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

occasionally. It was on one of these visits that she gave me the good news that the Allied Armies had landed in Sicily. I was elated that Allied troops were on the continent.

The summer of 1943 passed, and Rosh Hashanah came. The year before we had spent the High Holidays alone in the mountains. I imagined Sal davening in the Sephardic Synagogue of Toulouse that Rabbi Deutsch had described to me, and I was content.

Then I received a postcard from Sal with a strange and alarming message. “The train I will be on will pass through Limoges next Thursday at three o’clock. I hope to see you. Try your best.”

Why was he leaving Toulouse and the factory? Why did he not say where he was going? Why did he not explain himself?

Before midday, with two meals still to prepare, I said to the cook, “Madame, you must forgive me. I cannot delay even one minute. I must go to Limoges at once.”

Rushing to the Vichy train station, all my thoughts were focussed on the railroads. Would there be a train to Limoges that day? Would I be on time to catch it? Why was Sal’s train passing through Limoges? Most of all, what was he doing on that train? He was supposed to stay in Toulouse. That was what concerned me.

On the train to Limoges I was exhausted from worrying and yearned to sleep, but I knew I must not. Think! I told myself. Think!

What was the meaning of Sal’s cryptic message? There was no doubt that he was in trouble and needed help. That was obvious. Something had gone wrong in Toulouse. I had to find out what had happened. The people at the OSE usually had information, and they had ties to the Resistance movement. I would go to the OSE before rushing to the railroad platform in Limoges. Whatever needed to be done, it would be better not to handle it alone.

The journey seemed endless, but after I decided what to do, I was able to relax a little. I closed my eyes and prayed silently.

When I arrived at the OSE office, Madame Weill was there.

“I need help, Madame,” I said. “My husband is in trouble.”

“Yes, but how did you know?”

I showed her the postcard, and Madame Weill told me what she knew.

On the eve of Yom Kippur, the men from the free camp had gone to the Sephardic Synagogue for Kol Nidre. They had been welcomed by the rabbi and the congregation and returned the following day, remaining for the entire day-long service. There was no indication of any problem, no hint at all.

Before daybreak the following morning, French police burst into their barracks and arrested all the men. “We don’t know yet if they were picked up because they went to the synagogue for Yom Kippur, or if it was an ordinary roundup,” Madame Weill said. “They are being held in a camp between here and Toulouse.”

With those few sentences, Madame Weill confirmed what I feared most. Sal had been arrested again.

She took me by the hand and said, “I cannot imagine how your husband managed to mail a postcard to you. It is remarkable. And useful. Now we know not only that these men are to be moved, but also what train they will be on.”

“What can we do?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but we have two days,” she said.

On Thursday morning Madame Weill told me that she had found no one who had any contacts on the train, but secured this promise: if Sal could get off the train, the Underground would hide him.

She agreed to accompany me to the station though we had no plan of action.

We arrived at the terminal at 2:30 and sat in the waiting room. The train was announced at five minutes to three. For once, there was no delay.

We heard the train, then watched it begin to pull into the station. As it slowed, I saw Sal at the window of the first passenger car. We ran towards his car. When we reached Sal, he was struggling with the window, but could open it only wide enough to put his hand through. “Mia! Madame Weill!” he called, as the train rolled to a stop. We hurried along the platform.

“We have no contacts on the train,” Madame Weill said to Sal. “If you can get off, we will hide you, but you have to get off the train.”

“How?” Sal asked. “There are guards everywhere.”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “You have to get yourself off—the bathrooms, perhaps.”

“No good. The windows are locked,” Sal said.

The engine hissed, and the train began to move. “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “Be careful.”

The train gathered speed, and I started to run along the platform, trying to keep up with it. “Sal!” I cried. “Don’t let them take you!”

Then he was gone as the train disappeared into the distance.

Madame Weill led me out of the station. “Come. Nothing else can be done here. There was never more than the smallest possibility that anything could be managed. Don’t blame yourself.”

“What am I to do?”

“Go back to Vichy. There you have a roof, a bed, and work. We must wait. We must see what happens. If there is news, you will hear from us.”

I lay awake at night. Every night at the OSE home in Vichy was the same. No matter how I tried to divert my thoughts, the same question always intruded. Where was Sal?

I thought back to the times he had been interned—Buchenwald, Damini, Gurs, Nexon, Gurs again—five times in five years, starting with Kristallnacht. Forged documents I secured got him his freedom from Buchenwald; the French surrender resulted in his release from Damini; having relatives in the Unoccupied Zone brought his release from Gurs in the summer of 1940; Frau Meder saved us in Nexon; volunteering to work in Toulouse this past spring had brought about his latest release from Gurs. How would he get out now?

I waited for a message from the OSE, any word at all from Madame Weill. When news finally came, it was not from Limoges but on an unsigned postcard addressed to Amelie Kaville at the Vichy Orphanage. “I hope you are well, and I send best regards.” The handwriting was unmistakably Sal’s, When one of the OSE officials came to the home, I showed him the card. He deciphered the markings on the card as French and guessed it was posted in the northeast, near the coast of the Channel.

For a brief time, I was elated. Sal was still in France. Soon, questions formed in my mind. Why did he not say where he was? Evidently, he was confined. He did not say he was well, only that he hoped I was well. He must have used some kind of subterfuge to have the card mailed. Otherwise he would have signed the card and given his address or location. I tried to figure out what he was trying to tell me.

How long could I survive the uncertainty? I remained in a permanent state of agitation. Then miraculously, another postcard arrived. Again unsigned, it carried a cryptic message: “Gita is ill and needs you.”

What was I to make of this message? What was wrong with Gita? How would Sal know anything about her? What was he trying to tell me? I became so distraught that I found it completely impossible to work. I took a train to Limoges and went directly to Gita, who was perfectly well and amazed to see me. Whether it was the message or my agitated state, she would not let me return to Vichy.

“You don’t have to work there,” she said to me. “Stay here with me, Mia. Really, I think it’s quite safe, and I can use your help and company. You know it is not so easy for me to be alone with two small children.”

The OSE accepted my decision to leave Vichy. I called on Rabbi Deutsch to tell him I was again staying in Limoges. “Your husband is alive and in this country. Give thanks to the Almighty. Don’t try so hard to search for hidden meanings, but accept the information given you,” he said.

My decision to stay with Gita was the right one. The next postcard arrived at her house, and it told me where he was. Delivered in December and unsigned like the others, it contained just three words, “Greetings from Paris.”

1943 came to and end. The very first sound I heard on January 1, 1944 was a commotion at four o’clock in the morning. It was still dark. I put on my robe and rushed to the front hall. Gita had opened the door. Sal was standing there, with another man behind him.

“I thought you’d never come,” Sal said. “Quick, let us in. I need money, a thousand francs for my friend.”

“What?” Gita said. “I don’t understand.”

Sal pointed to the stranger who was with him. “He helped me escape. I promised to pay him.”

Gita turned and went to her bedroom. In a minute she returned and handed Sal a pack of bills. The stranger put the money in his pocket without counting it.

“Do you want to stay for the rest of the night?” Sal asked him.

“No, I have no more time to waste. I must go on and get to Spain.”

“Good luck, good luck,” Sal said. The stranger walked into the blackness, and Sal turned to me.