childhood had been fraught with fantasies of a different life. Catering to loud-mouthed fools, many of them Jews – cleaning their beds and bathrooms, serving their meals – it had never been for him. He needed more excitement, and he craved the deference, even fear, from others that he now enjoyed.
His hard work had gained him the rank of Captain two years earlier, just after the Germans invaded and occupied the north of France, and the Vichy regime was established to “rule” in the south. Now, having retained that position despite increasing Nazi influence over Vichy, he has what he always wanted: respect. Not only do his fellow officers and civilians revere him, even the Gestapo treats him with dignity, though he knows that is ephemeral. In his heart, he actually hates the Germans, as any self-respecting Frenchman must, but he also realizes that doing their bidding is the only way to maintain his life as it is. He must demonstrate his cooperation.
What does it matter to him, rounding up a bunch of slimy Jews for a bunch of equally slimy Germans? At least this way, France will finally be rid of one of its oldest scourges. Then, when the liberation comes – his country is always, sooner or later, liberated – all of France will belong once again to the French.
He looks at his men, expecting weariness in their eyes, yet they appear eager, waiting for his command. He wonders if this is because they know this is the last house of the day, or if they are beginning to enjoy themselves.
Including him, there are ten Frenchmen, four Gestapo police and their chief. The Nazis are spread too thinly throughout Europe; this is all they could spare for a city the size of Lyon. But he knows reinforcements are on their way.
“Proceed!” he orders.
At once, the Vichy and Gestapo policemen approach the house. They are not storming, this is not a military operation, nor do they anticipate any resistance. The Jews acquiesce so pitifully , he muses, though he knows they have no other options. He wonders how the banker’s wife will look when she sees he is in charge of all this.
He and the Gestapo chief remain in the street, watching. One of the men pounds on the door, yelling, “Open up, this is the police.”
He observes the banker open the door and the men force their way in. He hears the wife scream, “What is this?” And he no longer wonders what her screams would sound like. His men scamper throughout the house, as two Gestapo officers escort the banker and the wife out to the street.
The Gestapo chief steps up to the couple, looks each of them in the eye, and asks, “Where are your children?”
He watches carefully. This part he chooses to leave to the Germans; they are so adept at being cruel.
“They are visiting their cousins in Switzerland for the summer,” the banker responds.
“Liar!” the Gestapo chief yells as he whips the butt of his pistol across the man’s face.
The man falls to the ground.
He looks at the banker’s wife, wondering if she even recognizes him. She is absorbed in her fear and gives no indication. “I am the policeman you refused to sleep with,” he wants to say. Instead, he appears indifferent.
The Gestapo chief turns to her, “Where are your children?”
She remains silent. The banker is on his knees, spitting blood, but manages the words: “I told you, they are not here.”
He knows the banker is lying, as does the Gestapo chief. The children cannot be in Switzerland for the summer because that would have required transit papers, and there is no record of any such papers.
“I will ask one more time,” the Gestapo chief says.
“They are in Switzerland,” the wife finally says, tears flowing from her eyes. “We got them travel papers, illegal ones, forged. We paid heavily for them, there is no record.”
He ponders this. He knows there has been an underground market in travel papers for Jews. Now, perhaps, he has an opportunity to crack the ring and find the
His hard work had gained him the rank of Captain two years earlier, just after the Germans invaded and occupied the north of France, and the Vichy regime was established to “rule” in the south. Now, having retained that position despite increasing Nazi influence over Vichy, he has what he always wanted: respect. Not only do his fellow officers and civilians revere him, even the Gestapo treats him with dignity, though he knows that is ephemeral. In his heart, he actually hates the Germans, as any self-respecting Frenchman must, but he also realizes that doing their bidding is the only way to maintain his life as it is. He must demonstrate his cooperation.
What does it matter to him, rounding up a bunch of slimy Jews for a bunch of equally slimy Germans? At least this way, France will finally be rid of one of its oldest scourges. Then, when the liberation comes – his country is always, sooner or later, liberated – all of France will belong once again to the French.
He looks at his men, expecting weariness in their eyes, yet they appear eager, waiting for his command. He wonders if this is because they know this is the last house of the day, or if they are beginning to enjoy themselves.
Including him, there are ten Frenchmen, four Gestapo police and their chief. The Nazis are spread too thinly throughout Europe; this is all they could spare for a city the size of Lyon. But he knows reinforcements are on their way.
“Proceed!” he orders.
At once, the Vichy and Gestapo policemen approach the house. They are not storming, this is not a military operation, nor do they anticipate any resistance. The Jews acquiesce so pitifully , he muses, though he knows they have no other options. He wonders how the banker’s wife will look when she sees he is in charge of all this.
He and the Gestapo chief remain in the street, watching. One of the men pounds on the door, yelling, “Open up, this is the police.”
He observes the banker open the door and the men force their way in. He hears the wife scream, “What is this?” And he no longer wonders what her screams would sound like. His men scamper throughout the house, as two Gestapo officers escort the banker and the wife out to the street.
The Gestapo chief steps up to the couple, looks each of them in the eye, and asks, “Where are your children?”
He watches carefully. This part he chooses to leave to the Germans; they are so adept at being cruel.
“They are visiting their cousins in Switzerland for the summer,” the banker responds.
“Liar!” the Gestapo chief yells as he whips the butt of his pistol across the man’s face.
The man falls to the ground.
He looks at the banker’s wife, wondering if she even recognizes him. She is absorbed in her fear and gives no indication. “I am the policeman you refused to sleep with,” he wants to say. Instead, he appears indifferent.
The Gestapo chief turns to her, “Where are your children?”
She remains silent. The banker is on his knees, spitting blood, but manages the words: “I told you, they are not here.”
He knows the banker is lying, as does the Gestapo chief. The children cannot be in Switzerland for the summer because that would have required transit papers, and there is no record of any such papers.
“I will ask one more time,” the Gestapo chief says.
“They are in Switzerland,” the wife finally says, tears flowing from her eyes. “We got them travel papers, illegal ones, forged. We paid heavily for them, there is no record.”
He ponders this. He knows there has been an underground market in travel papers for Jews. Now, perhaps, he has an opportunity to crack the ring and find the
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