Operation Yellow Star Black Thursday by Maurice Rajsfus

Author:Maurice Rajsfus
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780997818413
Publisher: DoppelHouse Press
Published: 2017-07-12T04:00:00+00:00

1. See pp. 28–29, Operation Yellow Star.

2. See pp. 22–23, Operation Yellow Star.

3

JULY 16, 1942. We had been wearing the yellow star for forty days, but the authorities did not need that mark to carry out the largest abduction in the history of Paris. The lists compiled by the French police were amply sufficient to guarantee the success of the operation. The day, which began at 4 a.m., would go down in history under the name Operation Spring Breeze for the police, and for the victims, Black Thursday, or in Yiddish, Der Fintster Donershtik.1

Like the people in other homes, we were asleep in spite of the heat of that summer night. It was a night like any other. Before 5 a.m., I was awakened by violent blows against the door. My mother was already up. The knocking continued, accompanied by shouts: “Open up, police!” Anyone who hasn’t heard such an order at that time of day and with such brutal force cannot imagine our state of mind when we were awakened. Had they come for my father? Was it a repeat of the Billet Vert roundup of May 2 to May 14, 1941,2 but this time in people’s homes?

Upon opening the door, we were brusquely informed that this involved the whole family. A clean sweep. Still half asleep, I heard the order: “You have five minutes to pack your bags. Take only what is necessary!” We dressed quickly, and although it was the middle of summer, my mother insisted that we put on warm clothes. One thing I haven’t forgotten, although it may seem trivial or even ridiculous, is the new shoes I had to put on, which immediately hurt my feet. Wearing those shoes that whole day was a real ordeal.

As if he had been expecting this visit for a long time, my father did not react. He dressed mechanically, while my mother tried in vain to negotiate with the two policemen, who had orders not to listen to any complaints from their victims. To everything she said, they gave the same answer: “Be quick, Madame, we’re in a hurry!” But my mother insisted, “Surely you’re not going to arrest the children. There must be a mistake. You know, Sir, they are French.” My mother kept speaking to the older of the two policemen who were standing on either side of the doorway; she knew him, because this man, whose name was Mulot, had been our neighbor on the same floor. I was already dressed, and I remember his irritated look; he must have had the same mission to carry out many more times and must have been eager to get it over with before full daylight. His mechanical repetition of “Dépêchez-vous!”—“Hurry up!”—sounded strangely similar to the Nazis’ “Schnell!”

Our two peace officers were getting impatient while my mother, remaining strangely calm, started rummaging around. Obviously, she was trying to gain time. What was she hoping for? We never knew. Every minute might be valuable. How did she have the

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