The best political weapon is the weapon of terror. Cruelty commands respect. Men may hate us. But we don’t ask for their love; only for their fear.
SS Commander Heinrich Himmler, quoted in “Visions of Reality – A Study of Abnormal Perception and Behavior” by Alberto Rivas, Psychology, 2007
The sound of the bombs and planes reverberated through my dreams as I slept, intermingled with random images: the colour of the eiderdown in our room in Dunkirk; the face of our redheaded soldier; the large white Belgian clouds in July against an azure-blue sky. Then suddenly a German word – ‘Papiere!’ – roused me from my slumber.
‘Papiere!! Los, auf geht’s!’
I had never seen an SS officer before.
‘Papiere!! Los, auf geht’s!’
I opened my eyes. A soldier stood in the aisle of the bus, dressed in a black uniform with a red swastika sown on an armband. His hat was peaked, his boots black. I didn’t even realize the bus had stopped. I was groggy. Behind him a regular German soldier held a machine gun. Next to the bus there were three trucks, a tank, and a number of German soldiers sitting on a wall smoking cigarettes.
Hava leaned against me and without warning yanked my chain with the gold Star of David roughly from my neck.
‘Why’d you do that?’ I was startled.
‘Don’t say a word, Simone. I think they’re here looking for Jews.’
People in the bus immediately pulled out documents. The SS officer walked down the aisle, checking each paper. He asked no questions until he came to Hava and me.
‘Papiere!!’
Hava shrugged and offered the man some bread. He slapped it out of her hand.
‘Papiere. Ich habe Ihnen einen Auftrag gegeben.’
Identification papers. I gave you an order.
I didn’t speak German, and it was clear that he didn’t speak French.
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Papiere. Sind Sie Jüdin?’ Are you a Jew? I glared at him blankly. Obviously annoyed that we did not understand, he turned back to the soldier with the machine gun and spoke a few words. The soldier stepped off the bus and quickly returned with another haggard-looking soldier.
‘I speak French,’ the new soldier said to us. ‘I’m a translator, Joseph Becker. My commanding officer asked you for identification, and wants to know if you’re Jewish.’
I didn’t have any form of identification, no passport, or baptism certificate, but I did have something. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded paper that I waved in the soldier’s face. I glanced at Hava’s clenched fist, then said, ‘This is all I have. And, yes, I am Jewish.’
The man in the black uniform grabbed the paper from my hand, unfolded it, and laughed.
‘Juden tragen kein Kreuz.’ And he waved Benjamin’s drawing of God in the air. I didn’t smile. Still laughing, he repeated, ‘Juden tragen kein Kreuz,’ and handed Benjamin’s drawing to the translator.
‘What did he say, Monsieur Becker?’ I asked.
‘He said, Jews don’t carry a cross,’ and he pointed to the two crosses above God’s head in Benjamin’s drawing.
‘They’re not crosses. They’re kites,’ I protested.
The translator looked at me doubtfully and asked, ‘If you are Jewish, tell me . . . what are the Five Books of Moses?
‘Tell me. What are the Five Books of Moses?’ he repeated.
I froze. He repeated the question. I shrugged.
The translator looked at the Nazi officer and said, ‘Not a Jew.’
The SS Nazi officer looked at Hava and asked, ‘Jüdin?’
She was about to speak when I said, ‘Nein’ – the only German I knew. ‘She is Marie Armel. She is a banker. This is Marie Armel, my cousin, and a very important banker.’
Joseph Becker, the translator, laughed and then turned to the man in the black uniform and spoke some words in German. They both laughed.
The translator turned to me and said, ‘Marie Armel is my banker. I’ve lived in Roeselare all my life. I am a language teacher, but I heard they needed translators in France, and they pay well. France has a new order and it’s your lucky day. It’s not clever to lie to an SS officer, but my commander is a compassionate man, and just wants to know if your friend is Jewish.’
I was about to protest again when Hava looked into my eyes and said to the translator at the same time, ‘Yes. I am a Jew. My name is Hava Daniels. Bereishit, Shemot, Vayikra, Bamidbar, Devarim . . . these are the Five Books of Moses, and I am proud of being a Jew.’ Then she opened her hand and showed the translator the gold chain and the beautiful five-pointed Star of David. ‘I wear this all the time. I tried to hide it when you stepped inside the bus.’
The SS officer flatly stated an order. ‘Stehen Sie auf.’
The translator said, ‘Stand up!’
Hava rose to her feet.
‘Es ist eine Schande, daß sie so hübsch ist. Die Jüdin kommt mit uns.’ It’s a shame she’s pretty. The Jewish girl is coming with us.
The soldier gripped Hava’s arm, and tore the gold necklace from her hand. She didn’t resist, but I did. I stood and pushed the soldier away from Hava. The SS officer grabbed my wrist to pull me back.
‘Simone, stop,’ Hava said. ‘Stop! I’ll be alright. Don’t worry. Let me go.’
I looked at the translator and asked, ‘Where are you taking her?’
‘To a relocation centre,’ he replied flatly.
The SS officer let go of my wrist. I had one more chance to save Hava. ‘My name is Simone Lyon. My father is Major General Joseph Lyon.’
Joseph Becker translated my statement and then the SS commander said, ‘Ja, und mein Vater ist Winston Churchill.’
The two soldiers began to laugh. The SS officer joined in. The translator looked at me still laughing. ‘My commander says, sure and his father is Winston Churchill.’
The soldier with the machine gun yanked Hava’s arm to lead her off the bus. Hava turned back and said to me, ‘I dream of clouds.’ Then we embraced.
‘I promise I’ll find you,’ I whispered as I kissed her cheek.
‘Los, auf geht’s! Los, auf geht’s!’
‘Remember me, Simone,’ Hava said as she was wrenched from me and dragged down the aisle.
The SS officer glared once more at everyone in the bus. Then he stepped up to me, smiled and spoke, as Joseph Becker translated:
‘Open your hand.’ He slapped Hava’s Star of David and chain into my palm. ‘Stuff this filth in your father’s coffin.’ Then he turned and marched off the bus, the translator following quickly behind. My fist tightened.
I watched helplessly from the bus as the SS commander grabbed Hava by her golden hair, so hard that she could barely walk upright, until she reached the back of one of the trucks.
I saw the Nazi officer grab Hava by her neck and force her to her knees in supplication. Then the translator lifted Hava and shoved her into the back of the truck, where she disappeared behind a green tarpaulin that flapped back into place. The truck drove off, leaving behind a shroud of dust.
I opened my closed fist. Hava’s star was tangled in the gold chain. And I remembered Mr Alberg’s proverb: When you have no choice, mobilize the spirit of courage.
Later I discovered that the SS officers routinely told Jews, If you can name the Five Books of Moses, you will be spared. In their desperation to survive, people had unwittingly identified themselves as Jews and thus sealed their fate. But Hava had not been tricked. She had made a conscious decision.
I had promised Hava that I would find her. Hava Daniels; my Esther. Hava Daniels; my friend. Hava Daniels has a name: Hava . . . Hava Daniels.
As I looked at the crumpled chain in my hand, I wondered about the relocation centre. I had made a promise. I would follow her trail and I would find her. I would be a brave Belgian, the daughter of Joseph Lyon. Brave like Hava, for she had not been afraid to admit to the SS that she was a Jew.