THE URN
Chapter 15
Written and illustrated by Elaine Troisi
4 rue du Tresor, Paris
April 25-July 30, 1942
Hannah's voice trembled as she spoke, tears mingling with anger. "I'm terrified at the mere thought of a round-up of all the Jews in Paris! The Gestapo knows where we live! Max just put Lila and Nathan Stein on the road to Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. He knows the way. I want us to go there, Jacob, please!" She pleaded, her eyes searching his. But she did not like what she saw there.
Jacob's face was etched with concern as he wrapped her and baby Rachel in a tight embrace. "Hannah, we have work to do here, work we're committed to. You know that. I love you more than my own life! I have to stay. But go if you really think it's for the best.” Desperation crept into his voice.
The table fell silent, the tension palpable. Golde spoke up, her voice soft but resolute. "Hannah, I'll go with you... leave the men to the Resistance. Come back after the war. It can't last forever."
Moishe stood, his eyes filled with deep sadness, and he pulled Golde close. “I'm not happy about this, but it might be safer for you. I won't oppose.”
Hannah was sobbing when she spoke, not quite sure of herself. “Jacob, I can't go unless you come with me!”
“I have to stay here, Hannah. I'm sorry.”
“Then it's settled,” Golde sighed with relief. “It’s decided then. We all stay … together.” She rose. “Now then, it’s time for a coffee break, don't you think?”
The conversation ensued, but the reality of their situation sank in. They knew they had to prepare for the worst. Jacob began to outline their plan, his voice calm and measured. "We'll need to stockpile food, water, and medical supplies. Max will make the houses look abandoned and looted. We'll have to be careful with noise, no stoves, no baking. Only sterno for heating water or making tea." His head was reeling with next steps to prepare their move to the bunker beneath their feet.
The next few weeks were a blur of activity. Moishe scoured the Black Market for supplies, his contacts tenuous, unreliable, and expensive which meant another trip to the secret vault.
Max continued to deliver the newspaper and transport Jews out of Paris, navigating the increasingly treacherous streets. Jacob worked tirelessly to forge documents and soundproof the walls and ceiling of the bunker with layers of felt and more carpeting for soundproofing.
As July loomed closer, like a monstrous specter, the Solomons and Sonebergs made their final preparations. They stored food, water, and medical supplies in the hidden basement, a cramped space that would become their refuge. The women learned to prepare cold meals, and Moishe worked to add a layer of protection to the already secure false cupboard, which was the entrance to the basement. He was certain no one would find it, and even if they did, they would not be able to figure out how to unlock it.
In late June, the two families, along with two other Jewish families, made their way to the basement, their hearts heavy with fear. The space was small, with bunks and one long table with just enough seats for twelve adults and one baby. Rachel's giggles were a brief respite from the tension. They also played pinochle, pickup sticks, and dominoes, trying to distract themselves from the danger above. Some lay in their bunks with books and journals when they sought privacy.
The radio crackled to life, broadcasting news of the Vel d’HIV roundups. The group fell silent, their ears tuned to the sounds outside.
On July 16 and 17, they waited, barely breathing, as the police patrols swept through the streets, collecting Jews like trash. The sound of heavy boots above them made their hearts race. Moishe prayed, his eyes closed, as the police entered the Soneberg home.
The hours ticked by, each minute an eternity. Finally, the police left, unaware of the hidden entrance. The group exhaled collectively, relief washing over them. That night, Moishe brought out the Sabbath wine, and they raised glasses in a silent toast, thanking God for keeping them safe and, yet praying for all the Jews captured in the round-up. They all slept uncomfortably, silently grieving for the over thirteen-thousand Jews rounded up in the days of the Vel d’Hiv.
As the days passed, the radio broadcasts grew more sporadic, but the news remained dire. Rumors spread through the Resistance about increased Nazi patrols and stricter curfews. Max and Moishe’s network worked tirelessly to keep their escape routes open, but every day brought new challenges.
Meanwhile, Hannah and Golde continued to tend to setting their homes to right again, but their lives were far from normal. They would often meet in secret with other women from the Resistance, sharing information and supporting one another through the hardships. Max’s friend Collette kept them informed. Their quiet acts of defiance gave them strength in a world that seemed determined to break them.
The question on everyone's mind remained: could things get any worse?
And then it did.
One night, Moishe and Jacob descended into the bunker, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. The air was still thick with the smell of stale air left behind by too many bodies crowded into a confined space. Jacob fumbled for the can of printing press ink, his fingers brushing against the cool metal.
Just as he was about to open it, a faint whisper echoed through the ventilation shaft. "Shabbat shalom... 314." The code number for Jews seeking refuge. Jacob's eyes locked onto Moishe's, a spark of unease igniting between them.
"Who could it be at this hour?" Jacob whispered, his voice barely audible.
Moishe's face was a map of concern. "We can't turn them away. Not now, not ever." He depressed the hidden button, and the entrance creaked open, revealing a figure huddled in the shadows.
Ben Bergman stumbled into the bunker, his eyes sunken and his face ashen. Moishe's surprise at seeing his old friend gave way to concern. "Ben, what brings you here?"
But before Ben could respond, a figure loomed in the entrance, casting a long shadow on the wall. A Gendarme, his uniform a stark contrast to the darkness, stepped into the bunker. His eyes scanned the space, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol.
"You're coming with me," he growled, his voice low and menacing.
Ben's eyes darted between Moishe and Jacob, a mixture of fear and desperation etched on his face. "I'm... I'm sorry," he stammered.
The Gendarme's expression twisted in disgust. "Shut up! Only a cowardly Jew like you would trade a friend to save his own life!” Then he struck Ben across the face, sending him crashing to the floor. Dazed, Ben crawled to the exit and managed to make his escape unnoticed.
Moishe's old friend, Ben, is thrown to the floor, filled with shame and despair
In the chaos, Moishe saw his chance. He lunged for the Gendarme's gun, his fingers closing around the metal as they struggled. The sound of scuffling feet, the grunt of effort, and the deafening report of the pistol filled the small space with a thunderous roar.
The fight between the Gendarme and Moishe begins
JEWISH LEXICON:
Shabbat Shalom:
What a Jew says in extending a warm greeting to someone on the Sabbath.
I'm listening! I'd like to know if you feel engaged in this story. I'll be back again on October 17 and again on October 31!
Etlainie92@gmail.com
www.elainestories.com
Chapter 15
Written and illustrated by Elaine Troisi
4 rue du Tresor, Paris
April 25-July 30, 1942
Jacob's face was etched with concern as he wrapped her and baby Rachel in a tight embrace. "Hannah, we have work to do here, work we're committed to. You know that. I love you more than my own life! I have to stay. But go if you really think it's for the best.” Desperation crept into his voice.
The table fell silent, the tension palpable. Golde spoke up, her voice soft but resolute. "Hannah, I'll go with you... leave the men to the Resistance. Come back after the war. It can't last forever."
Moishe stood, his eyes filled with deep sadness, and he pulled Golde close. “I'm not happy about this, but it might be safer for you. I won't oppose.”
Hannah was sobbing when she spoke, not quite sure of herself. “Jacob, I can't go unless you come with me!”
“I have to stay here, Hannah. I'm sorry.”
“Then it's settled,” Golde sighed with relief. “It’s decided then. We all stay … together.” She rose. “Now then, it’s time for a coffee break, don't you think?”
The conversation ensued, but the reality of their situation sank in. They knew they had to prepare for the worst. Jacob began to outline their plan, his voice calm and measured. "We'll need to stockpile food, water, and medical supplies. Max will make the houses look abandoned and looted. We'll have to be careful with noise, no stoves, no baking. Only sterno for heating water or making tea." His head was reeling with next steps to prepare their move to the bunker beneath their feet.
The next few weeks were a blur of activity. Moishe scoured the Black Market for supplies, his contacts tenuous, unreliable, and expensive which meant another trip to the secret vault.
Max continued to deliver the newspaper and transport Jews out of Paris, navigating the increasingly treacherous streets. Jacob worked tirelessly to forge documents and soundproof the walls and ceiling of the bunker with layers of felt and more carpeting for soundproofing.
As July loomed closer, like a monstrous specter, the Solomons and Sonebergs made their final preparations. They stored food, water, and medical supplies in the hidden basement, a cramped space that would become their refuge. The women learned to prepare cold meals, and Moishe worked to add a layer of protection to the already secure false cupboard, which was the entrance to the basement. He was certain no one would find it, and even if they did, they would not be able to figure out how to unlock it.
In late June, the two families, along with two other Jewish families, made their way to the basement, their hearts heavy with fear. The space was small, with bunks and one long table with just enough seats for twelve adults and one baby. Rachel's giggles were a brief respite from the tension. They also played pinochle, pickup sticks, and dominoes, trying to distract themselves from the danger above. Some lay in their bunks with books and journals when they sought privacy.
The radio crackled to life, broadcasting news of the Vel d’HIV roundups. The group fell silent, their ears tuned to the sounds outside.
On July 16 and 17, they waited, barely breathing, as the police patrols swept through the streets, collecting Jews like trash. The sound of heavy boots above them made their hearts race. Moishe prayed, his eyes closed, as the police entered the Soneberg home.
The hours ticked by, each minute an eternity. Finally, the police left, unaware of the hidden entrance. The group exhaled collectively, relief washing over them. That night, Moishe brought out the Sabbath wine, and they raised glasses in a silent toast, thanking God for keeping them safe and, yet praying for all the Jews captured in the round-up. They all slept uncomfortably, silently grieving for the over thirteen-thousand Jews rounded up in the days of the Vel d’Hiv.
As the days passed, the radio broadcasts grew more sporadic, but the news remained dire. Rumors spread through the Resistance about increased Nazi patrols and stricter curfews. Max and Moishe’s network worked tirelessly to keep their escape routes open, but every day brought new challenges.
Meanwhile, Hannah and Golde continued to tend to setting their homes to right again, but their lives were far from normal. They would often meet in secret with other women from the Resistance, sharing information and supporting one another through the hardships. Max’s friend Collette kept them informed. Their quiet acts of defiance gave them strength in a world that seemed determined to break them.
The question on everyone's mind remained: could things get any worse?
And then it did.
One night, Moishe and Jacob descended into the bunker, the dim light casting long shadows on the walls. The air was still thick with the smell of stale air left behind by too many bodies crowded into a confined space. Jacob fumbled for the can of printing press ink, his fingers brushing against the cool metal.
Just as he was about to open it, a faint whisper echoed through the ventilation shaft. "Shabbat shalom... 314." The code number for Jews seeking refuge. Jacob's eyes locked onto Moishe's, a spark of unease igniting between them.
"Who could it be at this hour?" Jacob whispered, his voice barely audible.
Moishe's face was a map of concern. "We can't turn them away. Not now, not ever." He depressed the hidden button, and the entrance creaked open, revealing a figure huddled in the shadows.
Ben Bergman stumbled into the bunker, his eyes sunken and his face ashen. Moishe's surprise at seeing his old friend gave way to concern. "Ben, what brings you here?"
But before Ben could respond, a figure loomed in the entrance, casting a long shadow on the wall. A Gendarme, his uniform a stark contrast to the darkness, stepped into the bunker. His eyes scanned the space, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol.
"You're coming with me," he growled, his voice low and menacing.
Ben's eyes darted between Moishe and Jacob, a mixture of fear and desperation etched on his face. "I'm... I'm sorry," he stammered.
The Gendarme's expression twisted in disgust. "Shut up! Only a cowardly Jew like you would trade a friend to save his own life!” Then he struck Ben across the face, sending him crashing to the floor. Dazed, Ben crawled to the exit and managed to make his escape unnoticed.
 |
| Moishe's old friend, Ben, is thrown to the floor, filled with shame and despair |
In the chaos, Moishe saw his chance. He lunged for the Gendarme's gun, his fingers closing around the metal as they struggled. The sound of scuffling feet, the grunt of effort, and the deafening report of the pistol filled the small space with a thunderous roar.
 |
| The fight between the Gendarme and Moishe begins |
Shabbat Shalom:
What a Jew says in extending a warm greeting to someone on the Sabbath.
I'm listening! I'd like to know if you feel engaged in this story. I'll be back again on October 17 and again on October 31!
Etlainie92@gmail.com
www.elainestories.com