Vénissieux Camp
August 28, 1942
The storm raged as the social workers tried to convince more parents to voluntarily give up their children.
Father Glasberg was with Déborah, an older woman in charge of her granddaughter, Dawia. She was so rattled that she had stood in silence with her hands resting on the release papers for several minutes.
“I’m not the child’s mother. Making this choice is too big a responsibility for me.”
“But surely your daughter asked you to take care of the child?”
“Yes, but she also told me not to let anything in the world separate us.”
The priest’s gaze held endless compassion.
“I want you to understand, sir,” the woman went on, “I don’t have much time left. The war found me already old and weak. I’ve been living on borrowed time for years now. But this girl, she’s got her whole life ahead of her. She deserves to live; she deserves a chance.” Déborah’s eyes were glassy with tears.
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to give her, a chance to live. If she goes to Germany, you’ll both die.”
Glasberg felt the harshness of his words acutely, but speaking with so many mothers and fathers had showed him that the only way to get them to take action on this horrible decision was to lay out the facts.
Déborah signed the paper and handed it to Glasberg, then drew Dawia close and kissed her cheeks. “Behave yourself. Make me proud. We can’t keep walking the same path together. God is calling us to different roads from here on out. But I know for sure that his angels will protect you.”
“But, Grandmother, I don’t want to go without you. Who will take care of you if I’m not around?”
The old woman smiled. Dawia had always been a sharp, happy child, the light of Déborah’s life.
“God will see to that, little one, never you mind. You’ll be with other children, and that’s good for you. Be strong and courageous. Don’t be afraid or discouraged. Be just like Joshua when he had to face all those armies in the promised land.”
One of the social workers led Dawia to the mess hall. Unlike most of the children, she walked with calm confidence, seeming to understand what was necessary.
The priest went up to another group of mothers. They knew what was going on, and it was growing harder to convince the parents to agree. Time was running out, and Glasberg expected the gendarmes to enter any minute and make his team leave the barracks.
He held out the paperwork to one woman and said, “You’re Mary, yes? Your husband has already signed. We just need your signature.”
The mother did not take her eyes off her children. She was used to making difficult choices, but this was the most wrenching yet.
“I . . . I . . .” the woman stuttered.
“Mary, please, sign the papers.”
“I’ve seen so much. In Brussels I tended to soldiers wounded in the fighting. I know how heartless war is. But I never imagined any of this—” She waved to indicate Vénissieux and everything it represented. “Do you understand what you’re asking of us?”
Glasberg’s voice cracked with pain. “Once there was a mother who had to give up her son to die for humanity. Two thousand years have passed, but we still remember her. Thanks to the sacrifice of that mother, I myself am here, and so are the other workers with me. Her name was also Mary.”
The Mary of Vénissieux signed the document and then hugged her children tightly.
“Don’t forget to dress warmly and to wash your hands before eating. Don’t bicker. Go to bed on time and don’t ever talk back to adults. Understood?”
The little ones nodded gravely. Mary hugged them again and her tears drenched their blond hair.
Father Glasberg left that barrack for the next. It was past ten o’clock in the evening, and the rain was falling hard. Not far off he saw Hélène Lévy and Charles Lederman escorting a child who seemed calm enough. They were singing a lullaby. That broke the priest. He stepped aside to weep in the shadows. Across the dark of night, their song broke the silence:
One kilometer on foot, wears out, wears out,
One kilometer on foot, wears out your shoes.
Two kilometers on foot, wears out, wears out,
Two kilometers on foot, wears out your shoes.
Three kilometers on foot, wears out, wears out,
Three kilometers on foot, wears out your shoes.
Four kilometers on foot, wears out, wears out,
Four kilometers on foot, wears out your shoes.
Five kilometers on foot, wears out, wears out,
Five kilometers on foot, wears out your shoes.
Six kilometers on foot, wears out, wears out,
Six kilometers on foot, wears out your shoes.