The Slavs are to work for us. Insofar as we do not need them, they may die . . . The fertility of the Slavs is undesirable. They may use contraceptives or practise abortion, the more the better.
Dr. Markull, Ministry for Occupied Eastern Territories, to Reich Minister Rosenberg, 19 August 1940
‘You spend too much time with that girl, Hava,’ my Aunt Margaret said one evening over dinner. ‘How did you meet her?’
‘We met last year, at the Red Cross,’ I replied, as my aunt cut meticulously into the steak on her plate. ‘We have opera tickets for tonight. She likes the opera . . . and dancing.’
My aunt’s fork and knife clicked on the porcelain dish.
‘Who likes dancing?’ she asked.
‘My friend, Hava. The one I met at the Red Cross.’
‘I’m sorry, Simone. I’m a bit distracted.’ My aunt looked down, attacking her steak once again.
‘Hava’s favourite opera singer is John Charles Tillman. He’s an American baritone.’
‘Stop!’ My aunt exclaimed suddenly, as she slammed her fork and knife onto the table. ‘Stop, Simone!’ She looked at me with a glare I had never seen in her eyes before. It frightened me. ‘Don’t say another word. I’ve heard enough about your friend.’
My aunt took a deep breath and slowly stroked her left cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Simone,’ she said in a softer tone. ‘I just want to protect you.’
‘But, Aunt Margaret, what do you mean? We’re home. We’re safe. And my father will be back soon.’
My aunt looked into my eyes again, but this time with the eyes of a woman who could see the future. ‘There are clouds forming over Europe, Simone. A storm is approaching, a violent storm. I don’t want you to be afraid, but please, don’t associate with this friend of yours. She’s Polish. I won’t have you associating with that Hava girl any longer. Have you seen what the paper says today?’
She stood up from the table, entered the parlour, and returned with a wrinkled newspaper in her hand. She opened it at a particular page, handed it to me, and said, ‘Read what the Chancellor of Germany said to his chief military commanders in Obersalzberg back in August. It’s only being reported now that the war is getting nearer. Read what Adolf Hitler actually said.’
I reached for the paper and, using my finger as a guide under each word, I read carefully:
. . . send to death mercilessly and without compassion, men, women, and children of Polish derivation and language. Only thus shall we gain the living space which we need. Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?
I placed the paper on the table and tried to wipe away the creases, tried to erase the words, and tried to understand what I had just read. This cannot be true, I thought. ‘Did he really say these things, Aunt Margaret?’
My aunt nodded.
‘Does Hitler actually believe the world has forgotten about the Armenian Genocide? And will he really do the same to anyone Polish?
‘The world has forgotten, Simone.’
‘But, Aunt Margaret, Hitler won’t kill millions of people. Surely the world remembers!’
‘Simone, only twenty-five years ago hundreds and thousands of Armenian people were tortured, shot, murdered, and sent into the desert to starve. It was just twenty-five years ago, yet no one remembers. No one cares. Hitler is right: who today speaks of the annihilation of the Armenians? Hitler actually said to his commanders, Let’s kill all Polish people and the Jews, because in the long term, no one will remember and we need more space for our country.’
Hava is both Polish and Jewish, I thought, frightened for the first time. But Poland was still 1,100 kilometres away and Hava was here. But where was the German army now?
My aunt picked up the newspaper from the table, crushed it between her hands, and threw it into the fireplace. ‘Light a match, Simone.’
I reached into the cabinet and curled my fingers around a small cardboard box of matches. After I lit one and tossed it into the fireplace, the dry paper ignited quickly. The orange glow of the flames illuminated my aunt’s face as grey smoke rose up the brick chimney. We both watched as the words disappeared. The paper twisted then shrivelled between the grate and formed a small, insignificant pile of white ashes on the flat stone hearth.
‘Your friend is Jewish, as well as Polish, isn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I almost whispered.
As my aunt was about to leave the room, she turned, looked at me, and said, ‘Go to the opera with your friend Hava, but then you must leave her behind. Don’t stay by her side. Enjoy the American baritone tonight, but have nothing more to do with that girl. You need to think of yourself and your own safety. I also wanted to tell you that I’m planning to return to Luxembourg soon. I don’t like what I’m hearing in the street. You’re eighteen now, so it’s up to you if you want to stay here or come with me. I’ll feel safer in my own home.’