FORBIDDEN TO JEWS

July 16th, 1942

(A day of horror for thousands of foreign Jews who thought that living in France would protect them! Paris-Mémoires tells you about the story of Arsen Kerkorian and Simon EIsenbaum just like if it had taken place.

The original story appears in the FB Page Paris-Mémoire. This text has been translated and adapted for English readers. This infamouse rounding-up episode is known as "La Rafle du Vel d'Hiv" . The name comes from a place in Paris (now gone) where indoor cyclist competition were held before the war. The French collaborationist authorities needed to find a closed suitable place able to hold the Jews which would be rounded-up. The Vélodrome d'Hiver ended up being selected, hence the name. The vélodrome d'hiver was located in the 15th arrondissement, on the left bank, a few hundred yards away from the Eiffel tower. The closest metro station was "Bir-Hakheim" on line Nbr 6)

Note: The characters depicted in this story may or may not have existed. This short story was written in the memory of French and foreign jews rounded-up like cattle in July of 1942 with the help of French police forces obeying German/French instruction resulting in the arrest of over 16.000 human beings, some of them never to bee seen again. This story is also written in memory of French or foreign " righful amongst the nations" who have contributed to saving countless jews in France and all over occupied Europe.

FORBIDDEN TO JEWS

My name is Arsen Kerkorian. I am a migrant; or should I rather say, my folks are, since that arrived in France in 1895 and settled in the southern city of Marseille. My parents are dry cleaners and they came over here from the Armenian town of Sevan, near the lake.

I was born in Paris on January 31st 1912 and studied there. My father, Apraham, descendant of a reputable family from the south-east of Armenia, a strong defender of republican ideas and values, provided valuable help and counselling shortly after I finished law school. I enjoy reading in German the text of Shubert’s lied, I love music composers of the romantic period, I enjoy playing chess and I simply love being alive in Paris.

In college, my buddies would mock me by calling me Arsène, Arsène Lupin ( from the name of a famous French gentleman cum thief in the 1900’s) or even “arsouille”, a French word used to mock those who enjoy drinking which is my case , but only if I can get hold of a bottle of original “Arak”.

(A Parisian public transport bus has just "offloaded" its tragic load of rounded-up Jews. Unable to says exactly were the photograph was taken however the information on the left lower corner point out to 1941. It may be related to the round-up of August 1941 in the 11th "arrondissement" of Paris. The place may well be the infamous Drancy camp, a "transit" place for jews before deportation)

My mother’s name is Endza, which in our language means «lucky star” , and she is a descendant from a family with the uncommon name of Bagratounis. She supported me when the time came to choose a job with the French administration.

My parents lived in Rue du Roi de Sicile, number 41, and I was raised in a secular environment. My father cursed like if god never existed while my mother would simply raise her eyebrows and stayed silent. My uncle Hagop Bedrossian had joined the special branch of the French police long ago and obviously, the help he provided was instrumental in getting me a job at the local police station, not so far away from my parent’s apartment. Uncle Hagop extended his help even further by acting as a private tutor when time came for me to take the exam to become a police inspector. As all of my colleagues I had to take the oath and pretty soon, swear allegiance to the Head of State, Philippe PETAIN by repeating in front of the hierarchy :

“I swear fidelity to the head of the state, I promise to obey to all the orders which will be given to me, for the good of the police and the interest of the Nation. I commit to doing my work according the laws of honour and integrity”

July 9th, 1942

With my police identification bearing my name and surname in the breast pocket of my short sleeve shirt I decide to go and stroll along Rue de Rivoli. Paris has been invaded by the Nazi occupant two years ago, and Verdigris German uniforms can be seen everywhere. Fourteen months ago, in May of 1941, foreign Jews, mostly of polish origin, have been arrested and sent to the French camps of Pithiviers and Beaune-la-Rolande. Last august, more than 4200 people, also mostly Jews were rounded-up and despatched to a “transit camp” named Drancy, in the north suburbs of Paris. Nobody knows what will be the next step. No one knows where they will go “after”, if there is such a thing that is. With Simon Eisenbaum, an old friend from college nicknamed Avi for god knows what reason, we often meet in a posh “café” on rue de Rivoli, not far away from Hotel Meurice, more for the sake of playing chess in a nice place, than drinking the ersatz coffee that I can still afford to pay for.

Simon is unmarried, just like me. It would probably be easier and safer to play chess at home but both of us are in love with Paris and find all the possible opportunities to leave the safety of the Saint-Paul area where the memory of the good old days has been replaced by suspicion and fear. From the rue des Blanc-Manteaux where Simon lives in a two-bedroom apartment to this pleasant coffee shop near the rue des Pyramides, it is a 20 minutes’ walk. Simon is Jewish. Shortly before the war broke out, call this luck or destiny, he found a job with the French branch of a German company manufacturing and selling radio lamps and tubes.

In early 1940, Simon receiving alarming news from an uncle living in Dresden, he decided that it might be safer to conduct a change of identity and as early as February 1941, through connections with members of the “Jeunesse Communistes”, Simon had access to a fresh set of identification under his new name: Siegward von Schirach, a good German name in a country occupied by the Germans. Hopefully, with a name like this one, Simon should be protected.

It’s been now two years since the flag with the Swastika flies over official building. Occupying forces have been in town since June 14th 1940. I remember that the situation split the French police in two opposite sides. For some, this was a blessing! “out with the Jews, the communists and all of them villains and corrupt politicians”. Other had already understood that the Germans were in Paris to stay, and quietly started hiding blank official documents, stamps, passports and such knowing that the most difficult was yet to come.

(The "magen david" made of fabric was imposed upon jews in France and other countries)

“How handsome they all are in their neat uniforms” comment some “Parisians” in the early summer of 1940. “How ugly they are” comment the same women in 1942 while occupying troops are conducting pilferage of the country, buying goods with their German marks. There is however no choice yet and Paris is waiting for better days while the Parisians are left with hardly any food and a complex system of ration coupons often exchanged on the black market. Jokes or happy songs are not heard anymore replaced by the knock on the doors of the “Police Allemande” at 6.00 in the early morning. One is a nobody unless one has an “ausweis” signed by the German, or a fool proof, even if fake, identification, preferably not stamped with a “J” for Jew.

Forms of bullying and harassing Jews are unlimited and include exclusion from all public life, exclusion from most of the economic activities, ban on access to public telephone or even public gardens, curfew rules.

Two months ago, Jews have been requested to wear a distinctive sign sawn on their clothing: a yellow star. A first order was set-up by the German with the help of the printing company Charles Wauters & sons. One can buy a Jewish star in return for a “textile” ration coupon.

Paris Is sad. Famous luxury hotels have been turned over to the various groups and organisations representing Adolph Hitler in France. The «huns » have implemented a new type of road signs which no-one besides German themselves, can read. French and German policemen belonging to the Gestapo are all over with their fedoras and leather trench-coats. The mob, taking advantage of all opportunities, builds up criminal networks and often help the Germans tracking Jews and resistant alike.

(Jews were totally excluded from public life. All kind of restrictions were in place clearly aiming at eliminating jews from society. We all know what happend later...)

July 11th 1942.

As I pour out of the subway, three “feldgendarmen” check the pedestrian’s identification. I first offer my identity card. “Ach! Kerkorian ! Are you French? » Then I Immediately offer my professional ID with the word POLICE across it, and delighted by the fact that the feldgendarme does not speak French that well, give myself more importance than I should and verbally aggress the man! “look at this other card! It says POLICE on it! It even says that you must let me go wherever I want. You see that emblem just there, it is the official emblem of the Vichy government, your friends! Let me go or I will complain to your commander!” The soldier looked put out… “Sorry Inspector, it’s only my second week in Paris. So, you Armenian ? Armenian you are ? Not Jew ? « No, I am not Jewish ! Armenians are Christians, I come from Marseille, do you know that place? » “ I do not know ! One day may be » « Can I go, now ? » « Bitte, Meinherr , Entschuldingung » Close call for me! I need to calm down and walk up the Champs Elysées towards the Arch while the Wehrmach Militär Band plays the “alte kameraden marsch” under the sun of this early afternoon. It is really hot, but Paris’ soul is dead cold. For a few days, already, a kind of lead screed has been thrown over the Prefecture de Police. A contact of uncle Hagop, (Jean-Christophe du Plessis-Casso, an aristocrat working at the Jewish Affair High Commission along with Louis Darquier de Pellepoix) has confided in me that important events were to unfold very soon.

“I tell you! The game is over for the Jews! Good decisions have been taken. We should have done this long, long ago!” The very idea of a “mysterious event” makes me nauseous. If I only could find more about this!

You are not Jewish, had said the feldgendarme ! He does not know the history or Armenia! He should dig a bit more in History books just to find out that there are still Jewish families there, even if not many are left. I vividly recall in my childhood when my mother, Lucky Star, was lighting some kind of candles for Shabbes, but it was so long ago. Daily life took over all of this. Coming up to Paris, law school, the Police, my secular father…but true enough, in the light of events taking place in Paris, I can feel a lot of questions coming to my mind about my past, my heritage. But time will come later. For now, let’s return home.

July 14th 1942

As I dropped Simon at home rue des Blanc-Manteaux, I Have heard from the concierge of the building (Madame Charmaison, born in Semur-en-Auxois!) that there was a military parade in London by a group of marine-fusiliers under the orders of a sub-lieutenant named Philippe Kieffer! My heart sank with pride for those fighting in thee Free French Forces in England.

July 15th 1942

As I was coming back home, I find waiting for me in front of my apartment building entrance, a uniformed policeman belonging to the 3rd arrondissement police stations. I know him well! His name is Francis LAGNEAU. I like Francis and his outspokenness. He is the son of a World War one veteran, a “ gueule cassée” suffering from severe facial injuries who fought in Verdun in 1916. Every now and then I help Francis preparing for the internal police examination to become a police inspector. He hands out to me a blue coloured summons requesting my attendance the next morning at 4H00 at the police station. The summons underline the importance of being on time for the briefing. The reason for that summons? to implement secret decision under circular 173-42 by the “prefecture de police” requesting the rounding-up and subsequent arrest of 27427 foreign Jewish individuals. SIMON!!! For God’s sake!

July 16th 1942 04H23 AM

The worst is going to take place under my very eyes. Nominative lists are being distributed. Rue des Blanc-Manteaux is a part of the sector assigned to me. Number 73, five storeys building, ten apartments. The list of occupants speak for itself: Dollfuss, Weinberg,Sarfati,Eiseinbaum,Rappoport,Bloch,Zeitoun,,Lednitzer, Finkelstajn,Himmelblau!

The beginning of the rounding-up operation is scheduled for 6H00 am. Catching people while they are steel asleep is the essence. All efforts should be made to ensure that no one warns other. Busses from the Paris transport company are waiting close to rue de Rivoli.

I must warn Simon! He MUST know what will take place in less than two hours! The briefing hardly over, I pretend that I need to check a few details about the upcoming rounding-up and run all the way to Simon’s building on rue des Blanc-Manteaux! Paris is still asleep. A black and grey cat is sitting quietly undertaking his morning grooming, totally foreign to the tragedy to come. A courtyard with cobblestones. Staircase “A”. I run upwards all the way to the third floor. A business card is pinned to the door lintel just besides a mezuzah! Simon, you idiot! You should have been more careful!

The business card bears the “German” name of Simon: Siegward Schirach! An Aryan with a German origin living in an apartment protected by a mezuzah? A name that does not appear on the lists published by the Prefecture de Police? There is not a chance that the lie may last more than a few seconds! Banging on the door, I call: “Simon, Simon! God damn it Simon! Open the bloody door! Simon opens up still half asleep… « Simon! The Germans! Hurry up, you need to run away NOW! They will be here in forty-five minutes, they’re rounding up all the Jews!” “Rounding-up Jews? Why? What do they want? » Simon jumps in a pair of pants, a short sleeve shirt, grabs his wallet, don a pair of tennis shoes. “Run Simon Run “… Both of us fly down the three storeys on the way to the street.

But it is already too late. Plainclothes officer, Gestapo representatives, uniformed French gendarmes are blocking the entire street, precluding any escaping attempt.

(The infamous Drancy camp, in the northern suburb of Paris. The buildings are still there and used as "social housing")

The only way out: a big lie! I catch Simon by the arm, pulling out my professional identification, and walk straight to the group Gestapo men sent by Helmut Knochen to observe the rounding-up while at the same time getting in the most possible aggressive mood, a style that Germans are used to.

Picking up all the remnants of my German vocabulary, I simply start shaking Simon by the arm, and scream : “ Dieser ist ein terrorist. Ich Werde ihn direct zum Gestapo bringen”. The group of German secret policemen moves away to let us through and we continue walking towards rue de Rivoli.

No running ! No running!

The corner with rue des Archive is a bit quieter. Hundred meters away is rue de Rivoli, close to the Hotel-de-Ville! I let go of Simon’s arm. A “vélo-taxi” coming from the east of Paris has stopped at a traffic light! Simon’s luck! I scream: “jump in it Avi, jump in i t! Get away, don’t even return »

The “ velo-taxi” starts moving towards the west, taking Simon away for good. Today, Simon Eisenbaum has just escaped the “Vel d’hiv” round up.

©2017 Sylvain Ubersfeld pour Paris-Mémoires