21 June 1940
Pétain is now president. Paris is occupied. Will General de Gaulle’s call to arms change anything? Andrei and his network are more active than ever. They’ve been plastering posters of the General over the Chimay hotel in Vendome square. Can the Resistance gain enough strength to oust the occupiers? The Krauts are everywhere, and the Nazi flag is flying over the Arc de Triomphe. What a symbol. France’s dignity has been besmirched; there can be no beauty here any longer. Tonight was the most humiliating experience of my life. I had to play; I had no choice. When the concert was over, and I stood in front of the audience, I bowed before a hundred German officers. They’d invaded the Opera. I was in front of the enemy. For three hours, I played without raising my eyes from the music: I was outside myself. I could not be there; like a puppet, I obeyed without thinking. But in the midst of the applause, I saw the terrified faces of Sebastian, of my aunt, my mother, my father, and everyone I knew, faces being smothered by the same hands that were applauding me. I killed Kazimierz, I killed the synagogue, I killed my childhood, and I cannot bring myself to cry. How am I not angrier? I’m waiting for Andrei to help me escape this hell. I cannot continue to betray my honour like this, and soon my identity will be discovered. The story begins again...music is no sanctuary for a Jew. You must earn it, beg for it and even hate it sometimes. When I was banished from the Warsaw Conservatory, I thought naively that I would never feel such rancour and injustice again. I needed to believe it then; I wouldn’t have been able to go on otherwise.
24 June 1940
Andrei got me an appointment at the Paul Dupont print shop on Rue de la Victoire, so I could get the false papers I need to travel south. I went there today and was surprised to discover everything was brand new. I thought they might be using somewhere less sophisticated as cover. Two machines were running at full tilt, watched over by a little man in a grey suit. He turned and looked me up and down, stroking his moustache. He didn’t really look the part; there was nothing strong or rebellious about him. He looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He was so very French, so very Parisian. Was I even in the right place? But he put my doubts to rest, that little man, by asking me: “Are you here for the party invitations?” I nodded, but he insisted. “I’m picking them up for my aunt,” was the response I had to give. He smiled at my discomfort and waved me into the back office. He had an ingenious system: he pushed on one of the bookshelves to reveal a secret door. We went through a cubby hole and down a staircase that seemed to go on forever. The smell of the sewers rose in my nostrils, getting stronger the closer we got to the light of the hideout. I heard the crackling of a radio, and a few words in English made me think that they must be communicating with London and the General. Two men were listening and taking notes. I looked around me. A huge, faded map of Paris was pinned to the wall, showing hiding places and safe routes to take. There were a few photos with notes scribbled on them attached to the map. There was a printing press, a desk, a radio transmitter, thick paper and black ink. That was their whole set up. The little man with the moustache hurried back up to the print shop, and the two men got to work without a word. Two hours later, I left with my fake ID. I am now Bernard Pichet, and I was born in Boulogne on May 28, 1914.
27 June 1940
I have a rehearsal tonight. I have to go in order to avoid suspicion. A week from now I’ll be in Marseille. Andrei knows someone who can put me up for a few nights. I can’t sleep; I just play the piano all night. Practising non-stop is my only relief.
29 June 1940
I’ve opened my Torah; it is still dear to my heart. I read, or rather I listen: I hear the gruff, monotone voice of the rabbi in Kazimierz. I see my mother beside me, and I see my little brother. What has become of them? The Torah shrouds me in its reassuring words. Rules are calming in times of chaos. The future illuminates the past; time does not exist in the Torah. Its words take me on a journey through the phases of my life, filling me with its teachings. I repeat “he who strikes another man and kills him shall be put to death,” and it brings me peace.
1st July 1940
The clock in the Gare de Lyon train station was set to German time, and Nazi officers were everywhere. I walked in front of them, my eyes fixed on the clock hands to keep my head raised and my mind occupied. I had to pass through a security checkpoint manned by two guards and their dogs. The animals frightened me the most; I had an irrational fear that they would betray me. Can a dog be trained to sniff out Jews? I joined the queue as calmly as I could and set down my case on the cobbles. There was no turning back now. I’d played my hand. I played Wagner in my head to steel myself. It made me feel like a war general, but the guard’s stern voice shook me back to consciousness. I was powerless, like prey. He ordered me to show my papers, and I handed them to him with all the confidence I could muster. His colleague grabbed my case and emptied it onto the floor. I’d been careful to leave my Torah at Andrei’s, and there was nothing suspicious in there. My sheet music blew away in the wind. I didn’t flinch; my life’s work no longer mattered. The first guard studied my papers carefully; he must have been able to smell my fear. He looked me up and down for a few long moments. It took all my strength to smile at him. I could barely stand. “Bernard Pichet, Es ist gut”, he concluded, handing me back my card. I gathered up my clothes; despite the humiliation, I’d never felt so free. Now I find myself on the shores of the Mediterranean, sitting at a café by the port, waiting to meet Andrei’s contact.
03 December 1940
Sleep is my worst enemy. I sleep with one eye open, haunted by the fear that they’ll come for me in the night, as the Vichy soldiers are known to do. Neighbours inform on one another, and the soldiers come and pillage their apartments without a care. Everyone’s out to gain what they can from the situation; it’s a regime built for opportunists. The only thing most people are guilty of is having things their neighbours want. But I’m Bernard Pichet. I mouth the name to myself silently all through the night. It’s become my mournful prayer of betrayal. I’m Bernard Pichet, and nobody could find fault in a man who’s always polite and smiling, discreet and upstanding as one should be. I feel like a coward when so many Jews have been reported and deported. I struggle to play this game and look at myself in the mirror. Today, I had to attend a march for Marshal Pétain on the Canebière. I had to play the part; Bernard Pichet is a good French patriot and a Catholic who would want to honour that hero of the Great War. How can I describe the spectacle I saw today? All of Marseille was in a jubilant mood. Thousands of banners honouring the great Marshal Pétain fluttered over the streets. We welcomed the hero who’d saved France from German invasion. Pétain waved to the crowd, and they went wild. His kindly face and military dress fascinated the people. Flanked by a group of women in traditional dress, Pétain reviewed the troops. There was a military parade along Quai des Belges that lasted several hours. We admired the proud patriots in their fine uniforms, with children on their parents’ shoulders throwing flowers at the soldiers. Their jubilation pained me more than I had imagined it would. I feel so alone tonight; mine is the solitude of an outcast living among those who do not yet know they hate him.
08 July 1942
Before the war, I was very disciplined when it came to cigarettes. I smoked no more than three per day: one in the morning, one at lunch and one in the evening. Each one marked the passage of the day. It was my ritual, and I stuck to it. Now though, I smoke impulsively every time I get my hands on a pack. I have no self-control. I go through my stock as fast as possible. I went through a whole packet this morning between eight and ten. Sitting on the terrace of a café by the port, I indulged this guilty pleasure with a glass of pastis. Today I received a very interesting ration: in addition to the pack of smokes I’d already finished, there were five eggs and some milk. I was able to get some thyme and some chives. It’s been a long time since I ate an omelette. I plan to savour every mouthful as if it were my last.
14 July 1942
I am not alone; France is resisting the Occupation. That is what today has shown me. I had heard rumblings of something going on, and that Radio London had given instructions to the Resistance. My curiosity brought me outside. The streets were busy for the public holiday, but the atmosphere was morose. It was painful to see. I remember 14 July celebrations in Paris before the war, with people dancing on the banks of the Seine, and children running gaily through the streets. But now, how can one celebrate the birth of a Republic when half of the country is occupied? I was walking along Quai des Belges with those memories when I felt something taking shape. All of a sudden, I saw a dozen or so men hurrying towards the Canebière. Others joined them, and the crowd grew quickly. I followed, keeping my distance. They gathered in front of the Grand Café Glacier, beside the headquarters of the Parti Populaire Français, where the collaborators were keeping guard. The crowd had swollen, and the police were struggling to keep it contained. The protestors broke through their lines and made it to the doors of the Parti Populaire’s offices, and the two sides squared off. It was like watching a Greek tragedy. The chaos ended when shots were fired; two protesters were dead, and the crowd fled. I went home feeling stunned and shaken. I wished I had thrown stones at the offices of the Parti Populaire. I wanted to scream my hatred for the Occupation. But I’m too afraid of having my identity uncovered.
05 September 1944
My apartment in Paris is intact, and I have reunited with my dear friend Andrei. The metro is still not up and running. Gas rations are in short supply. The black market is still running, and every day the papers publish new lists of collaborators. This morning, I burned my false papers. Bernard Pichet’s name was consumed by the fire. With some difficulty, I have begun to play the piano again.
10 September 1944
“Paris outraged, but Paris liberated!” Those are the words of General de Gaulle himself. But the Liberation brings its own outrages, which this time are the doing of the Parisians themselves. They are punishing the women, a facile and hypocritical vengeance. Any woman suspected of sleeping with a German has her head shaved in the street. My fellow citizens repulse me. Yesterday I witnessed the hideous spectacle of the shaven women being paraded through the city. The people jeered and spat on them, their anger dishonourable and dirty. But men are made this way; they need scapegoats. If it’s not the Jews, it’s the women. What does sleeping with a German matter when there are others walking among us who ferried men, women and children to their deaths?
Alan Alfredo Geday