11 July. On that day, a Sabbath, the
Wehrmacht
commander of northern Greece had decreed that all male Jewish citizens of Salonica between the ages of eighteen and forty-five must gather at 8 AM in Plateia Eleftherias, ‘Freedom Square’, to register for civilian labour. Some 10,000 men, Ester’s elderly father Salvador among them, had duly reported in the hope of securing work cards. The Germans had chosen to humiliate the assemblage by keeping them standing in the blistering heat, without hats, until late afternoon. Those who had collapsed from sunstroke had been hosed down with cold water and beaten up; others, ordered to perform arduous exercises until they, too, had passed out, had received similar treatment. These horrific and arbitrary abuses, the lawyer admitted with mortification, had been witnessed, mostly with indifference, sometimes with glee, by a large number of the city’s inhabitants – people who, no doubt, considered themselves good Christians. Worse still, the following day, the newspapers, brandishing photographs supplied by the German army, had praised this attitude. Perhaps even more invidious was the fact that not a single professional organization, nor any members of one, had spoken up on behalf of a Jewish colleague or in protest against the Jews’ maltreatment. But what was even worse was that in Salonica – and nowhere else in the country – there had been many denunciations of Jewish neighbours by the citizens. These denunciations had much to do with Greek nationalism, which still resented the fact that throughout the centuries when Salonica had been an Ottoman city, Jews and Turks had had very harmonious relations. But it must be remembered, the lawyer bitterly lamented, that every institution in Salonica, not to say every citizen, had also worked and maintained close ties with Jews for generations. How could that tradition be forgotten? After all, history had produced only one constant in the Balkans: the Jew’s word as his bond.
To date, the Germans had dispatched most of the men who had assembled on that Saturday to build roads and airfields. What the future held for other Jews, the lawyer dared not imagine. Reports from eastern Thrace and Macedonia augured the worst. The Germans had delegated the administration of these territories to their ally, the Bulgarians; but since the latter kept prevaricating on the matter of surrendering their own Jews, the Germans had decided to deal with the Jews of Thrace and Macedonia themselves. Lately there had been rumours that these unfortunates would be deported
en masse
to Occupied Poland. All of this made the lawyer look back regretfully to the time when the Italians had been the occupying power. The Italians had been humane, often in defiance of Mussolini’s edicts. Throughout their occupation, they had persistently warned the Jews of the Nazis’ racist policies and urged them to leave the country; on many occasions they had even granted Italian passports to those who heeded their advice. Ester might remember one Moiz Hananel, a distant cousin from Rhodes: he was now safe in Chile. But, alas, Ester’s father, Salvador, disinclined to liquidate his considerable investments, had procrastinated. Now, the Italians had gone and Salvador’s wealth had evaporated.
There the lawyer’s letter ended.
Then Bilâl brought out another letter, the latest from Ester’s sister, Fortuna. It was written in French, the lingua franca of the educated Sephardim, and he read it out loud. As might be expected of my Scottish lineage – the antithesis of the insular, monolingual English – I was quite cosmopolitan and spoke several languages fluently.
Fortuna’s letter was like that of a dying person, without a trace of the billowing fury with which she normally faced adversity. Her husband, Zaharya, one of those impressed for road construction, had suffered a heart attack and died. Viktorya and Süzan, her daughters, aged eight and ten, had become the
Wehrmacht
commander of northern Greece had decreed that all male Jewish citizens of Salonica between the ages of eighteen and forty-five must gather at 8 AM in Plateia Eleftherias, ‘Freedom Square’, to register for civilian labour. Some 10,000 men, Ester’s elderly father Salvador among them, had duly reported in the hope of securing work cards. The Germans had chosen to humiliate the assemblage by keeping them standing in the blistering heat, without hats, until late afternoon. Those who had collapsed from sunstroke had been hosed down with cold water and beaten up; others, ordered to perform arduous exercises until they, too, had passed out, had received similar treatment. These horrific and arbitrary abuses, the lawyer admitted with mortification, had been witnessed, mostly with indifference, sometimes with glee, by a large number of the city’s inhabitants – people who, no doubt, considered themselves good Christians. Worse still, the following day, the newspapers, brandishing photographs supplied by the German army, had praised this attitude. Perhaps even more invidious was the fact that not a single professional organization, nor any members of one, had spoken up on behalf of a Jewish colleague or in protest against the Jews’ maltreatment. But what was even worse was that in Salonica – and nowhere else in the country – there had been many denunciations of Jewish neighbours by the citizens. These denunciations had much to do with Greek nationalism, which still resented the fact that throughout the centuries when Salonica had been an Ottoman city, Jews and Turks had had very harmonious relations. But it must be remembered, the lawyer bitterly lamented, that every institution in Salonica, not to say every citizen, had also worked and maintained close ties with Jews for generations. How could that tradition be forgotten? After all, history had produced only one constant in the Balkans: the Jew’s word as his bond.
To date, the Germans had dispatched most of the men who had assembled on that Saturday to build roads and airfields. What the future held for other Jews, the lawyer dared not imagine. Reports from eastern Thrace and Macedonia augured the worst. The Germans had delegated the administration of these territories to their ally, the Bulgarians; but since the latter kept prevaricating on the matter of surrendering their own Jews, the Germans had decided to deal with the Jews of Thrace and Macedonia themselves. Lately there had been rumours that these unfortunates would be deported
en masse
to Occupied Poland. All of this made the lawyer look back regretfully to the time when the Italians had been the occupying power. The Italians had been humane, often in defiance of Mussolini’s edicts. Throughout their occupation, they had persistently warned the Jews of the Nazis’ racist policies and urged them to leave the country; on many occasions they had even granted Italian passports to those who heeded their advice. Ester might remember one Moiz Hananel, a distant cousin from Rhodes: he was now safe in Chile. But, alas, Ester’s father, Salvador, disinclined to liquidate his considerable investments, had procrastinated. Now, the Italians had gone and Salvador’s wealth had evaporated.
There the lawyer’s letter ended.
Then Bilâl brought out another letter, the latest from Ester’s sister, Fortuna. It was written in French, the lingua franca of the educated Sephardim, and he read it out loud. As might be expected of my Scottish lineage – the antithesis of the insular, monolingual English – I was quite cosmopolitan and spoke several languages fluently.
Fortuna’s letter was like that of a dying person, without a trace of the billowing fury with which she normally faced adversity. Her husband, Zaharya, one of those impressed for road construction, had suffered a heart attack and died. Viktorya and Süzan, her daughters, aged eight and ten, had become the
Similar Books
