It must be made clear even to the German milkmaid that Polishness equals sub-humanity. Poles, Jews and gypsies are on the same inferior level . . . This should be brought home as a leitmotif . . . until everyone in Germany sees every Pole, whether farm worker or intellectual, as vermin.
Adolf Hitler, October 1939, Directive No.1306 of Nazi Germany’s Propaganda Ministry
A few days later, at the end of August, there was a radio broadcast announcing that Russia and Germany had signed a neutrality pact. Hearing people in my neighbourhood speak about the war, I began to understand that more was happening in Germany than I had realized.
‘Not again,’ Madame Johnson said to the postman. ‘We’ve already had one devastating war.’ The priest in church quoted from the Bible about putting on the armour of God so we could protect ourselves from the devil.
‘Do we have a neutrality pact with Russia and Germany?’ I asked my father that evening.
‘Belgium is a peace-loving country,’ my father said. ‘We are neutral, yes, in the eyes of the world.’ So, I was confident that Belgium was strong and safe. And I felt stronger and safer because I already knew Hava Daniels.
I had met her at the Red Cross in the middle of July. My local priest had announced at Mass that the Red Cross needed volunteers to pack clothes for people in Poland. My father had told me there was a possibility that Germany would invade Poland, so I had gone to the Red Cross in part because I wanted to make a difference, and in part because I was afraid. I thought that perhaps, in my small, illogical way, I could stop the German army and the threat of invasion if the Polish people were warm, secure, and brave – and had the right clothes. I was properly clothed and secure, but never brave.
When I arrived at the Red Cross, women in white sweaters ushered me into a large room. At one end of the room a pile of used clothes nearly reached the ceiling. At the other end of the room trousers, skirts, blouses, and sweaters had been heaped on rows of long tables. Standing on both sides of the tables women pulled the clothes along, as if on a conveyor belt. They removed trousers that were ripped, or vests that were heavily stained.
A large woman with a carnival smile greeted me. ‘We are happy to have the general’s daughter,’ she said, as she led me to one of the tables. ‘This is Simone,’ my escort said to no one in particular. ‘She has come to volunteer for the day.’
Some of the women smiled; some ignored me. Hava, a girl who seemed to be about my age, turned from her work at the table, and, with a torn sock in her hand, looked at me and said, ‘Bonjour,’ and then made room for me beside her.
I squeezed in between Hava and a woman who sneezed often and said, ‘Bonjour.’ And that was that – Hava and I became immediate friends.
I quickly learned that Hava was also 18 and was in love with the opera singer John Charles Tillman. When Hava and I walked down Rue de Ville after our day at the Red Cross, she, walking in bare feet, slapped her shoes on the railings in cadence with her voice: ‘John–Charles–Tillman! John–Charles–Tillman!’ She thought he looked like a prince disguised as a famous opera singer. Before he sang at the Royal Opera for the first time, Hava bought two tickets. ‘He has come to Belgium to whisk me away with him,’ Hava smiled, as she handed me a ticket the second time we met.
She was a girl who possessed enough adrenaline to climb the Eiffel Tower every sixty seconds and who lived with an imagination that spilled into poetic facts – her facts.
‘John–Charles–Tillman. John–Charles–Tillman.’
‘How do you even know what he looks like?’ I asked.
‘There are posters all over town announcing his appearance in the opera. He’s American, born in Pennsylvania. Can you imagine what a place looks like that has the name Pennsylvania?’
I had seen those posters, without paying them much attention. When I looked again properly, I found that John Charles Tillman did, indeed, resemble a handsome prince: black hair; round, boyish face. The opera posters advertised Salomé, a story about the Princess Salomé at a time when people believed in prophets, not many years after the death of Christ.
‘He dreamt of owning a rowing boat when he was a boy,’ Hava said, as she stopped chanting his name. ‘I read in a magazine that he loves boats. I love boats.’
‘Since when?’ I asked.
‘Since John Charles Tillman carried me onto his yacht moored at the base of the Statue of Liberty in New York harbour. So . . . can you come? The opera house is across town. I’m not sure my father will let me go on my own, but with you there I might have a better chance. What do you think? Next Tuesday, eight o’clock?’
‘I think yes.’ I smiled. ‘What’s the opera about?’
‘Love and death – the usual story. There’s a captain of the guard who’s in love with Salomé, but Salomé loves someone else. She performs the dance of the seven veils.’
Here is where Hava, right in the middle of Rue de Ville, imitated an exotic princess seducing a lamp-post. The lamp-post wasn’t interested but, according to Hava, the captain of the guard would have been.
I was embarrassed that someone might be watching, as Hava unfurled an invisible mask from her face and began to dance seductively around the lamp-post, waving her imaginary veil over her head.
‘Hava, stop dancing. The police will be called. My father is a general in the army. It won’t look good for me.’
‘Salomé slowly strips off one veil at a time,’ Hava said with glee, ‘and the king promises her that he will grant her any wish if she takes off the final veil.’ Hava began a pretend striptease. ‘She does so and then demands the head of the prophet.’
I giggled.
‘The poor king is so frightened of the prophet’s powers that he offers Salomé rings, gold, or wild animals instead, but Salomé is determined to seek revenge upon the man who turned her down. So, the king has no choice but to have the prophet beheaded.’
Hava stopped at the window of a chocolate shop. She turned to me and ran her finger dramatically across her throat. ‘When the prophet’s head is brought to Salomé on a tray, she feels such remorse that she kisses the prophet’s lips. The king is so repulsed – and jealous – that he orders the death of Salomé, too. End of the opera.’
‘What part does John Charles Tillman play?’
‘I don’t know. The prophet I hope. Let’s buy some chocolate.’