16 July (Short Story)

Chapter 02

We leaned forward, collectively attempting to catch a glimpse of the place we were being sent. 

As I was surrounded by people—many of whom were heads taller than me, I could hardly perceive a wide slate-grey building sprouting up amidst roads of concrete. More barricades carved a path to the entrance accompanied by grim-looking police officers with their rifles readied.

"Where are they taking us? Will they keep us for long? Or perhaps bring us to Papa?" Adèle asked nervously, tightening her fingers around the palm of my hand. 

"I don't know," I admitted quietly, standing on the balls of my feet to see further past the barricades

 A few delinquents from the Parti Populaire français: the fascist gang my father had often warned us about, dressed in plainclothes, lingered close. Though I had never seen them in person before, these men were known to prowl around Jewish neighbourhoods and businesses, beating people and stealing their possessions without facing any legal repercussions.

It was then that I realized the Germans were not present. Our arrest had been orchestrated by our fellow French citizens: people we had trusted and lived alongside for years. 

Of course, much of the discrimination and exclusion we had endured had been at the hands of the Nazi regime, but our French neighbours seemed all too willing to perpetuate this mass arrest. 

My father had fought in the Great War for our country yet they were treating us like animals. My eyes stung at the thought.

A short young man with spectacles suggested that we had arrived at the Vélodrome d'Hiver: a bicycle race track in the 15th arrondissement that had been used for bicycle competitions and sports rallies before the war. 

He introduced himself as Jean-Claude Frankel, joking he had always wanted to attend a rally at the famous Vél d'Hiv. While many in my company laughed—likely enjoying the comical reprieve from our dire situation, I could not find the humour in his seemingly tasteless statement.

We were loaded off of the bus and into the enormous stadium along with thousands of Parisian Jews from various backgrounds. 

Some, I imagined, were successful business people, some penniless students like myself, some bankers, some artists, some teachers and some artisans. 

Many of them, like Adèle, were wide-eyed children—completely confused by the rapid series of events. Regardless of who they were, we all shared the same destination.

The place that awaited us was far more grotesque than I could ever have imagined. Thousands of people were crowded into the seated areas of the racing track, bodies pale and unmoving like rows upon rows of corpses. 

However, some of the seats in the upper sections of the stadium appeared not to be occupied by people—but by parcels of clothing, suitcases and other items they had been allowed to take with them.

There were no windows, only artificial lights suspended from the ceiling—casting an unnatural glare upon us from above and making it tremendously difficult to enjoy any privacy from prying eyes. Screams and loud sobbing sporadically erupted from every part of the mammoth building.

I told my sister and Maman to avert their eyes when a woman attempted to throw herself from one of the upper seats, a small child in her arms. Within mere minutes, two other women had attempted to do the same.

"Let us find somewhere to sit," Maman suggested wearily—the first words she had spoken since the police officers had escorted us from our apartment.

Following Maman's instructions, we located a pair of vacant seats in the lower section of the stadium.