The Night of Broken Glass - Part 1

by Jason McKenney

PART 1

September 1936

Ding ding! Another streetcar bell signaled its impending departure. 7AM was the height of rush hour and the clog of workers scurrying about to catch a ride from Quievran, Belgium, across the border into France was at its frenetic peak. Fifteen-year-old Herschel stood near the station watching the Belgian workers piling onto the tram cars before departing west towards the French town of Valenciennes.

Since the end of World War I in 1918, much of Western Europe had been in both economic and political flux. Germany had received most of the punishments handed out by the Treaty of Versailles in 1919 including military limitations, monetary payments to their neighbors, and the surrendering of some land to France that ran along their border.

Herschel Grynszpan

The 1930s continued to be a rough time economically for many of Europe’s smaller nations. Belgium relied primarily on its steel, coal, and textile industries to provide jobs for its roughly eight and a half million citizens, but there was a global depression taking place. The work required in the steel and coal industries involved low skill levels and paid even lower wages. To help make ends meet, many of the higher skilled, French-speaking people along the western edge of Belgium who had the proper worker’s permits would catch a trolley ride into France where better jobs were available. At least for the time being.

          Ding ding! There went another car. He would have to jump on one of these cars soon if he expected to cross the border without having his papers checked. During the slower traffic periods the crossing guards would check the permits of people crossing into France, but at this time of day it was too busy for the handful of officers to check every car filled with workers. If the people spoke French they were allowed in. The French didn’t want any unemployable aliens or homeless Jews entering into their country, especially in the midst of a depression when jobs were so scarce. Immigration policies were tightening by the day, and the hard economic times had given rise to labor protectionism. 
 

Ding ding! Herschel carried a small knapsack at his side. He pulled up the collar on his brown wool coat in an attempt to hide his youthful face in hopes of looking older. He pulled the bill of his dark gray Jeff cap down over his eyes and made his way towards one of the streetcars. When he reached the door of the car an attendant with a thin, black mustache and wearing a blue uniform stepped in front of him. He asked Herschel something in French. Herschel didn’t understand him but he assumed the attendant was asking for payment. Herschel dug in his pocket for coins and gave the attendant a single franc. Herschel must have guessed correctly because the attendant gave Herschel a ticket, some change, and allowed him onboard.

Herschel sidestepped his way down the narrow center aisle of the streetcar and looked for an open seat. The car was filled with men with long, gaunt faces. Herschel wondered if any of them were migrating illegally like he was.

Even at this early hour the car already smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke. Herschel found an open seat and sat down. A couple more men boarded the car before it lurched into motion and began rolling the short distance to the station in Valenciennes.

Herschel kept his eyes on the crossing guards as the car approached the border checkpoint. The car slowed to a stop and one of the guards walked up to the driver. The guard was wearing a well-pressed navy uniform with a captain’s hat covering his brown hair. He had a quick discussion with the driver, and the driver pointed to the back of the trolley right at Herschel.  Herschel’s heart jumped up his throat.

The guard made his way down the narrow aisle. The Belgian workers did their best to make way for him to pass. He approached Herschel and said something in French. Herschel didn’t understand French, but even if he had he probably wouldn’t have been able to speak. His mouth had gone completely dry.

Herschel looked up at the guard, but before he could make any other response the man sitting next to Herschel replied first. He said something with a “monsieur” at the end of it. The man reached in his pocket and handed the guard a billfold with an identification card.  The guard looked it over and handed the billfold back to the man. Then he returned to the front of the car and exited.

Herschel’s entire body sighed in relief. The driver must have been pointing to the man sitting next to him. Apparently the driver wasn’t positive that man had a worker’s permit. That was a close one.

Soon the trolley reached the station in the larger town of Valenciennes. From there Herschel would be able to get onto one of the tramway lines that traveled the 128 miles (210km) south to the bustling city of Paris where his uncle and aunt lived. Once there he hoped to put the wheels in motion to gain French citizenship. It was a process that could take years.

But more importantly he wanted to find a way to help his parents who were still in Germany and still struggling under the oppressive boot of the Nazis.

November 1938

         Abraham Grynszpan was in his late forties and the daily grind of a plumber’s life was beginning to wear down his body. His back ached, his knees were sore, and the arthritis in his thick fingers grew more painful by the week.

Holishkes

After a long day of wrenching pipes one of his favorite pleasures was coming home and sitting down to a nice meal prepared by his wife Chawa. For starters she sometimes made a savory matzah ball soup with large dumplings, or she would prepare perfectly baked knishes which consisted of a potato and flour dumpling filled with onions, chopped liver, and buckwheat. Tonight, however, she had made holishkes made of cabbage leaves stuffed with meatballs called klops. She topped them off with a tangy tomato-based sauce that would have been the envy of any Italian grandmother. Chawa was also serving crepe-like blintzes filled with fresh cherries for dessert. Abraham was a man in heaven.

Image of the Jewish quarter of Paris pre WWII

He was just about to open a new bottle of red wine when there was a knock at the door. Abraham instantly fell back to Earth. Even before answering he knew who it was and who they were looking for.

“Evening officers,” he said. There were two Parisian policemen in dark blue uniforms standing on the porch of his small house.

“Evening, Mister Grynszpan. Is Herschel at home?”

“No, I told you before. He has left. We have not seen him for weeks.”

“I know you’ve told us that before, Mister Grynszpan, but we have received reports of a teenage boy entering and leaving your house late at night.”

“From who?” asked Abraham. “Who’s telling you these stories?”

“May we come inside, Mister Grynszpan?”

“Now? But I am just sitting down for supper.”

“I am truly sorry, Mister Grynszpan. It won’t take but a moment.”

          “Tomorrow,” said Abraham. “Come back tomorrow—“
          The second of the two officers, the much larger one, stepped up to Abraham, towering over him, and pushed the door open. He brushed past Abraham and entered the house.

          “What are you doing?” asked Abraham. “You have no right!” He did his best to feign indignation, but they all knew he was guilty of harboring a fugitive.

          “This will just take a moment, Mister Grynszpan,” repeated the first officer.

          The larger officer stomped through the tiny house, opening doors and ruffling through closets. After several minutes of searching and researching the domicile the large officer finally gave up.

          “I told you he’s not here,” said Abraham. His heart was pounding and he tried to hide the shaking in his hands. If only these officers knew exactly how close they were.

          “So you say. When he returns I want you to call us, is that understood, Mister Grynszpan? What you are doing is illegal, and you’ve worked too hard here in Paris to be locked up in jail for doing something so stupid.”

          The officer looked at Chawa, smiled and nodded. “Madam.” Then he turned and walked out of the house with the larger officer following closely behind.

          Abraham closed the door with his trembling hands. “Wine. Please.”

          Chawa brought him a glass of red wine and he drank it down in one gulp.

          “Animals,” she said. “Barging into our home like that.”

          “They’re just doing their job, Chawa.”

          “Their job is to interrupt your supper and search through my closet--?”

          She stopped when she heard the steps behind her. They both looked over to see their teenage nephew Herschel, now seventeen years old, creeping towards the front window to see if the police were gone. He had grown a couple inches since arriving in France. His hair was a rich, dark brown and his piercing eyes crackled with electricity.

          “You cannot stay here any longer.” Abraham stepped towards Herschel.

          Herschel knew this day would come at some point, but he was still taken by surprise to actually hear his uncle say the words.

          “But Abe, where will he go?” asked Chawa.

          “I don’t know, but this has gone on long enough. They will not give you citizenship here, Herschel. You must go to Poland.”

          “But I can’t, Uncle!”

          “You have to figure out a way! If you stay here you will have us all go to jail! The police are watching me wherever I go now! They are watching your aunt wherever she goes! Is this what you want?”

          “Of course not—“

“I have paid your expenses for two years! I have paid your police fines. What else do you expect from me? Have I not been more than fair? Tell me?”

          “Please, Uncle! I just need a little more time!” said Herschel. He was mature beyond his years, but the thought of being turned out on the street still frightened him. “Give me one more week. If I haven’t heard from the Consulate by then, then I will go. I promise.”

          “You’ve been promising for months! Not anymore! You leave tonight!”

          “But Uncle…”

          “No more argument! You haven’t achieved anything. You can’t even get into school, Herschel. You’re wasting your life here!”  

  Herschel was stung. “Wasting my life? What about my parents? What about your brother?”

          “Eh? What about them? They are in Poland where they are legal citizens. You should join them.”

          “But they’re not legal their!  You know this, Uncle! Auntie, will you explain to him—“

          “Aye! Don’t bring her into this!” said Abraham. “We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. There’s nothing more we can do for you, Herschel. You found a way to sneak into France, you can find a way to sneak out.”

          Herschel looked at his aunt with scared eyes. “Auntie?”

          “I said don’t talk to your Aunt,” said Abraham. “This is my decision.”

          
          Plans on where to go and what to do quickly ran through Herschel’s mind. Maybe he could find a hotel for the night. Maybe he could sneak across the border back into Belgium on the trolley. That would be difficult to do because the border regulations had tightened up even more over the past two years.

          Since arriving in Paris he had stayed with his aunt and uncle trying desperately to gain legal French citizenship to no avail. His last temporary permits had expired in August and the police had been hounding his uncle for months trying to track him down. Abraham had allowed Herschel to stay in a small garret room in the attic of the house, a room that was very difficult for officers to find if they didn’t know it existed. Abraham had warned his nephew that he would have to turn him out one day, and Herschel completely understood.

He just didn’t expect that day to be this one.

*   *   * 

Twelve-year-old Zammie was staring at the newspaper he had found on the table in the café . The wording was in French which he couldn’t read, but both he and his younger cousin Kyla could speak and understand the French people around them with no problem. This reading issue was still an enigma they had to figure out while on these time journeys they took.

          “November six. Nineteen thirty eight,” said Zammie. Making out the date on the paper was simple.

          “What happens in 1938?” asked Kyla.

          “In Paris? I don’t know. It’s not World War Two yet, I don’t think.”

          “Here is your sandwich, Monsieur Zammie.” A cheerful waiter placed a sliced baguette filled with dark forest ham, goat cheese, and a sweet, creamy butter spread on the small table in front of Zammie. “And yours, Mademoiselle Kyla.” She was given a soft croissant stuffed with ham and melted Swiss cheese. Both children had also ordered freshly squeezed lemonades to drink. The eyes of the two cousins lit up. Thankfully they always arrived at these historical destinations with adequate amounts of the local currency because more often than not they also arrived with empty bellies. 

They had awoken a couple hours earlier in an alleyway off of the street called Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin in the northeastern part of Paris. They were met with the sights and sounds of a busy Parisian shopping district in the early evening. The men and women walking by were well-dressed and appeared to be in good spirits as they chatted and smoked on the sidewalks and in the cafés. 

Woman wearing a snood.

   Most of the men wore fedora hats and long overcoats with ties and nice shirts. The women wore beautiful skirts with colorful and flowery designs on them. Kyla noticed a wide array of headwear of various shapes and styles. Some women wore simple crochet snoods that held up their hair in the back. Others wore straw hats that had been painted in a variety of colors and decorated with buckles, ribbons, and rhinestones. A few of the women were still wearing cloche hats that simply covered the head with no real brim around the edges. Kyla’s personal favorite was the beret which both she and Zammie were currently wearing as well.

The cobblestone roads were shared by both cars and horse-drawn buggies. The pedestrians crossed the streets in packs, dodging the cars and buggies at will. 
     

          “Are we in America?” asked Kyla.

          “I don’t think so,” answered Zammie. “The signs aren't in English. And those buildings look like the ones from the European section at Epcot Center.”  

Many of the apartment buildings were made with gray or biege masonry in the art deco style that had swept through Paris during the 1920s (although the term "art deco" wasn't actually coined until the 1960s). It was an architecture style known for its straight edges with linear and symmetrical motifs. 

Art deco architecture

Some of the buildings rose straight up four or five stories on both sides of the street. Apartment units filled the top stories while small cafés, produce markets, and clothing stores were on the street level.  

The two cousins had found a newspaper left on a small round table at one of the sidewalk cafés. They poured through it in hopes of gleaning any other contextual clues about their surroundings when they decided to stay at the café and order supper.

It was nearly nine in the evening when Zammie noticed a teenage boy with thick, dark hair and a sad countenance walk down the sidewalk and sit at the table next to them. The waiter walked over to the boy and said something to him in French. The boy looked at the menu that was sitting on the table and pointed at one of the items. The waiter must not have been asking for his order yet because he said “No, monsieur,” and then repeated his statement.

Kyla noticed that Zammie was staring at the exchange taking place at the other table.

“What’s going on?” she asked Zammie.

“I don’t think that boy understands French,” he said. “Do you not speak French?” Zammie asked the boy.

Both the boy and the waiter looked at Zammie. The waiter had a look of amazement on his face.

“No,” said the boy. “What is he asking me?”

“He doesn’t want you to sit there because that table is reserved for one of the owner’s friends for some reason. I guess it’s his lucky table.”

“Oh.” The boy immediately began to rise.

“Thank you, Monsieur Zammie,” said the cheerful waiter.

“What language does that boy speak?” asked Kyla.

“I don’t know. It all sounds English to me.”

The boy began to walk to another table when Zammie addressed him again. “You can sit with us if you want.”

“It’s alright. I don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s no bother. And I can translate for you to the waiter.”

The boy paused for a second then nodded without smiling and took a seat next to Zammie at their small table.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Sure,” said Zammie.

To Zammie’s ears he was speaking English to both the boy and to the waiter, but to their ears he was speaking French to the waiter and German to the teenage boy. The waiter was impressed to hear a boy of Zammie’s age speak both languages so fluently since they have so few common roots.

Zammie ordered a bowl of soup and a sandwich for the teenager with a cup of coffee to drink. Naturally, this ability to freely communicate in any language on their travels made these trips much more enjoyable.

“What language do you speak?” Kyla asked the boy. It was an awkward question but she wasn’t sure how else to ask it.

“German, of course. And some Yiddish,” he answered.

“What’s Yiddish?” asked Kyla.

“A Jewish language.”

“My name is Zammie.” He held out his hand towards the boy. The boy shook it.

“Herschel,” he said. “Herschel Grynszpan.”

“My name is Kyla.” Kyla shook hands with Herschel as well.

“Why would you want to live in Paris and not know any French?” asked Zammie.

“It’s not for lack of trying, believe me,” said Herschel. “But I have nowhere else to go. The French government has denied my request to stay in France, but I have no re-entry permit for Germany. Without a re-entry permit I cannot return there.”

“Where are your parents?” asked Kyla.

Herschel’s head dropped for a second in thought. “They are in Poland. In a refugee camp.”

“A what?” asked Zammie.

Jews being deported from Germany to Zbaszyn.   

“My parents are from Poland, and they moved to Germany before I was born. They built up their own home in the town of Hannover. They had legal passports, owned a business. All the normal things you’d expect. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was okay. We survived. Then a month ago the Nazi party invalidated all Jewish passports, effectively making my parents illegal citizens. Then a couple weeks ago the Nazis began evicting these illegal Jews with Polish citizenship out of their homes.”

“What?” Kyla was shocked.

Jewish children deported from Germany in Dec. 1938

“Yes,” Herschel continued. “They loaded them onto train cars and drove them back to Poland. But the Polish government doesn’t want them either. So many of the people are stuck right now in a refugee camp along the Polish border. They’re living in a camp made from abandoned animal barns.”

“That’s awful,” said Kyla. She was genuinely stunned at the thought of a government forcing out its own law-abiding citizens.

“How did you get to Paris?” asked Zammie.

“My parents sent me to live with family in Belgium a couple years ago. That’s when my parents were still living in Germany. They could see things getting worse for Jews in Hannover, and they hoped I could create a future for myself elsewhere. But I couldn’t stay in Brussels so I snuck across the border into France. I have another aunt and uncle here in Paris. I’ve been living here for two years now, and a couple days ago I received a letter from my mother telling me about their deportation. She wants me to figure out a way to help them, but I have no idea what to do.”

 “The French government can’t help?” asked Zammie.

Herschel almost started laughing. “Oh, please. The French government? They couldn’t care less about German Jews. Especially those who had been deported to Poland.”

“There has to be something you can do,” said Kyla.

“Like what? Maybe go to the German Embassy? Tell them how poorly the Jews are being treated in their country right now?”

“Would that work?” asked Zammie.

Herschel frowned. “Maybe. Doubtful. But what about you two? What’s your story?”

Rounded up: Deported to Poland

“Well, like you, we’re not exactly legal citizens,” said Zammie. “We’re sort of like tourists.”

“Tourists?” Herschel had a wide grin on his face. “But you’re just kids. So where is your family?”

“California,” said Zammie.

“America?” asked Herschel. “You are Americans?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t look American.”

Now Zammie almost laughed. “What does an American look like?”

“Well . . .  I dunno . . . you look . . .”

“Our parents are from the Philippines, but we were born in California,” said Kyla.

“Philippines? Interesting. You are so lucky. I would love to go to America.”

“Your order, monsieur.” The waiter arrived with the plate of food and a small cup of coffee for Herschel. Zammie wasn’t a coffee fan, but that dark roast smelled pretty good.

Herschel scarfed down the sandwich and drank the soup quickly and stood up to leave. “It was a pleasure meeting you two,” he said, “but I really must be going now.”

“It was nice meeting you, too, Herschel,” said Kyla. “I hope things work out for your family.”

Herschel took one step from the table and stopped. He turned back to the two cousins. “Where will you stay tonight?”

Kyla and Zammie looked at each other.

“I don’t know,” said Zammie. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“It’s late,” said Herschel, “and kids shouldn’t be out on these streets alone after dark. You’re welcome to stay with me if you like.”

“Your uncle won’t mind?” asked Zammie.

Herschel’s mood darkened. “I don’t stay with him anymore. I have a room at the Waning Crescent hotel around the corner. You can stay there if you don’t want to be roaming the streets all night. And then you can resume your sightseeing in the morning.”

“Good idea,” said Kyla.

“Okay,” said Zammie. “Lead the way, Herschel.”

          Herschel left a few francs on the table and led the two cousins down the still-busy Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin.

          In August of 1938 the German government, led by Chancellor Adolph Hitler, announced that all current residence permits for all foreigners were being cancelled and new ones would need to be applied for. Through this tactic, the Nazi officials would be able to deny all new permits to Jewish foreigners in Germany in hopes of eventually forcing them to be deported from the country. Poland, however, said that it would not accept Jews of Polish origin being deported from Germany because at the end of October, the Polish government would no longer consider those people to be Polish citizens. In order to beat this deadline, on October 26th the Gestapo secret police was ordered to arrest and deport all Polish Jews from Germany as quickly as possible.

          The Grynszpans were among the estimated 12,000 Polish Jews arrested, stripped of their property and herded aboard cargo trains headed for the Polish border. Upon arrival they were taken off the trains and forced to walk nearly a mile to the Polish border town of Zbąszyń. Still, Poland refused to admit them any further. The Grynszpans and thousands of other deportees were left stranded along the border while being fed by the Polish Red Cross. It was from Zbąszyn that Herschel’s mother Berta sent a letter to her son in Paris. It was the agony and helplessness spurred on by the letter that many believe was the final push for Herschel towards the tragic actions he was soon to commit.

          The cafés were jammed with customers that night. The rippling of a thousand conversations and the clanking of silverware filled the air as the three young pedestrians did their own dodging in and out of traffic along the Parisian streets.

          “Have you seen the Eiffel Tower?” asked Herschel.

          “No.”

          “What about the Arc de Triomphe?”

          “What’s that?”

          “What’s that?! Oy vey! You go sightseeing in Paris and you don’t even know what the Arc de Triomphe is?”

Arc de Triomphe

          “Oy what?” asked Kyla.

          “Oy vey. It’s an old Yiddish expression,” said Herschel. “It means ‘you gotta be kidding me!’”

          He led the cousins off the sidewalk and towards one of the tall, gray buildings that lined the street. They entered into an open doorway with a peach and cream-colored awning overtop of it. The lobby of the hotel was a small room with red walls and low mood lighting. There were two pretty women sitting on a sofa smoking long cigarettes on the far side of the lobby. They were wearing short, black dresses and had very red lips. One of them smiled at Zammie. He grinned and turned around embarrassed. 

          Herschel paid the attendant and he led the cousins upstairs to the second floor. Their room was modest in size and smelled like perfume and mothballs. There was one bed, one small cot, and one set of wooden drawers.

          “Where’s the bathroom?” asked Kyla.

          “At the end of the hall,” said Herschel. “You two can have the bed. I’ll take the cot.”

“No, we can sleep on the floor,” said Kyla. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Forget it. I have to get up early anyway. I’ll probably be gone when you wake up.”

“Where are you going?” asked Zammie.

“Nosy,” said Kyla.

“I’m just asking,” said Zammie.

“It’s alright,” said Herschel. “I’ve been thinking about what we were saying earlier. I think I’ll try the Embassy tomorrow.”

“Really?” asked Zammie. “You think they can help?”

“It won’t hurt to try,” said Herschel.

Zammie noticed that there was something weighing heavily on Herschel’s thoughts. For brief moments he would lighten up and smile and joke like a normal boy of his age, but then he would quickly sink back down to a very serious and sullen place in his mind, as if he had a complicated puzzle that he was trying to figure out but wasn’t giving him any enjoyment.

Herschel sat down on the cot and pulled out a pen. He began scribbling a note on the back of a postcard. Zammie sat down on the rickety twin-size, and Kyla left to go to the bathroom.

“Herschel?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind if we go to the Embassy with you tomorrow?”

“Yes, I would mind. You cannot go with me.”

“Are you sure? It might help to have support.”

“No, Zammie. I have to do this alone.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

Zammie lay back on the bed and stared up at the circular brown water-stains on the ceiling. He was trying to figure out what they were doing in Paris. What lesson was the Arjuna trying to teach them? Were they supposed to follow this boy? Were they supposed to meet with someone else?

“That bathroom is dirty.” Kyla had entered back into the room. “And it smells like rotten milk.”

No one responded to her.

“What are you writing, Herschel?”

“Just a letter.” He finished writing and put the postcard and pen on the floor next to his cot.

“To who?” asked Kyla.

“Nosy,” said Zammie.

“Funny. I can’t help it. I’m just curious.”

“It’s to my parents,” said Herschel.

“You miss them?” asked Kyla.

“Of course.”

“Well, I hope you can get back to them soon.”

Herschel gave a weak smile, but didn’t say anything.

All three children had experienced a very eventful day and it wasn’t long until the two cousins were deep asleep. Herschel, on the other hand, had trouble falling asleep. His mind was restless with feelings of anger and resentment; resentment towards his uncle and towards the French government, but most of all towards the Nazi party in his home nation. The thought of his parents being shipped off to live in horse stables made him as angry as anything had ever made him in his short life. Even the Polish government wouldn’t accept them. What on earth was happening to Europe now? Why the divisiveness? Why were people allowing themselves to be pitted against one another so easily?

       
          Eventually Herschel would slide off into a fitful sleep. He awoke before dawn and carefully put on his coat and flat cap, and snuck out of the room without disturbing the two cousins.

To be continued in Part 2 . . . 

TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 4

KILLING FOR COUNTRY  

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TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 1

THE JOURNEY TO ANCIENT GREECE 

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TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 2

A RIDE ON THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD

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TIME TRIP ADVENTURE 3

WITNESS TO THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 

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