Lyon
August 26, 1942
Denise and Marcelle had made a list of all the legal exemptions, but the hardest work lay ahead: acquiring proof of residency and, if necessary, altering the date of entry. French laws only protected refugees who had arrived prior to 1936 from being deported.
“So, the exemptions are for people over sixty years of age, those who have served in the French army, those who have French children or French spouses, pregnant women, parents of children under five years of age, those whose jobs fulfill a vital service for France, and unaccompanied minors,” Denise rattled off to her boss, Marcelle.
“That’s over a thousand people. There’s no way we can prepare reports for so many in one night.”
Denise made a quick count of the papers stacked in front of her. “We’ve got fifty so far.”
“We’d better call the whole crew of social workers. It’ll be a sleepless night if we’re going to try to save as many people as possible.”
Denise felt the weight of the responsibility but was less optimistic.
“Why can’t we ask the prefect for a few more days?”
“Because the prefect and the chief of police want to be done with this whole business as soon as possible. As soon as the transportation is ready, they want to get these people to Drancy and then to Germany.”
“But why do they want to take them away?” Denise asked.
“All we have are rumors. The ghettoes of Poland, Austria, and the Czech Republic are full to bursting. So they’re sending the people to live in miserable conditions in concentration camps. The weakest ones die off quickly.” Marcelle spoke softly, preferring to work instead of talk.
“Worse than here in Vénissieux?” Denise continued.
Marcelle looked up. “The Nazis are nervous because of what’s going on with the front in Russia. They’ve been fighting there for a year, and the Soviets are holding out. They need more weapons. And the Jews are cheap labor.”
“So then why do they want children, old people, and pregnant women?” Denise insisted.
A chill ran up Marcelle’s back. “I don’t know,” she said. “But it can’t be good. Go ahead and call the rest of the team. We’ve got to get everything ready for tomorrow morning.”
* * *
Denise called everyone who worked for the Lyon branch of the Service Social des Étranger. Within minutes, twelve women showed up to the office and got to work. The French government was highly bureaucratic, and the Vichy regime was no less; these women were experts at preparing reports and filing requests.
The afternoon light slowly dwindled, and the street outside was calm. The human drama unfolding a few miles down the road at Vénissieux seemed hardly real. The citizens of Lyon went about their evening routines and dinnertime peacefully enough. Food was in shorter and shorter supply, and the ration cards barely provided what was necessary for survival, but they were alive. The war was still too far off to be truly terrifying. Most citizens hardly noticed that hundreds of their neighbors had been taken from their homes that morning. If they did notice, few were concerned—it meant fewer mouths to feed and less racket from the foreign Jews who seemed incapable of adequately adapting to French customs and values. Yet it was a frenzied, sleepless night for others: the men and women trying to fight the hell that Lyon’s Jews were experiencing. Their resistance was a feisty wave on a vast ocean of placid indifference.