The Secret of the Blue Trunk (7 page)

So we had a new address: Frontstalag 121. The grounds were surrounded by six-metre-high barbed wire, and anyone attempting to climb over it was in trouble. Because we had moved into a large hotel, we all needed to be disinfected. The showers were in continuous use for several days. In particular, the bugs we had brought in our luggage needed to be exterminated, since we now slept in clean beds with sheets. We had dishes, and the building was neat. We were convinced that God was taking things in hand. The quality of the food didn’t really change, although sauerkraut was added to the menu, but it was so salty it was inedible.

Life was easier in Vittel. There were facilities outside the hotel for exercising, even for playing tennis and volleyball. In the afternoon, my cousin and I used to go for a stroll in the hotel gardens.

It was during one of these outings that we first heard about Hitler’s extreme hatred of the Jewish people. A young girl, barely fourteen years old, approached us as we walked along. Her name was Anny. She told us that she and her family were Americans living in France. Her mother was in the infirmary because she’d had a baby. In the bed next to her mother’s lay a woman who cried constantly and seemed inconsolable. According to Anny’s mother, that woman, who was Austrian, had also just had a baby. She was crying because she was alone. Her whole family had been sent to concentration camps, except her. Thanks to her husband she had been able to hide her Jewish identity and obtain forged papers for herself and her baby. Now she was afraid the soldiers would discover her real name and take the baby away from her so they could send her to a camp. Young Anny thought that we, the nuns, had more influence than lay people. With all the naïveté of a girl her age, she asked us if we could take the baby with us and convince the Germans that its parents were dead. She was sure that, since there were many children at the hotel, the soldiers would believe our story. It’s true that a large number of children were interned with their parents. Actually, hearing their shouts made us forget completely we were at war. I explained to her then that we were prisoners, too, and the nuns couldn’t take care of children. But Anny wouldn’t listen. She insisted over and over, and, to make us change our minds, she told us what her mother had heard about the treatment the Germans inflicted on the Jews in the camps. This is when I first heard about the unimaginable.

There were concentration camps, she said, where the Germans asked prisoners — old people, women and children — to take off all their clothes, making them think they were going to take a shower. Once they were locked inside the building, they were exterminated with a deadly gas.

At first this story seemed totally improbable to me and I didn’t believe a word of it. It was impossible, beyond all understanding! I didn’t want to hear anything more about it. I wanted to get away, I felt sick. I pulled myself together, grabbed my cousin’s arm, and told the girl without even looking at her that we had to go and unfortunately couldn’t help her.

We walked quickly toward the main building to join the other nuns. I didn’t dare ask them if they had got wind of these horror stories, too. If Anny’s story was true, I certainly didn’t want to hear any others, so I would have the strength to live through this ordeal without the feeling of being a coward poisoning my thoughts on top of everything else. This evil was far too great for me.

In May, a rumour grew more persistent. People said that Canada demanded its citizens be returned. Good news at last! The authorities were taking care of us. A list of people to be set free was posted daily on the door of the commandant’s office and we went to check it every morning. Whenever the name of a Canadian woman was on it, she was given a train ticket and left immediately for Canada. We would be happy for her. But since my name was never there, I would be down in the dumps again. I felt deep grief every time. My name never appeared on that list.

One morning in June, around nine, two men from the Gestapo entered our building to carry out a thorough search. They found my diary, leafed through it and took me away. They had come upon a song a Canadian prisoner had written about Hitler. I had unfortunately copied it down.

Mr. Hitler, in his hellish brain,
Dreamt up the plan one ill-fated day
To shut all the British away,
Without a murmur, their freedom gone,
Just like that, at the break of dawn,
In the barracks of Besançon.

Also scribbled down were a few comments on the way we were treated. I felt as though I was being arrested a second time. Yet I had known it was dangerous to keep a diary. The soldiers dragged me outside, treating me roughly, not even giving me a moment to say goodbye to my friends.

The train to Germany I was on left in the night. It was so crowded there was barely room to sit down. We were in boxcars and the smell was unbearable. I huddled up in a corner, using my habit as a mask to filter out the sickening odours.

On the journey that took me straight to hell, I never stopped blaming myself. No act of contrition could ever ease my remorse. I felt naive and irresponsible. Because I had continued to keep that cursed diary, I had just lost everything that was important to me, the only family I had ever known, the two nuns in whose company I had spent the past year. As time went by, they had become my lifeline. We felt truly close to each another, and it wasn’t just because we were members of the same religious community. I looked upon them as my sisters, in the literal sense of the word. Reality hit me full in the face. From now on, I was alone in the world.

I cannot say how many hours the journey lasted because I lost all track of time. But when the train stopped, we were in Germany.

I
had just arrived at the camp where I would spend the next four years of my life. According to the women who were with me, we had travelled for five days and five nights.

Now, as I write this story, I still wonder how we managed to survive such a trip, locked in a boxcar. We needed an iron constitution. There was a tiny opening in the car’s roof that let in fresh air. This air vent was covered with barbed wire, so it was impossible for a prisoner to stick his hand out and make his presence known. In the villages through which we travelled, no one would have had any idea there were people locked inside those boxcars.

I have no words to describe the foul stench filling the car. Added to body odours was the smell of death, because several people hadn’t survived. They died on the way right beside us.

I was taken to the camp of Buchenwald, located in Thüringen, in Germany. My new address, for the next four years, would be Konzentrationlager Buchenwald. At the end of the war, I found out that this was a large industrial complex. We, the detainees, were used as labour for German industry. Buchenwald comprised several labour camps. There was among others a metal-appliances manufacturing plant, a brickyard, an aircraft factory, and a munitions factory. I had to work in this last one.

We were a group of about six hundred women, of various nationalities. First, we had to wait in line on a vast stretch of wasteland so the soldiers could take attendance. They shouted out our names in alphabetical order and our official numbers. I hoped that because of my nun status and the triviality of my offence, I had been misdirected and shouldn’t be here. When I heard my name, distorted by the German accent, and my official number, 2074, I knew my last hope had just vanished into thin air. They handed me a time card that specified my place of work.

We had to stand and wait in the middle of that wasteland for three long hours. After all we had just been through in that hellish train, this was the last straw. Several women fainted. Others, still upright, tried to help them as best they could. I had dizzy spells and felt sick. But since I got out of the train, I was breathing much better and my stomach gradually settled. I tried to fight against the despair that overwhelmed me, but I couldn’t even cry anymore, as though I were empty inside.

I was very worried, and wondered what life in that camp would be like. Some French prisoners who understood German had heard soldiers say they were taking us to that camp just to make us work in the armament factories. This reassured me. It struck me as odd, though, that there was no camp, or watchtower, or barbed-wire fence anywhere in sight.

Also, I was intrigued by a railway track that disappeared behind two huge metal doors that were hidden from view by branches. It seemed a train could easily enter the building you could tell was behind those doors despite the forest camouflage.

To help the soldiers watch us, there were dogs dressed in little grey coats with the letters SS embroidered on the collars. At that time I still believed dogs couldn’t be fundamentally vicious. But in those outfits they scared me as much as the soldiers did. Their getup even gave them a haughty look. I was immensely sad to see that the dogs, too, had been trained to feel no pity whatsoever toward human beings.

After roll call we were led to the entrance of the labour camp. Through a door that was also hidden behind a grassy, branch-covered hillock, we went down a staircase of about two hundred steps and ended up in a large room. There, we had to take off our clothes in front of the soldiers. Several girls, me being the first, refused. The dogs then started barking and we quickly realized we had no choice.

I had never undressed in front of anyone before. Needless to say I felt intensely embarrassed. I turned this way and that, stalling, not knowing what to do. A prisoner who noticed my distress came up to help me. Her name was Simone. She was from Quebec, too. She suggested I start with my underwear before taking off my robe. I wouldn’t be naked for quite as long that way. I did what she said. First I took off my stockings, then my cotton undergarments, but as I began to remove my habit, I panicked and started to shake. Over and over I said that I couldn’t.

A soldier walked toward me and ordered me in his language, which I didn’t understand, to take off my clothes. He was just about to strike me with the butt of his rifle when Simone conveyed to him that she was going to take care of me. Fortunately, the soldier didn’t hit me. Perhaps for a split second he felt some compassion because I was a nun. Simone said to me in a hushed voice, “You must realize that no one here has a choice, but I understand it isn’t easy for you.”

She had me raise my arms to take off my habit and then quickly put it in my hands so I could cover myself a little.

As soon as we were all naked, they began to shave us from head to toe. The women to whom this task had been assigned were prisoners, too. When my turn came, they had to wrench my habit from me. It felt as though the shield that protected me from the outside world was taken away, and I howled. Simone gripped my arm to make me stop screaming. In a low voice she told me to take deep breaths. She added, “While they shave you, try to think of something else and put all your energy into it.”

But to feel the hands of a stranger crawling over my body was too much. Though I prayed to God with all my might, I couldn’t calm down. I wasn’t the only one in this position. Several girls struggled and they were beaten black and blue. I was lucky enough to have Simone by my side; she made me see reason. She kept telling me to breathe deeply and said there was nothing I could do anyway.

Having my head shaved didn’t upset me because I already experienced this when I took my vows. Then they handed out clothes: a dress cut out of coarse cotton, which looked suspiciously like a flour sack open at both ends, as well as a pair of heavily worn ankle boots.

They made us line up in groups of four. Simone immediately positioned herself beside me. She probably thought I wasn’t going to manage without her help, and she was quite right. Each group of four was given a badly dented mess bowl so rusty it turned your stomach. Simone volunteered to go and fetch our portion. She came back with a half-full bowl. We took turns sipping a thick, greyish soup that smelled awful.

Next, they led us to what they called the toilets, a most disheartening sight. Before us was a large, empty, low-ceilinged room. At its centre lay very long, rectangular slabs of concrete with a double row of holes in them. To relieve ourselves, we had to sit down on the cement, side by side and back to back, without any partitions to give us privacy. At first glance, the number of cavities was far from sufficient for our group, and the openings were already soiled with the excrements of women who had sat on them before us. The fetid smell caught so violently in our throats that several of us threw up the revolting stew we had just swallowed.

These poor sanitary conditions contributed to the rapid spread of germs. Some women’s backsides were covered with spots; they suffered from vitamin deficiency and various infections. Moreover, there was no toilet paper. A corner of that room had a wash basin with a tap that only let out a thin trickle of water. This wash basin was completely inadequate for the personal hygiene of about six hundred women.

Since we no longer had any underwear, we gradually realized we would be unable to sponge up our menstrual blood, which made the premises even more unhealthy. Several girls, myself included, began to cry out of sheer powerlessness in the face of implacable fate. I never thought that in a single day I would be so dehumanized and terrified and that my chastity would be violated.

We then made our way toward the spot where a few hours later we would start our hard work. The soldiers showed us what our tasks would be. The underground camp where we had ended up was used, among other things, for the production of ammunition for rifles, submachine guns, machine guns, mines, and tanks.

In rooms next to ours, prisoners made aircraft parts and wiring. The women worked on the smaller parts. We found out a little later that the men were assigned to the manufacture of bigger armament parts and worked two floors down.

Connected with the large central room were several small galleries. In one of these, women made cartridges. This place was farther away because of the explosion risk. There was a mine-production workshop. In one of the rooms, inmates melted down and cast metal. I also saw impressive sewing machines, which were used for making belts and straps that would hold bullets for machine guns. My job, in fact, was going to consist in fastening the ammunition to those belts and straps.

The place was surreal. You would think you were in an underground city. Because of the thickness of the concrete walls, we couldn’t hear what went on in the other rooms, and even less what was happening outside. We were so far below ground we didn’t even notice air raids anymore. This struck me as odd because air raids had been part of my everyday life since my arrest. At first I jumped whenever I heard the whistling of bombs that had just been dropped. I was afraid I was going to die. In time, my panic faded, but my fear of dying remained. So there was a positive side to this underground camp: Since I no longer heard the blasts of the explosions, I no longer wondered how many casualties the next bomb was going to cause.

The soldiers then showed us a so-called infirmary. Red crosses had been painted on the two doors that barred the entrance. Trespassers were severely punished. We would find out a few weeks later that it was also the antechamber of death. When there were too many wounded and it was necessary to make room, the soldiers didn’t hesitate to select the weakest among the prisoners and put them to death. Thus, male and female inmates suffering from either slight or serious malformations were taken to the “infirmary” and never came back. A mere facial paralysis or abnormal hairiness in a woman was enough to make her disappear. Also, women who couldn’t accept being imprisoned and wasted away before our very eyes, were inevitably sent there, on the pretext that they were no longer able to work. After soldiers had slashed the women’s wrists, they let them bleed to death, and then claimed that the women had committed suicide. This was just a fraction of what went on behind those doors.

Our tour of the premises seemed never-ending and completely undermined what little morale we had left. Simone and I walked arm in arm so we could help each other to put one foot in front of the other. We were exhausted. The soldiers finally took us to the room where we would sleep. There were four dormitories, designated with letters A through D. Simone and I ended up in B.

We were all assigned a straw mattress, which badly needed fresh straw, one for every four women. The only bedding we were given was a black, rough-textured blanket, and it would have to be shared by four of us. The place reeked of sweat, dirt, and damp. Our makeshift bed was off to the side, and we met the other two women who were going to share our blanket. Mathilde Perret introduced herself. She was French, but wouldn’t tell us why she had been detained. We didn’t press her. She was a very beautiful woman, aloof, severe-looking, with an erect posture, blue-green eyes, and fine features. Tall and slim, she must have caught the eye of many men. Even without hair, as thin as she had become and in that ugly dress, she attracted the soldiers’ attention. Just the opposite of Simone, who radiated genuine good-heartedness. She was somewhat on the short side, like me, with a plump figure she unfortunately lost, and had hazel eyes similar to mine. She had been arrested for the same reason as me, guilty of being a British subject. She had married a Breton but had kept her Canadian citizenship. “Had I known!…” she often said to me.

The other woman, Iréna, was Polish. She only knew a few words of French. We didn’t know the reason for her arrest. She was a frail young girl, brown-haired, with a delicate face. Her turquoise blue eyes made us uneasy when she watched us. It struck me right away, as soon as I saw her, that she needed to be protected, like a small, wounded animal. She was withdrawn and obviously didn’t trust us.

How can you avoid forging close bonds when you share a mattress? But the atmosphere wasn’t conducive to friendship for the moment.

Before I went to sleep, I kneeled down and, with my face to the ground, I said over and over, “It’s your own fault you have ended up here. The others
did
warn you not to hold on to your diary!”

All of a sudden Simone gently took my hand and said, “We are all going to suffer a lot here. You don’t need to hurt yourself on top of it.”

Thanks to Simone’s comforting presence, I calmed down and finally fell asleep, curled up against her back. From that day on, we were inseparable.