You must ensure through your behavior that Jewry never again has even the slightest influence on our people. Know the real enemy!
—Nazi flyer, November 1941
“Her parents are gone.”
Ida sank down onto a chair in shock, dropping the ration cards she had brought for the family. “What? I was only in their neighborhood yesterday, and no one said a thing about a raid.”
Mrs. Brat shook her head slowly, hiccupping back a sob as she pulled a lace handkerchief out of her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Well, it happened. My Henrick was there when it did.”
“Is he safe?” Ida asked with some alarm, thinking of the strapping fourteen-year-old and his good, kind heart.
“He got away, yes,” Mrs. Brat told her, wiping her nose. “But it was . . . oh, it was horrible.”
Ida closed her eyes in horror, feeling both hot and cold, fatigued and alert. Her rapidly spinning mind seemed now to be scraped and scorched by some obstruction in its mechanism wheel.
All she seemed to hear these days were the sad stories. The tragedies. Already this week, she’d had to move a girl who had already moved once because the wife of the household felt her husband was paying the girl too much attention.
Whether that was true or not, it was grounds for moving her, and the poor girl—Christine—was in her third location since being removed from her home. She would have further difficulty adjusting now and might never trust another soul.
Then there were the letters.
Incessant letters from those families who had not yet gone into hiding themselves and had not been arrested but wanted constant updates on their children. Constant reassurances of their children’s health and safety. Constant connection to the children they had given over to the CDJ, a choice some of them seemed to be regretting now.
She did not fault any mother for longing for her child. But the risks parents were mounting upon them all by such communication was causing a strain Ida did not care for a jot.
How did one balance such emotions?
Shaking herself, more mentally than physically, Ida returned her focus to Mrs. Brat and the story she was about to tell.
“Anna’s parents are known to us,” Mrs. Brat began, her voice not quite steady. “This you were aware of from the beginning. Her father was an associate of my husband. At any rate, because of our past relationship, we have been keeping communication with Anna’s parents. I know it is not the usual way of doing things with your organization, but it truly was better for us this way.”
Ida waved off the tone of apology and defensiveness in the woman’s words. “No matter. I trust you.”
Mrs. Brat gave her a small smile before continuing. “Henrick went to the Storks’ home with some food and also to retrieve a letter they’d written to Anna. It was our customary arrangement each week. Henrick was in their house, having just delivered the food, when the Gestapo arrived. He managed to flee on his bike and hid on the corner of the street, watching as the Storks were arrested and taken away. He returned home and told us what had happened, and asked me, ‘What should I do, Mama? I didn’t get Anna’s letter.’ He was so upset, not only that her parents had been taken, but that Anna would not have a new letter from them.”
She paused, swallowing with some difficulty, her jaw quivering. “I had to tell Anna. It was . . . so horrible. She just sat there, tears falling, and she said, ‘Papa said they wouldn’t arrest him. He was in the German army in the Great War. He said he would show them a picture of him in uniform, and he would be safe. Why did they not come with me to your house?’ And I had to hold the little one in my lap while her heart broke.” Mrs. Brat broke off, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth.
A weight slowly pressed its full measure against the pit of Ida’s stomach and, somehow, also against her lungs. To have such an experience in one’s young life, and to be left wondering if her parents would ever return. And then for Henrick to see the arrest of people he knew. To have heard of roundups would be one thing, but witnessing one . . .
Mrs. Brat would be carrying the dark heaviness of both children’s experiences for some time.
“Henrick is determined to find a way to get into Malines and find them,” Mrs. Brat confessed weakly. “I’ve told him it is useless and dangerous, but he is determined that Anna shall have more from her parents.” She shook her head. “What if they have already been moved from Malines, Mademoiselle Jeanne? What if . . . ?”
“There is no use in asking such questions, Madame Brat,” Ida told her in as gentle a voice as she could manage with her own emotions. “Believe me, I have been asking them since the very beginning of this, and as of yet, I have no answers.”
Mrs. Brat lowered her eyes, sniffling softly. “We will be well enough here, Mademoiselle Jeanne. We do not need ration cards; we have plenty to take care of Anna. Please, save those for others who are more in need.”
“It is meant to help offset your costs,” Ida tried to explain. “We do not want to put you out financially when you are sacrificing so much physically.”
“It is no sacrifice.” Mrs. Brat met her gaze squarely, the tears in her eyes doing nothing to lessen her determination. “We will take care of Anna as though she were our own, especially now that her parents have been arrested. And should the worst happen, she will always have a home with us. I appreciate your offer to help us financially, but I do not need to be paid in order to ensure that Anna is provided for.”
Sensing this was not a fight to take on, Ida nodded and allowed herself to smile, the pressure against her stomach and lungs easing away in the face of such goodness and generosity. This was what she needed to be reminded of in the face of the evil and sadness all around her.
Ironically, this goodness was taking place because of the evil and sadness around her.
Perhaps it was only in the extremity of times that the weight of pure goodness could truly be appreciated.
The rest of the visit was rather efficient, given that Anna trusted her fostering family implicitly and was well cared for. She was a trifle more reserved than usual, but that was only understandable, given recent events. Ida made a mental note to ask about the Storks when she was able to get word to Maurice or Esta in Malines.
Her friends had managed to avoid deportation to a camp, thanks to the intervention of various influential people as well as the usefulness of Maurice and Esta to those who ran the camps, but only time would tell if they could continue to be so fortunate.
She could not offer such courtesies to the families of every child she hid, but this one was different.
Could she allow differences to creep into her work?
Could she make allowances for certain situations?
She’d never asked herself these questions before. Was she compromising her work by doing so now?
Ida took her leave of Mrs. Brat and Anna, her feet almost acting from their own memory as she made her way to the Little Sisters of the Poor convent. At least this time, she would not be visiting a convent alone, and at least it was her favorite convent of the bunch.
Brigitte, as the main contact for all of their Catholic associates, would be coming with her this time, and the two of them would be determining if the convent was prepared to take on children again. There were several requirements that would need to be met before it was safe to do so, including inquiring about any recent visits from the Gestapo, given what had happened the last time. But a meeting with Sister Marie-Aurélie meant that the Mother Superior, at least, felt that it was safe for the CDJ to begin their work there again.
It would be a relief to place children there once more. There were always students coming and going from boarding schools these days, and the convent had been able to keep their non-Jewish students as active as ever in the days since the staged attack. With all of that busyness, the addition of a few extra students was quite likely to go unnoticed.
But Jacques was a keen informer for the Gestapo, and far more observant than people gave him credit for. The convent could easily be under watch by some of his informants and assets, and the nuns could have no idea it was even taking place. It would all depend on how convincing he had found the situation, and if he considered Sister Marie-Aurélie trustworthy.
He was not a Catholic, so nuns did not hold much sway with him. They were on no pedestal, held no influence, and were under no rosy or hallowed glow in his mind. They were simply women in a religious order, and a religion in which he held no interest, to boot.
There was nothing preventing him from treating them as he would anyone else.
Brigitte was waiting for Ida just outside the convent, her posture as perfect as ever, making her seem taller than her small frame permitted. She was an impressive woman, and often accompanied children out of the boundaries of Brussels in addition to establishing connections with her fellow Catholics in their own resistance efforts. She was a determined individual, all matters of gender aside, and would have made an astonishing soldier, had such a position been available to a young woman.
Ida was delighted to have her on their side. She dreaded to think what Brigitte would have been capable of doing for the enemy, should her persuasions have tended that way.
“Good morning, Jeanne,” Brigitte greeted with a smile, as she seemed to always be capable of bearing.
“Surely it is now afternoon, yes?” Ida looked up at the sun before looking at her colleague again. “Or is my morning only seemingly interminable but actually progressing at pace?”
Brigitte chuckled. “I believe there is time yet in the morning, but I will grant you the lengthy perception of your morning, given my own experience with welfare visits.” She tilted her head toward the church. “Shall we?”
“Please,” Ida agreed. “I am in need of the Mother Superior’s good humor.”
“She will be delighted to hear it.” Brigitte turned to start the walk, waiting for Ida to join her side so they might walk together. “Bad morning?”
Ida shook her head. “Only emotional.”
“Aren’t they all?” Brigitte sighed, shaking her head. “Some days, we work and work and work, and somehow still feel useless in the face of it all.”
“And then other days, it feels as though we’ve saved the world,” Ida continued, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m not sure we’ll truly feel the scope of victory or defeat until all of this is over. We’ve just got to keep going, haven’t we?”
Brigitte looped her arm through Ida’s as they entered the church. “We certainly have, and we certainly will.”
Ida glanced at her friend as they passed the basin of holy water. “Don’t you need to touch that?”
“If I were alone, I would,” she replied without concern. “But as you won’t, and I don’t want to call attention to that, I will not. I think God will understand.”
“That’s how we feel about the mezuzah,” Ida murmured.
“The what?”
Ida smiled at her friend’s confusion. “The piece of Torah every Jewish home has in their doorway. We touch it upon entering or exiting the house. But we’ve all taken them down for the time being. It would be a simple way for us to be spotted. It feels unnatural entering one of our homes without it, even for me. I’ve been non-practicing for ages, and yet . . .”
“The traditions stick with you, don’t they?” Brigitte hummed a sound that was a combination laugh and expression of thought. “I’m not sure Catholics and Jews are all that different, in that regard.”
“Don’t say that too loudly,” Ida laughed. “Someone might curse you.”
Brigitte grinned at her. “Not in this convent. Perhaps others, but not here.”
That was true, in Ida’s experience. The atmosphere and culture of this convent was truly one of warmth and acceptance from every person she had ever encountered, and that sort of attitude most certainly came from the top.
The Mother Superior had clearly cultivated the spirit of this convent, and it was a credit to her.
Not that she would accept such credit, but there it was.
They walked through the catacombs to Sister Marie-Aurélie’s office and found her waiting for them at the door. She waved as though someone might scold her for doing so if it was too exuberant, but she could not contain the joy in her features nor in the action. It reminded Ida of some of the little girls they had hidden recently, their hand waves down at the level of their hips, but not lacking in exuberance.
Perhaps that was what was so charming about Sister Marie-Aurélie. She was, in truth, a child at heart.
“I could not believe my good fortune when I learned I would be seeing both of you today!” the Mother Superior gushed when they reached her. “What a treat!”
“Not many people use those words to describe visits from me, Sister,” Ida assured her with a laugh.
Sister Marie-Aurélie raised a brow at her. “Then they don’t know you like I do. Come in.” She waved for them to follow her and entered her office, shutting the door behind them before moving around the desk and sitting in her chair.
“How have things been since the attempted raid, Sister?” Ida asked when they were settled, turning immediately to business. “Any more trouble with the Gestapo?”
“Not a bit,” came the firm reply. “I anticipated having repeated checks, since they had been told we were housing Jewish girls that first time, but no one has come by, not even that miserable Fat Jacques. Now, perhaps it is only because we have not had Jewish students here, and whoever betrayed us the first time knows that, but we will not know until we try again.”
Brigitte made a disapproving sound, her brow creasing. “And you think it is worth trying again? I would love to have children here again, Sister, but not acting as bait.”
Sister Marie-Aurélie hesitated a moment, then seemed to slouch without losing an ounce of her posture. “I may have already tested something of the sort.”
Ida felt herself actually slouch against the back of her chair. “You what? But we haven’t placed any children here since last time—how did you . . . ?” She looked at Brigitte in desperation, but her friend looked just as confused.
“This was a private placement,” the Mother Superior explained. “The neighbor of a member of our congregation. Our congregant approached the priest to ask what intervention might be possible, and the priest came to me. We housed the family for a few weeks, and when it was clear that no one was betraying us, we began to relax our restrictions on them. One fine day, they wanted to go out for a walk. I suggested that our garden might be the best option, as it is rather large but still enclosed and safe.”
A curling feeling of dread began to claw at Ida’s insides, and her fingers clutched the arms of her chair as though she could hold off the impending revelation.
“They chose to leave the convent for their walk,” Sister Marie-Aurélie said on a heavy sigh. “We never saw them again.”
Though she had anticipated it, Ida gasped at the result. Her eyes darted to Brigitte, who had closed her eyes in horror, her throat moving on a swallow.
“Maybe they wanted to buy something for the girls,” the Mother Superior went on sadly. “Who can know the reason? They were such precious little girls. One might have thought they were twins, but they were over a year apart. Just the two girls and their parents. A loving, wonderful family. We haven’t heard anything about them, and we don’t dare inquire.”
“But no one has been by the convent making inquiries since they’ve disappeared?” Brigitte asked, her voice pained.
The sister shook her head firmly from side to side. “Not even once. I would not have asked for this meeting if I had any lingering concerns.” Her mouth quirked in a faint smile. “I have none. I firmly believe that if our sweet family had remained within our walls, they would still be here. And I believe we are once again a safe place for children, if you can trust us with them.”
“Trusting you was never the issue,” Ida said through suddenly dry and stiffened lips. “Nor your fellow sisters. But we do not know where the betrayal came from, and with times as they are . . .”
“A smaller number of children, then,” the Mother Superior begged. “Please. We are desperate to be of use to our Jewish brothers and sisters. We have no worldly goods to offer for their aid, and our prayers have not ceased, but while God can work mighty miracles according to His will, we who have mortal hands must use them to do all the good we can.”
Ida and Brigitte exchanged looks, their concerns clearly shared, but the offer so poignant, so pleading, and from so generous a soul . . .
“I will look at the requests coming in,” Ida relented, biting the inside of her lip and shaking her head, “and see which ones might be suitable. Then I will have Brigitte examine the ones I am considering. If we both agree, we will come to you about placement.”
“Thank you,” Sister Marie-Aurélie said on a rush of air. “Thank you, my friends. It is God’s work that you do here. I only wish to play a role.”
Brigitte laughed very softly. “You have already played a role of great significance, Sister. No one could argue otherwise. Even Fat Jacques would agree, though he has nothing to arrest you for. One could even argue that you have done more than enough.”
The nun shook her head. “No, I counter that argument heartily. There is no ‘more than enough’ when in the service of our fellow man. I have taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, but nowhere in those vows does it say that I will also live by a vow of self-interest.”
“There is a noted difference between self-interest and self-preservation,” Ida protested.
“Not to me,” the sister shot back with surprising vehemence. “I will not put my fellow sisters in harm’s way, but they made no objections to our ruse for the Gestapo, and that was quite the uncomfortable experience. I have no doubt they will all agree with me on this.”
It appeared to Ida that argument here was fruitless.
Perhaps argument anywhere was fruitless anymore.
Ida allowed herself to smile at this devoted nun. “What ages would you prefer, Sister? So that the children will blend in well with your existing students.”
The conversation that followed was animated, but short, and then Ida and Brigitte were on their way out, parting at the gate and moving on to the next requirement of the day for themselves. Ida was not certain what Brigitte was working on for the present, but she had another family to visit.
Just one little girl, she had been told, though the age was not clear. One child was always easy to pick up and then settle somewhere. But Ida was feeling a little tenderhearted at the moment, what with the revelations of the day.
She would find the best situation she possibly could for this girl, no matter what it took.
“Jeanne! Jeanne, help!”
Ida turned quickly at the cry of distress, taking in the form of Claire coming toward her at a fast clip. “Catherine? What is it?”
Tears streamed down Claire’s face, and she carried something in her arms. “I don’t think she’s breathing, Jeanne! Help!”
Ida looked more closely at what Claire carried and gasped. She held a blue-faced infant within the blankets. “Where did she come from?” she cried, taking the baby from Claire’s arms and rubbing her back rapidly.
“I was in Malines just now,” Claire told her amid gasping tears. “Maurice found a way for me to go into the camp officially as a social worker. I was seeing to some children when I was taken to see someone else. A woman had just had a baby, and she was afraid the Nazis would kill it. She had seen it happen to others. She begged me to take her baby out and get her to safety. She’s only a few days old, Jeanne, and I cannot—”
Ida pressed her mouth over the infant’s nose and mouth and gently breathed twice, then rubbed the baby’s chest while Claire rubbed the back.
“I hid her in my sleeve,” Claire cried, hiccupping slightly. “There was no other way to do it. No bags were allowed. And there were soldiers everywhere on my way out. I was only able to take her out just now, and she’s so blue. Jeanne, please—”
“I am not God, Catherine,” Ida told her quickly. “Give the child a moment.”
Then, miraculously, the infant whimpered and gave a soft cry, followed by a much louder gasp and wail.
“Oh, thank God,” Claire sobbed, unbuttoning her sweater and wrapping it around the baby. “Yes, that’s it, child. Cry and scream and breathe and live. Oh, Jeanne . . .” Claire buried her face in her hands, her entire frame trembling.
Emotions welling within her as the tiny child wailed beautifully in discomfort, Ida put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You saved her life, Catherine. You have fulfilled your promise to her mother. Do you know the child’s name?”
Claire nodded from behind her hands. “Miriam Grinveld.”
“Marie Geybels it is.” Ida cradled the baby, bouncing her softly and blinking away her own tears. “Perhaps Marie-Claire Geybels.”
Claire lowered her hands, smiling through her tears. “Really?”
“Why not?” Ida asked, handing the baby to her. “I don’t think her mother would object to a tribute to the angel who delivered her child from certain death.”
Claire tucked the baby close, beaming down on her as though she herself had given birth. “I know we are not supposed to have favorites in this work, Jeanne. But this little one is going to have my very special attention for the entire war. She will live on if I have to rescue her again and again.”
“Very good, Catherine.” Ida rubbed her arm and sniffled softly. “Let’s get her back to the office and find some proper clothing and blankets. And we will find the safest place we can for her.”