You can read the previous part of Elly’s story here: War years: some lucky breaks and some not so lucky
Moving south from Troyes
We had no idea where we were. But by landing in Troyes, quite by coincidence, we were away from most of the crowd fleeing from Paris. The greatest exodus was down to the Loire River, to Tours, and they were bombed by the Germans frequently. The road south from Troyes was easier, except for the Italian planes which enjoyed strafing us while we hid in ditches. Mother again had her troubles with me, since I refused to lie down in the ditches, stating that I would not die lying down. When I think of it now, I just shake my head at my stupidity.
There were cars, trucks, walking crowds and even soldiers still with arms on that road, and the brave soldiers would aim their rifles at the planes but that was an unequal struggle, even though they flew so low that we could see the guys in the cockpit. When there was an hour or so without strafing, Mother and I continued walking. At an intersection we found an army convoy, this one well organized, quite long, with officers in cars at the front, lorries and trucks behind. Since I had learned how to be good at pleasing, I asked them to help us because my Mother was exhausted, which was true. By then in her fifties, walking, the hunger and thirst, the dangers, the rejections because of her accent, had really taken their toll.
The officers reluctantly said OK and I asked them on Mother’s behalf to let her sleep a little in the truck filled with blanket. She climbed in and I sat in an open lorry between the soldiers. After some time, the convoy came to a stop and I was told we would have to get out again. With no motion in the truck, Mother woke up and started to climb out of the truck where she had rested. The soldier who was sitting next to me did not know that this was my Mother coming out, and raised his rifle to shoot her. That was another trick in that crazy war, full of Fifth Columnists appearing out of nowhere. I threw myself against him and deflected the gun, and yelled: “That’s my Mother, that’s my Mother, don’t shoot her”. I think after that they were really glad to have us leave their convoy and perhaps we were not so sorry either.
We had one goal in mind: to get to where my sister Gerty was, so that our little family could be together. And so we continued trudging on, which seemed never to end.
A reunion
Elly (left) and her sister Gerty
I have no recollection at all of how we got to Périgueux, nor how Mother knew where to find my sister. That is one of the very few blanks in my memory.
When we arrived at the house of the family where Gerty took care of two children, they would not allow Mother and me to enter. When they called my sister, for whom we asked, she came to the door but did not recognize me. When she realized that I was truly her sister, she cried. I looked like a very dirty ghost, pale, unwashed, unkempt, ill-dressed and quite a bit taller than when we had last met. It was not what you might call a happy reunion, especially since the owners refused to have Mother and me even come in to rest, or wash ourselves, nor did they offer us a glass to drink nor anything to eat. In view of all of this Gerty resigned, and did so sadly, since she had become very close to the children, especially the little boy named Tomás, who cried hard and loud when she left.
The three of us continued on the road south, heading towards the Pyrénées mountains. Soon a car passed by with three soldiers who asked whether we would like a ride as they were going south as well, and Mother accepted. It took several days to get near Lourdes, spending nights in barns and when we arrived the driver asked Mother whether she would like to have him take us across the mountains. He said he was familiar with the passages to get us to Spain.
Mother was glad at the thought we might escape and when the price was set, she agreed to pay an advance from our limited funds. Many refugees from France had taken that route, as it was a passageway to get transport to North or South America, anything to get away from what the fate of most, especially Jews, would be. But once we arrived in Lourdes proper, all three of the soldiers disappeared with their car and of course with our money.
Lourdes was full of refugees and arrangements had been made to place mattresses in various places, and we found refuge in one of them and finally had a night or two of real sleep, and were even able to wash ourselves. We also were given some food, and unfortunately I do not remember at all who or what organization had been so find as to help the many refugees.
Shortly after we arrived in Lourdes, Gerty and I met, quite by accident, our father who had arrived in the city after being freed from a French concentration camp, which held non-citizens but was not a death camp. As the Germans came close, the commander of the camp called the men together and told them that while he could do nothing for them, he knew what their fate would be if they were found by the Nazis, and he would open the gates of the camp and the men were free to leave. He was one of the good men in this misery of a war. Of course, all took advantage of that offer, including my father.
Read the fifth part of Elly Sherman’s story, War years: Marseilles, and hotel days and nights
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