Open Writing

My long forgotten childhood dreams had suddenly come true. On the 9th of May 1945, worn out and destitute as I was, I stepped onto the platform of Gare du Nord in Paris, with Marcel at my side.

I had always regarded the city with awe. Now the sheer delight at finding myself in the great capital was so great that I felt like stepping on to holy ground. It temporarily blotted out any apprehension I might have felt. The aphorism 'weird and wonderful,' defines precisely my emotions at that unforgettable moment.

Marcel delayed his return home from the wars to stay with me, but he did not feel very brave either. Our tenacity stemmed mainly from our faith in each other and in the future before us. In my eyes, at the age of 22, these essential components represented everything worth having. Nothing else mattered. In my heart I reached the pinnacle of happiness, or so it seemed.

We made our way by the Metro (for free!) to Jojo's digs at rue Beccaria, Paris 12eme. The transfer of the key to the flat worked according to plan. Jojo had already left Paris in search of his wayward wife. We both felt immensely sorry for his misfortune, but we were not circumspect enough to miss such an opportunity to be together. For the duration of the first ten post-war days, we opened the way for Marcel to join me in my new sanctuary.

The elegant, spacious and well furnished flat was a far cry from the unlamented horse carriage. The gleaming parquet floors cast my mind back to my childhood, with its precious moments of Sunday indulgence when my father rewarded me with rides on the floor polisher.

We both felt elated about the new abode, regarding it as an auspicious omen. Under our lucky star we had gone 'from rags to riches' in one giant leap. While the new dawn was yet to unfold, we had nothing more to fear from the bitter past. Within that perceived vacuum a delicious state of suspense seemed to engulf us, which emboldened us to shut out any worries or doubts we might otherwise have had. We set out to conquer the world all by ourselves.

Our new lifestyle saw us strolling arm in arm, through the rather empty streets of post-war Paris, heedless of everyone around us. Nurtured by its very special ambiance, we were instantly won over by the overall sense of history, refinement, good taste, and symmetry.

In each other's company and in perfect weather it was good to be alive. My memories of those days prompt me to evoke the feelings of all those smitten in a similar fashion - that to be in love, in Paris, in the spring, is a triumph! Twenty-four hours in a day did not seem long enough for everything we strove to accomplish in such a short time.
We divided our time between running the gamut of welfare agencies, (encompassing the Jewish Joint, the Polish Red Cross, the Catholic Mission, and so on) searching for clothing for me and food and transport coupons, and the exploration of the City of Lights.

In the course of those forays I became the proud recipient of a winter overcoat made from a patterned grey rug. To give it class the coat had a detachable fur collar of dubious origin. For good measure, I found in one of the pockets greetings and a ten dollar note, a gift from a, Canadian of Polish descent. Considering that the home-made
coat Halina N. had sent me from Warsaw to Germany was falling to pieces, the gift was timely.

I proudly wore the new coat throughout my first winter in France. Eventually, beguiled by the Parisian chic, I discarded it in favour of a smart brown camel hair coat my uncle Ludwik Boruchowicz had sent me from Tel Aviv.

Marcel, a Bordelais by birth and disposition, was not well acquainted with his capital city, whilst my own knowledge about Paris derived mainly from reading and school studies. Presently, time was ripe to gain some real life experience! And what could be more exciting than exploring the metropolis on foot? Hence, day after day, we roamed through the city like a couple of kids lost in their dream world. The scope of our adventure was awe-inspiring.

In those early days after liberation Paris still bore some stigma of the German occupation. Apart from the houses of worship, most of the famous buildings were locked up, or at least emptied of their treasures. Likewise very few exhibits were displayed in the art galleries. The French had packed away most of their priceless masterpieces at the outbreak of hostilities, leaving many of the walls bare. In spite of such precautions, some paintings did not altogether escape Nazi plunder.

I remember a morning visit to the Louvre. We were the only people present in the Antiquities section downstairs. In the corner of one hall, we were suddenly confronted by a pair of gigantic feet. We soon learned that they were a sculptured replica of Buddha's feet. 'Ca sent les pieds dans le coin' (it smells of feet in the corner), observed Marcel. Our laughter reverberated throughout the vast chambers.

Walking the length of Blvd. St-Michel, we savoured the charm of Jardin du Luxembourg, the slowly awakening spirit of the Latin Quarter, amongst the buildings of the Sorbonne in rue des Ecoles, and the Pantheon in rue Soufflot. We stretched our weary legs and sipped cheap coffee in a famous students' haunt 'Chez Dupont.' It was located on the corner with Blvd. St-Germain and no longer exists.

By producing our food coupons we were offered subsidized 'meals' at the nearby bistros. The resentful waiters, whose livelihood depended entirely on tips (pourboire), reminded me of my own contemptuous demeanour at the Gaststatte 'Am Hochenstein'. The waiters regularly wiped the cutlery on their stained long white aprons, prior to placing it on the tables.

We sauntered along the left bank of the Seine, passing the famous Pont Neuf. Sometimes we perused through the old tomes of knowledge and wisdom piled up on the stalls of the authentic bouquinistes. (Today, in our modern era, more often than not they sell post cards, shoddy souvenirs and the like.)

As we walked along Pont St.Michel towards l'lle de la Cite, the sight of the Notre Dame rising on our right held me spellbound. So also did the majestic beauty of the grand old buildings along the banks of the Seine.

On our left, we were captivated by the sight of the exquisite Sainte-Chapelle, the Thirteenth Century jewel of the Gothic architecture. A little further along rue du Palais, facing Pont au Charge, we recognized the Conciergerie, the old prison where Marie-Antoinette, among others, lingered before her execution. Ahead of us Pont St. Michel and further on the famous old Pont Neuf criss-cross the river.

Short of time, we barely made it to the Right Bank. Nor did we explore any of the remaining 36 bridges that span the river Seine in Paris.

Before Marcel's return home, I managed to trace the whereabouts of Mrs Taub, who was once our dear neighbour at 102 Sienkiewicza Street in Lodz, and who had actually witnessed my birth.

Since the early 1930s, she had been living in Paris with her husband and the notorious Ignace. They lived in a lovely apartment near the Place de la Republique. In the end, their son fell in love with a Moroccan Jewess, with whom his parents had no affinity whatsoever. He married her and went to live in Casablanca. During the Nazi invasion the couple was herded into the infamous holding camp at Drancy, with all the Paris Jews. Mrs Taub subsequently lost her husband.

At the war's end, because of some administrative nightmare, she was prevented by the French from returning to her home straight away. Consequently, she had been living all alone in a tiny studio at Menilmontant. This area is an over-crowded and somewhat Bohemian end of town. It is immortalized by Charles Trenet in a song. It was there that Marcel and I caught up with her.

I instantly remembered her face, even though I was probably about seven or eight years old when my parents and I had last farewelled the family at the Lodz railway station. We fell into each other's arms. After all those years we were like two ghosts from a world that had vanished forever. We could not stop crying.

The sumptuous 'gouter' that she prepared for us, under difficult circumstances, bore testimony to her customary hospitality. At the time of our visit, Ignace was about to return to Paris with his wife and baby Celine. They were going to live in Paris. Mrs Taub was happy at the prospect of welcoming her son and meeting her new grand-daughter, but she was openly resentful of her daughter-in-law.

I tried to make my news from Poland brief, but everything I said seemed to add to our former neighbour's distress. Another challenge to her, of which I remained unaware for a long while, must have been Marcel's presence. After all she had been through, she was now expected to entertain under her roof an authentic Bordelais. In her mind, he was probably linked in some way to the wicked Vichy regime. To top it all, the child of her oldest friend was now in love with this Bordelais. All that must have demanded much self-control on her part.

It was to Mrs Taub's great credit that she fulfilled to the utmost her role of the perfect hostess throughout that afternoon. From then on until I left France, I kept in regular contact with her.

That evening, we relished the colourful night life of Menilmontant. Marcel taught me the famous song:

'Menilmontant, mais oui Mesdames,
C'est la que j'ai laisse mon coeur,
C'est la que j'ai retrouve mon ame,
Mon ancienne flamme,
Et mon boheur.'