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  ‘Your father suffered greatly in the war with the Germans,’ Yaakov continued. ‘He lost the use of his arm, and yet today he is a great general because he remains a good man, and because he understands suffering.’ He turned to his daughter.

  ‘Hava, I say to you, go to your opera tonight with your friend, but remember, you are a girl of light. Simone, we live in darkness on this day of lamentation, to remember the light of our souls.’

  Yaakov lifted the book he had been holding since he first stepped into the hallway. I noticed the blue veins in his hands, and then I listened as he read:

  ‘Console, O Lord, the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem and the city laid waste, despised and desolate. In mourning for she is childless, her dwellings laid waste, despised in the downfall of her glory and desolate through the loss of her inhabitants. Legions have devoured her, worshippers of strange gods have possessed her. They have put the people of Israel to the sword. Therefore, let Zion weep bitterly and Jerusalem give forth her voice. For You, O Lord, did consume her with fire, and with fire You will in future restore her. Blessed are You, O Lord, Who consoles Zion and builds Jerusalem.’

  ‘Hava,’ Yaakov said to his daughter, ‘remember what we say to God: Blessed are You, O Lord, who consoles all men and women and builds every home, for we shall all be restored.’

  Hava looked at me from across the small table and winked.

  ‘Now, go to your opera.’

  CHAPTER 6

  I have issued the command – and I’ll have anybody who utters but one word of criticism executed by a firing squad – that our war aim does not consist in reaching certain lines, but in the physical destruction of the enemy. Accordingly, to send to death mercilessly and without compassion, men, women, and children of Polish derivation and language. Only thus shall we gain the living space (Lebensraum) which we need.

  Adolf Hitler, 22 August, 1939, to Reichmarshal Hermann Goering and the commanding generals at Obersalzberg

  As Hava and I stepped into the street on our way to La Monnaie, the opera house, she said, ‘My father thinks that I’m a sinner.’

  ‘Maybe I can turn you into a saint,’ I said as we walked along the warm summer street.

  ‘Maybe I can crawl into one of Benjamin’s bubbles and be invisible and enjoy as many sins as I can.’

  I laughed. ‘You can’t hide from God. He’s like my father – he keeps an eye on us no matter where we are.’

  Hava ran ahead of me, stopped before a lamp-post and saluted.

  I laughed. ‘Why did you salute the lamp-post?’

  ‘My father always says that I am a girl of light,’ Hava answered. ‘Maybe God is light. When it gets dark, the lamp-post begins to glow, so I salute the god of the lamp-post. Do you ever notice, Simone, the darker the night, the brighter the stars?

  ‘It’s true,’ she continued. ‘Stars shine brighter on the darkest nights. You probably noticed, Simone, that my family is very Jewish. They say a lot of prayers. Van Gogh said something like, When I have a terrible need of religion, then I go out and paint the stars. I don’t have a terrible need of religion, but I do love stars.’

  On that starry night, Hava and I attended the opera, wept for Salomé, and fell in love with John Charles Tillman.

  Five short weeks later, Hitler invaded Poland.

  CHAPTER 7

  On 1 September 1939, Hitler invaded Poland with planes, tanks and soldiers, instigating a quick, fast assault intended to shock the country and smooth the way for his continued invasion, known as ‘Blitzkrieg’ (lightning war). The Second World War had begun.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but during the first war with Germany my father had belonged to an underground Resistance group called La Dame Blanche – the White Lady. Everyone in Europe had heard of the White Lady, a shadowy ghost who appeared and disappeared just out of the grasp of the enemy. How easy it seemed for the men and women of La Dame Blanche to trick the Germans as they occupied Belgium. The Resistance fighters monitored the enemy’s train movements, blew up bridges in the night, cut telegraph lines, and rescued many soldiers who would otherwise have been taken prisoner. La Dame Blanche was the most successful Resistance movement in Belgium

  When the Second World War began, my father still had connections with his former Resistance colleagues from the first war: priests, nuns, former officers . . . So, when Hitler invaded Poland, my father knew even before the people at the newspapers or radio were informed.

  ‘Blitzkrieg,’ my father said as he sat at the breakfast table, having just ridden Charlotte in the palace gardens. ‘I have just received a communication that Hitler has amassed his tanks and planes and invaded Poland.’

  I remember my father sitting at the head of the table, his hair neatly trimmed, his tunic unbuttoned. My father never wore his uniform improperly except at breakfast, when his buttons were not clipped together and his brown braces hung loose.

  ‘What does Blitzkrieg mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Lightning war,’ my father explained. ‘We have known for many years that Hitler has been building tanks and planes. Germany lost great portions of land during the First World War. Some say he wants it back. He’s a madman. Blitzkrieg means attacking with speed, surprise, troops, and light tanks.’

  I looked at my father across the table. He was suddenly silent as he stirred his coffee. My father spoke about Prussia, the Treaty of Versailles, and how Hitler hated Poland. Then he placed his fork down and said, ‘Not again. We’ve already had one war. Not again.’

  I asked my father where the German army was in Poland. He said that Hitler had invaded from the west, the north, and the south. ‘They have planes and fast tanks. Major Roul has relatives in Wlodawa. He says that all communication has ceased from there.’

  He stood up from the table, buttoned up his tunic, and said, ‘But don’t worry, my beautiful Simone. Hitler is far away. Now, I’m off to work.’ I saluted, and he leaned over and kissed me on the head. Then I watched him walk down the hall, open the front door, turn, smile, and step out, closing the door gently behind him.

  I did not see my father again for four years.

  I cleared the table, walked up to my bedroom, and shut the door. We lived in a beautiful, three-storey townhouse. On the second floor we had four bedrooms. One was used as my father’s office, another as a library. My father’s bedroom faced the front of the house, and my room faced the small courtyard behind the house. Each morning I woke up and measured my day based on the sky and the branches of the apple tree.

  If, when I first opened my eyes, the sky was blue and the apple leaves still, I knew that the day would be filled with quiet adventure – reading, or writing a letter to my aunt, a chemist who had never married. She collected my letters in a green trunk she kept in her parlour.

  If, when I woke, the sky was blue and the leaves were being pushed back and forth by the invisible wind, I imagined that my day would be filled with agitation: my father expecting me to clean my room, Hava jealous that my father had the use of a horse, my own mood deciding I would be unhappy for the rest of my life because I would be a spinster just like my aunt, and would keep letters from a silly, plain 18-year-old niece.

  Wlodawa. Wlodawa. I wanted to know, suddenly, how far from my room Wlodawa, in Poland, was. I was afraid of a war entering my life. My father had warned me about its monstrous effects.

  I rummaged inside a cupboard where I kept my drawing supplies, my old dolls, books, and used diaries, and retrieved a coloured map of Europe.

  I opened the map like a picnic blanket on the floor before my tall mirror. France was yellow. Belgium was green. Germany was brown. Poland was pink. I placed my index finger on Wlodawa, Poland, and my thumb on Brussels. Then I compared the space between my fingers to the numbered scale at the top of the map: 1,100 kilometres.

  I looked at the girl in the mirror and said aloud, ‘1,100 kilometres might just as well be as far away as the moon.’ The girl in the mirror smiled back. ‘No army can hurt you, Simone, if it’s
1,100 kilometres away.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Our strength consists in our speed and in our brutality. Genghis Khan led millions of women and children to slaughter – with premeditation and a happy heart. History sees in him solely the founder of a state. It’s a matter of indifference to me what a weak Western European civilization will say about me.

  From Adolf Hitler’s Obersalzberg Speech he gave to his commanders at his Obersalzberg home on 22 August 1939

  I felt safe and strong. The new war was being fought thousands of miles away. I knew my father would protect me. He had spoken proudly about the Albert Canal fortifications, the modern bunkers and British Hurricane fighter planes that Belgium maintained. The famous fort at Eben-Emael alone had 1,200 troops to protect me, the country, and the Belgian army.

  That autumn day in school, Sister Bernadette called me to her desk to tell me that my father had been called away by the Foreign Ministry. ‘Your aunt will be staying with you while he’s gone. She’ll be waiting for you at home.’

  At the time, I was not told where my father had gone, but I learned many years later that he was meeting with other military officials from England, Holland, and France to discuss the war. Sister Bernadette assured me that Belgium had made a pact with Germany and that Belgium would remain neutral territory. Although I would miss my father, I wasn’t worried, since I knew that the war was far away.

  Sister Bernadette was my literature teacher. We had just finished a discussion in class on lines from William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar:

  And since you know you cannot see yourself,

  so well as by reflection, I, your glass,

  will modestly discover to yourself,

  that of yourself which you yet know not of.

  I was convinced that he had written those lines for Hava and me. I never could see myself, without seeing Hava as my mirror. Whenever she stood before me and sang a song, or teased me, or told a joke, I saw glimpses of myself and I liked how I felt beside Hava: complete.

  Aunt Margaret was indeed waiting for me when I returned home from school that afternoon, and that evening, when I could not bear the ticking of the great clock in the hall any longer, and I could not read any more from Gone with the Wind, I walked out of my room and found her downstairs in the kitchen making a cup of tea.

  ‘Your father will be away for a while,’ she said, as she looked at me. She ran her fingers through my messy hair and added, ‘Perhaps it would have been better if you had read more fairy tales when you were a child. There are far more ogres and trolls in this world than you might believe.’

  I tried to convince my aunt that, as an 18-year-old girl, I knew plenty about ogres and trolls, as well as more serious matters, but she just shook her head and said that there might be a war, that perhaps we would be in danger. I tried to explain to her that she was just frightened because of the war of 1916.

  ‘No one is unlucky enough to have two wars in their country,’ I said confidently.

  My aunt looked pale as she reached out and handed me my father’s Croix de Guerre. ‘He asked me to give this to you.’ My father’s medal was like his second heart. ‘He wants you to have it in case anything happens to him. He said it will protect you against monsters.’

  I took the medal, caressed it gently, and kissed it. Then I carried it to my room, placed it under my pillow, and like Scarlet O’Hara, the unstoppable heroine of Gone with the Wind, I said aloud, ‘I won’t think of it now. I can’t stand it now. I’ll think of it later.’

  Although it concerned me that my father was not at home, I held onto the false security that he was somewhere in the Foreign Ministry, tucked away in some important office. I did not know at the time that he was working for the Resistance, that months later he would be on the Nazis’ execution list when he would escape across the Pyrenees and into Spain.

  The next time Corporal De Waden came to my house he handed me a letter. ‘It’s from your father.’ I opened the envelope and saw my father’s neat handwriting.

  Dear Simone,

  Remember when I told you about Albert Forster and Poland? The monster is growing in strength. Hitler is doing the same. He said this in a recent speech: ‘Essentially all depends on me, on my existence, because of my political talents. There will probably never again in the future be a man with more authority than I have. My existence is therefore a factor of great value.’

  Simone, nothing depends on one person. This one man has no value. When we all live together as one, goodness survives. I’ll be away from home for some time, and my letters might not always be able to reach you. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.

  As for you Simone, don’t leave the house if Hitler and his army come. Do not go into the streets. Stay inside and lock the door. It’s important for you to remember to stay inside if they come.

  Hold onto my Croix de Guerre. You will pin it onto my lapel when we are together again. Listen to your aunt, and rest your eyes between readings. I love you. All will be well.

  Papa

  I’ll think of this later, I thought to myself as I folded the letter and tucked it into my pocket.

  CHAPTER 9

  On 23 November 1939, a law was passed stating that all Jews over the age of 10 living in Nazi-occupied Poland must wear the Star of David stitched onto their clothes. In the same month, the Soviet Union invaded Finland. The war was slowly approaching Belgium.

  As autumn began to fade into winter, I fell into an ordinary routine. My Aunt Margaret stayed with me, mending socks, offering advice on how to comb my hair, and insisting that I read Etiquette and Manners by Emily Post every night for an hour.

  Corporal De Waden arrived faithfully every Sunday morning with Charlotte. Only now, I rode the horse instead of my father. After one of our rides in the Royal Park, as I was adjusting my scarf before walking back into the house, he tried to kiss me. I had never been kissed by a man before. I thought he was leaning in to help me with my scarf. I leaned away from the corporal, smiled, and went inside the house.

  Hava arranged a birthday party for me at her home. She gave me a poster of Clark Gable, and a copy of Rebecca, the latest book by Daphne du Maurier. She said, as I looked at the cover, ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’ When I asked her what that meant, she said I had to read the book. ‘It’s like Tara, the house in Gone with the Wind.’

  I had visited Hava’s home several times before the war started. That day, Benjamin invited me to his room and said that he was going to paint me a picture for my birthday. I peered over his shoulder as he worked with a little brush and ink and I asked him what he was drawing. ‘I’m making you a picture of God.’

  ‘But no one knows what God looks like,’ I laughed.

  ‘They will in a minute,’ the boy said as he dipped his brush in the inkwell.

  When Benjamin had finished with his drawing, he walked up to me with a drawing and chortled, ‘See? This is what God looks like.’

  ‘How do you know God wore green shirts?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it must be his favourite colour, don’t you think?’ he replied. ‘Almost everything outside is green.’

  ‘Are those two crosses above his head?’ I pointed to the painting.

  He rolled his eyes skyward. ‘No, those are orange kites, Simone. God has to have fun sometimes.’

  Hava and her parents were reading silently in the outer room, when Benjamin and I entered.

  ‘Look what Benjamin drew for me,’ I said. ‘It’s God.’

  Yaakov looked at his son and said, ‘Benjamin, your God is smiling. Good.’

  Benjamin crawled onto his father’s lap and said, ‘Papa, tell us a story. Tell Simone one of your stories.’

  I felt as if I was intruding on the peace of the house. ‘Monsieur Daniels, perhaps I should be going home.’

  ‘Sit there, daughter of the general.’ He gestured towards a wooden chair next to Hava.

  ‘Tell her the one about the ant. Simone will love the one about the ant
.’

  Yaakov rubbed his beard against his son’s cheek and began, ‘There was an ant that lived under the baker’s house.’

  ‘The baker lived with his son and wife,’ Benjamin said as he sat up on his father’s lap.

  ‘Do you want to tell the story, Benjamin?’ Yaakov asked as he winked at me.

  ‘No. You tell it, Papa.’

  ‘The baker lived with his son and his wife. Everyone believed the baker to be a man of honour and humour. His only fault was his harsh manner toward his son.’

  Benjamin squirmed a bit.

  ‘Whenever a customer entered the shop, the baker wiped his hands, stood behind the counter, and waited for an order.’

  ‘The bigger the order, the better the service,’ Benjamin called out.

  ‘Let your father tell the story,’ Avital scolded, smiling.

  Yaakov continued, ‘Yes, Benjamin, the bigger the order the better the service. When asked for ten loaves, the baker would grasp the customer’s hand eagerly and shake it vigorously, while shouting at the same time to his son, “Check the oven, fool, and find the most freshly baked loaves for our kind customer!”

  ‘Customers with small orders received older bread, and the son received harsher treatment.’

  ‘Tell about the ant, Papa,’ Benjamin said.

  ‘One afternoon an ant entered the bakery. When the baker stepped up to the counter, he wiped his hands, looked around, and saw no one, although he was certain that he had heard the door swing open. “Imbecile!” the baker called out to his son. “Why have you left the door open?”

  “I haven’t been near the door, Father,” the boy answered meekly.

  ‘The father looked around, but did not notice the ant on the floor. “Get back to work!” the father ordered.