Tell No One Who You Are Page 8

  Even in the schoolroom, things were not going as well as they should. Back in Brussels, Régine had sat at the front of the class because she did not want to miss anything and she had liked to be called upon to answer questions. Augusta Dubois sat in the last row and never raised her hand.

  She soon had another reason for wanting to be at the back of the room. When she scratched her messy hair, a few small insects came out under her nails. She would try to drop them on the floor and crush them without any of the other students noticing she had lice.

  She was so careful that even Madame Carpentier didn’t notice. But Madame Carpentier did see something else. One morning at breakfast, she stopped as she was about to remove a dish from the table.

  “What’s that on your hand?” she said, and grabbed Régine’s hand to examine it. “There are scabs all over it. Let me see your other hand. And your legs. Pull down your stockings.”

  Régine stood up. The horror on Madame Carpentier’s face deepened as she found scabs everywhere on Régine. “You’ve got la gale!” she screamed — scabies.

  Madame Carpentier was like a crazy woman as she went to work to get rid of the parasitic mites under Régine’s skin. She was terrified they would infest the rest of the family. She told Marie to stay away as she carried basins into the bedroom. It was while she was scrubbing Régine and rubbing her with a sticky yellow lotion which stank of ammonia that she found the lice in Régine’s hair.

  Madame Carpentier knew what to do about that, too. She took her scissors and cut off Régine’s hair as close to the scalp as she could, then poured vinegar over her head and plunged it into a strong stinging liquid.

  Twice a day for the next several days, Régine went through the scrubbing, the smearing and the dousing. Embarrassed as she was by it all, she felt a certain relief that something was being done to get rid of the itching.

  Her next worry was returning to school. Everyone would guess why her hair was cut off.

  She need not have worried. Three days later, Madame Carpentier told her to pack her bag. Only a month and a half had passed but the Carpentiers had had enough of Augusta Dubois. They were sending her away.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  RÉGINE PULLED her canvas bag from under the bed and began to fill it. It was a morning in late November, her last day in Andoumont. There was a knock on the door and Marie entered the room. She sat on the edge of the bed. “Mama says you’re going to your grandmother’s in Boitsfort. Is that true?” she asked.

  “My grandmother’s?” Régine said, holding a sweater against her chest. She had not figured out her next step, but she certainly didn’t want to return to Madame André.

  “Yes, I heard her on the telephone. She spoke to the people who brought you here.”

  “I can’t go to my grandmother’s,” Régine said.

  “Why not?”

  Because I don’t have a grandmother in Boitsfort, Régine thought, but said: “Oh, she’s very old. I can’t go back there.”

  “Mama says you can’t stay here anymore. I heard her on the telephone. They’re sending someone over right away.”

  “Now?”

  “That’s what Mama says. A man from Aide paysanne is coming to get you.”

  Marie went downstairs and Régine resumed packing. At a time like this, it was important to think very clearly.

  The first problem was lying about having a grandmother in Boitsfort. How could she explain this grandmother did not exist? Admitting that she had lied would draw further suspicion. Questions would be asked. Anything might happen if the man from Aide paysanne found out she was Jewish. He might tell on her, or tell someone else who might tell the Germans.

  She had two options. The first was to pretend that Madame André really was her grandmother. She could tell the man from Aide paysanne to take her to the house in Boitsfort. But she could not warn Madame André beforehand and did not know how the old woman would react. She might deny the whole story and tell the truth about Régine Miller.

  No, Régine thought. Better to stay away from Madame André altogether.

  Her second option was to say nothing at all. If the man asked about her grandmother, Régine would just stare at the floor and not say a word. He could not take her to Madame Andrés house if she did not tell him where she lived.

  Yes, Régine decided. That was the best thing to do.

  Then came the other problem. Where would he take her? Who would look after her from now on? Régine could think of only one person who could help her, and that was Nicole. But Régine had not heard a word from her, except for the book that had arrived in the mail without a return address. Nicole had to be very careful, Régine thought, as she packed the book with the rest of her belongings into her duffel bag.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Marie poked her head inside the bedroom. “Mama says to come down now,” she said. “The man from Aide paysanne is here.”

  Régine carried her bag downstairs where Madame Carpentier was standing with the man near the door. Madame Carpentier handed Régine her ration book. The man had kept his winter coat on and seemed anxious to leave right away. Monsieur Carpentier and his son Jean were nowhere to be seen. Régine was not surprised they had not come to say good-bye.

  The man stepped forward and said, “I’m going to take you home. To Boitsfort.”

  He knew where she had lived before coming here.

  There was nothing she could do.

  Brussels, Belgium. June 1942. Régine is 10 years old. All Jews in Belgium are ordered to wear the yellow Star of David. Régine’s father in anger glues a red star of protest on the back of the yellow star, then takes her to a photographer’s studio for this formal portrait. He tells her to think of the red star and smile, that at war’s end they will return for her to be photographed again with the red star showing.

  (This photograph and the other prewar photographs of the Miller family were retrieved from their flat by a neighbor after the Gestapo raided it in September 1942)

  Montreal, Canada. May 1991. Régine, now 59 years old, is photographed by the Montreal Gazette as she is about to leave for New York City to attend the first international gathering of Jewish Children Hidden During World War II. More than 1,600 people from 28 countries attended “to find each other, to find themselves, to find a reason, to find some comfort, to share, to cry, to begin.” Journalist Walter Buchignani interviewed Régine at that time and felt her story should be told.

  Warsaw, Poland. November, 1923. The wedding portrait of Régine’s parents, Zlata and Maurice Miller. Their son Léon was born two years later and the three left for Belgium in 1928 to give their children a better life. Régine was born on March 16, 1932. Mr. Miller earned his living sewing small leather goods at home.

  Brussels, Belgium. 1937. The Miller family with Régine and Léon. Mrs. Miller became ill with cancer and started to lose weight shortly before the German invasion of Belgium in 1940. For the next two years she was in and out of hospital. She was sent home to die shortly before the Gestapo raid on her home in September 1942 when she was taken from her bed and sent to Auschwitz.

  Brussels. April 1994. The second story flat at 73 rue van Lint in the Anderlecht section of Brussels where Régine’s parents were arrested by the Gestapo. The building looks today very much as it looked 50 years ago. There is still a café downstairs, the streetcar still passes and the old cobblestones have only partially been paved over.

  Brussels. Summer 1938. Régine, 6 years old, walking with her father on a Brussels street. He took her to political gatherings from the age of five when she watched Solidarité members pack parcels during the Spanish Civil War.

  Warsaw, Poland, 1938. Left is a photograph of Fela Mucha as she looked just before leaving Poland where her father had been a well-to-do businessman. All of her family were killed by the Nazis.

  Brussels, 1942. Right is a photograph of Fela as Nicole. She has dyed her hair blond and taken an alias to avoid detection while she worked to hide Jew
ish children. She would meet messengers on a street corner, go to the address given, receive the child (or children) from the parents, take it to the designated hiding place, make sure it was properly cared for and, at war’s end, search for surviving relatives. The directors of Belgian institutions (schools, convents, camps)usually knew or guessed they were giving refuge to a Jewish child. But many of the private families—like the Wathieus— were not told and did not guess the identity of their ward, believing they were providing a “country stay” for a city child. Four thousand Jewish children were successfully hid in Belgium, an impressive record for a small country and one of which it is justly proud.

  Liège, Belgium 1945. Sylvie and Pierre Wathieu with their dog Tommy, where Régine spent two years in hiding. The childless Wathieus were the fourth and kindest Belgians to shelter her. After the war, Régine returned to visit them annually, bringing her own children to meet them, until she immigrated to Canada in 1958.

  the Wathieu farmhouse with Régine standing in front.

  On a Brussels street, 1946. Léon Saktreger, the childhood friend of Régine’s brother Léon. He and his family hid out successfully in Belgium during the war. Later in London he and his wife would remain close friends with Régine until his death in 1986.

  German records, released in 1982, showing the names of Régine’s family, their birth dates (sometimes inaccurate) and the numbers and dates of the convoys that took each of them from the transport depot of Malines near Brussels to the Nazi death camp at Auschwitz in Poland.

  Brussels, 1946. Régine (on the left) walks with two other girls staying at the hostel of Hirondelles (in right photo) which sheltered survivors whose parents did not return from the Nazi concentration camps.

  London, 1946. Régine (second from left) with her Uncle Shlomo (extreme left) and his family in England. The International Red Cross searched to find surviving relatives of children whose parents had been killed by the Nazis.

  1958. Régine (back right) with her children, Sonia and Philip, photographed with a fellow passenger on board the ship bringing them to Canada.

  Anderlecht district, Brussels, April 1994. Fela Mucha Herman shortly before her 80th birthday stands in front of the monument where Régine’s father’s name is inscribed among the 242 Jewish heroes who died in the resistance to the German occupation of Belgium. Erected in 1979, it is on the exterior wall of a huge memorial that lists the names of 23,880 Jewish men, women and children from Belgium who were killed in Nazi concentration camps.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  AT THE VILLAGE TERMINAL they caught the bus back to Brussels. Neither of them spoke during the entire ride. The man seemed anxious for it to end, and was constantly looking out the window and then at his watch. Régine was too afraid to speak. What would happen when they got to Madame Andrés?

  She had visions of the man calling her Augusta in front of the old woman.

  “But no, Monsieur,” Madame André would say. “Her name is Régine Miller. She is not my granddaughter. She is from Brussels.”

  What would happen if the man discovered she was Jewish? Would he tell the Germans? Régine shuddered at the thought of what would happen next. She closed her eyes and saw the German soldiers running toward her, surrounding her, shouting at her, taking her away.

  The bus pulled into the city terminal. Somehow the trip back had seemed much shorter than the ride out to the countryside. From the station, they took the trams to Boitsfort, got off and made their way to Madame Andrés house. Régine’s fear grew as they approached the familiar house. The drapes were drawn at the front window, the same window where she had spent so many hours waiting for her father to take her home.

  The man pushed open the gate, walked to the front door and knocked loudly.

  Régine heard the sound of footsteps beyond the door, and then the familiar voice of Madame André.

  “Who’s there?”

  “ Aide paysanne!” the man called out.

  “Who?”

  “ Aide paysanne!” he said. “I have Augusta with me!”

  “Who?” said Madame André.

  The man shook his head. “Is she deaf?”

  “She’s very old,” Régine said nervously.

  “Open the door!” he called out.

  Don’t open the door, Régine said to herself. Please don’t open the door.

  She did not know how it would help her, but she did not want the door to open. She did not want Madame André to speak to the man and risk giving away her secret. She would rather wait outside all day if she had to.

  “Who’s there?” Madame André asked again.

  “Aide paysanne,” repeated the man. “Augusta is here.”

  “You have the wrong house,” Madame André said.

  The man threw up his hands.

  “She’s very old,” Régine repeated.

  The man tried again and the door opened.

  Madame André stood staring at Régine. “C’est toi? Qu’estce que tu fais ici?” — It’s you? What are you doing here?

  Régine watched with relief as the man turned and walked out the gate. As far as he was concerned, he had taken Augusta Dubois to her grandmother’s house. His job was done. He had no intention of spending the rest of the day arguing with a deaf old woman.

  “I have nowhere else to go,” Régine said quietly to Madame André.

  “Well, you’re not staying here! I’m going to call someone right away! You shouldn’t have come!”

  Madame André grabbed Régine by the elbow and dragged her into the house. She shut the door and marched into the kitchen. Régine followed behind, rubbing her elbow.

  Madame André opened a drawer, rummaged through it and pulled out a slip of paper. She picked up the phone and dialed. “I have a message for Nicole,” she said.

  Régine sat down, relieved to hear that name again.

  “Yes, right away,” Madame André said into the phone. “I want her out of my house.”

  She put down the receiver and turned to Régine: “It’s done. They’re coming to get you. Go wait in the other room. I’ve got work to do.” Then, as an afterthought, she added: “What happened to your hair?”

  “They cut it off,” Régine answered, embarrassed.

  Madame André did not ask why. Perhaps she knew. Or she didn’t care.

  Régine carried her bag out of the kitchen. She went into the study and sat in the chair in front of the window. She looked over at the house next door and saw that it was dark. Where was Madame Charles? Had she gone away somewhere? She wanted to ask Madame André but did not want to cause any more trouble. She sat quietly for hours it seemed and looked out at the empty road. Memories of all the hours she had waited at the window flooded back. When at last she saw a lone figure approaching from far away, she imagined a man in a gray overcoat and fedora coming to the gate. Now he was pushing it open …

  She jumped awake at the sound of the knock on the door.

  “Hold on,” Madame André said, emerging from the kitchen. “Go sit down. I’ll get it.”

  But Régine did not sit down. She stood behind Madame André as the old woman opened the door. She was too excited about seeing Nicole again. The door opened. It was not Nicole.

  The visitor was a man Régine had never seen before.

  “I’ve come for the girl,” he said.

  The man spoke quickly as if he did not want to waste time. He did not say “Bonjour,” announce who he was or where he was from. Madame André did not speak either. She motioned to Régine to get her bag and go.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  THEY WENT BACK to the bus station in Brussels before the man finally spoke to her.

  “You are going back to Liège,” he said. “Another family has been found for you. In Lagrange.”

  On the bus, he told her a little more. “You will stay with Monsieur and Madame Wathieu. They live on a farm and have no children. They look forward to having an extra hand around the house.”

  Régine wanted to
ask about Nicole but thought better of it. She did not know who this man was, whether he was from Aide paysanne or the Jewish resistance.

  Would this new family be any nicer than the last two? Why had Nicole not come to get her? Had something happened to her?

  It was a bitterly cold night as they got off the bus in Lagrange. The man took a paper out of his pocket and studied the directions. As they walked toward the home of Monsieur and Madame Wathieu, Régine buried one hand in the pocket of her coat to keep it warm, while she carried her duffel bag with the other. She could see a few small lights in the darkness. All was silent except for the crunch of snow under their feet.

  At last they arrived at what looked like a very large farmhouse and went up the path. Before the man had a chance to knock, the door swung open. A man, a woman and a small black dog stood there as if they had been waiting and watching.

  Madame Wathieu greeted them with a smile. “Come in. It’s cold,” she said. “There’s a fire in the kitchen to help you warm up. Are you hungry? You must be tired.”

  The man shook his head. “I must be going. I have to take the bus back tonight.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Monsieur Wathieu. “We can offer you something to eat.”

  “There’s no time,” said the man, adding: “This is Augusta, the little girl you will be looking after.”

  Régine gave a nod and said, “Good evening, madame.”

  Madame Wathieu smiled and bent down to look into Régine’s face. “Hello, Augusta. Welcome. We’re happy you’re here.”

  Monsieur Wathieu held out his hand. “Hello, Augusta,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you, monsieur,” Régine answered.

  “The bus ride wasn’t too long, I hope?”

  “No, monsieur.”