Here is the Jew, as all can see,
Biggest ruffian in our country;
He thinks himself the greatest beau
And yet is the ugliest, you know!
—Elvira Bauer, German art student
and children’s book author, 1936
“Mademoiselle Claude, why may I not say that my name is Esther?”
Andrée smiled kindly at the girl beside her on the train, though she was close to exasperation. Not with her necessarily, but with the taking of five children at once to a convent near Ghent in winter. It was her own fault; she had said she could do it, but she hadn’t thought through the specifics of the task when she’d said so.
A child in her lap, one at her side, and three across from them looking at her with wide eyes were quite the bunch to manage, though none of them were loud or rambunctious. They were quiet, well-behaved, and bore little resemblance to each other, so no one would believe she was travelling with a family.
If they were asked no questions, it would be no issue.
If there were questions, however . . .
“Mademoiselle Claude?”
Andrée returned her attention to the moment. “I’m so sorry, dear. Ask me again.”
Remarkably unperturbed, she did so. “Why may I not say that my name is Esther?”
What could Andrée possibly say to such a deceptively simple question? It was one Andrée asked herself every time she picked up a child and gave them their new name.
She met the girl’s eyes as directly as she could, given their position and height difference. “Esther is a marvelous and beautiful name, but where you are going, it is better that you should be called Jeanine.”
That seemed to satisfy Esther—now Jeanine—and she looked out of the train window once more.
Andrée bounced the little boy in her lap, more to amuse herself than him. What else could she say? She had searched and searched, amidst all of the pickups and deliveries she’d helped children through, and she still had not found an answer that satisfied her.
How did one explain to a child that, right now, in this place, it was dangerous to be Esther, Rachel, Jacob, or David? How did you tell a child that she was being hunted? Or that he was being forced to wander away from his family at his tender age? How did anyone explain that to survive, you had to hide, and sometimes multiple times? And not only hide your person, but your name, your religion, your language, your heritage.
How did anyone tell these children that they had to be completely silent about their address, their family—their entire identity?
It was cruel. It was the only way to save them, but it was cruel.
And it was better than the barbarity that was the alternative.
Andrée hugged the little boy—now named Max—a little more tightly to her. He allowed it without complaint, unaware of just how precious he was to her in this moment. Sources of comfort were hard to come by, and when tears were her greeting upon procuring the children, and tears were what she felt when she left them, all she had were these moments with them.
Where she could appreciate that they were children. Where she could try to lighten the mood for them. Where she could entertain and play with them. Where she could build trust and help them approach the unknown with optimism.
If she could do nothing else during her custody of them, at least she could give them something bright in their ever-darkening world.
“Mademoiselle Claude,” the little girl—now Clara—across from her suddenly said, smiling shyly. “Your eyes are the color of winter sky; did you know that?”
Andrée smiled back at her, oddly touched. “And yours are the color of warm chocolate. My very favorite.”
The girl giggled and looked at her companions in delight. “And Delphine’s are green like leaves on the trees at my bubbe’s house.”
Delphine shushed her at once, loudly, and looked at Andrée in horror. Clara covered her mouth with both hands, losing all signs of mirth that had been there.
It took a moment for Andrée to realize that Clara had said something in Yiddish, as she didn’t speak a word of it. On some occasions, she might have been perturbed by the slip. But today, somehow, she maintained her serenity as well as her smile. “It’s all right.”
“I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle Claude,” Clara whispered.
Andrée reached over and put a hand on her knee. “It’s fine, Clara. Tell me more about that tree.”
Clara gave her an uncertain look, but at Andrée’s nod of encouragement, she went on. “It’s very tall. One side of the leaves is green, and the other side is white. Sometimes the leaves look more gray than green. And it’s a perfect tree to climb.”
She continued to rattle away about the tree and its facets, entertaining the other children who had apparently only known life in the city. Andrée half listened as she looked around the train.
No one was looking in their direction. No one seemed even remotely interested in them. It was the best situation Andrée, or any of her cohorts for that matter, could hope for when escorting children to their fostering homes.
And yet . . .
There was something that Andrée did not like. Something about the situation that she was not comfortable with. Something that set her on edge and made her more alert than she had been just moments before.
She let her eyes slowly cast over each person in the train car. Many of the men wore fedoras, and many of the women had their heads down, but suddenly she didn’t care about faces. She wanted to see the posture and tension in frames. Reactions to sounds. Points of focus, whether by eye or by some other method. Couples who were not actually couples. Anything that would stand out or strike her as unusual.
Anything that did not sit right. Anything that she might recognize as a tactic members of the CDJ might use when traveling together. She knew that there were members of the public who reported to Fat Jacques and the Gestapo. Could they be on this train? Her mind was awhirl with the dangers she and her associates faced every day.
She had witnessed friends being compromised, families being given up to the authorities. Contacts who had failed to show up for appointments with her comrades due to arrest. Families stating their willingness to host Jewish children and then suddenly entertaining Nazi soldiers in their homes. Those very same soldiers playing with children they had vowed to see crushed, thinking they were simply orphans of no consequence. Parents learning there were Jewish children hidden amongst the students at their children’s schools and creating a scandal for the nuns . . .
And then there was the increasing tension she felt from all of the “almost” moments that had occurred of late. Those could frighten one to the core. Increasing requests for papers when on assignment. Being sometimes in possession of sensitive information but somehow managing to get away. Smuggling children out moments before a raid, confusing and enraging the authorities. Constantly being forced to face the real dangers and risks of opposing the Nazi regime.
Andrée looked through the train car with narrowed, keen eyes, even as the content little boy on her lap relaxed more fully into her.
Would any of these people here truly wish to round up little children and see them destroyed?
One should never be fooled by appearances; that much she had learned. Even an outwardly cruel person like Fat Jacques could be something more than an obvious villain. Most would never have guessed that he ought to have been one of the hunted. One of the arrested.
One of the imprisoned.
As though conjured from her very thoughts, a man raised his face as Andrée’s eyes fell on him. The sight of the round, reddened cheeks, beady eyes, and thick moustache made her stomach drop, seemingly from her body down to the tracks beneath the train. He scowled, screwed up his mouth, twitched his moustache, then raised a newssheet in front of the majority of his face.
How could he be here? How could he be on this train? In this very car at this moment?
She had too many children with her to manage a full escape from this. She had false papers for them, of course, and for herself. Those ought to pass inspection. But if he recognized her from the café all those months ago, he might have more suspicions about what she was doing with these children, heading out of Brussels, and what business a social worker and teacher had with being an escort, and . . .
The paper shifted again, and she caught sight of his face once more.
Impossibly, somehow, it wasn’t Fat Jacques at all.
She blinked once, then again, positive that she would soon see him once more in the features of this man, but he was not there.
The face was round and red, the hair was dark, the eyes were small, and the moustache was full, but the arrangement of features was all wrong. Had the similarities between the men been enough to convince her at first glance that it was the man she feared? Was she truly under so much strain that she was beginning to hallucinate the enemy within her presence? Or was she simply terrified?
Of course, she was terrified. They all were, every one of them. But they would not stop because of that fear. They could not.
Was she forgetting that?
She took in a slow breath, then released it as silently as possible, reminding herself of their safety, their security, and the provisions in place to protect them all on these assignments. No one knew she had the children on the train today, or where she was taking them. They would not be discovered here, and, most importantly, Fat Jacques was not on this train.
He was not here.
Andrée swallowed and placed the back of one hand to her cheek, wishing the hand was cooler so as to provide her some consolation in the moment. But at least she was not perspiring to an obvious degree, if her cheek was any indication. Children were remarkably observant, and if the group of them with her thought she was distressed . . .
“Who can see sheep out of the windows there?” she asked, unsure if she was interrupting any ongoing conversation. “Can you count them? There’s so many!”
The girls immediately seemed to plaster themselves to the train windows to look at the sheep, counting in discord with each other and getting confused by the speed of the train and the numbers previously counted. Soon they were all giggling too much to count anything at all, and something about the sound did more to comfort Andrée than any breathing techniques or alteration of thoughts could have.
The children were what mattered here. They were the whole focus of their operation. Saving their lives, attempting to allow their parents to save themselves, trying to secure some sort of future for them that did not involve shame, abuse, or imprisonment.
Trying to give them any sort of childhood in a world that would have wiped them out entirely.
It was a humbling task, given the scale. And they were not perfect. They had not saved every Jewish child in Belgium, and they could not. They had no illusions of never losing a single Jewish child again.
All they wanted to do was save the ones they could.
As many as they could.
That was why she was facing fears and dangers to her own life. That was why she would combat her panicked thoughts and suspicions to keep going.
The children deserved a chance to survive.
The train came to a slow and steady stop at the next station, which was not theirs, and Andrée asked the girls to find the most interesting thing they could see from their windows while at this station. The girls observed everything from a red coat to a hat with flowers, and they took great pleasure in shouting out their discoveries with glee. Even Max strained for the window to see, but the only thing that captured his attention was a small, fluffy dog in the arms of a well-dressed woman.
New passengers came into their car, and Andrée paid little attention to them other than allowing her eyes the natural inclination to look at something new.
For the second time in a single train journey, her stomach dropped, this time taking her heart with it.
Four Nazi soldiers in full uniform loaded into the car. Laughing and chatting with each other, completely indifferent to their surroundings. Nearly all of the passengers in the car were uneasy now, tense in their seats and sitting up a little straighter. The only sounds were those of the girls still calling out things they saw, and their voices seemed too loud, too cheerful, too ill-suited for this entire situation.
But Andrée had no power to silence them. The sudden shift in volume and ambiance would be jarring, and she could not risk the Nazis noticing anything about them.
Max squealed when the dog he had been watching barked, and the Nazis looked over at him with smiles on their faces.
Smiles. Like any natural human might express when hearing the laughter of a child.
But they were not natural humans. They would have arrested her and these children if they knew who they were and what they were doing. They would have turned from smiling young men into the monsters they marched as. Proudly waving the flag that bore so much ill will and destruction to anyone who stood in its way.
Defiantly crushing the heads of men, women, and children that they considered lesser beings.
One of the soldiers looked at Andrée and smiled more broadly, nodding his head as though in some sort of compliment or praise for the brood she was managing.
She felt the corners of her mouth move to form the shape of a smile but could not be sure if she succeeded. Everything seemed frozen, without proper feeling, and she was slow to respond to any command she might have been given. She might have grimaced for all she could feel, and that wouldn’t have done any of them any good.
But the soldiers took their seats and continued to talk among themselves, leaving the rest of their car to their own devices. Like any other passengers on a train might have done. Like Belgian soldiers might have done taking a train for leave. Like British soldiers might have done in a foreign land they were enjoying. Like the young men that they were in truth, and not like Nazi soldiers at all.
Could this really just be a coincidence? Could they simply be travelling to another destination and not interested in the passengers on this train at all? It seemed impossible, not to mention improbable, but the proof was before her. They were wholly focused on themselves and cared nothing for those around them.
It was a simple coincidence that she was on this train with them, taking Jewish children to a convent to hide them from Nazis.
She hadn’t thought coincidences happened anymore. Not since the invasion. Not since she began working with the CDJ. Coincidences were traps. Plots. Dangerous. Deadly.
They were never innocent tricks of fate.
Yet here it was.
The train began to move again, and Andrée found herself checking the location of their bags, just in case a swift exit from the train was necessary. She did not fancy the idea of jumping from a moving train with five children, but she was certain she could turn that into a game if need be. Most things could be made entertaining with the right reasoning and enthusiasm.
How she would explain that in her report to the CDJ, she couldn’t say. But extremes were sometimes needed.
She found herself unable to say a single word as the train moved to the next station, which was, fortunately, the one they needed. Until she and the children were off this train, walking freely, and arriving at the convent without any interference from Nazi soldiers, she would not breathe easy.
It seemed like an eternity before she felt the train slow again, and she released a quick, tight breath. “All right, children, gather your things please. Coats on.”
The girls obeyed at once, and she helped Max with his coat. The train came to a full stop, and Andrée motioned that they should get up. The girls all took hands and started off the train in the direction she indicated. Andrée grabbed the bags and was startled to find one of the Nazi soldiers at her side, helping her with them.
“Bitte, fraulein,” he said with a smile, gesturing for her to exit.
It would have been rude to refuse, and a slight against his honor. She could not afford either.
“Danke, Korporal,” she murmured, eyeing the insignia on his uniform and hoping she’d guessed correctly.
At his nod, she turned and moved off the train with Max, feeling her heart pound in the soles of her feet as she moved.
Disembarking, she turned to reach for the bags, but the soldier whistled for the stationmaster, who came over like an obedient dog. “Take these for the fraulein,” he ordered, though he was not harsh about it. “Get her a cab. No fare.”
“Of course, monsieur. Of course,” came the blustering response as the stationmaster scrambled for the bags. “Right this way, madame.”
Andrée forced herself to swallow her pride and revulsion, nodding at the soldier. “Vielen dank.”
“Bitte schön, fraulein. Heil Hitler!” He moved back inside the train before she had to respond, thankfully.
She might have spit upon the ground instead, and that would have had her shot.
“Madame?” the stationmaster prodded, nudging his head toward the way out.
Andrée exhaled slowly and turned to him with a true smile. “Yes, thank you, monsieur. And truly, I can pay for the fare.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “With these precious little ones? I think not. It is my pleasure.” He led them to the streets outside of the station and hailed a cab with more speed than she might have done. He helped her load the children into the cab, then banged on the roof of it to send it off.
Andrée shook her head at the ironic turn of events, and wondered even more now how she would explain the experience in her report. It was nice to take the cab to the convent, especially with the children and their small bags, but there was something about walking to the location hand in hand with the children that she would miss. Something innocent and playful, something actually resembling the childhood they were leaving behind.
Still, the sisters at this convent were particularly good, and she had no doubt the children would be loved and cared for.
Arriving at the convent, the cab driver got out quickly and took care of the bags for her, ringing the bell at the gate for the sisters. He tapped his hat and pinched Max’s chubby cheek before leaving, no doubt returning to the station to collect a fare he might actually get paid for.
One of the nuns hurried to the gate, grinning when she saw Andrée and the children. “Oh! You must be Mademoiselle Fournier! And our beloved little children! Hello there!”
“Hello,” the girls chimed in chorus, each of them seeming to use a different emotion to greet her.
She opened the gates and waved them in enthusiastically. “I’m Sister Marie-Joan. We have been waiting for you all day and are so happy to have you. Now, what are your names?”
The girls looked at Andrée, then at the sister.
“Delphine.”
“Clara.”
“Jeanine.”
“Sophie.”
There was something tragic in the recitation of their new names, something final and resigned that made Andrée want to cry. Made her want to take them all in her arms and tell them to forget everything she had said and become their true selves again.
But she knew better. And she kept silent.
“Darling!” the sister exclaimed. “You are such lovely, bright girls. Now, who would like some cake?”
The girls brightened in an instant, and Sister Marie-Joan laughed heartily. “I thought so. Sister Catherine there will take you to get some while Mademoiselle Claude and I talk.”
Sophie looked at her with some suspicion. “What about Max?”
The nun crouched to her level, smiling. “He will have cake, too. I promise. I will take him myself.”
That seemed to satisfy Sophie, and she happily skipped along with the other girls toward a beckoning Sister Catherine.
Sister Marie-Joan looked at Andrée with a more serious expression. “How was it?”
“Not without its stresses,” Andrée admitted, hefting Max more securely onto her hip. “But ultimately uneventful. Jeanine didn’t understand why her name had to be changed, but I think we’ve settled that for now.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Sister Marie-Joan murmured. “Poor lamb. And what about this fellow?”
Andrée gave Max an adoring smile. “He is as pleasant as they come. He doesn’t say much, but he sees everything.”
Sister Marie-Joan beamed at him before holding her arms out.
Max shied away, clinging to Andrée and eyeing the sister with suspicion.
“Oh, come now, my love,” Sister Marie-Joan cooed gently. “Don’t you want to go with the girls?”
He shook his head firmly, burying his head into Andrée’s shoulder.
The tiny embrace was enough to crack marble into a thousand pieces, and Andrée felt her eyes burning. “It’s all right, Max,” she managed, prying him off her and handing him to the sister. “You heard Sister Marie-Joan. You can have cake.”
He looked at Andrée with wide eyes, his lower lip trembling, his arm reaching for her.
Andrée took that hand and kissed it. “You will be so happy here, Max. So much love and joy.” Her voice quivered, and she focused on the bags at their feet.
“I take it all that I need is in their bags?” the sister asked, now just as gentle in tone with Andrée as she had been with the children.
“Yes,” Andrée said with a quick nod. “Ration cards, papers, clothing. All there.”
“Excellent, thank you.”
She put a hand to Andrée’s arm, and Andrée looked at her almost against her will.
Sister Marie-Joan smiled, her own eyes swimming. “We will honor their family heritage, my dear. No one will try to convert them. They will be safe and loved.”
Andrée nodded again, beyond words. She managed to mouth the words “thank you” but not much else.
The sister squeezed her arm. “God bless you for what you do, Mademoiselle Fournier. Surely a place of honor awaits in heaven for you.”
“I don’t believe in that,” Andrée rasped against the rising lump in her throat.
“But I do,” Sister Marie-Joan told her. “And if I have my way, you will have the honor nevertheless.” She stepped back and rubbed Max’s back. “Would you like us to hail you a cab?”
Andrée shook her head firmly, sniffing. “No, I would rather walk.”
Sister Marie-Joan nodded, a light of understanding in her eyes. “Very well, then. Until next time, my dear. Say goodbye to Mademoiselle Claude, Max.”
Tears fell down the young, chubby cheeks as his little hand waved at shoulder level.
Andrée tried to smile but failed. “Goodbye, my love.” She dared not touch him, his arm or his cheek or his tears, for fear that she would not be able to leave. Instead, she turned and walked straight out of the gate and down the road toward the station.
And she did not look back.
A dozen steps later, her tears overwhelmed her, and she began to sob freely, her chest heaving with the force and depth of her cries. She covered her mouth to keep from being audible enough to disturb any around her, but there was no restraining the tears themselves. They fell from her eyes like waterfalls on swollen streams, tumbling over the obstacles of her cheeks, her nose, her lips, her chin, flowing and falling until they splashed onto her arms, her chest, and the ground beneath her feet.
She had adored Max like he was her own child and had done so with remarkable speed. He might have been carried within her and born from her very body for the tender feelings she had for him above all others. Yet it wasn’t Max himself, as precious and perfect as he was.
He symbolized all of the innocents that were being so relentlessly hunted, and she was feeling the agony of the injustice, the upheaval, the desperation, and the shattered hearts of mothers and fathers everywhere who were losing their children for the sake of safety. So they might live.
And even then, there was no promise that they would not be discovered, in spite of all the protections in place.
It could all be for nothing.
And so, she cried. And cried. And cried.
Shamelessly and openly, she wept.
All the while making her way back to Brussels to do this again and again, as many times as it took until they were done.
If they ever were done.