Vénissieux Camp
August 28, 1942
While dramatic scenes unfolded across the camp, the social workers carefully filed each signed release into a wooden box. There were still so many children unaccounted for, though, and it was almost eleven o’clock at night. Time flew by. They did not want any little one to be sent off to their death. The Weichselbaum twins had joined in with the rest of the children singing in the mess hall. Singing was their attempt to fight their sadness and fear of the dark. The two girls nervously rocked back and forth. If they had to go to the bathroom, they were too embarrassed to admit it. Beside them were Élisabeth Hirsch, Lotte Levy, and Madeleine Dreyfus.
Though she was only fifteen, Lotte Levy concentrated on taking care of the younger children, trying to convince them that they were going on a field trip.
Around sixty children were packed into the small mess hall. They were sweaty, thirsty, and hungry. The room stank of urine and feet. By that time, though, the children were all used to being in uncomfortable, dirty, and dark spaces.
Father Glasberg went up to Lotte and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for your help. Your singing has calmed their nerves, I believe.”
“I’ve always liked children. When I’m older I want to be a teacher.”
“You’ll make a fantastic teacher someday.”
“Will there be many more children coming?” Lotte asked.
“Hopefully at least forty more. The social workers are making the rounds as we speak.”
Lotte sighed. The war had caused too many children to grow up too fast, stealing their fleeting innocence.
“You’re a priest, right?” she asked, eyeing his collar. “So why does God let things like this happen?”
Father Glasberg was quiet for a few moments. He had often wondered the same thing, and he was sure that millions of others across Europe and the rest of the world did as well.
“Can I tell you a story?” he finally answered.
When the children around them heard the word story, they gathered around eagerly.
“There was an old man who’d had a very hard time having a son. The man’s name was Abraham, and he had left his hometown in search of a promised land. God had promised that Abraham would have as many children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren as there were stars in the sky and grains of sand by the sea. But he had only had one son with his wife, Sarah. The child was born when they were very old—older than I am!” At that, several children giggled. “One day Abraham received a message from God. The message was terrible: Abraham was supposed to take his son, Isaac, up on a mountain and sacrifice him. Isaac was no longer a boy. He was a young man, so his dad didn’t tell him what the plan was. They walked all day. Isaac was carrying the firewood. At one point along the way, he stopped and asked his father what they were going to sacrifice. Abraham answered that God would provide it for them.
“When they got to the top of the mountain, Abraham prepared the altar. That’s when Isaac realized that he himself was going to be the sacrifice. It ended up that Abraham found a ram caught in some bushes, and he sacrificed the animal instead of Isaac. That was how God showed that he forbade humans to be sacrificed to the gods that lots of people worshipped back in Abraham’s day. It was a really hard way to learn that lesson. But now everybody—at least in the West—knows that it’s wrong to sacrifice humans. Maybe war will teach us a lesson we can’t learn any other way: the lesson that killing one another for our ideas, beliefs, or flags is absurd, because we all belong to the only human race there is, and we’re all brothers and sisters of one another.”