What doesn’t kill you: Remembering WWII hero Michel Thomas.
When I borrowed Michel Thomas’ language classes on audio cd from my local library, little did I know that my teacher was a bona fide WWII hero. Neither was I familiar with Michel Thomas’ fame as a linguist and educator, but instantly I knew there was something extraordinary about this Old-World gentlemen instructing me, in a language class, never to be impatient with myself; further suggesting that I would gain a greater appreciation of my own language by learning a new one. I was hooked. The Michel Thomas Method of teaching languages is unique in my experience, and I gained immensely from it. However, it didn’t end there: I had developed a bit of a historical crush.
I did an internet search, which rather than satisfying my curiosity only increased it, so my boyfriend gifted me “Test of Courage” a biography of Michel Thomas by Christopher Robbins , compiled after years of interviews with the subject and his close associates; and backed by an impressive amount of historical research. I highly recommend this book, it read like a thriller while being incredibly educational!
For Michel Thomas, born Moniek Kroskof in 1914, the war started much earlier than 1939. Sensitive to the hateful strain of antisemitism prevalent in his native Poland, at age 7 Michel went to live with his aunt and uncle in Germany, but by 1933, the 19-year-old Michel, wanted for vocalizing against the Nazi government, fled to France. Over the next 6 years, countries all over Europe passed laws circumscribing the liberties of Jews such that Michel, despite coming from an exceptionally wealthy and well-connected family, had to take on odd jobs to pay his way through university in France, then Austria; Poland rescinded the passports of all foreign nationals such that Michel found himself stateless and forced to smuggle his way into southern France from Vienna.
At the start of the war, after being rejected from volunteering with the French Army, Michel became one of the résistants de la première heure, using his vast network to find safety for German and Austrian Jews in the zone libre. For this, he was thrown into a prison camp, followed by a slave labour camp and then another concentration camp from which he escaped, going on to join the French Resistance. For years he worked tirelessly for the Resistance recruiting new members, gaining vital intelligence, stealing Nazi supplies and even blowing up bridges. Once the Allied forces landed in southern France, the war was soon over but Michel continued with the U.S Army Counter Intelligence Corps, flushing out the Nazi resistance till 1947.
In 1947, Michel immigrated to the United States. The Second World War had defined him up to that point, he had spent a great portion of his life fighting it and he had lost his entire family to it. What would he do now? Had he resisted just to survive?
He went on to be become one of the most celebrated language masters in the world, always lobbying for a better education system. In 2004, Michel Thomas was finally awarded a Silver Star medal from the U.S Army. He thrived until his passing in 2005 at age 90.
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Negotiating the weight of my (privileged) problems, I sorely need the perspective gained by reading “Test of Courage”. At first, it seemed a cheesy title, but by the end of the read, I thought it fitting. The book’s epigraph quotes Vittorio Alfieri: “Often the test of courage is not to die but to live”.
Another quotation in the book, this one attributed to Stalin, also rang true: “One death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic”. I thought I knew generally everything there was to know about the Second World War but reading Michel Thomas’ biography helped me appreciate the incredible tenacity it took to survive it, in a way that can’t be expressed through other mediums. To fully grasp the gravitas of the implications brought about by that war, I had to have an emotional journey, of the immersive kind realized particularly through books, the kind that wraps your brain and hijacks your thoughts for weeks.
Michel Thomas was focused on escape. At every concentration camp he tried to muster support for an escape, but little by little, the others would fall away, giving in to what Michel called the ‘Siren’s Song’, which as in Greek mythology, is an irresistible song leading its listeners to their death. Just so, in the concentration camps, Michel said, it was an internal calling to give up, to stop resisting, to go with the flow, to stop fighting. Exhausted after years of struggle, no end in sight, no help in sight, the Siren’s Song of depression must have been deliciously enticing, promising the sweet slumber of death. This Michel said was the toughest thing he faced.
I think about the inmates who perished at the camps. Were they lesser than? But resilience isn’t a virtue. Hatred, too, is resilient. Perseverance, strength and hope are elements of resilience both mental and physical, whether aimed towards a good end or bad. Escape attempts from concentration camps were rare because without identity papers, there was nowhere to escape to, you were as good as dead. There was no hope. For Michel there was hope because his circumstances were luckier. He was confident that upon escaping the concentration camp, he had places to hide out at, he had access to resources, he spoke multiple languages and didn’t look like a ‘typical’ Jew — many times he passed himself off as French, Algerian, and German even. Even his success at charming and seducing women was legendary. No doubt Michel Thomas was exceptionally intelligent, courageous and principled, but he was also lucky.
I doubt the Phoenix emerges unsinged out of the ashes. Michel suffered from psychosomatic rectal bleeding for years — this was during his years with U.S Army counter intelligence, after he had gone from being ‘hunted’ to being the ‘hunter’. Overcoming and even excelling after trauma doesn’t mean that nothing has been lost. We carry the scars of new wisdoms gained.
Sitting on the couch, nursing my aching joints, I contemplate going for a run. I need the cold winter air to slap some sense into me, to jolt me out of this torpor. Then I reconsider — perhaps perseverance is just a prettier term for stubbornness.
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I remember an encounter I had while working as a bike courier in Montreal. It was during a blustery snow storm, and my delivery was on the 23rd floor, for a law firm. I entered the reception area in a rush, covered in street slush and was greeted by three business-suit-attired women.
“Good for you!” said one.
“What doesn’t kill you!” the second remarked.
“Can still hurt you,” the third pointed out.
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