JEAN-LUC
After four years, the occupation had become a way of life. Some had adapted better than others, but Jean-Luc still woke every morning with a sinking feeling. This morning he dragged himself out of bed to report for duty at Saint-Lazare station, but his boss didn’t hand him his tool sack like he usually did. Instead he stared hard at him. “You have to work at Bobigny today.”
“Bobigny?” Jean-Luc repeated.
“Yes.” His boss looked him in the eye. They both knew what Bobigny meant.
“But I thought it was closed.”
“It is to passenger trains, but it’s open for other uses.” His boss paused, letting the words sink in.
“Next to the transit camp at Drancy?” Jean-Luc’s voice came out as a croak while his pulse raced ahead as he tried to think of a way out.
“Yes. The tracks need maintenance work. We have orders to send six men.” He paused. “Don’t mess around over there. The Boches are in charge of it now. Try not to let them see your hand.”
Jean-Luc had been working for the national railway company, the SNCF, since he had left school six years ago, at the age of fifteen. But like everything else, the railroads belonged to the Germans now. He looked away, shoving his deformed hand into his pocket. He hardly thought about it; having been born with only a finger and a thumb on his left hand hadn’t held him back or prevented him from ever doing anything.
“They don’t like things like that.” His boss’s eyes softened. “You work as well as anyone else, better even, but the Boches like everything… Well, you know. You don’t want them sending you to one of their work camps.”
Jean-Luc took his hand out from his pocket, clasping it with the good one, suddenly self-conscious.
His father had been a good friend of the foreman, and this contact had helped him get his first job despite his handicap. He’d had to work extra hard to prove himself, but it didn’t take long for his colleagues and superiors to realize that his disfigurement had no effect on his dexterity, that he could grip anything between the finger and thumb of his left hand with a firm pincer movement, using his good hand to do the work.
“Do… do I have to go?” He put his hands back in his pockets.
His boss merely raised an eyebrow, then turned around and walked away. Jean-Luc had no choice but to follow him out to the waiting army truck. They shook hands firmly before he got in the back. Five other men were already there; he nodded at them but didn’t speak.
As they drove through the deserted streets, the men glanced around, sizing each other up, their expressions grim. Jean-Luc supposed none of them were very enthusiastic about working so near the notorious camp. Thousands of Jews, some communists, and members of the Résistance had been sent there. No one knew what happened to them afterward, though there were rumors. There were always rumors.
As they sped through the empty streets of Paris and then out northeast toward Drancy, they occasionally passed other military vehicles. Jean-Luc watched the French driver salute them as they passed by. Un collabo! He could tell. It was a game he liked to play with himself—guessing who was collaborating and who wasn’t. Though often the line was blurred. He had friends who got things on the black market. But who was running the black market? Usually it was only the Boches and the collabos who had access to certain goods. It was a gray area, and he himself preferred to only accept items when he knew exactly where they’d come from—a rabbit or a pigeon shot by a friend, or vegetables from a contact with a farm.
A bump in the road jolted him back to the present. Looking up at the other men, he was met with blank stares. Gone were the days of open, easy camaraderie. Gone was the banter of young men out on a new job. A grim silence was all that was left.
Silence. It was a weapon of a kind, and it was the only one Jean-Luc had at his disposal. He refused to talk to the Boches, even when they looked friendly and politely asked him directions. He would simply ignore them. Another thing he did was to take his Métro ticket and fold it into a V shape before dropping it on the ground in one of the tunnels. V for victory. Little acts of defiance were all that were left to him, but they didn’t change anything. He felt desperate to do more.
When the Boches had taken over the SNCF, he’d been quite clear with his parents. “I’m not working for the bastards. I’m quitting,” he’d told them after just a few weeks of the occupation.
“You can’t do that.” His father had laid his hand firmly on his son’s shoulder, an indication that what he was about to say was not up for discussion. “They’ll find some way to punish you. They could send you to fight somewhere. At least you’re in Paris now, and we’re together. Let’s just wait and see how things go.”
Papa. Every time he thought of him, Jean-Luc felt a mixture of shame and longing. He’d done as his father had asked, working under the Boches, but it didn’t sit well with him, causing him to resent Papa for making him conform like that. And in fact, it had been just as he’d imagined it would be: the initial polite friendliness and professionalism of the Boches gradually turning to disdain and superiority. What else could you expect? He had been shocked by the ignorance and naïveté of some people suggesting that they might not be so bad.
Then, in the summer of 1942, they’d done something that left no doubt in anyone’s mind. They’d started to conscript France’s men for Service du Travail Obligatoire —forced labor in Germany. Papa had been one of the first. He’d received the papers one week, and the next he was gone. There hadn’t been enough time nor the words for Jean-Luc to tell him he was sorry for his sullenness, to tell him he loved and respected him. He hadn’t been brought up with the kind of language that spoke of such things.
Glancing out the window, he spotted two enormously tall buildings, at least fifteen floors high. Beyond them was a large U-shaped complex.
“Voilà le camp!” The driver looked at them in his rearview mirror. “It’s pretty ugly, isn’t it? It was built for poor people, but it wasn’t finished when the Germans arrived, and they decided to turn it into this.” He paused. “Poor people.”
Jean-Luc wasn’t sure if he was being ironic or not. His tone was flippant, even mocking.
“There are thousands of Jews waiting to be resettled,” he continued as he turned the corner, shifting gears. “It’s horribly overcrowded.”
Jean-Luc stared back at the U-shaped complex, four stories high, surrounded by barbed-wire fences. Guards with rifles stood watch on top of two lookout towers. “Where are they taking them?” he ventured.
“Germany.”
“Germany?” He tried to make his tone casual.
“Yes. They have plenty of work out there. You know, rebuilding.”
“Rebuilding?” Now he felt like a parrot. But the driver didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes. You know, war damage. The English keep bombing it.”
“What about the women and children? Are they taking them too?”
“Bien sûr. They’ll need someone to do the cooking and housework. It will keep the men happier, don’t you think?”
“But what about the old people?”
The driver stared hard at Jean-Luc in his rearview mirror. “You ask too many questions.”
Jean-Luc looked around at his fellow workmen, wondering what they were thinking, but they were all carefully studying their shoes. For a few more minutes they drove on in awkward silence, then the driver started up again. “The Boches aren’t so bad. They treat you okay as long as you work hard and don’t show any Jewish sympathies. They’ll even drink with you. There’s a nice little café over the road; we often go there for a beer. They love their beer!” He paused. “When I started work here, two years ago, there weren’t any Germans at all, but I guess they thought we weren’t efficient enough, so they sent Brunner and his men over.” He paused. “Well, here we are. You’ll be lodged here.” He turned backward in his seat as he parked in front of one of the high-rises.
The men in the back of the truck glanced at each other, anxiety written across their faces. How long would they be here? Jean-Luc knew that his mother would think he’d been arrested or taken to a work camp. He had to get word to her; she’d be worried sick. There were only the two of them left since his father had been sent to Germany. They had become close, and she relied on him for everything from financial to emotional support. It made him feel protective toward her and had helped him grow into a man.
The guard who met them thrust small backpacks into their hands as they jumped out of the truck, then led the group of men toward one of the blocks. An elevator took them up to their rooms on the fifteenth floor—the top floor. When they looked out the windows, they found themselves facing away from the camp. Jean-Luc gazed up at the gray sky and then down at the tiny roads below, railway tracks weaving their way in and out of the town. But there were no trains to be seen.
He was unpacking the small bag, which contained pajamas and a toothbrush, when a Boche walked in. “Willkommen. Welcome to Drancy.” Jean-Luc dropped the bag on the bed, turning to face him. The soldier’s pale face shone unhealthily, and his thin lips had no color to them. He was young, probably no more than twenty. Jean-Luc wondered what they were doing sending a kid like that to Drancy. Still, he didn’t smile at the soldier or even address him. He just followed him out of the room to the waiting elevator.
The same driver was waiting for them outside in the same army truck. “Salut, les gars!” He spoke as though they were old friends. Jean-Luc loathed him for it.
When they passed in front of the camp this time, Jean-Luc craned his neck, wondering what it was like inside, remembering the stories he’d heard of the interrogations, the deportations. The driver came to a stop in front of a small station, then turned around, throwing blue overalls into their arms.
“Here—you’ll need to wear these. You don’t want to get mixed up with the prisoners!”
As they marched through the station, Jean-Luc wondered why it was so quiet and where all the trains were. His eyes roamed up and down the platform. A brown object caught his attention. He took a couple of steps nearer. It was a teddy bear, squashed flat as though a child had used it for a pillow. Farther down the platform, he saw a book lying open, its pages blowing in the morning breeze.
“Schnell! Schnell!” A hand pushed him in the back. Jean-Luc stumbled forward, toward the other men who were walking into the stationmaster’s house. It was quiet inside, the only sound typewriters clicking away as women in uniform sat with straight backs thumping out words.
“Name?” the Boche behind the front desk barked at him.
“Jean-Luc Beauchamp.”
He wrote it down in his ledger, then looked up at Jean-Luc for a moment too long. Jean-Luc turned his eyes away, embarrassed to be standing there in front of a Boche, reporting for work.
“Work hard. No talking.” The Boche continued to stare at him.
Jean-Luc nodded his comprehension.
“Now, go check the lines. They are bad—bad work. Tools in hut on platform.”
Jean-Luc shrugged a shoulder, turning away without another word.