The Jewish spirit undermines the healthy powers of the German people.
—Nazi propaganda slide, ca. 1933–1939
She had to ignore the tears. Whatever she said, however she reacted, the tears could not affect her.
If Ida, too, became choked up, it would upset the children far too much, and they could not spare the time for so much compassion.
Ida wasn’t even collecting the children today. Andrée, Paule, or Claire would do so tomorrow or the next day, depending on the situation. But this mother was already crying and tempting Ida to do the same just in discussing what was needed.
“Your husband has already been taken, Madame Liebman?” Ida said as gently as she could while the woman’s tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks.
She nodded, her pale countenance seeming more ghoulish than sickly. “Three weeks ago. I know it is only a matter of time before they come for us as well. I cannot hide adequately like this. I can barely exist, given the circumstances.”
The soft giggles of the children in the other room offered a strange dissonance to the reality presently expressed by their mother and the discussion in which she was engaged. But it served only to emphasize what Ida and the rest of the committee always attested to.
Children were remarkably resilient.
Ida continued to take notes, forcing herself to remain distant. “Do you have family outside of Brussels, madame? Friends who could help you once we remove the children?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Liebman murmured without any hint of relief or satisfaction. “There are options.” She rocked in her chair a little, then leaned forward. “Where will you take them?”
“I cannot tell you that, madame,” Ida told her, meeting her eyes and smiling with some sympathy. “It is a condition of the committee’s involvement. We cannot guarantee the safety of anyone if locations are known.”
Mrs. Liebman winced and turned away, nodding ever so slightly. “I know. But my heart . . .” She swiped at her eyes. “My children are all I have, Mademoiselle Jeanne.”
There was some comfort in the professional distance imposed by Ida’s code name, which she had learned to answer to just as readily as her given name, but it still did not completely soothe the compassionate pain that always accompanied these meetings.
If Mrs. Liebman was this emotional in just the discussion of intervention, the scene upon pickup of the children would almost certainly be much worse. Ida would need to warn whoever was assigned to escort the children to their new home—a situation infinitely more difficult than what Ida’s routine involved now.
There could be no tears or fretting on the escort’s part during the pickups, or the parents and children would suffer. The children needed as much ignorance as was possible, masked by joviality and enthusiasm. The Gestapo had spies everywhere, both within their ranks and within members of the general public who they had persuaded to their side; and distressed children walking along the streets with young women would attract attention. Would raise questions. Would put them all at risk.
It was for the best that none of the escorts were mothers. How could they pry children away from their mothers if they, too, felt the pains of such separations on an intimate level? It was agonizing enough to be witness to it.
Ida cleared her throat and returned to her notes. “And the names and ages of the children, Madame Liebman?”
“Irene, age twelve,” Mrs. Liebman answered softly. “David, age ten. Alice, age six.”
Jotting that information down, Ida raised her eyes to the woman again. “Any particular health issues we ought to be aware of?”
Mrs. Liebman shook her head. “None, Mademoiselle Jeanne. They are beautiful, healthy, sweet children, each one. And they miss their father.” Her face crumpled and she buried her face into her hands, her slender shoulders shaking.
Ida’s throat tightened and she set down her notebook and pen, swallowing hard. How could she remain aloof in the face of such distress? She had a job to do, but in the course of doing such work, it was easy to forget the horrors that were taking place daily among her fellow Jews. It did not matter that Ida had not been a practicing Jew for years, did not matter that she almost never prayed the Shema, that she was more Jewish by tradition than faith, or that she couldn’t remember the last time she had gone to synagogue.
These were Ida’s people, and the Nazis were not concerned with the dedication one had to the Jewish faith. They hated each and every one equally, and universally despised all that they were.
But Mrs. Liebman could not know that Ida was part of her community; that she was also at risk of persecution, deportation, and death; that she was living under false papers to move more freely; or that she had burned the stars she had once had to wear on her coat.
Still, she could not ignore the tears this time.
Would not.
Against her usual regulations, Ida reached out and took Mrs. Liebman’s hands, squeezing gently. “I cannot make this easier for you, Madame Liebman. I cannot change the world we live in or what is happening. But I can get your children to safety and protect them from the denunciations that abound. I can keep them from following their father to the camps. I can hide them, madame, which will allow you to also hide more easily.”
Mrs. Liebman sniffed, bobbing her head in weak nods as she gripped Ida’s hands in return. “I don’t know what to do for myself or how to go about hiding, but I would do anything to protect my children, even if it will break my own heart.” She raised her head and met Ida’s eyes. “Do what you must, Mademoiselle Jeanne, to make my children safe.”
Ida offered her a firm smile and nodded. “I will. You can be sure of that.” She sat back, letting her hands slide from their hold on Mrs. Liebman. “You can expect one of our associates to arrive for your children the day after tomorrow. Kindly have one bag packed per child. Do you have any questions for me before I go?”
It was as though the question was deliberately snubbed. No reaction from Mrs. Liebman, no attempt to start the process of bidding her farewells, no indication that she had questions, thoughts, or feelings. There was only a blankness that seemed to come from deep within the soul.
An emptiness that humbled and a hopelessness that frightened.
Was this what the world had come to, then? An existence that became an inconvenience and a life suddenly devoid of light?
All the more reason for Ida and the others at the CDJ to continue their work and to redouble their efforts. Those who were arrested and deported, taken to the dreaded camps one heard about, would need something to live for, and knowing their children were safe from such a fate could be the difference between strength and weakness.
Ida rose from her seat and kept her expression intact. “Then I will bid you good day, Madame Liebman. If you need anything before my associates arrive, contact the AJB, as you did before.”
This Mrs. Liebman heard, as indicated by her nod, but made no move to rise herself. It was no matter to Ida, who let herself out of the house and made her way down the street toward the secret offices of the CDJ. She was duty bound to tell the woman to contact the AJB if she needed anything, as that was the avenue through which any Jewish request for aid must go. But the Association of Jews in Belgium, though staffed by Jews, was more of a shell organization for the SS. Created by the Nazis with the pretense of enabling support to Belgian Jews, the AJB worked mostly as a means of cataloging the names and addresses of Belgian Jews. The work the AJB did often alerted the SS to families and individuals who might try to flee. Almost as soon as a family’s information was cataloged by the AJB, the SS might take that information and carry out a raid on the family.
Fortunately, those same AJB lists were also how Ida and the rest knew where to intervene before a possible raid.
Maurice Heiber was their connection at the AJB, and he kept his position there only to further the actual help that the CDJ provided. He had joined the AJB with hope and good intentions at the onset of its establishment only to discover its true purpose and complete worthlessness when it came to providing relief. He and his wife, Esta, had been crucial to helping Ghert and Yvonne Jospa found the CDJ and set up the various departments and connections needed to finance the work. It was an impressive network, all things considered, and there were enough secrets between the departments that the organization would not be compromised in its entirety even if discoveries were made.
Because the AJB was how Mrs. Liebman had found them originally, it was the means by which she would need to request anything else. Maurice would know what to do when she contacted them.
Still, it was hard to imagine she would need anything else, unless she changed her mind entirely. Which, given her distress, was entirely possible. She would not be the first to change her mind, nor would she be the last.
But the truth of the matter was that no one, as yet, who had changed their mind had avoided deportation through their own means.
Ida did her best to explain this to those she met with before they confirmed their interest, and yet some still chose to trust in their own efforts rather than do what was necessary with the CDJ. Those were the cases that haunted her dreams, not the ones where they had failed, or where mistakes had been made or betrayal had come. The ones where they had offered the requested help, had a plan set up, and then, before the rescue could occur, minds had changed. Fears had taken over, forcing resolve away and tying fate to tremulous foundations.
All of this was made worse by the fact that one of the primary denunciators for the Gestapo was, in fact, a Jew.
“Fat Jacques,” they called him, for evident reasons. His family had been taken away to the camps last year, and rather than hate the Nazis for doing so, he had given up hope and light to join them and pursue darkness. He was the one who had discovered what the Ovarts were facilitating at the Gatti de Gamond school and had told the Gestapo of it. He was the one who helped those who hated his people to succeed.
It was he who did to others what was done to himself.
Not even the Nazis could say that about themselves.
Fat Jacques was worse than they.
And he was the bane of the CDJ at the present.
Ida shook her head as she moved toward the offices in Rue de la Brasserie, taking her usual route of indirectness to ensure confusion for any who should follow. She had never felt that she was being followed in the course of her work, but she knew full well that these seemingly unnecessary precautions were what was going to save her.
They were what saved everyone who could be saved.
With men like Fat Jacques betraying not only his people but humanity, one could never take too many precautions. If only these families could understand that. The CDJ was not tearing families apart because they enjoyed inflicting torment upon already weakened spirits. They were trying to save the most innocent among them: the children.
The very future of the Jewish people.
There was, of course, the convenience to the adults of not having to consider options for themselves that would involve hiding or fleeing with children, which would enable their own efforts to be more successful, in theory. But ultimately, the object was to keep as many children from danger as humanly possible.
Sometimes that kernel of truth became lost in the need of parents to keep their families together. Ida could not, and would not, judge them for feeling such bonds, but neither could she deny that indulging in those feelings was putting them all at an increased risk.
She had returned to far too many now-empty houses to believe anything else.
Finally, Ida arrived at the offices and turned in, going beyond the facade placed for appearances and the secretary whose job it was to look busy regardless of the time or day, passing through another series of doors, and then entering the main room where her colleagues and superiors occasionally made appearances.
None of them spent a consistent quantity of time there, given the risks, and none of them kept the entirety of their information in this location, but it did make for a convenient meeting place and center of operations when it was needed. The Adult section of the operations had their own couriers and operatives, just as Ida and the others in the Children’s section had; and the third section, that of Housing and Sustenance, worked in an entirely different manner from the other two sections. Ida knew almost nothing about how they worked, only that they did so, and that several of the locations she had presently housing children relied on the success of another section.
But she couldn’t think about that now, nor about what the adult section would do for Mrs. Liebman. She could only look into the options for her three children and arrange their pickup with her operatives.
“Jeanne,” greeted Esta Heiber, glancing up from her desk with a smile. “All well?”
Esta was the figurative head of the children’s section, and her insight was invaluable to the entire operation, even if Ida had practically taken over with the increase in requests and need for operatives.
“Yes,” Ida confirmed tightly, moving to the safe nearby to pull out a notebook, then to the cupboard across the room to fetch another. “All well.” She couldn’t give more information than that, not until the children were safely away and safely established elsewhere.
She jotted down the names of the three children into the first notebook, notating a code number beside each name. She read those through three times, committing them to memory, as Irene, David, and Alice could not retain their names when they were moved, and the complex system of records the CDJ kept required focus and intensity by the operatives involved.
Next, she opened the second notebook, which indicated locations, their capacity, and their code numbers. She’d already thought up a few options in her mind but needed to check availability before she settled on one. Once she decided where the children should go, she could pass their names and code numbers to Paule, Claire, or Andrée, whichever one was doing the pickup, as well as the code for the children’s new location.
None of the operatives who helped physically relocate children even knew where this office was, as it happened. They met Esta and Ida in other locations, and the information on available housing locations was filled in by Esta or Ida when Yvonne Jospa and her associates sent it to them. No one knew all the pieces, so no one could give up the entire operation.
Arrests happened far too often for them to trust so much to so many.
Ida returned the notebooks to their previous places, then walked over to Esta, pretending to look at the papers on her desk. “123, 124, and 125,” she murmured in a low voice. “Going to 322.”
“Claude,” Esta told her, giving the code name for Andrée.
Nodding, Ida pushed off the desk and left the office, going out a side door and heading toward the market. Her apartment was four blocks from the market, and it was always a great way to adjust her course before returning to her lodgings, given the variety of stalls and the varying number of people there.
Once she was in her apartment, Ida would write out the instructions for Andrée and meet up with her later. Meanwhile, Esta would take the numbers Ida had given her and record them in the notebook kept under her desk in a secret safe.
Then Andrée would create the false name for the child, teach the child that name, and ensure it was recorded in the notebook she had access to once the child was delivered.
It was quite a process to record every detail, but Esta had set it up with the full understanding that it would keep the children safe, should any notebook fall into the wrong hands, and that those who knew how the system worked would be the only ones who could ensure that families could be reunited when the war was over.
If any of them survived.
No, Ida scolded harshly, nudging her way through the people standing around the scant produce stall. She would not consider the possibility that every one of them would be captured, deported, and dead before the end of all this. They could be captured or deported, certainly. But it was highly unlikely that all of them would be all three of those things before the end. Especially as they could recruit others to continue the work.
They hadn’t brought anyone else on after Andrée joined them, but Esta and Yvonne were constantly looking for more social workers or teachers to work with them. If there was ever a need, Ida knew they would provide her with excellent options. The work would continue, of that she was certain.
It would be fine. Even with Fat Jacques, the Gestapo, and the soldiers, it would work out, somehow.
She refused to believe they would fail in this.
It was only a few turns more until she was back at her apartment building, and she began the process of climbing the stairs toward her quarters.
“Mademoiselle Hendrickx?”
Ida turned at the landing to face down the stairs she’d just ascended. “Yes?”
Her landlady appeared, resting her hands on the railing as she met Ida’s eyes, face impassive. “I’m afraid I will not be able to renew your lease here. You will need to find alternative accommodations.”
“Is there a problem?” Ida asked, drumming her fingers against her thigh, more in absentmindedness than anxiety.
The landlady dipped her chin in a quick nod. “I’m afraid it has been made known to me that you are of a particular racial and religious persuasion that renders housing you more difficult than I am willing to endure. Therefore, you must leave.”
The utter formality of the exchange was almost as irritating as the reasoning behind her eviction. Ida had maintained a good relationship with her landlady during the months she had been living in Brussels and had never had a single issue with her rent payments, the cleanliness of her place, or the conditions of the building itself. She was using a false name, but that had been easy enough, given her little-publicized marriage, and her paperwork showing such a name would pass even the most studious tests.
How in the world had the fact that she was Jewish made its way to the landlady’s ears?
It wasn’t even a question from the lady. It was a statement. An accusation. Something so clear, it seemed, that no argument would be accepted.
Yet she was not being arrested or invaded by the Gestapo, so the knowledge was a quiet one. She supposed she ought to be grateful for that.
“When would you like me out, madame?” Ida asked in a low, respectful voice.
“Immediately, mademoiselle. Apologies, but I must insist.” The landlady gave her another nod, averting her eyes, then moved out of sight into another part of the building.
Ida released a slow breath, her heart pounding more after the fact than it had during the exchange. Anger was racing through her veins, as was pity. Irritation was flooding in, followed by sadness. She had no doubt that her landlady was a good woman, and that her actions were born from fear rather than judgment.
But it still put her in the situation of needing to find a new place to live, even with her false papers.
That was inconvenient, given all else she had to do. But she had no choice.
It didn’t take her much time to pack up her belongings, all of her worldly possessions fitting neatly into two valises. Moving to Brussels to do this work had rid her of a great many needless items, which had been oddly freeing. She hadn’t planned on it being a plus to relocate again, but it was certainly worth acknowledging.
She would simply take her bags with her to meet her operatives, and then find Esta or Yvonne to seek out alternative housing. They had helped her to find this place, and they had connections with other sympathetic people in the city. No one would know she was a Jew unless they spoke with her former landlady, but she would appreciate discretion and respect in the person from whom she would be renting. Anyone who was a possibility for hiding some of their families from the Gestapo would be a secure place for Ida to live.
Especially as she was not exactly in hiding.
Smiling for the benefit of anyone who would pass her, Ida moved along the streets toward the office she had set up for herself and her operatives, a quiet little flat in Rue du Trône. It was an unimpressive property and as very few people went in and out, it was of little interest to anybody. According to any town registries, it was an office of social workers, which kept most from asking questions, and was close enough to the truth to be proven by the background of those working within.
The exact nature of their social work was, of course, entirely unrelated to the general idea.
Ida sat down at one of the desks, putting her head into her hands and taking a moment to feel the strain of needing to find herself new lodgings amidst everything else. She would almost never be there. It would be purely a place to sleep and dress, and yet it was also supposed to be a location where she felt safest.
Now that had been taken from her. Was this the sort of anchorless sensation the children they hid felt when they were plucked up and taken elsewhere?
Paule was probably doing a run at the moment, which meant either Claire or Andrée would arrive, if not both. Claire had just returned from a delivery to one of their convent locations, so she could appear only to report. Or, as had happened before, none of her operatives could appear, given the variety of tasks and assignments they were engaged in. Which simply meant that Ida would have to send a message to one of them about meeting up in another place and time.
It was more complicated to think about than it was to accomplish, she decided with a small laugh to herself.
“Good morning, Jeanne,” greeted the mellow voice of Andrée as she entered the office and sat in a chair nearby.
Ida grinned at her newest operative. “Claude,” she greeted, using her code name. “Are you ready for another?”
Andrée nodded, holding her hand out to accept the paper.
Ida slid the information to her. “Three this time. Twelve and under. Mother is already teary, so be on the alert.”
“Always.” Andrée gave her a tight smile, then glanced at her bags. “Are you leaving, Jeanne?”
“No, simply in need of a new residence.” Ida sat back against her chair, shaking her head. “Apparently, my landlady discovered something presently distasteful in a renter. I’m not worried; our friends know several locations.”
Andrée countered her posture by leaning toward her. “My apartment has two rooms, one of which is unoccupied. I’ve barely been there two weeks—why not move in with me?”
Ida’s eyes widened, the possibilities and conveniences of such an arrangement spinning about in her mind. “Are you certain?”
“Positive,” Andrée confirmed with a nod. “I could help more with your load, if you’d let me, and we each wouldn’t have to bear so much alone.”
That Andrée could so easily detect the burdens Ida bore, after scant weeks of her involvement in the CDJ, was both a credit to Andrée and a sign that Ida could use such a partner while this work continued. Why shouldn’t they become roommates?
“Very well, then,” Ida said, smiling at her fellow conspirator and burgeoning friend. “Shall we?”