Shattered Crystals by Mia Amalia Kanner (management books to read .TXT) 📖

“It is too dangerous for me to harbor a German Jew.”

Our destination in Limoges was a distance from the section where the farmer had set us down. The person we wanted to see was Rabbi Deutsch, who resided in an altogether different part of the city. The Rabbi was the leader of the Jewish community in Limoges and the person most likely to do something for us.

He had been the head of the Jewish Community in the Alsatian capital of Strasbourg on the Franco-German border. When war broke out in 1939, he fled to Limoges, taking some of his students with him. Others followed on their own. Sal already knew the rabbi. They had met while he was still in Montintin when Sal had been sent to Limoges as a messenger for the OSE.

We walked at an even pace, not speaking much, but taking care to converse in French when we did. After all the weeks in the mountains, I was no longer used to the cacophony of the city traffic. The rumbling of trucks and the clatter of carts startled me, but I was happy to see so many people. Perhaps I should have been worried, but I felt so alive I did not want to remember that we were still fugitives.

In an hour, we came to the premises where Rabbi Deutsch had his shteibel. Services were in progress and we heard the men singing Hallel. We realized it was Succos. What was happening to us? How could we have lost track of the calendar?

Sal immediately entered the shul to join the men in prayer. I found a seat behind the mechitzah. The small section curtained-off for women was almost empty. During the weeks in the forest, it never occurred to me that when at last I would sit again on a chair and indoors under a roof, it would be in shul.

I had tears in my eyes as I followed the familiar prayers. “Give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good; His Loving kindness endureth forever.”

At the end of the service, we joined the line of congregants to greet the rabbi.

“Good yom tov, Rabbi, good yom tov,” Sal said.

Jews no longer appeared publicly where they did not belong, but Rabbi Deutsch showed no surprise at all at seeing us. “Go upstairs in the house to my study and wait for me,” he said. “We’ll talk there. I must make Kiddush; then I will come.”

Some of the Rabbi’s students lived in the house with him. Others learned and ate there and found sleeping quarters at the homes of French Jews around the city. I could not imagine how the rabbi managed to protect his students from arrest. By coming here, we were adding to the rabbi’s burden. We came, nevertheless, because we believed that if anyone could help us, it would be him.

“So you have come out,” Rabbi Deutsch said when he joined us in the study. “I had heard you were living in the forest. That must have been very difficult.”

“We were so worried about the coming cold, now that winter is near,” I said.

“Ah, yes,” the rabbi agreed. “So now you have to get yourselves readjusted to living with people. Tonight you can sleep here, but just tonight. You cannot stay longer because you would soon be noticed among the young men.”

I moaned, unable to stifle my disappointment. I had barely begun to absorb the rabbi’s sympathetic understanding, when he uttered the words, “just tonight.” My head began to throb.

The rabbi spoke reassuringly. “I can see you are worried, but please remember that there are Jews in the city here who will help you.”

I chided myself for my lack of faith. Three months of isolation had rendered me impatient; I had forgotten how to listen. “Forgive me, Rabbi.”

“Of course. Do you know Levy? He is one of the OSE directors. He may be able to do something for you. Also, here is a list of cafes where you can eat, and a list of homes where you can spend a few hours. It is very difficult to find any place where you can stay, but we shall make every effort. In the meantime, memorize the list. You will find Jews in all these places. Just don’t call attention to yourself by going to any one place too often. You’ll also need some money. Please come back after yom tov when I can see to it. I shall pray to Hashem for your safety.”

Then he rose and invited us to the seudah.

More than a dozen men sat silently at two oblong tables. They rose when Rabbi Deutsch walked in and remained standing until after Hamotzi. When I heard the berachah, all the fear and the privations of the forest faded from my mind. The blessing of bread was the first prayer I learned as a child. I had said it hundreds of times, but never did it have more meaning.

The students made room for Sal and me, and we ate a meal of bread, potato salad, vegetable salad and a single thin slice of sausage. A bowl of apples was offered around the table for dessert. To me, this simple repast was a great banquet. I was sitting at a table in the company of others for the first time in three months. I was eating with a knife and fork. It was not necessary to ration the amount I could eat. Offered a second helping of salads, I declined. “It is excellent, but I have had enough, thank you,” I said. It was true. My body could not tolerate a normal-sized meal.

Rabbi Deutsch cautioned us not to delay seeing Levy, so we went that afternoon. We sought him out with some trepidation. I feared the OSE officials would not approve our unilateral decision to stop sheltering in the forest.

Thank God Levy was sympathetic. Like Rabbi Deutsch, he showed no surprise at all when he saw us.

“Welcome!” he said warmly. “I hear you have been hiding in the forest for three months. That’s very courageous.”

“It was difficult,” Sal said.

“There are problems in the city as well. You must be careful. We do not know all our enemies. A bounty is paid to any person who recognizes you and reports you.”

He must have noticed my anxiety. “Now, don’t worry too much,” he said. “Come and see me every three or four days. You are part of our OSE organization. We will do our best to work something out for you.”

We lived precariously from one day to the next. Wary of the sound of footsteps, we learned to glance furtively around and behind. Perhaps we had been safer in the forest, but in the city we were less alone. With friends nearby, I felt less at the mercy of the police and the Nazis.

As he had promised, Rabbi Deutsch gave us some money. We had come to Limoges with the little I had earned as a cook for the OSE. Although we were careful about the money we spent in the cafes, it did not take us long to use up my savings.

Eating in cafes, we lingered over simple meals or a drink, warming to the sounds of voices like our own. Following Rabbi Deutsch’s instructions, we carefully varied our choice of eating place. It was obvious to us that others were also making the rounds, and after two or three days, the faces of our fellow patrons became familiar to us. Still, we said little to anyone though we listened attentively for bits of news that might be helpful to us.

The name Simon Herbst came up one afternoon. “He has moved into a house at the edge of the city with his wife and daughter,” a man near us was saying.

“Sal,” I said. “That’s Herman’s cousin.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Sal said. “I met Simon Herbst and his wife soon after I arrived in Paris at the beginning of 1939.”

We finished our ersatz coffee and began our walk to the Herbst residence. We arrived at the large single-family house in mid-afternoon.

It never occurred to me that we would not be welcomed. Everyone we had met in Limoges had been understanding and helpful to us. But when Sal knocked on the door, I began to have doubts. What made me think we could appear unannounced at the home of a person with whom we had only a tenuous relationship?

Simon’s wife Gita recognized Sal at once and greeted him like an old friend. “Come in, come in. I was just sitting down. You must join me for tea.”

Sal introduced me, and Gita said, “Actually, we are related in a way. Please, make yourselves comfortable while I take the baby out of the crib. I think she is awake. Then I’ll make coffee and we can talk.”

Gita was perhaps ten years younger than I was. She was tall and lively, with sparkling, large, brown eyes. It happens sometimes that two people feel immediately at ease with each other. So it was with Gita and me. We liked each other right away.

“Simon will be home about six-thirty,” she said. “Stay and eat dinner with us.”

“Thank you, but only if you will let me help you in the kitchen,” I said.

“Fine,” Gita said. “Then I can feed the baby. Oh, I have to stop calling Anni ‘baby!’ There’s going to be another one in the spring.” Gita picked up