A Voyage of Refugees
Paul Figot, my grandfather, escaped from Europe with his family in 1941. This is their story.
The voyage started from Paris to Mexico in June 1941, a year after the Nazi occupation.
During that whole year, life was almost normal. The Nazis did not seem to cause any disturbance with their presence, although they were very noticeably dressed in their military uniforms, it did not affect the daily existence. Nobody knew that behind that seemingly calm atmosphere during that year, the plans for the "The Final Solution" were being created, carefully organized (with typical Germanic efficiency) and beginning to be implemented the summer of 1941.
My father was among the first five thousand Jewish men to receive a notice to appear at the Police Headquarters and bring along ten kilos of clothing with him. Fortunately, we lived in the wholesale garment business quarters of Paris, mostly inhabited by Jews, therefore the news spread like wildfire that whoever went to the Police Station did not return home.
My parents heeded the warning and had the presence of mind to concoct a plan so that my father wouldn't have to appear at the Police Station. My father had always had stomach problems, and so my parents had many X-rays in their possession. This accumulation of X-rays of my father’s stomach inspired the brilliant idea that would go on to save his life.
My mother contacted our family doctor—a fellow Jew—and, after explaining the situation, she asked for a medical certificate stating that my father was ill in bed. The doctor did not hesitate to write the certificate, backdated to the week prior. My mother arrived at the Police Station with fear in her heart and hope in her mind that the Doctor’s certificate and the X-rays would be sufficient to convince the Nazis that my father was unwell. She explained to the authorities why she had come instead of my father while handing over the medical certificate and the X-rays. They read the certificate but, given their lack of medical training, did not inspect the X-rays. They returned the documents to my mother, warning her that as soon as my father was well enough, he had to report to the Police Station immediately.
I do not know how my father found the right contacts and how he did so with such speed, but the fact is that he arranged passports, transportation to the small town of Pau (near the Spanish border), passage on a ship leaving from Bilbao to Cuba, and a transit visa to Cuba itself. I have a vague recollection of my mother packing and my father running into the bedroom and jumping into bed every time the doorbell rang.
It did not take us long to be ready. My mother packed all that was new—towels, bedding, tablecloths and whatever else she could store—in suitcases and in a blue trunk with three wooden reinforcement bands around it. I do not remember how much luggage we took with us, but it must have been quite a few. We had to be very cautious and discreet so as not to arouse suspicions because the caretaker of the building was a nosy, mean, bitter spinster who was most anti-Semitic. As it was summer and children were already on vacation, it was easy to tell her that we were leaving to the country for a few weeks—in those days it was customary to rent a house in the country for the summer vacations, so therefore it all seemed natural and did not arouse suspicions. We left and never came back to the apartment.
My mother left the keys of the apartment with my uncle Adolphe and told him to take as much as he could of the apartment’s contents; there was plenty to be taken including food that my mother had stockpiled in case of scarcity, such as a substantial amount of flour, eggs, sugar, salt, pasta, etc…; but, as we found out after the war, the caretaker did not allow him into the apartment and all was lost. In retrospect, I think that perhaps the caretaker may have had suspicions about our escape but let us leave without reporting us.
Faint memories remain in my mind of the journey to Pau, disjointed images of traveling in a car, being cautioned by my parents to go quietly through fields, and finally reaching the town of Pau, where we stayed three months. An important recollection is that my brother bought a book to study English by himself; thinking back, I wonder why he did not choose Spanish, since our destination was a Spanish-speaking country.
Yom Kippur fell on the day we had to leave Pau, and because my mother was a strong believer, having grown up in a very religious home, she firmly refused to travel on that day, unaware of the complications her decision would cause. We left the next day, and perhaps because Spain in 1941 was still in chaos from the civil war, the trains did not keep a proper schedule and delays were a common occurrence. We had passed the border through the Pyrenees, stopping in Zaragoza to take the connecting train to Bilbao. We waited a long time, sitting on suitcases in the middle of a crowded train platform until the train finally appeared. Therefore, we arrived in Bilbao the day after the ship’s departure.
When my parents realized that the ship had left, I suppose they must have been very upset and worried. I do not know how long we remained in Bilbao, yet I remember, but do not know the reason why, that my mother traveled to Barcelona by train on her own. Later we—my father, brother and I—joined her there. (It is beyond my comprehension how my mother had the courage to cross from Bilbao all the way to Barcelona on her own, in a foreign country and without speaking the language.) By the time we arrived in Barcelona, my mother had the tickets ready for us to embark on a cargo ship named Tenerife. While we waited for the day of departure—not long—we stayed in a small and very elegant hotel.
The first port of call was the Rock of Gibraltar, next was the island of Tenerife, and then we docked in Lisbon long enough to make a short visit into the city and taste white bread, which we hadn't had for a very long time.
For my mother, the crossing of the Atlantic to Cuba was a nightmare from beginning to end. The ship, a cargo vessel, had been adapted for passengers, meaning that the hull where merchandise would have been stored was filled with layers and layers of bunks piled up one on top of the other. The whole area was used as men’s sleeping quarters. Women with small children slept in the front and back of the ship. It was a small ship and very crowded, yet for us children, it was lots of fun. But for my mother, the ship’s movement back and forth was sheer agony, and the journey seemed to last an eternity; the seasickness took hold from the start and lasted the whole trip. She was so ill that she did not believe she would reach Cuba alive; but fortunately, she did.
The ship carried Jewish refugees only, with most from Germany. During the journey, my brother—true to his character—steadfastly studied English, and by the time we reached Cuba, he had finished the book. After one full month at sea, we finally arrived to Cuba, but we did not disembark in Havana. We were taken to a small island called Triscornia, where we were quarantined.
When we were released and entered Havana, we lived in The Malecón (the waterfront) at first. But due to the uncertainty of the future and the need to rely only on what we had brought with us from France for a living, we had to be cautious, so we moved to the center of the city in search of a more economical rent. The street where we lived was called La Merced. We stayed in Havana eleven months and during that time, my mother found by chance relatives of hers, my brother celebrated his Bar-Mitzvah, we went to a Jewish school, and we learned Spanish very quickly.
Because all we had was a transit visa to Cuba, it was imperative to find another country where would be able to establish ourselves permanently. My mother wrote three letters explaining our circumstances: one to her brother living in Buenos Aires, Argentina; one to my father’s uncle in Brooklyn, NY; and one to my mother’s first cousin in Mexico City, Mexico. I do not know how she got hold of the addresses, but she received answers some time later.
The first came from her cousin Adek Gorney, saying that he had already started the procedure for us to enter Mexico, and that as soon as the documentation for a permanent permit to reside in the country as war refugees was ready, he would send it to us. A week later we received the reply from my father’s uncle saying that he would sign an affidavit as guarantor for us to enter the United States.
Evidently, fate chose Mexico.