Valence
August 31, 1942
The plans of humankind rarely work out. Men believe themselves to be the lords of the universe but are nothing more than irrelevant, fleeting particles. Those were Justus’s musings when he arrived in Valence. His friends were not there. He thought about making another attempt to cross the Pyrenees alone but feared the repercussions of being captured again.
In case Justus changed his mind about the Pyrenees, Mrs. Lelièvre had given him the address of someone in the La Baume-Cornillane neighborhood. A Protestant woman named Mrs. Sayn was willing to house Justus should he desire to stay in Valence.
The young Jew had lived on his own for a long time, and the thought of adapting to a new homelife did not appeal to him, though uprootedness equated to a deep, aching sadness. He was a despised foreigner on the run who did not fit in anywhere. What happened to him was of no concern to anyone. Justus had thus concluded that his existence in the world was superfluous.
He avoided main roads as he made his way to Mrs. Sayn’s house, walking along the train tracks and amusing himself by testing his balance. In the distance a train was approaching. Naturally, he made to step aside, but paused. The approach of the mighty machine sucked him in with magnetic fascination. This could be the escape route. It could all be over, right then. Nothing made sense anymore. He thought about his parents. Surely they were dead by then, just like his aunts, uncles, and cousins. So he was alone.
The train came on quickly, slicing through the air in an intense burst. Justus was at the level of the engine’s light, and it momentarily blinded him. He covered his head with his hands. His mother’s face flashed before his closed eyes and her whisper coincided with a fleeting thought above the train roar: “Live, live for us, for your ancestors. Don’t let them destroy you. We all live through you. Don’t forget us.”
Tears then blurred Justus’s vision as the white smoke of the approaching locomotive covered the dark horizon. He stepped back and let the iron beast pass. It raced by, whipping Justus’s face with angry air, a punishment for not allowing it to carry him with it.
Justus dragged his sore body up off the ground and dusted himself off. He walked slowly through the night hours until he reached Mrs. Sayn’s house. It had started raining. The hot summer air turned into a tempestuous, chilly wind. A middle-aged woman answered his knock. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a bun. She had a sincere smile and vivacious eyes.
“I’m Justus Rosenberg . . .” he began.
“I know, honey. Come in. It’s not a pleasant night to be out.”
As soon as Justus crossed the threshold, a very old, almost forgotten sensation rolled over him: home. While a pot of soup heated, Mrs. Sayn made up the bed for Justus. They chatted pleasantly enough during dinner.
“So how are you right now?”
Justus did not know how to answer. Her concern seemed genuine.
“Well, I feel really alone.” Speaking those words out loud unleashed a tide of pent-up tears.
The woman moved from her chair so that she could hug him. “Well, you’re not alone anymore, and you’ll never have to be again.”
The wind continued to howl in the darkness outside. But a candle had been lit inside that house that no storm could snuff out: the hope of two strangers brought together in a companionship that rose up against the death and pain of loneliness. It was hope against hope.