Mélanie's Blog | Rachel

Samedi 15 juin 2019

(...) Après avoir quitté Samuel, je suis allée à la Bellevilloise pour voir si je pourrais entrer à l’intérieur et retrouver la salle dans laquelle les Muller ont été parqués ce matin-là. Dans la ruelle qui longe le 25 de la rue Boyer, il y avait un attroupement bruyant et joyeux. Il s’agissait de danseurs qui sortaient du Centre Momboye. Entrer dans ce qui a servi d’antichambre à Auschwitz par la porte d’un studio de danse, ce lieu a manifestement le chic pour toujours surprendre. L’un des danseurs m’a gentiment invitée à entrer et j’ai demandé à parler à la responsable pour savoir si elle m’autoriserait à venir filmer les lieux demain. Je lui expliquais que je travaillais sur l’histoire d’Annette Muller qui avait été amenée à la Bellevilloise avec sa mère et ses frères le 16 juillet 1942 quand elle m’interrompit :

-Vous parlez de Rebecca.

-You are talking about Rebecca.

-No, I am talking about Annette Muller and her brothers...

-I know who you are talking about. You are talking about Rebecca, the little lady who comes here every year. The one whose mother slapped her.

I don't really know how our discussion ended. From that moment on, I had only one thing on my mind: to find Rebecca. Annette couldn't talk anymore. Maybe Rebecca could provide her voice.

With trembling fingers, I typed on my phone:

www.google.fr

> Rebecca & Bellevilloise & Vel d'Hiv round-up & slap

> Among the results: "This slap from my mother saved my life" tells a survivor, Rachel Jedinak.

I continue:

www.pagesblanches.fr

>Jedinak, Paris

Nonsense! Who still has their name in the phone book in 2019?

I got an address.

I'm texting my husband:

Might be late. I'm onto something. I'll tell you. I have the feeling that I need to find a woman whose name is Rachel. I'll keep you posted. Love you.

And off I race down the rue de Ménilmontant, down the steps of the metro station quickly - it's already 6pm, it's getting late to visit an elderly person. Out of the metro station, I run to the address indicated on the electronic directory. I find myself in front of a gate and a keypad. A little girl, on the other side of the gate, is walking her doll in her stroller. She looks at me, approaches me and says:

-Did you forget your key again? I open for you again today but it is the last time.

The gate opens. The little girl and her doll walk away. And now? There are several buildings. I walk towards one at random. The names scroll on the keypad. Jedinak Floor x Door x. Phew! Someone is leaving the building, I enter and I climb the stairs. Once in front of the door, I catch my breath. "And now? You don’t look so clever, right? What are you going to say?" I have to rehearse something that makes sense somehow. Despite myself, my hand knocks on the door. I close my eyes. "This is pure madness, Mélanie! You don't show up at people's houses like that! And besides, you're all disheveled and sweaty, what will people think of you?"

I hope she's not here! I hope she's not here! The door opens.

-What is it?

-Hello ma'am, my name is Mélanie Péron. I work at the University of Pennsylvania in the United States and I'm doing research on the Vel d'Hiv roundup and... I'm really sorry to bother you like this.

The door opens a little more. I can only see her eyes. They are the same as my Mémé's. They are sprinkled with gold. I feel like I already know her.

-I am making a cake for my family. I don't have much time, but don't stand in the doorway. Come in for a moment.

She is wearing an apron like Mémé. The golden light of this late summer day filters through the window. I feel protected.

-So, tell me everything. Who are you?

I just want to go and help her make the cake like I used to do with my grandmother. This lady has no idea how much good she does me. She is soothing my heart like the Peruvian balm that Mémé used to put on our wounds and that I can still smell.

She gave me her book to read her story. She wrote her email in my notebook and told me to write to her.

You can catch a glimpse of the treasure map that my son Simon drew in my notebook on June 16 next to Rachel’s handwritten email

I thank her and before entering the elevator, I hear her say to me:

-You know, I rarely answer when there is a knock on the door since then, but this time I could sense that something special was behind it.

Walking down the street, I cry peacefully.

Message sent at 10:42pm

Dearest Rachel,

I am writing this short message to thank you for opening the door to a stranger who was out of breath from climbing the stairs, disheveled after having crossed Paris to find you and especially for the comforting smile you gave me.

I promised you a message where I explain everything. My little ones, who missed me today, wanted to tell me in great detail everything they did today. I just put them to bed. I will now dive into your book. My longest message should be sent on Monday afternoon.

Until then, I hope you have a wonderful day with your family over that delicious cheesecake whose making I interrupted.

Again, I apologize for this unexpected visit. I hope that you will have seen in it the benevolent desire of a person who only wants to learn from you.

Mélanie

Message recieved at 5:40am

Hello Mélanie, it's ok for July 11th (I'm not free on the 9th). You will call me beforehand for the appointment.

My house is a furnace today.

I wish you a nice day and see you soon.

With all my affection,

Rachel

Thursday 11 July 2019

I picked up Rachel with a cab and we met Amaury (the cameraman), Kyra Schulman and Léa Petermeijer (2 students from UPenn) in front of the school that Rachel attended during the war at 9 rue de Tlemcen. They all fell under her charm and kindness. We were all nervous and she knew how to put us all at ease. After being filmed alone in front of the plaque on which the names of her cousins are inscribed, she asked if she could be filmed talking to someone. She would not feel as if she was speaking in a vacuum. So Léa walked beside her while Kyra and I tried our best to stay off camera. After the school we went to 71 rue des Amandiers where her cousins Paul and Maurice Psankiewicz lived, both of whom died in deportation. Maurice supposedly died in Auschwitz in the arms of Abram, Rachel's father. Then she took us to 15 rue de Tlemcen where her grandparents Hendla and Nachman Psankiewicz used to live. Then we walked across the street to a children's playground. That's where the family apartment building used to be. With Kyra, we venture to see in this a form of poetic justice for little Rachel and all her friends who, overnight, no longer had access to the public gardens, no longer had a childhood. Finally, we retraced the route she took with her mother, Chana, and her sister, Louise, as well as "the whole starry mass" on July 16, 1942. Destination: the Bellevilloise where our story ultimately began.

From the familial geography (rue de Tlemcen, Duric et des Amandiers) to la Bellevilloise

We had lunch at the P'tit Bistrot. While she answered our questions, Kyra meticulously mapped out the family tree of the Zyto-Psankiewicz family.

-I have cousins in the United States. If you could trace any of them, I'd love to know what happened to them.

I trust Kyra's detective skills. She will certainly be able to pull some threads and connect the stories that an ocean has separated. Incidentally, this is a bit of the story of her grandmother Yvette Chapiro who moved to the United States after surviving the round-ups in France. Kyra often talks about the threads left on Yvette's dress after she tore off her yellow star as a reminder of the seamstress work we do.

Perhaps Amaury, Léa and Rachel also cried peacefully tonight after this day spent at Rachel's side.