You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.
Pablo Neruda, Chilean poet, Nobel laureate
It was easy to find the street and the house. What was not easy was knocking on the door. When I did, I did not expect anyone to answer so quickly.
From inside the house I heard someone call, ‘Yes?’
‘I’m looking for Joseph Becker.’
Silence.
‘My name is Simone Lyon. I’m from Brussels, and I’m looking for Joseph Becker.’
The door opened slowly, and I was startled to see a young woman about my age.
‘Yes?’ she repeated.
‘Is this the home of Joseph Becker?’
‘Yes. That’s my father. He’s out in the back garden. Follow me.’
The young woman led me through the house. The floors were covered in wool rugs. The walls were blue. At each window there was a small shelf, and on each shelf were pots of African violets: blue flowers, white flowers, all pruned and healthy.
As we stepped outside, I saw a man kneeling at the edge of a small garden pulling weeds.
‘Papa, there’s someone here to see you.’
The man looked up, and squinted in the sun that fell onto his wrinkled face. ‘Yes?’
‘Papa, she’s from Brussels.’
The man stood up with difficulty, wiped his hands on his overall and shuffled slowly towards me.
The girl turned to me and said, ‘Would you like some tea? I’ve just made a pot.’
‘Yes, that would be nice,’ I said as I looked at the man. I did not recognize him. The girl stepped back into the house.
‘Yes? How can I help you?’ the man asked as he extended his gnarled hand. I could not bring myself to shake it.
‘Are you Joseph Becker?’
‘What is this about?’
‘My name is Simone Lyon. I’m looking for a friend of mine and I think perhaps you can help me.’
‘I don’t know you, mademoiselle. How can I help?’
‘Were you ever a translator?’
The second the word ‘translator’ left my lips, the man lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck.
‘Did you ever work for the SS?’
The girl with the pot of tea stepped back out into the garden.
‘Anne, take the pot into the kitchen and wait there, please. I have some business to discuss with Mademoiselle Lyon.’
‘Yes, Papa.’
When the girl left, the man said, ‘Come with me,’ and the two of us walked across the grass and sat on two metal chairs beside a rose trellis.
‘Yes, I am Joseph Becker. Yes. I was a translator. It was a difficult time.’
‘I’m not here to cause you trouble, Monsieur Becker.’
‘It was a difficult time. I had no choice. The Vichy Government took over everything. Food was scarce. Everything seemed to stop, except the war and the German occupation. They offered good jobs to anyone who could speak German. They gave me a uniform, a good salary. I was assigned to various SS commanders during the war.’
‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. You were there as a translator.’
‘But I can’t help you. I was a translator for four years. I translated for the SS commanders hundreds and hundreds of times. I don’t see how I can help you with one case.’
‘We were on a bus outside Dunkirk. The German army was coming. Hava and I – that’s my friend, her name is Hava – she and I escaped on the last bus from Dunkirk. We thought we were free.’
‘Dunkirk? That was at the very beginning of the war.’
‘Yes, the planes were bombing Brussels. Hava and I were looking for her family. The Nazis were coming. We escaped Brussels in May 1940.’
‘I had just begun my work for the Germans.’
‘We were in a bus, miles from Dunkirk. Hava and I fell asleep and suddenly we were awoken by a man in a black uniform, who was demanding identification. He didn’t speak French. You must remember, Monsieur Becker. There was a soldier with a machine gun and he couldn’t speak French either. The SS officer ordered the soldier with the gun to fetch the translator. You were the translator. Don’t you remember? Hava had blonde hair. You must remember. You’re the only link to her I have. Do you remember? Do you know where they took her?’
Joseph Becker looked at me and again he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. ‘The reason I do remember, Mademoiselle Lyon, is because of her hair. There weren’t many blonde Jewish girls. And also because that was my very first assignment. What was her name?’
‘Hava Daniels. Do you know where she was taken?’
He paused, then mumbled, ‘Auschwitz.’