Today's time traveling was well spent in discussion - albeit in a convoluted mixture of my own broken French and her broken English - with a very sweet woman regarding Opa, his mother, my family, and her family. It made the time pass quickly and I was moved, once more, by how supportive of my project everyone I meet has been.
And, geographically speaking, I was not prepared at all for what I saw on this train ride. I am ashamed to admit, "geographer" that I am, that I had little sense of where exactly Toulouse was relative to Lyon, and additionally I had no preexisting notion of what southeastern France is like; I can tell you now, it is beautiful.
Toulouse is farther south, and the Mediterranean farther north, than I thought. Imagine my surprise to look out the window at a sandy beach lapped by the brightest-blue water I had ever seen. Noting my fascination, my riding companion said, simply, "C'est la mer. La mer Méditeranée." I never expected it. The Mediterranean snuck up on me. Some geographer! Looking at the map now, of course we would skirt the coast. What an exciting surprise! If only I could have got out!
And then it was gone. And at Nîmes, so too was my intrepid amateur tour guide. But the land was no less impressive.
From Nîmes we sped almost directly north through some of the most rugged terrain I have ever seen. Mountains seemingly composed of nothing but fist-sized rubble shot up into the sky, clad in hardy evergreens, the occasional vineyard (which look eerily like the war graveyards, neat rows as far as the eye can see) and a scrubby little undergrowth resplendent with yellow and pink flowers that made their lives in such a seemingly sparse area. It was beautiful in its alienness and I really wish I could spend time there: there were miles of shoulder-width walking paths through the underbrush begging to be explored. Perhaps someday!
It's funny what time does to language. Trying to talk to the woman, I found myself very near to answering her French in German (I took German this semester for the first time) despite the fact I took two semesters of French in high school. I am much more comfortable in German than in French. I ended up showing her the pictures I have of Opa, his family, etc., and she understood everything I was saying much better than when I had been trying in elementary French! She told me I have Opa's eyes. I wanted to hug her for that.
There are hourly trains from here to Chalons sur Saone, so I will spend tomorrow there. I am not sure what I will find, if anything, but the best way to see is to go! Then my real last day in Europe will be over, already! I travel the next day to Paris where I take a connecting train to Amsterdam and will stay in the airport there for roughly 13 hours or so before heading home. If I smell when I land, Mom and Dad, I'm sorry! Just sit me next to Trey on the ride back!
Until tomorrow, readers!
P.S. Everyone who has been enjoying my blog over the course of this month, and who is disappointed now that it is coming to an end, should take a moment and check out my good friend Ethan's nascent blog, Summer Adventures of a Northwoods Wildlife Intern, where he details the incredibly interesting day to day life of a wildlife refuge in Wisconsin. His posts are funny, exciting, and I am jealous of the fact that he gets to have such a cool job for the summer! Give it a read and follow him as loyally as you have been following this blog (I'm thankful for that, by the way!)
Au revoir!
Showing posts with label Chalons sur Saone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chalons sur Saone. Show all posts
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Toulouse 29th May 2013
Finally my allergies have subsided! Apart from the occasional debilitating sneeze it seems yesterday's rain and today's cloudiness have defeated southern France's considerable pollen level, meaning today was a great day to explore Toulouse.
I really like this city, though I have trouble comparing it to anywhere else I have been. It is no Paris, where thousands are on the street at any time. Neither is it Vienna, with its Imperial legacy. And it is unlike Amsterdam, too, that city is far too maritime in character. And Toulouse is sprawling and doesn't climb upward like any American city.
But the houses are colorful, the streets are narrow and lively, and I did not find a visibly impoverished area here like I did in the other cities I have visited on this trip (though I am sure it must exist somewhere).
It just seems like a city comfortable with its mixed French, North African, and even Spanish influences. None of the other cities seemed this cosmopolitan, which seems strange considering Toulouse is smaller than the others. This seems also to run counter to the American trend where smaller communities seem more insular.
That said, though, I did not wander upon any Jewish heritage in Toulouse like I did everywhere else. It is a big place and I cannot say that a Jewish quarter does not exist, but the other cities were bigger and I found theirs. Perhaps Toulouse is not so cosmopolitan, or has not been historically, at least, as it seems.
Tonight I pack again and tomorrow is spent on a train to Lyon. I am excited to go to Chalons sur Saone on the day after but I am having a very hard time finding any information on the camp there. I will have to "wing it" (like I have on most of this trip, honestly).
I also am very excited now to go home. This trip has been immensely rewarding but I am exhausted and long to be in Vermont. But, not much longer!
Until tomorrow!
I really like this city, though I have trouble comparing it to anywhere else I have been. It is no Paris, where thousands are on the street at any time. Neither is it Vienna, with its Imperial legacy. And it is unlike Amsterdam, too, that city is far too maritime in character. And Toulouse is sprawling and doesn't climb upward like any American city.
But the houses are colorful, the streets are narrow and lively, and I did not find a visibly impoverished area here like I did in the other cities I have visited on this trip (though I am sure it must exist somewhere).
It just seems like a city comfortable with its mixed French, North African, and even Spanish influences. None of the other cities seemed this cosmopolitan, which seems strange considering Toulouse is smaller than the others. This seems also to run counter to the American trend where smaller communities seem more insular.
That said, though, I did not wander upon any Jewish heritage in Toulouse like I did everywhere else. It is a big place and I cannot say that a Jewish quarter does not exist, but the other cities were bigger and I found theirs. Perhaps Toulouse is not so cosmopolitan, or has not been historically, at least, as it seems.
Tonight I pack again and tomorrow is spent on a train to Lyon. I am excited to go to Chalons sur Saone on the day after but I am having a very hard time finding any information on the camp there. I will have to "wing it" (like I have on most of this trip, honestly).
I also am very excited now to go home. This trip has been immensely rewarding but I am exhausted and long to be in Vermont. But, not much longer!
Until tomorrow!
Friday, May 24, 2013
Paris 24th May 2013
I am, once again, astounded and excited by the fragments of information I find everywhere I go. Nine days ago in Brussels I learned the names of all four of Opa's grandparents. Two days ago I used those names to learn the names and addresses of an aunt, uncle, and four cousins of Opa's that none in my family knew lived. Today in Orleans I used those names and addresses to find pictures of that aunt and those cousins. I am, once again, blown away.
By the nature of my project I go to most places with little idea of what to expect. I knew that Orleans was home to CERCIL,essentially a center for Holocaust studies focused on the Loiret region of France and its three large camps (among them Pithiviers), but I expected it to be little more than a museum of sorts (there are many, an example is the Jewish History Museum in Amsterdam I wrote about previously), which are nice but do not generally do much to forward my own project. There were, after all, many people involved in the Shoah and it is impossible in most broad interest museums to dwell or focus on the countless individual stories inherent in the Holocaust. In fact, I almost did not go to Orleans today: another day in Paris was tempting and I was not feeling well this morning anyway, but I decided to go and see what I could find.
Orleans is a pretty city, bigger than Ypres but much smaller than Paris, which was nice after a few days in the city. I do not think I will ever be a "city person." I feel overwhelmed by the massive tide of humanity in Paris.
The receptionist at CERCIL was a very sweet woman, embarrassed by her lack of command of English (she was better than she gave herself credit for), but helpful nonetheless. She let me into the museum for free because, she said, everything was written in French and she apparently doubted that I would get my money's worth from the exhibits. She was wrong.
For the most part it was a museum. It featured a barrack like those found at Pithiviers and then summarized, much like other museums, the lead up to the war and the genocide.
But CERCIL had a room with three sectioned and illuminated walls. In each small section sat the name of a child arrested in France, most during the Vel d'Hiv, and most eventually killed. In roughly 1/5th of these a picture accompanied the name. The many names with blank spaces were ominous, evidence of the mountains of work still due to these children whose stories are not fully understood, and discouraged me from hoping, but I worked my way slowly around, looking at the faces of innocents whose lives were torn apart by a hatred they could not possibly have deserved.
I reached Rosa Brykman's place first. No picture of the 16 year old girl with whom my great-grandmother was killed was available. This made me sad. Opa said she was pretty, and I had hoped to see her.
But the "N"s were different. My breath caught as my eyes settled first on Lucien Najman, Opa's younger cousin, who looked incredibly similar to Opa and to my father. Above and below Lucien were pictures of his brothers and sisters. They were a beautiful family. The oldest, Helene, was only 16.
Additionally there was an interactive database that let me search for each of them, game some details of their lives, and cycled between an enlarged picture of them and a family photo of the children with their mother, Marjem. I could not help but be moved by this photo. Their happy smiles in the face of such horror are incredible. They were together.
I thanked the receptionist profusely and assured her I had found more than I could have hoped for.
On the train ride back I met an interesting and trilingual mechanical engineer from near Orleans who fell for a Brazilian girl at university and moved to Brazil to be with her. We discussed life, my project, and politics (both American and French) all the way. It was very nice to meet a local for once (most of my friends have been fellow hostelers). He even told me a bit about Chalons sur Saone!
Unfortunately I came back too late to try to attend services at the synagogue tonight. I was disappointed, but I am still so happy with today. I cannot get over Lucien. It is remarkable.
Until tomorrow!
By the nature of my project I go to most places with little idea of what to expect. I knew that Orleans was home to CERCIL,essentially a center for Holocaust studies focused on the Loiret region of France and its three large camps (among them Pithiviers), but I expected it to be little more than a museum of sorts (there are many, an example is the Jewish History Museum in Amsterdam I wrote about previously), which are nice but do not generally do much to forward my own project. There were, after all, many people involved in the Shoah and it is impossible in most broad interest museums to dwell or focus on the countless individual stories inherent in the Holocaust. In fact, I almost did not go to Orleans today: another day in Paris was tempting and I was not feeling well this morning anyway, but I decided to go and see what I could find.
Orleans is a pretty city, bigger than Ypres but much smaller than Paris, which was nice after a few days in the city. I do not think I will ever be a "city person." I feel overwhelmed by the massive tide of humanity in Paris.
The receptionist at CERCIL was a very sweet woman, embarrassed by her lack of command of English (she was better than she gave herself credit for), but helpful nonetheless. She let me into the museum for free because, she said, everything was written in French and she apparently doubted that I would get my money's worth from the exhibits. She was wrong.
For the most part it was a museum. It featured a barrack like those found at Pithiviers and then summarized, much like other museums, the lead up to the war and the genocide.
But CERCIL had a room with three sectioned and illuminated walls. In each small section sat the name of a child arrested in France, most during the Vel d'Hiv, and most eventually killed. In roughly 1/5th of these a picture accompanied the name. The many names with blank spaces were ominous, evidence of the mountains of work still due to these children whose stories are not fully understood, and discouraged me from hoping, but I worked my way slowly around, looking at the faces of innocents whose lives were torn apart by a hatred they could not possibly have deserved.
I reached Rosa Brykman's place first. No picture of the 16 year old girl with whom my great-grandmother was killed was available. This made me sad. Opa said she was pretty, and I had hoped to see her.
But the "N"s were different. My breath caught as my eyes settled first on Lucien Najman, Opa's younger cousin, who looked incredibly similar to Opa and to my father. Above and below Lucien were pictures of his brothers and sisters. They were a beautiful family. The oldest, Helene, was only 16.
Additionally there was an interactive database that let me search for each of them, game some details of their lives, and cycled between an enlarged picture of them and a family photo of the children with their mother, Marjem. I could not help but be moved by this photo. Their happy smiles in the face of such horror are incredible. They were together.
I thanked the receptionist profusely and assured her I had found more than I could have hoped for.
On the train ride back I met an interesting and trilingual mechanical engineer from near Orleans who fell for a Brazilian girl at university and moved to Brazil to be with her. We discussed life, my project, and politics (both American and French) all the way. It was very nice to meet a local for once (most of my friends have been fellow hostelers). He even told me a bit about Chalons sur Saone!
Unfortunately I came back too late to try to attend services at the synagogue tonight. I was disappointed, but I am still so happy with today. I cannot get over Lucien. It is remarkable.
Until tomorrow!
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Paris 22nd May 2013
Honestly, the immensity of today can not be overstated. If I were to add all of the information I have found prior to today (roughly two to two and a half years of work online) it would still pale in comparison to 22nd May, 2013 in Paris. I have found the missing piece. I understand now. My God. Honestly. I have never felt like I do right now.
Opa's memoirs in English were written far after the fact and, despite some few "holes" of informations, are remarkably detailed. I am more and more impressed with his ability to remember specific addresses in each city as well as the names of neighbors, etc. My main work has been derived from these English memoirs, but there is also a fragment of what appears to be a contemporary account of the incident written by Opa shortly after he arrived in Switzerland. This short piece is written in German.
For the most part these stories corroborate, but on one key issue they diverged: his English report led me to assume he had been interned at Drancy, a camp just north of Paris, based on the fact that his mother was eventually deported from there to Auschwitz. But the German account states that he was actually Pithiviers, another camps, and implies that he was separated from his mother there. To further confuse matters, records for him do not exist at either Pithiviers or Drancy, though they do at both for his mother (she was sent from Pithiviers to Drancy and then to Auschwitz). This led me to question my preexisting notion: perhaps Opa was never at either camp, and they were separated somewhere else.
His mother's information cards were regrettably vague. No hints as to her location prior to Pithiviers were offered. But Opa's memoirs, once again incredibly detailed, mentioned the names of various extended family members with whom he and his mother were traveling when they were arrested. Among this number was one Rosa Brykman, his cousin, the 16 year old daughter of his mother's older sister. In his English memoir Opa noted that when he left his mother he also left Rosa. It occurred to me that Rosa very likely followed the same trail as Opa's mother and may shed light on the mystery location where they were all imprisoned together.
And that was it. Rosa was the key. She was kept with Opa's mother until their similar murders at Auschwitz. But where Chana Najman's cards were bereft of information regarding their detention prior to Pithiviers, Rosa Brykman's cards had a single line: "Prison de Chalons sur Saone."
And there it was. Chalons sur Saone is a city south east of Paris very near the demarcation line that separated the German-occupied portion of France from Vichy ("Free") France, and it was here that Opa, his mother, Rosa Brykman, and three distant relations (one of whome, Paulette Weinbush, he escaped with) were all imprisoned together. This is my missing piece. It was not a concentration camp, not even a transit camp like Drancy, but more of a haphazard detention center erected as a staging point. It was this piecemeal nature of the prison at Chalons sur Saone that allowed the French Gendarme the opportunity to help Opa and Paulette escape. Chalons sur Saone is the last place Opa saw his mother.
Needless to say, I am going to Chalons sur Saone. It is an hour's ride from Lyon, so I will go on 31st May.
Almost as an after thought (relatively speaking) I found information on twelve (!!!) relatives: Pesacc Najman, my Opa's uncle, his wife and their four children, and Cyrla Brykman nee Szmckier, Opa's mother's older sister, her husband and their four children, including the key Rosa. This trove of information itself is priceless. I owe an inordinate deal to the archives of the Memorial de la Shoah in Paris.
This evening I met Ashley and her boyfriend Jordan for coffee at an excellent cafe near Notre Dame. It was very nice to see her and meet Jordan for the first time. I hope to see her again stateside sometime soon!
Tomorrow I intend to visit Drancy.
Honestly I cannot begin to express the excitement that today has kindled in me. I am absolutely elated. There is nothing else to say.
I have no more words.
Opa's memoirs in English were written far after the fact and, despite some few "holes" of informations, are remarkably detailed. I am more and more impressed with his ability to remember specific addresses in each city as well as the names of neighbors, etc. My main work has been derived from these English memoirs, but there is also a fragment of what appears to be a contemporary account of the incident written by Opa shortly after he arrived in Switzerland. This short piece is written in German.
For the most part these stories corroborate, but on one key issue they diverged: his English report led me to assume he had been interned at Drancy, a camp just north of Paris, based on the fact that his mother was eventually deported from there to Auschwitz. But the German account states that he was actually Pithiviers, another camps, and implies that he was separated from his mother there. To further confuse matters, records for him do not exist at either Pithiviers or Drancy, though they do at both for his mother (she was sent from Pithiviers to Drancy and then to Auschwitz). This led me to question my preexisting notion: perhaps Opa was never at either camp, and they were separated somewhere else.
His mother's information cards were regrettably vague. No hints as to her location prior to Pithiviers were offered. But Opa's memoirs, once again incredibly detailed, mentioned the names of various extended family members with whom he and his mother were traveling when they were arrested. Among this number was one Rosa Brykman, his cousin, the 16 year old daughter of his mother's older sister. In his English memoir Opa noted that when he left his mother he also left Rosa. It occurred to me that Rosa very likely followed the same trail as Opa's mother and may shed light on the mystery location where they were all imprisoned together.
And that was it. Rosa was the key. She was kept with Opa's mother until their similar murders at Auschwitz. But where Chana Najman's cards were bereft of information regarding their detention prior to Pithiviers, Rosa Brykman's cards had a single line: "Prison de Chalons sur Saone."
And there it was. Chalons sur Saone is a city south east of Paris very near the demarcation line that separated the German-occupied portion of France from Vichy ("Free") France, and it was here that Opa, his mother, Rosa Brykman, and three distant relations (one of whome, Paulette Weinbush, he escaped with) were all imprisoned together. This is my missing piece. It was not a concentration camp, not even a transit camp like Drancy, but more of a haphazard detention center erected as a staging point. It was this piecemeal nature of the prison at Chalons sur Saone that allowed the French Gendarme the opportunity to help Opa and Paulette escape. Chalons sur Saone is the last place Opa saw his mother.
Needless to say, I am going to Chalons sur Saone. It is an hour's ride from Lyon, so I will go on 31st May.
Almost as an after thought (relatively speaking) I found information on twelve (!!!) relatives: Pesacc Najman, my Opa's uncle, his wife and their four children, and Cyrla Brykman nee Szmckier, Opa's mother's older sister, her husband and their four children, including the key Rosa. This trove of information itself is priceless. I owe an inordinate deal to the archives of the Memorial de la Shoah in Paris.
This evening I met Ashley and her boyfriend Jordan for coffee at an excellent cafe near Notre Dame. It was very nice to see her and meet Jordan for the first time. I hope to see her again stateside sometime soon!
Tomorrow I intend to visit Drancy.
Honestly I cannot begin to express the excitement that today has kindled in me. I am absolutely elated. There is nothing else to say.
I have no more words.
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