We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.
Winston Churchill’s words delivered to the House of Commons, 4 June, 1940
An old man sitting at the next table suddenly spoke up. ‘What brings you girls to the coast? On holiday?’
I was about to say something sarcastic like, ‘Oh yes, Hitler gave us an all-expenses-paid trip to this beach town for the summer.’ Instead, I smiled and almost laughed. It was good to smile again.
‘Forgive me for intruding. I just heard your prayer. It’s the prayer my mother said before each meal. You reminded me of my mother.’
‘That’s disappointing. So, in your eyes, I’m like an old Jewish mother?’ Hava chuckled.
‘No, mademoiselle, in my eyes you are memory, and all that is present.’
Talking to this man so suddenly was, for me, like talking to the funny Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland. He seemed to speak in riddles.
‘What do you dream of? Clouds or mountains?’ the man asked us.
I was confused, but Hava answered right away, ‘Why, I dream of mountains. How do you know to ask?’
‘I always asked my students about their dreams. My name is Ira Alberg. I was a teacher once; Shakespeare, Dante, Dickens. I like to know people’s dreams.’
‘My name is Hava Daniels. This is my friend Simone Lyon.’
‘Ah, yes, I heard the rumours that we might be in the presence of General Lyon’s daughter. And what do you dream of, Simone? Clouds or mountains?’
I wanted to tell this man that I didn’t dream of either clouds or mountains, so I just picked one. ‘I dream of mountains, like Hava. We’re like sisters.’
‘Yes, you two act like sisters. I thought you were sisters when you entered the restaurant. Why do you dream of mountains?’
‘I want to be important,’ I said.
‘The rocks are important. They make the mountains. Are you a rock, daughter of the general?’ He paused, ‘And, Hava Daniels, what is your father?’
‘He is also a great man, a printer. He is respected in the synagogue.’
‘Where is he?’
Hava’s facial features changed quickly from her dream face to her war face: stoic, hard, not the face of Hava the opera lover. ‘I don’t know. My mother and brother, they all disappeared. The rabbi said they had gone.’
‘We shall all return someday, Mademoiselle Daniels.’ We sat in silence for a moment. We heard the distant shelling of the coast by German artillery.
Everyone in the restaurant stopped talking and we sat in silence as one explosion after another echoed in the background. An air-raid siren sounded. The night sky outside the restaurant suddenly radiated a yellow aura. Then, the shelling and the siren stopped.
‘There was a great Jewish soldier, Mademoiselle Hava. He was never a general like Simone’s father. Have you heard of William Shemin?’
The people in the restaurant began talking again.
‘In the First World War, German machine guns cut across a field. Many Americans were killed. Shemin ran across the field and dragged many of his comrades to safety. Then he did the unthinkable. He ran back three more times, and each time the machine guns fired at him and at everyone else on the field. A bullet passed through his helmet and lodged inside his skull, just behind his ear. He had lied about his age and said he was 18 when he joined the army, but he was only 16. After the war he owned a plant nursery and sold flowers and shrubs in New York City. Now, he is a general of a man. He saved his friends and he sold flowers in New York City.’
Hava and I finished our meal. The restaurant owner stepped up and said that there was no charge. The British soldier had paid for our meal. We were about to get up to leave when our dinner companion asked, ‘Where are you girls sleeping tonight?’ I explained that the soldier had told us we had to leave in the morning, so we had decided to walk through the night and escape.
‘The Germans don’t travel at night. You are safe for one more night here.’
‘Yes, our soldier friend said the same thing, but there are no rooms left anywhere.’
‘I have a room, right next door in the Hotel du Beffroi. It’s already paid for. I will give you my room. You both need to sleep, daughter of the printer, daughter of the general – mountain-dreamers.’
The old man stood up. ‘But first, you must grant me a favour.’
As the three of us walked out of the restaurant, Monsieur Alberg said, ‘I’d like you to escort me to the hotel, so I can pick up my things.’ Monsieur Alberg extended his left arm to Hava, and she hooked her arm into his. He extended his right arm to me, and I hooked my arm into his, and the three of us walked along the cobblestones in Dunkirk, France, on that night in May 1940.
The sky lit up again as bombs exploded further down the street. ‘You see,’ Monsieur Alberg said, ‘an old Jew with two princesses, one on his left and one on his right, will never be touched by bombs.’
As we entered the little lobby of the hotel, Monsieur Alberg said, ‘Wait here a moment while I get my things.’
‘Hava, why is he giving us his room?’
She shrugged and smiled. ‘Perhaps he dreams of clouds.’
Hava and I sat on a pink marble bench, where on each corner was carved a small, plump angel. I rubbed the belly of an angel for luck, the marble cold against the tips of my fingers. There was no heat in the hotel, no electricity, just candlelight. The concierge sat at her desk folding towels. I thought it was funny that she was folding towels. The next day the Nazis would enter the city with their guns, and tanks, yet the concierge was folding towels peacefully, as if she were expecting an eager weekend crowd.
Monsieur Alberg reappeared in the lobby with a suitcase in one hand and a birdcage in another, in which sat a plump canary.
‘I take my little bird, Firoo, with me wherever I go. She sings to me at night before I switch off the lights – a gift from my niece.’
Monsieur Alberg placed the cage before Hava and me as we sat on the marble bench. ‘Look closely. She is my soul.’ The bird jumped from the little wooden perch to the bottom of the cage, then back onto the perch. Back and forth the bird jumped. The seeds in a small glass cup scattered out between the bars of the cage each time the canary made her sudden dash to the bottom of the cage and back up to the perch.
‘Would you like Firoo?’ Monsieur Alberg asked Hava. I didn’t think she wanted the soul of an old man. She looked at the bird in silence. Monsieur Alberg shrugged and then said to Hava, ‘Ah well. I have a favour before I give you the key to my room. I hope you might indulge an old man’s wish.’ He hesitated, then looked at Hava sadly.’ I wonder if you might let me touch your hair.’
I gave Hava a secret pinch to her thigh.
Hava told me later, as we prepared for bed, that no one had ever touched her hair except Joff the woodcutter’s son, and her little neighbour who liked to visit Hava’s home to sing songs with her family.
Hava said that the girl always liked brushing her hair. ‘This little gentile girl would come to our door about once a month and say, “Mademoiselle Hava, I have come to brush your beautiful golden hair today.”’ Hava told me that she’d invite the little girl into the house. ‘I would sit in the front room and she would stand behind me and brush my hair with long, gentle strokes. Sometimes she and I sang “Sur le Pont d’Avignon”; other times she would ask me to tell her a story. Her favourites were the Baba Yaga stories about the famous Russian witch who lived in a house on chicken legs.’
‘When it was time for her to go home, I’d send her along with a sugar biscuit, and each time, before leaving, she’d say, “Mademoiselle Hava, thank you for letting me touch your hair. It’s very beautiful.”’
I didn’t think that Hava would let old Monsieur Alberg touch her hair with his crooked, arthritic hands.
But after I pinched Hava’s thigh again, she looked at me and then at the old man with the sad eyes, and said, ‘Of course you can touch my hair.’
The old man placed his single bag beside the bird cage and stood before Hava. Then he reached out slowly with his right hand and stroked her hair gently, letting the strands filter through his fingers. I had never seen a man touch a woman with such gentleness and majesty – such grief.
‘You have beautiful hair, Mademoiselle Hava. It reminds me of my daughter’s.’ Then he reached into his pocket, took out a brass key, and placed it into Hava’s soft, thin hand.
‘I will now take Firoo and go.’
‘But where will you stay? There are no rooms.’
‘Ah, a canary and an old man can always find a place to sleep.’ He smiled.
When Hava thanked him for the room, he looked at her and said, ‘You know the Jewish proverb, “When you have no choice, mobilize the spirit of courage”?’ She nodded as understanding passed wordlessly between them. Then, picking up his bird cage, and tipping his head in farewell, he said to me, ‘Your father is a brave man.’
As Monsieur Alberg walked out of the hotel, he stepped quickly among the moving mass of people. Hava and I followed him out, then watched as he negotiated the crowd, his arms going up and down, before he disappeared into the night.