighted in the sight of Parisians and tourists intermingling. In truth, the cold was nothing compared to the bitterness of Ukrainian winters. She enjoyed her job as well, which mostly consisted of translating work orders and correspondence from French to Ukrainian. Vera was treated well and got along with the two other French women who sat in the front office. They seemed to do nothing more than answer phones and paint their nails all day. They were kind to Vera, although they never made any effort to befriend her outside of the office. Vera found this a bit isolating and hurtful, but she was glad that she could come to work in peace without any unpleasantness. Even during Vasiura’s frequent anti-Semitic jokes and comments, usually directed at an American or British client, Vera was able to keep her head down and do her work in peace.
Vasiura spent a lot of time out of the office handling security arrangements for various clients. He had gained a reputation as one of the best security providers in Paris. His steady clientele included visiting businessmen from all over the world. His duties ranged from guarding them from the threat of corporate espionage to ensuring that colleagues and wives back home never found out about their after-hours activities. It didn’t matter much to Nikolay Vasiura what these clients were doing with their time, so long as the money kept funneling into his pockets.
In truth Vera had no complaints. She was given a modest raise every year, she could easily pay her share of the rent, and everyone at work was pleased with her performance. Her favorite time of year was December. Vasiura was always in a good mood because his granddaughter came to visit from Ukraine for two weeks around Christmas. There was generally less work to be done, and everyone was in a holiday spirit. Over the years, Vera got to know Vasiura’s granddaughter, Lany. She was a perky thirteen-year-old brunette who already loved fashion. She was a beautiful girl who everyone thought would one day turn heads wherever she went. She was courteous and charming and always spent time inquiring how Vera was doing as she passed her desk on her way into her grandfather’s office.
In truth, Lany was the only member of the Vaux Securite family that showed any real interest in Vera. She would often invite Vera shopping with her and her mother when she was in town, and sometimes even convinced her mother to buy Vera a new outfit or two. It was not uncommon for Lany to use her childish charms on her grandfather. She would tell him that she was taking Vera for the day and that he would just have to make do without her for the afternoon. Vera grew to appreciate Lany’s kindness, even though her occasional anti-Semitic comments made her uncomfortable and nervous. After all she had been through, Vera was no longer surprised how early these Ukrainians passed their vitriol on to the next generation. Nevertheless, it was a constant reminder of how it important it was to hide her true identity.
One Wednesday morning in December of 1959, like each December before, Lany strolled into Vaux Securite with her mother and embraced Vera, shopping bags in hand. She invited Vera out for lunch and more shopping with her and her mother, to which Vera nodded and smiled. As she breezed into her grandfather’s office, Lany’s startled screams filled the air.
“Help! Help!” she screamed in her native Ukrainian.
Vera’s two office mates stared at her in confusion, and Vera quickly translated Vera’s plea to them. Vera ran towards Vasiura’s office to find her boss crumpled on the floor, Lany’s tear-streaked face huddled over him. Vera turned to her co-workers and shouted, “Call an ambulance now!”
It took the paramedics over twenty minutes to arrive, but it didn’t matter. Nikolay Vasiura had suffered a massive heart attack and was dead almost immediately. Vera went home at the end of the day and assumed that her services at Vaux Securite would no longer be required. Nevertheless, like all of the office staff, Vera received an invitation to the funeral that Friday and made plans to attend.
The service at St. Vladimir’s Cathedral in the sixth arrondissement was the church Vasiura attended. It was also the gathering place of virtually every Ukrainian in Paris. The service was short. About forty of the deceased’s friends, almost entirely men, sat respectfully in the pews. When the service ended, Lany invited Vera to join her and her family at a nearby café where the group was headed to reminisce after the service.
“Vera, will you join us now at the cafe?” Lany asked as the attendees began filing into the aisle of the sanctuary. “It will be nice to have a Ukrainian woman to chat with when all of the adults get so busy with their vodka,” Lany said with a gentle smile. Vera felt that it was proper to attend, even though she had no interest in being one of the lone females in a pub of drunken Ukrainian men.
“Sure, thank you for including me,” she responded. Lany linked her arm with Vera’s as they walked out of the church together.
The Café Le Bonaparte on Rue des Saints-Pères was just a few blocks from the church. They were expecting the group following the funeral. Vera was not surprised to see several Ukrainian flags on the walls in the back of the café, where hors d’oeuvres and several bottles of vodka were awaiting Vasiura’s mourners. Vera was not thrown off by the flags. Those she expected. What she didn’t expect to see was one of the Ukrainian men unfurling a small red and black flag with the familiar and terrifying insignia of the Ukrainian Auxiliary Police. Vera had not seen that flag since she’d fled Ukraine after the war. She knew Vasiura didn’t care for Jews. In fact, he probably hated them. But until this moment, Vera was not aware that he had been a part of the destruction of her people in her homeland. The Ukrainian Auxiliary Police were the Nazi’s henchman. They did most of the killing at Babi Yar. Vera suddenly realized that she was surrounded by former Ukrainian Auxiliary members. The men who did the Nazi’s bidding. The murderers of her people. Immediately she became sick to her stomach.
Within moments, Vera felt her feet carrying her swiftly to the restroom where she barricaded herself in a stall and tried to gain control of her trembling body. Her hands and legs were shaking, and a wave of nausea swept over her. After several minutes had passed, she knew she had to get out of the restaurant as quickly as possible. She decided that she would walk out, say a quick goodbye to Lany, and make a beeline for the exit.
When she returned to the back of the café where the group was assembled, however, the speeches had already commenced. Lany was sitting near the front, her eyes fixated on a middle-aged man who was reminiscing about life in Ukraine before and during the war. When he concluded his remarks and raised the shot glass in his hand, Vera could not miss the speaker’s final salute to his friend. “To my dear friend, Boyko. Forgive me—I mean Vasiura. Though he will always be good old Olek to me. To the Baby Killer,” he toasted. The response came immediately, as everyone raised their drinks and responded fondly, “To the Baby Killer.” Vera’s eyes turned to Lany as she realized that the man she knew as Nikolay Vasiura was really Oleksander Boyko, the man who had shot her infant sister point blank while her helpless mother watched in agony. Lany’s grandfather was the man who helped organize the murder of her family, her community, and virtually everyone she had ever known before the war.
Though numb, somehow Vera managed to move quickly out of the café and into the street, where she was overcome by panic and terror. The only person to notice Vera’s exit was Lany. Surreptitiously, she left her table to peek her head outside into the brisk, night air. Lany instantly spotted Vera. She was bent over with her head between her knees and one hand placed firmly on the wall as if needing it for support.
Vera lifted her head just for a moment and caught a glimpse of Lany staring directly at her with a smirk on her face. Even at thirteen, Lany had been taught that Jews were evil. Now, for the first time, it occurred to her that Vera was not who she’d claimed to be. She was a Jew.
Vera, still too shaken to formulate any verbal communication, remained silent as Lany reentered the café. But the look on Lany’s face was one she would not forget. It was a look that said, I’m glad you know the truth. I’m glad you know my grandfather killed as many of you as he could. It was a look that would remain with Vera for the rest of her life.