On 1 September 1939, Hitler invaded Poland with planes, tanks and soldiers, instigating a quick, fast assault intended to shock the country and smooth the way for his continued invasion, known as ‘Blitzkrieg’ (lightning war). The Second World War had begun.
I didn’t know it at the time, but during the first war with Germany my father had belonged to an underground Resistance group called La Dame Blanche – the White Lady. Everyone in Europe had heard of the White Lady, a shadowy ghost who appeared and disappeared just out of the grasp of the enemy. How easy it seemed for the men and women of La Dame Blanche to trick the Germans as they occupied Belgium. The Resistance fighters monitored the enemy’s train movements, blew up bridges in the night, cut telegraph lines, and rescued many soldiers who would otherwise have been taken prisoner. La Dame Blanche was the most successful Resistance movement in Belgium
When the Second World War began, my father still had connections with his former Resistance colleagues from the first war: priests, nuns, former officers . . . So, when Hitler invaded Poland, my father knew even before the people at the newspapers or radio were informed.
‘Blitzkrieg,’ my father said as he sat at the breakfast table, having just ridden Charlotte in the palace gardens. ‘I have just received a communication that Hitler has amassed his tanks and planes and invaded Poland.’
I remember my father sitting at the head of the table, his hair neatly trimmed, his tunic unbuttoned. My father never wore his uniform improperly except at breakfast, when his buttons were not clipped together and his brown braces hung loose.
‘What does Blitzkrieg mean?’ I asked.
‘Lightning war,’ my father explained. ‘We have known for many years that Hitler has been building tanks and planes. Germany lost great portions of land during the First World War. Some say he wants it back. He’s a madman. Blitzkrieg means attacking with speed, surprise, troops, and light tanks.’
I looked at my father across the table. He was suddenly silent as he stirred his coffee. My father spoke about Prussia, the Treaty of Versailles, and how Hitler hated Poland. Then he placed his fork down and said, ‘Not again. We’ve already had one war. Not again.’
I asked my father where the German army was in Poland. He said that Hitler had invaded from the west, the north, and the south. ‘They have planes and fast tanks. Major Roul has relatives in Wlodawa. He says that all communication has ceased from there.’
He stood up from the table, buttoned up his tunic, and said, ‘But don’t worry, my beautiful Simone. Hitler is far away. Now, I’m off to work.’ I saluted, and he leaned over and kissed me on the head. Then I watched him walk down the hall, open the front door, turn, smile, and step out, closing the door gently behind him.
I did not see my father again for four years.
I cleared the table, walked up to my bedroom, and shut the door. We lived in a beautiful, three-storey townhouse. On the second floor we had four bedrooms. One was used as my father’s office, another as a library. My father’s bedroom faced the front of the house, and my room faced the small courtyard behind the house. Each morning I woke up and measured my day based on the sky and the branches of the apple tree.
If, when I first opened my eyes, the sky was blue and the apple leaves still, I knew that the day would be filled with quiet adventure – reading, or writing a letter to my aunt, a chemist who had never married. She collected my letters in a green trunk she kept in her parlour.
If, when I woke, the sky was blue and the leaves were being pushed back and forth by the invisible wind, I imagined that my day would be filled with agitation: my father expecting me to clean my room, Hava jealous that my father had the use of a horse, my own mood deciding I would be unhappy for the rest of my life because I would be a spinster just like my aunt, and would keep letters from a silly, plain 18-year-old niece.
Wlodawa. Wlodawa. I wanted to know, suddenly, how far from my room Wlodawa, in Poland, was. I was afraid of a war entering my life. My father had warned me about its monstrous effects.
I rummaged inside a cupboard where I kept my drawing supplies, my old dolls, books, and used diaries, and retrieved a coloured map of Europe.
I opened the map like a picnic blanket on the floor before my tall mirror. France was yellow. Belgium was green. Germany was brown. Poland was pink. I placed my index finger on Wlodawa, Poland, and my thumb on Brussels. Then I compared the space between my fingers to the numbered scale at the top of the map: 1,100 kilometres.
I looked at the girl in the mirror and said aloud, ‘1,100 kilometres might just as well be as far away as the moon.’ The girl in the mirror smiled back. ‘No army can hurt you, Simone, if it’s 1,100 kilometres away.’