Shoah: 75,568 Jews from France deported and killed in the death camps

To honor the memory of the 75,568 Jewish men, women and children deported from France and sent to their deaths in the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp in German-occupied Poland, I am putting up this post. This elegy does not exclude the millions of others sent to the other killing centers also located in Poland: Chelmno, Belzec, Sobibor, Treblinka and Majdanek.

January 27 is the 75th anniversary of the liberation of the Nazi extermination camp of Auschwitz.

The deportations began in 1942 and lasted until July 1944. Of the 340,000 Jews living in France in 1940, more than 76,000 were sent to death camps. This includes approximately 11,400 children, two thousand of them less than six years old.

It was not the Germans who “rounded up” the Jews living in France. It was the collaborationist French Vichy regime and the French police who, on their own initiative, conducted the roundup of Jews.



Extermination camps were designed and built exclusively to kill men, women and children on a massive scale (genocide), often immediately upon arrival. Serving as “death factories”, German SS and police murdered nearly 2,700,000 Jews by asphyxiation with poison gas, shooting, torture, and extreme work under starvation conditions.

It would take half a century for France to acknowledge its complicity in war crimes by collaborating with Nazi rule. In 1995, President Jacques Chirac issued a public apology to Jews on behalf of France.

Of the 340,000 Jews in France in 1940, three-quarters survived thanks to protection by Protestant groups, Catholic convents and individual families.

When I first moved to Paris, I lived at number 6 rue Cadet in the 9th arrondissement. After studying an extraordinary census map (posted below), I learned that right next door, at number 8 rue Cadet, three children were “rounded up” by the French police and sent to their deaths (I assume with their parents.) Here are their names:

Adresse : 8, RUE CADET

Nombre d’enfants : 3




These children, some wearing the obligatory yellow star, were murdered in the extermination camps.


Here’s a French identity card with the word “Jewish” stamped on it in red. JUIF.

carte identity


Anny-Yolande Horowitz from Bordeaux. 7 years old. “Juive” is the feminine of Jewish.



The link below is where I found my street, rue Cadet, where I lived for four years, and where I learned that right next door three children, approximately 48 years earlier, had been snatched from their home by the French police and sent first to a Parisian internment camp before being herded onto a cattle car for an agonizing journey across Europe to Poland to their deaths. The cruel irony is that they were born in Poland. Their Polish parents, fleeing pogroms and believing France to be a safe haven, had immigrated there with their small children. 

The interactive map below shows the streets of Paris in all the arrondissements, especially in eastern Paris and the Marais district, and marks the addresses of the buildings where more than 6,000 children were rounded up between 1942 and 1944. You’ll see that directly behind my street (rue Cadet), families living in rue Richer and other neighboring streets were arrested. The horror culminates at 58, rue Crozatier, in the 12th district, where 45 children were rounded up.


Park for children. INTERDIT AUX JUIFS (Forbidden to Jews)


Today in Paris, you can visit (1) the Shoah Memorial, (2) the Jewish Art and History Museum, and (3) the Memorial to the Martyrs of the Deportation.




annual Christmas party at the Paris aquarium


I don’t know who chose the Paris Aquarium for our annual Christmas party venue, but we went last night and sort of had a good time. The best part was the location: at Trocadero right near La Grande Dame de Paris, otherwise known as the Eiffel Tower.


Inside the venue, there were long corridors lined on either side with fish-filled aquariums, beautifully-colored tropical fish.


The jellyfish, called méduse in French, were the most impressive.


I wandered around looking at the different species, then stood alone in front of a fish and shark tank and took a selfie.


Then I stood alone at the bar and had a glass of champagne. It should be known that the French, especially Parisians, are never on time. In fact, it is considered rude to show up at the designated time. As for me, the invitation said 7:30 pm, and I was there at 7:30 pm.


Then I went to look at the fish again before people started arriving at 8 pm.


For fun, there was a photographer who took pictures of some of my colleagues. There’s a wonderful diversity and international flavor in my workplace.


The rest of these photos I took myself.


As I stood at the bar with my colleagues eating – guess what? – raw fish sashimi and sushi, I thought fondly of the memorable Christmas outing we had two years ago of the Paris opera house. Here’s the link here:

Five Guys, and a cold Saturday night on the Champs-Elysées with the kids

It was a cold clear night when we headed out to the Champs-Elysées. The idea that we eat homemade burgers at home fell by the wayside. I was feeling too lazy to cook. “Let’s go to Five Guys on the Champs.” I said.

Taking out-of-town kids to the Champs-Elysées is a treat, especially at night when it’s all lit up and bustling with tourists. So we jumped on the metro and within fifteen minutes got out at George V station. My 7-year old godson below, in his new red parka.

Burgers and fries, the new French gastronomy. It’s sad but true.

    From the internet:

Street Food To Haute Cuisine, How The Burger Conquered France

PARIS — At the Ritz palace overlooking the Place Vendôme, the “Ritz Burger” beaufort cheese, fries and a green salad is sold for 42 euros. At the Crillon bar, the chef’s mini burgers are sampled until 6 pm, for a cool 28 euros. A longstanding symbol of junk food, the burger seems to have found its nobility: In just a decade, it has earned a seat at some of the most beautiful tables in France, including the prestigious Hotel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. The New York Times anointed it as the maker of the world’s best hamburger.

Five Guys is ridiculously expensive. A burger costs 9 euros, 25 cents. For three burgers, two small fries and two Cokes, I paid 42 euros, 75 cents.

We ate on the outside patio under heat lamps. I must admit their burgers and fries are very good. Then we jumped back on the metro and rode down the line to Tuileries station and the rue de Rivoli.

The rue de Rivoli runs alongside the Tuileries Gardens. Crossing over, you walk under beautiful 19-century arcades past shops, cafés and restaurants. The most photogenic is this café-bar-restaurant L’Imperial at number 240.

I was tempted to stop off for hot chocolate but, to be frank, I was so stunned by the high prices I had just paid at Five Guys, I had a better idea: hot chocolate at home. And so, walking briskly in the cold to the Place de la Concorde, we jumped on the metro and rode home for mugs of hot chocolate and the Narnia DVD. It was 4°C (39°F). The weather forecast all this week is cold, dry and sunny.

Next blog post: Christmas office party at the Paris Aquarium

a lot less kissing going on

Since my return to work on Thursday January 2nd, I’ve observed an interesting thing: there’s a lot less kissing going on in the office. I contribute this to the Me Too movement. If this is indeed a change towards something new, then I liken the trend to the demise of topless sunbathing … a quaint custom practically inexistent now.

In past years, the first few days of January were spent in a flurry of “Bonne Années!” and cheek-kissing. As I wrote in my blog post six years ago – “Being Anglo-Saxon, as I’m called here, I’ve never been a fan; I prefer a swift, no-nonsense handshake.”

Flash forward six years: when a male colleague exclaims “Bonne Année!“, the women hold back, their body language suggesting that they wish to keep a comfortable distance. The new decade is all about personal space and an increased awareness of boundaries. Believe it or not, and despite the image of France being a nation of anarchists, French society is still freighted with cultural codes, rules of behavior, and a certain pressure to conform to the traditional way of doing things. This includes the way people greet one another, an important practice here. So this ‘holding back’ and signalling that they prefer not to kiss, is new to Frenchwomen. I applaud their attempts to change and develop new behavior patterns.

As for me, I returned to work and approached one and all with a smile on my face, a greeting of “Bonne Année!“, and my hand outstretched, ready to shake. 

Here’s the blog post I wrote six years ago on January 4, 2014 –

And the paradox is that despite their reputation for being oftentimes rude or standoffish, the French are actually quite festive and sentimental. Nowhere has this been more apparent than during these past four days – it’s almost as if they’ve been waiting for January 1st to roll around so they can cry out “Bonne Année!” to one and all.

I’ve just spent these last few days exchanging New Year’s greetings with every living person that has crossed my path. If dogs could speak, we would’ve bid one another a happy and healthy New Year.

“Bonne Année!” (Happy New Year!)

“Meilleurs voeux!” (Best wishes!)

“Bonne Année, Bonne Santé…surtout la santé!” (Happy New Year, Good Health… especially health!)

It’s nice. Very nice. But I’m exhausted. I’m not used to all this Parisian exuberance. It started with neighbors in my building followed by the postman then the concièrge and then the café owner and his wife on the corner and then the streetsweepers as they stood on the corner knocking back espressos from the café and having a smoke. Even our local homeless person had something salutary to say. And that was just on my way to work. Once at the office, things really heated up.

Meilleurs voeux!” exclaimed my boss, leaping from her chair when I walked in on Monday morning. I stood in the doorway of her office. Was she going to shake my hand or kiss me? There’s always that awkward moment when you don’t know whether to stick out your hand or proffer your cheek. The best action to take is to just stand there and let them take charge. Thank goodness Parisians only kiss twice, once on each cheek, as opposed to three or four like they do in the nether regions of France.

It’s funny, this kissing thing. Being Anglo-Saxon, as I’m called here, I’ve never been a fan; I prefer a swift, no-nonsense handshake. I’ve just had a thought … maybe it’s me who’s standoffish?