Winter 1943. My parents and I, a teenager, found shelter in a garret in Lyon. Occupied France. Being out of sawdust for cooking on a stove and as a source of heat for a few hours daily, we were about to put on layers of clothing for warmth overnight.
I slept on an old red armchair, my parents in the alcove. No snow outside, but white paint flakes falling from the ceiling, which we referred to as snow.
We try to listen to the BBC, source of hope and contact with the rest of the world. The radio was hidden under the pillow. As foreign Jews, it was forbidden to own a radio and obviously to listen to “the enemy.” During the day, we also keep a pot of vegetables/meat stewing under the pillow, which we started on the stove. But again, the radio reception is jammed.
Suddenly we hear steps coming up past the French-type toilet we share with tenants on two floors. Hard knocks on our heavy door! “Police, ouvrez la porte.” (“Open the door.”) We stop breathing.
The door is jarred repeatedly. “Ouvrez, tout de suite!” (“Open right away.”) We did not move.
The old woman-recluse across the hall opens hers, the smell of the rabbits she was raising emanating profusely. “Ils ne sont past là!” (“They aren’t there!”) she says repeatedly. More strong door-rattling. The French detectives finally leave.
The old recluse, though deranged, saved our lives. We were not hauled away to a detention camp!