The Fighter by Jean Jacques Greif Read Free Book Online Page B

rotten Jews, you’re good for nothing. Stealing our money is easier than holding a scythe!”
    The guard who takes us there has never seen such heartlessness.
    â€œHe treats you worse than dogs!”
    This guard is a good guy. I wouldn’t say the same about his colleagues, far from it. He doesn’t think it’s right that we’re being kept in a camp.
    â€œListen, fellows. When I take you to the farm, I can’t watch you all. If I notice that one or two are missing whenwe get there, what can I do about it? I can’t leave the prisoners and go warn the other guards, so I have to wait until evening to report it.”
    Obviously, he is telling us we should escape. I talk to my brother.
    â€œIt is simple. We hide in the woods, then we walk all night heading south. We cross the line that separates the Occupied Zone from the Free Zone. You know where Montauban is?”
    â€œSomewhere near Toulouse, I think.”
    â€œWe’ll ask people. We’ll get there eventually, one way or another.”
    â€œOkay, but I can’t leave my workshop. We’re just six Jews with one guard. He keeps his eyes on us. Why don’t you go by yourself? I’ll follow when I can.”
    I could escape by myself, that’s true. But what about Jacques? Without me, will he be able to shake off the guards, hide, reach the other side of France? He is so sluggish, sometimes…. Even in the camp, he finds books and spends time reading and dreaming like a student. Becoming an outlaw isn’t something you learn in books. I can’t leave him behind. I must take care of him.

Chapter 9
These cars usually carry cattle
    I didn’t take my chance when I should have and now it’s too late. More than a hundred prisoners escaped during the first six months. They say the Germans are furious. The guards put up more barbed wire around the camp. Nobody goes outside to work anymore. We hear rumors that they’ll empty the camp. From May 1942 on, hundreds of men leave every week. We don’t know where they go. Some guards talk about a camp in Compiègne, others say Drancy, near Paris. More sinister rumors mention camps in Germany or in the Ukraine. Lacking definite information, we make up a name,
Pitchipoï
, to name this mysterious location in Eastern Europe where they deport Jews.
    My brother goes in June. I leave on July 17. On the way to the Pithiviers train station, I walk with Brod, whom I’ve known a long time. He is a tailor. My other brother, Albert, worked in his workshop when we came to France. Heboxed for a year or two, on and off, then stopped because he found it too tiring. He is a placid man, always ready to smile. I used to see him also on the banks of the Marne River. He’s lucky—in Pithiviers, he worked in the kitchen.
    â€œSay, Brod, you look good! While everybody was hungry, you were gaining weight.”
    â€œCome on, Wisniak, you’re not that thin yourself!”
    â€œMy wife sent me food. I did get fatter when I stopped boxing. I went from a hundred and eight pounds to a hundred and eighty-five! I tried to keep in shape, though. I exercised on weekends.”
    â€œI remember. You were always swimming and playing volleyball. How’s Rachel?”
    â€œLast time I saw her, she was fine. We have a son, Élie. He’s three years old. What about your children?”
    â€œI have one more.”
    â€œFour?”
    â€œI like large families. I have eight brothers and sisters. My last one, actually, I’ve hardly even seen her. This jacket you’re wearing is nice. Did your brother cut it?”
    â€œOf course, Albert did it.”
    â€œHe’s a fine craftsman. When he started working by himself, I lost my best worker. Did he marry?”
    â€œHe married just before the war. He has a daughter.”
    â€œYou know what? Maybe they’re going to take us back to Paris and free us for Bastille Day, on July 14. We’ll be