Lyon
August 26, 2012
Valérie Portheret studied the faces of the authorities and the survivors who had turned out for the commemoration ceremony. In that unassuming street of an old industrial area, thousands of people had lived through hell on earth seventy years prior.
She waited for the ceremony to come to a close before approaching an older woman. At seventy-eight, Rachel Berkowicz looked very good for her age.
“Forgive me for bothering you; I’m Valérie Portheret. For twenty years I’ve been researching what happened that night at Vénissieux and in the days that followed.”
Rachel smiled. “I don’t think I’ll be much help. I’ve forgotten nearly everything. I think my old brain wanted to shield me from all that pain and suffering. I was only eight when it all happened.”
“I’m so sorry about all of it,” Valérie said, moved to tears at having Rachel before her.
“You needn’t be sorry, my dear. The rescue operation saved our lives. One of the few things I do recall is Lili Garel holding my hand and walking me to the mess hall.”
Another wrinkled, gray-haired woman came up to them.
“Look, Lili, this young woman is studying about what we went through in 1942.”
At ninety-one years of age, Lili still retained her mental clarity, her memories, and even her spry gait.
“Oh, Georges would have loved to meet you. He was always talking about it. He said it was a youthful adventure. That’s how we experienced it anyway. I think that if we’d been older, we would never have dared to attempt what we pulled off.”
Valérie could not shake the surreal shock of seeing those two women together after so many years. Since 2003, Valérie had dedicated herself to locating one Vénissieux survivor after another. She still had a number to go, but Lili and Rachel were two of her favorites.
“What happened to your old violin?” Valérie asked.
The wrinkles on Rachel’s face stretched as she smiled. “I went back to Belgium with my mother in 1945, and the violin came with me. Life was hard, very hard. She worked as a domestic servant, and we shared one tiny room. Sometimes in the summers we would visit my adoptive parents, the Merlands. I kept playing violin and in 1949 I immigrated to Israel. Eventually I married Wolff Rajzman and helped to start the marvelous Tel Aviv orchestra. I’ve been very happy. I’ve had a long, full life. I think I’ve taken advantage of the second chance Lili and the others gave me. I kept my father’s old violin. One day it will go to my granddaughter and remind her of how I was reborn one hot August night during the worst storm of my life—not just the thunderstorm but the storm of hatred that shook Europe and the whole world. I hope nothing that terrible ever comes around again.”
Lili gave Rachel a hug, and tears coursed down both of their faces. Then they placed a handful of red carnations at the commemorative plaque. After saying goodbye to Valérie, they made their way slowly to the cars.
Valérie dropped her camera into her backpack. She was no longer the young woman who, with such passion, had started the race of her research project about the children of Vénissieux. But safely in her heart she stored the long list of names and lost lives that had once again found their way home.