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Chapter Text

July 13th, 1935.

Despite my efforts, the scene at dinner is tense. I act as though nothing is wrong. Putting on a face, I open my mouth, about to comment on the lovely weather. Emil, my husband of nearly five months, shoots me a look, signaling to me that he doesn’t want to hear it. As a french immigrant, it took a while for me to adjust to Emil’s to-the-point nature. At home we make small talk, we dance around subjects, we try to ease one another’s tension. Sure, we’re a bit more direct than say, the Italiens, but compared to the people here in Germany…

Despite the cultural differences, I adjusted to Emil’s nature, and he to mine. He accepts my affections and entertains my tangents, and I in turn fold to the common culture publicly, and do not take offence when my husband does not return my affection with equal enthusiasm. We make these sacrifices because we love one another. Besides, in those rare moments when Emil breaks his stoicism, and sheepishly displays his love in the most adorable gestures…! I could not love him more.

Months into our relationship, I expressed to him my doubts, sharing that I believed I loved him much more than he loved me. He stoically denied the claim. Two days later, I arrived at my apartment to find three very large bouquets of flowers, along with an awkwardly written note expressing his equally shared love in the funniest of terms. When I saw him again that night, he wore the most adorable blush! We step out of our comfort zones, we make sacrifices, because we love one another.

We are in tense times here in Germany. Emil and I began our relationship in 1932. Even then, things were difficult, but for different reasons. For financial reasons. Now, politics are our main obstacle. At this point in our marriage, Emil and I should be settling in, preparing for our future family. There is no space for that now. I am a French jew, the threat of deportation has been looming over me since the revocation of my citizenship. I do not want to leave. I want to wait this out so I can have the life I dream of with Emil. As a German, Emil has faced non-stop pressure to end our marriage. He says nothing, but I know it’s getting worse and worse the more time goes on. It terrifies me. Tense and consumed by stress, my husband has not made any of his usual acquiesces. I in turn, have been making more than ever, terrified that he will listen to everyone around him and decide to leave me. This can never happen. I love him too much. We have to get through this period. I overcompensate now. I try to be the perfect wife for him. Even so, I feel him getting more distant.

I want my husband back. I want these tense times to end. I know he hates this party as much as I. They must lose their power and our marriage must endure. Besides, if he leaves me now, how could I protect myself with no rights of my own?

September 22nd, 1935.

Emil is an even-tempered man. He does not partake in exaggerated displays of joy, nor intense bouts of anger. Tonight is a first.

We are standing in the kitchen. My hands grab fistfulls of my skirt’s fabric, arms taught at my sides. He is screaming in my face.
“YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE KIND OF PRESSURE IM IN RIGHT NOW!!” He yells. I’m not arguing with him. I have not yelled or provoked him in any way. I don’t know why he is screaming at me. He continues,
“YOU GOD DAMN JEW!!” He yells. That’s what this is about. Of course that’s what this is about. I was just confused before. Now I'm scared and hurt as well. Is he going to hurt me? I have never wondered this before, but I do now.

As suddenly as the screaming began, it stops. I expect him to storm away, but he stays with me in our kitchen. I get the sense that he does not want to leave things this way. I don’t know what to do or say. I’m afraid that whatever I choose to do will anger him again, so I stay still and look at his boots. Emil was never one to show strong emotions. I force my feet to stay planted as he walks quickly and suddenly to me. I don’t know what I expected him to do, but I am surprised and relieved when he pulls me into a hug. My heart melts and I cry very softly, very quietly. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t apologise. I wait for the apology. I would like to demand my apology, but I don’t. I cannot make a move he may not like. I have to make him stay with me until this is all over. It pains me not to stand up for myself, but I stay still and silent until I find the courage to return his hug, further relieved when it does not provoke any further reaction. I realise at this moment, this is the most intimate contact we’ve had in an entire month.

September 22nd, 1936.

I haven’t left the house in a very long time. Under the Nuremberg laws, the marriage Emil and I have is seen as invalid. Not only as a jew but as a frenchwoman, if I am stopped, I am likely to be deported. So, I stay home and make sure everything is perfect for when Emil arrives. There can be nothing worth complaining about here. When he is home, I don’t speak as much. I fear that my french accent has begun to irritate him. I wish so badly I could sound like any other German. He has never said it, but I get the feeling my voice is just another stressor. I pace a bit as I wait anxiously for Emil to come back home. Sometimes he comes home very late. On those nights, I don’t ask where he has gone. I don’t think he wants me to.

March 13th, 1937.

Emil has left for a three month tour in the Wehrmacht. Mandatory service. I cannot rely on him for anything now that he is gone. He used to accompany me to the grocery store, always. When he didn’t want to, I would beg until he agreed. Despite this rough patch in our marriage, he doesn’t want to see me hurt. I know in my heart he is just as anxious to move past this situation as I. Still, I haven’t found the courage to suggest a move. Despite our hatred for this government, he is still a patriotic man. At first, I did not go. I went hungry for a while, as it is still too cold for plants in the garden. Now, I’ve finally found the courage, a week and six days into his service. I wish I could have convinced him to accompany me right before he left, or I would not have to go so soon. I walk the streets, trying to look natural, normal, not anxious. In my head I tell myself, ‘I am German’ and walk with a straight back. I do not go to the store in my own neighbourhood. They know me. I go to the next town over. No one suspects a thing. I’ve never been more grateful for the lack of small talk in Germany.

May 18th, 1937.

Once again, I am in the next town over, my head held high, my walk at a quick even pace, giving no chance for anyone to stop me, not that anyone ever has. The more time passes, the more dangerous Germany feels. I see more police patrolling the streets and even some SS men. I’m not sure of their role, I would have to ask Emil when he returns, but I once saw them raiding the house of what I assumed to be a jewish family, based on their appearance. The sight struck me to my core, and I fear them greatly. There is more casual antisemitism appearing now too. It’s more and more frequent that I see governmental flyers and graffiti condemning the jews. It’s clear now more than ever I have to get out of Germany. It will pass, and we can perhaps return when it will, but even through the recent struggles in our marriage, Emil would be able to understand I cannot live in such fear. These thoughts of mine are so consuming that I don’t see a group of seemingly Jewish men being forced into a truck until it is right in front of me. There are two SS men in the large group of police. I cannot keep the look of shock and horror off my face and it is noticed. I see other German women on their way, they cross the street and look ahead. I should have been paying attention. I should have done that instead. An officer takes in my expression and addresses me, but I don’t hear him in my sudden panic. There is a voice in my head telling me to stay calm, that panic will only make me look suspicious, will only condemn me. Fight or flight takes over and without my permission, I run as fast as I can the other way. I hear two sets of footsteps behind me, catching up.
“Halt!” one yells. My mind is jumping from one thought to another. What is my best option here? They will catch up to me if I keep running. I come to a sudden, brazen stop and barely have time to look at the police in terror as I am thrown to the ground. I see Germans around me puzzled by the spectacle. An officer tackling a woman? The officers must have taken note of this as well, as they stood up off me and helped me up. One stood being me and the other in front.
“Papers?” one asks. I don’t have any. I tell him and there is no hiding my french accent. The officers decide to take me into the station. I want my husband.

May 2nd, 1939.

It’s been almost two years since my deportation back to France. I do not miss the fear and the ostracisation I experienced in Germany. I miss my partner, my Emil. Not the one consumed by stress, fear and anger, but the one I dreamed to have a life with beforehand. I write to him, finally feeling free enough to express my true emotions now that I am safe. I express my sorrow for our situation and reaffirm my commitment to our marriage. I make sure he knows I have not abandoned him, and try to prove wrong the poison his government tries to feed him with the power of my love. I do not believe he has received my letters, as I receive no response. The German government must censor them. It makes me so angry! I wish I had the power to simply march in there and take back my husband. I was supposed to have a family by now! How could I let that go? The few relatives I have left hold me at night as I cry and I bask in their comfort. In the back of my head, I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

September 1st, 1939.

Germany invades Poland.

September 3d, 1939.

France and England declare war on Germany.

Chapter Text

September 3d, 1939.

France and England have declared war on Germany.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my husband. My relatives, those supporting me, have done a good job at piercing through my stubborn devotion. They know the story. They know my past. It took one drunken night to go through it all, from beginning to what I know now might be the end. While gasping for breath through my sobs I expressed to them how much I wanted things to work. How I didn’t want to let go.

Growing up, I had always wanted a best friend. In books I would read of girls huddling up together, sharing beds, secrets and stories. I never had that. I always found myself in big groups, never connecting with one person in particular. When I found Emil, he was the closest thing I had to a best friend. It wasn’t just like the stories. I’ve gone over the adjustments we’ve had to make for one another, but in the end I preferred it that way. Choosing to make those adjustments reinforced that we were choosing one another, every day. That’s beautiful. After I had poured out my heart and soul on that hazy night, I felt for the first time the smallest grain of acceptance that I may not see him again. This seed grew until arguments back and forth could be formed in my head. It’s been years now. The possibility that I may not see him again has pushed me to grow my identity once more as an individual, instead of as a unit. I’ve been branching out for the first time in a long time. My aunt and uncle run a coffee shop, a less than five minute walk from the flat I now share with my cousin Mélodie. They were kind enough to offer me a job as a waitress, which I gratefully accepted. Still, despite the growth, I never really let go. I can’t. Not yet. I need more time. Or I need him. Either option would work. I’ve thought of him often since Germany declared war on Poland. Is he fighting? I don’t believe he would devote his time or his precious life to the cause of his corrupt government. He is too much of a patriot for that. A true patriot. Though, there is a chance he could have been conscripted. Were they sending drafted men to fight? Unable to quell my obsessions, every morning since September first I’ve huddled by the kitchen radio listening anxiously while awaiting the newspaper. It wasn’t until 7:00pm this evening that I heard the news that all in France and England have been awaiting. We are now at war with Germany. I was working when the news broke. Our coffee shop does not play radio music, we have a live pianist instead. Nonetheless, it did not take long for me to find out. I was serving an older couple, Jean-Paul and Jeanne Bernard, regulars in our establishment. As I turned to leave, Jeanne stopped me with the lightest touch from her hand to mine. She looked me in the eyes in a cautious but kind way.
“Ma fille,” she said softly. Our wait staff included three girls, I was the oldest. She addressed all of us as such.
“I’ve just heard the news.” she said gently. She had a deep, emotional expression on her face. She knew my husband was in Germany. I had told her before. Though she never said what she meant, I knew immediately. I felt as though every emotion I had read from her passed to me through her touch, with twice the intensity. My still outstretched hand began to shake. A newspaper boy ran through the street waving the paper, yelling at the top of his lungs
“France and England declare war on Germany! We are at war!”. Those who had been in the shop for quite some time had not yet heard the news, and looked up in shock. Some left to buy a paper, digging through their bags frantically to find the money to pay for their coffees and pastries. The woman held my hand for a few more seconds. I couldn’t have told you why, but my eyes began to water. Mme. Jeanne gestured to the back room for employees and said, in her same soft voice,
“Go,”. I sped through the dining hall, past the kitchen into the small empty hallway that held the bathroom and an additional exit, where I stand now. My hands are still shaking, but I’ve blinked back my tears and I am not crying. So many thoughts are passing through my head, fighting to get ahead. Of course, all are about him. First, I think of his safety. Germany alone is no match for France and England and with Poland, they will be fighting a war on two fronts. Still, that horrible Nazi government won’t hesitate to fight to the death. I’ve heard their rhetoric first hand. Emil will likely have to fight, unless he can find a way out of it. If he is still in Germany. He must be. If he had made it out, he would have looked for me here. Is he allowed out? I know he has not been receiving my letters, but is it not strange that after all this time he never came to look for me here? Does he think I am dead? Would he not look here to make sure? Does he have the means to come? I want answers. I know him. He is my husband and my best friend. There has to be a reason I haven’t heard from him. It’s not until now that I’ve ever considered he may not be okay. Perhaps he tried to rebel, or someone told the Gestapo of his opposing views and he was imprisoned? I briefly think back to that night he screamed at me, calling me a “god damn jew”. No. That wasn’t him. That was the pressure. It was them. He must still be concerned for me now. I don’t know his situation. I need to know. I can’t move on until I know he’s safe. I’ve been spending all this time in France trying to move on but I will never stop thinking about him until I know what happened. If something terrible happened to me, he would not think I abandoned him, even if we left on sour terms. I still love him. I don’t imagine it will take long for France to defeat Germany. When they lose, perhaps Premier Ministre Reynaud will force that awful Hitler to abdicate, and I will find him again. I hate the thought of having to wait until then, but is there any other option? What else can I do? Will I have to wait here while his life could be ended at any moment, after I’ve vowed to try and find him one last time, once and for all? I tear up again. My aunt Lisanne, the baker, finds me in the hall. Her hands have just been washed. She must have done so hastily, because there are still remnants of dough under her nails, when she is usually very thorough. She takes off her apron and hangs it up with the others in the far end of the hall.
“I’m on an early break.” She says simply. She stands in front of me. I am short, but she is even shorter, so when I fall into her in a tight hug, I cry into her hair and shoulder, soaking her dress.
“Will he be okay?” I ask brokenly.
“Pray for it, Yvonne.”

September 17th, 1939.

Mélodie and I are spending our Sunday morning cleaning the house. We have only a single radio, and it is being played loudly so that we can hear it in any room we clean. Our neighbours have not complained. It is the least I can do to stay informed. The anticipation of France’s invasion makes me sick to my stomach. Mélodie says it may not happen. Perhaps we have not attacked because our governments are negotiating, finding a peaceful solution. I acknowledge the possibility, but as someone who’s witnessed the rise of the Nazi Party, I can’t help but think their leader would use any time he has available to prepare and position his troops. If that is indeed the case, it would mean the swift war will be dragged out further, leading to more death on both sides. I volunteer to mop our bathroom and kitchen floors so that I can channel my frustration into the task. It’s much easier to do that mopping than say, dusting or glass cleaning. I begin with the bathroom as Mélodie prepares to take out the trash. We both stop in our tracks however, when the radio announces that Russia has invaded Poland as well. Poland is doomed. I know it. Poland will fall and France and Britain will have done nothing yet. This is bound to trigger France's invasion. Mélodie and I just look at one another, saying nothing. She offers to do the mopping.
“No thank you. I want to mop. It’s good for me now. I’m just…give me a moment…” I go to grab a paper and pen as she leaves to take out the garbage. I want to write to Emil. Before I put pen to paper, I think about all of the potential obstacles this letter would encounter, finding its way to Emil. I think of my success thus far. Technically, none of my letters have been sent back to my address. Is he even at the same address? I’d better send it to his parents, I think. I position my pen to greet him at the top of the page. I cannot make myself write. Overcome by frustration, I throw the pen on the paper. Consequently, a line of ink forms on the paper. I put the pen and excess paper away, throwing out the ruined page when Mélodie returns with the bin. Mélodie turns off the radio as I begin mopping again. I would like to argue, but I cannot find the words and stay silent. Mélodie plays the violin. Usually, she replays the same portions of the same songs over and over again as she practices. Today, she plays full songs of mourning she has never played before. I am not passionate about music, so it takes me some time to realise she plays only Germanic songs. Mélodie thinks it’s important to face your emotions. This is her way to support me. Despite her choice in music, the neighbours still do not complain.

October 6th, 1939.

Poland has fallen.

May 10th, 1940.

The past few months have been some of the worst in my life, as I am filled with only dread. I cannot stand the waiting. I think only of the war. I cannot read about anything else. I cannot listen to any radio or television entertainment, though music has guided my sadness as it never has before. I wish that Mélodie would share a bed with me at night. Like best friends. Though I’m sure she would do so for me, I know her well enough to know she would be uncomfortable, which would make me uncomfortable in turn. When there is no more news to read, I do mindless tasks. There are only so many shifts to take at the cafe, so I take on a second job as a cleaning woman for other residents in our building. At night, I put Mélodie’s dry, straight hair into small, careful braids, leaving cute indents for her in the morning. I do this because I cannot do nothing any longer. My nervous energy must go somewhere. She receives many complements. I engage in small talk, though rarely carry a conversation effectively, as all I can think about is the war, so all I would talk about is the war. When strangers speak of it on the streets, I stop and listen. On the rare occasions those I know are brave enough to bring up the topic. When this happens, It’s difficult for me to stop talking, and when I do it is usually to hear the answers of the many questions I ask, eager to hear a perspective I have not already considered. Today, Mélodie and I are visiting her parents, my aunt and uncle. My mother, who had moved to Norway shortly after I had left for Germany, is due to arrive at any minute. She is staying for the week, motivated by the concerns my aunt and uncle have shared over their letters. I am permitted to turn on their radio until her arrival, after which my family insists we must remain present. My aunt and cousin are in the kitchen, finishing up a charcuterie board. They politely decline my offer to help, knowing I would rather sit with my uncle, who is seated next to the radio. When breaking news occurs, he leans in to focus with the same intensity as I. The broadcaster apologizes for the delay of the news, citing previous governmental confusion as he confirms that in the early morning hours,
“...Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands have been invaded by the German armed forces. This is believed to be the first step in an attempt to invade our country, as it was in the first world war. We are prepared, we are determined, we are united and we will have our victory as we did years ago, only more swiftly. Thank you, and long live France.”

My aunt placed the board on the living room table and Mélodie set down the wine, along with a few glasses. Just then, my mother entered. When no one made a move to turn off the radio, I did it myself, and hugged my mother.

June 14th, 1940.

German troops are coming. We have been warned and advised to evacuate. As my family is Jewish, we have taken the warning very seriously. We left our homes early in the morning, as many others did. We packed two bags each, one going into a small wagon and the other carried by hand. We made our way toward Vichy France, the unoccupied puppet state of our country. From there, my uncle says we can make our next move. We don’t know anyone from that region of the country. First, we have to cross that border, which is expected to be a walk of about two hours, as we are rather close. From there, we can take a train. To where exactly? We’re not yet certain. This was all a rushed affair. I have a feeling the first part of our travels may take longer than expected however. Not because so many people are going the same way. No, we can an even pace with them all. It will take longer because at this moment, we’re all completely still, lined up on the side of the road. Apparently, someone further up the line was advised by the German troops themselves to make way for their machinery. I have not yet seen them myself, but the idea of them passing us makes me uneasy. I cover my face with my hands.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” I say to no one in particular.
“I’m sure it won’t take them too long.” My aunt replied, squeezing my shoulder. That’s not what I meant. I can’t believe all of this is happening. How could France have fallen so quickly? I hear the sound of boots marching in unison and the deep rumble of motorbikes and troop trucks. I whip my head to my right to see the incoming army. Those travelling with children attempt to calm them down, as they are startled by the unfamiliar sounds. People automatically move back further from the streets as the soldiers come into view. Instead of anger, our fellow travellers look on with awe, with the occasional face full of fear to break the pattern. I don’t want to look but I watch as the whole procession passes me by. They look good. They have nice uniforms and they march with precision. A few on motorbikes wave a friendly hello as they pass. When the last of the troops leave, some families start negotiating with one another, questioning whether they should go back. In France, there were a fair bit of stories of German barbariansism after the great war, as our fathers came home with missing limbs and scars.
“They don’t seem barbaric,” a woman tells her husband, holding on to his arm and looking into his eyes. He looks uncertain. I know better. A few people start to make their way once more. A few go back the other way. I know better.
“Should we get a move on then?” I ask my family. My aunt nods and our group makes our way once more.

October 2nd, 1940.

It took only a day for our family to find a small flat after we moved. There are only two rooms, so Mélodie and I share one. Her small bed is on one end, mine is on the other. It would have remained this way until we could find the finances to move somewhere more accommodating, however, I am now convinced we won’t have the chance. My uncle is gone to work for the day and Mélodie is off job hunting. I rush to the kitchen where I find my aunt making some bread.
“Matante! They're here!” I tell her. I feel so horribly nervous I can’t stop my hands from shaking. She looks surprised and moves to wash the flour off her hands. There is a knock on the door. I look at my aunt questioningly. She nods her head and calmly says,
“Go, open it. Be polite.”. There is another, more aggressive knock before I reach the door.
“Can I help you?” I ask in a bright tone, hoping no one notices my shaking. They don’t, because they’re not looking at me, but over me, ahead into the house. They step past me uninvited. A few go and search the apartment. It doesn’t take long, as there are only five small rooms and one hall. My aunt is taken by the upper arm to the front door, where I still stand. The men in our home do not wear any uniform, but there are Nazi pins on their leather coats. A tall pale brunette turns to me. He seems to be in charge.
“Are you Yvonne Lenoux?” He asks me in a thick German accent. I can’t help but be offended.
“I am Yvonne Vogel, Lenoux is my maiden name.” I correct him. He turns to confirm the identity of my aunt.
“Where is your husband?” He asks her.
“Working.” She replies curtly. She does not elaborate and he does not ask her to. The tall man signals to his men and we are brought into the backseat of two separate cars. After living in Germany, I know they typically round up all the jews at once, for efficiency. There are more jews here than just us, but we are the only two taken. Perhaps we are targeted because of my time in the invading country. My aunt and I are not driven to the same destination. Her car continues to drive off while mine is parked near a troop truck half full of civilians. My heart leaps in my throat as I see Mélodie in the truck.
“Yvonne!” She yells out when she sees me. The man who sat next to me in the car handed me off to an SS man before fraternizing with an officer. The SS. This isn’t good. This is very bad. After being seated in the truck, I dig my nails into my thighs, supremely nervous.
“Do they have my mother?” Mélodie asks desperately. I turn to her, only just now realising I am crying.
“They took her somewhere else.” I say. Somehow, her face falls further into distress. After a moment of silence, I notice she has a wound on her head.
“I asked too many questions,” She explains, her voice wavering. I dig my nails further into my thighs. After twenty minutes, the truck starts moving. It doesn’t stop until we reach a train station riddled with more officers. Here, we are gently, kindly advised to enter. This is strange. The SS are not this kind. When our car is full, the SS guard assigned to us pulls the curtains down and tells us not to touch them.
“No one needs to see what goes on inside,” He explains. Motivated by the lack of mistreatment, some begin asking the SS man where we are going and where their families have gone. He tells them they will be reunited with their families soon. He says we are going to Germany for work. His answers are always polite. Mélodie is comforted. I am the only one in this car who has not been swayed by this false kindness. Where others see a polite smile, I see a knowing smirk. I wrestle in my head whether I should warn Mélodie that this kindness is a facade, leading us into a false sense of security. Will it matter, in the end? The train stops and starts cryptically, but the curtains are so thick we have no clue where we are going. No one even attempts to touch them. The room is not so crowded that the guard won’t notice. When dinner arrives we are served a nice hot meal. Mélodie doesn’t want to eat, as she is too concerned for her mother. I convince her to eat at least a portion of her meal. I don’t know if I am being paranoid, but I am concerned this may be the last quality meal we will get in a long time. Only after the meal is finished do I worry about potential tampering.

October 4th, 1940.

The train stops at another station. We are guided off. Everyone waits calmly for the next train, no one protesting. Everyone is surprised when the next train pulls up, and a row of cattle cars is dragged along. The group looks at one another questioningly. Suddenly, a cacophony of voices is heard from behind us, then all around us. The SS guards are yelling in German, pushing us into the cars, using the butt of their guns to hit those who protest. Mélodie and I cling to one another, suddenly terrified. We run into a cattle car, desperate to escape the screaming SS men. The car is packed tight with people when the door is finally shut. Mélodie is crying. I am still in shock. An SS soldier jumps on to the side of our car to guard us and the train begins to move. There are two children next to me, belonging to two different families. One little girl is sobbing into her mother’s skirt. The little boy is eerily quiet, with a pale, haunted look on his face, one you might see on a senile old man. It scares me. Mélodie, hugs me tight. I hug her back. I start to cry too.