Vénissieux Camp
August 27, 1942
Jean-Marie Soutou arrived very early at the camp in a black Citroën that had been loaned to him by a friend who worked in business. Alexandre Glasberg was beside him in the passenger seat. They feared that the guards would not allow them through even though they had all their papers in order. The truth was that they were not welcome; their demands exasperated the regional intendant, Lucien Marchais, and the regional intendant of police and director of the Vénissieux camp, René Cussonac. Everyone knew that Cussonac was a declared anti-Semite.
Jean-Marie did not slow down as they approached the checkpoint at the camp’s entry. Glasberg glanced over with concern, wondering if Jean-Marie was going to roll through the barrier. He knew that the peaceful Catholic could be fearsome, despite his intellectual look.
The black Citroën stopped just in time. The police stood at attention and let the car through without even asking to see identification. At first Jean-Marie hesitated, unsure whether to drive on or clarify the situation, but he decided to go with it.
“What just happened?” Glasberg asked.
“I think they thought we were the prefect. He drives the same make and model car as this.”
The two men chuckled over the mistake that saved them time and paperwork.
Alexandre Glasberg looked around the former arsenal of the French army. Vénissieux was by no means an adequate holding space for over a thousand people, and even less so in the heat of summer. But it was a strategic location: outside of Lyon, so the citizens could not see what their government was doing; near the train lines; and kept up by a team of Indo-Chinese workers.
Jean-Marie took in the parched grass, the dull bricks, and the dusty streets. The multitudes were crowded into the shade of buildings or under the few living trees. Everyone seemed to be busy, though no one was doing anything or going anywhere. It was clear that these people did not want to sit around waiting for their inescapable fate of being deported to the country they had all been fleeing.
“What are the Indo-Chinese doing here?” Jean-Marie asked when he saw a group of the camp’s workers sitting by the mess hall. Most of them were smoking and watching the recently arrived multitude with rapt attention. The influx of Jews had been an unexpected diversion for the Indo-Chinese, a break from two years of the same rote work, day in and day out.
“They’re part of MOI,” Glasberg explained. “Main-d’oeuvre Indigéne, Nord-Africaine et Coloniale—the Indigenous, North African and Colonial Labor Service. They were recruited from French colonies to work in the factories that make planes for the army, but now there’s not much for them to do.”
One of the workers studied the Citroën with open curiosity until the approach of a woman broke his gaze. She was very pretty, and she held out a shoe. Glasberg and Jean-Marie parked next to the infirmary close to where the scene unfolded.
“Could you fix this heel for me? It broke, and it’s the only pair of shoes I’ve got here,” the woman explained slowly.
The worker took the shoe and examined it closely. Then he nodded his head. He patted his chest and said, “Pham Van-Nahn fixes this for you.” Then he took the shoe with him to a building farther away.
Jean-Marie and Glasberg got out of the car carrying briefcases stuffed with documentation about the detainees and hundreds of exemption requests based on numerous factors. The social workers had been up all night gathering the information and preparing reports. Now the countless files had to be compared to the list of prisoners themselves before being presented to the Rhône Office of Foreigners, headed by Claude Cornier. Gilbert Lesage, leveraging his position within the Vichy administration, was the head of the commission determining the exemption cases. But before that could happen, Gilbert Lesage, Jean-Marie, Glasberg, and Father Chaillet, who was waiting for them at the door, had to meet with Lucien Marchais and René Cussonac, the director of the camp.
Dr. Jean Adam was already there in the infirmary with Joseph Weill. He was in charge of the medical reports to be included with the exemption requests.
Glasberg had been at Vénissieux the day before to receive the buses as they arrived. He did not want the first face that the detained Jews saw to be that of René Cussonac. He had met with people seated on the ground and with the injured and ill lying outside the infirmary due to lack of space. He had smelled the stench of the unbathed multitude, many still in the clothes they had been wearing when the gendarmes awakened them. Glasberg understood that the sense of urgency was not just to stop the refugees from being transferred; it was also a question of public health.
* * *
The group gathered in a room near the infirmary that had been hastily outfitted for the commission. The furniture consisted only of one long table with six chairs on one side and two on the other.
They sat and took out their paperwork. Jean-Marie was the first to speak.
“We’ve cobbled together 936 reports. The majority of the people here have the right, for one reason or another, to be exempted by law.”
Father Chaillet buried his face in his hands. “This is lunacy. The authorities will never agree to it. This would only allow them to deport fewer than one hundred people. The government has promised a certain number of prisoners, don’t you see? Prime Minister Laval, the chief of police, the prefect, and the intendant have to meet that quota.”
“So what do you suggest? That we hand over half the refugees without protest? Most of them are women, children, and older people,” Jean-Marie said.
“Well, let’s start by giving them the men. If they’re needed for work, at least they won’t be harmed,” Father Chaillet said.
“But they’re the husbands and fathers of these families. How will the women and children survive without their help?”
“We’ll take care of the families. Amitié Chrétienne has the resources for them.”
Jean Adam had remained silent up to that point. Two of the other doctors sent to tend to the refugees had quit. If it had not been for the cooperation of Dr. Weill and the support of the Red Cross nurses, there would have been more deaths in the camp already than the six registered thus far.
“Our duty is to present the exemptions. Let them do the work of rejecting them. Seeing so many, maybe they’ll just usher them through,” he suggested.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Gilbert Lesage said. “The camp director and the intendant should be here at any moment.” His words seemed to have clairvoyant power. Within seconds, René Cussonac and Lucien Marchais entered. They sat in the two chairs at the front. Intendant Marchais broke the uncomfortable silence.
“Gentlemen.” He gave a quick nod that took in the men across from him. “I hope you’re well. Our mission is very simple: to determine which individuals are exempt from deportation to Germany. The people out there aren’t French. They’re foreigners who have been leeches upon French hospitality for too long. The war is getting worse on the eastern front, and it’s harder and harder to keep our own population alive. The presence of foreigners is no longer convenient.”
His words were a bucket of cold water for the commission. Marchais had clarified the Vichy’s position: they would attempt through any and every means to send as many refugees as possible to Germany.
“Sir, the law allows—” Jean-Marie began.
“We’re living in a state of emergency,” Marchais interrupted. “We’ve had to double our agricultural exports to Germany this year. Do you recognize what that means?”
No one answered.
“Well, it means that thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of French are going to die this winter, and the future doesn’t look any brighter. The fewer mouths to feed, the better off we all are.”
Father Chaillet asked, “So then which exemptions are allowed?”
“Only unaccompanied minors.” With that, the intendant stood to leave. The room filled with voices of incredulous complaints against the draconian measures.
“This is unjust; it goes against all humanitarian laws. We cannot call ourselves civilized if we allow innocent people to fall into the hands of those—”
The wagging finger of René Cussonac cut Jean-Marie off. Cussonac roared, “What are you implying? Most of those people out there are German or from territories controlled by our German allies. Their government demands their return so that they can support the German war effort. You people on this commission are making a mountain out of a molehill. Why are you so taken with the Jews anyhow? They killed our Lord and Savior. They’re leeches wherever they go. We’ve treated them like human beings, which is much more than they would do for us, I can assure you. We’ve got enough French Semites without having to keep the rest of Europe’s leftover Jews as well.”
The intendant nodded and added, “The Germans have assured us that they will create a Jewish state in Poland or Madagascar. They’re solving a problem that’s been two thousand years in the making.”
“Getting to the root of the problem,” Cussonac added.
“But what about all those who are old, disabled, or pregnant? They won’t survive a long journey on cattle cars. Not to speak of the children. You’re sending them to their deaths,” Gilbert said. He was typically one of the more diplomatic members of the group, but he had never imagined that the authorities would dismiss all of the commission’s hard work so flippantly. There were perhaps a dozen orphaned children at most.
“As the chief doctor of this camp, I cannot go along with this. My moral code requires that—” Joseph Weill began, but the loud smack of Marchais’s fist on the table cut him off.
“We can include veterans who’ve served in the French army, but that’s it. We aren’t negotiating with this commission. We’re informing you. The orders are coming from very high up. And now, please excuse us.”
Marchais and Cussonac got to their feet. Fittingly, their black suits gave them an aura of gravediggers.
When the group of Amitié Chrétienne workers was alone, they all started speaking at once.
Gilbert gestured with his hand and asked for quiet. “Please, we’ve got to act, not react.”
“Well said.” Father Chaillet nodded.
Jean-Marie laid out a plan. “First off is to talk with Cardinal Gerlier and ask him to intercede with Pétain, and then to talk with the archbishop of Toulouse, Monsignor Saliège. And to write a letter to the prefect. We need to buy ourselves some time and ask them to increase the exemptions.”
“Let’s do all of that, but we also need a plan B because all of that might come to naught,” Father Glasberg said.
Everyone looked at him, waiting for his suggestion.
“We need to ask parents to make the greatest sacrifice to save the lives of their children . . .”
His unfinished phrase hung in the air. Glasberg was unwilling to spell out what he meant, knowing the crushing weight of those words.