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There was a constant smell of smoke mixed with something sweetish and putrid that took me days to understand. It was human flesh burned in the ovens at the back of the camp. They stripped us of everything. Clothing, hair, name. I became a number tattooed on my left forearm. 63241. This number still haunts me today. Even now, at 78 years old, I look at it and go back to that place.
In the first few days, I learned the rules. Absolute silence, eyes lowered, obey without question. But I’ve never been good at bending over . Perhaps it was stubbornness inherited from my father, perhaps it was anger. When I saw a prisoner faint from hunger, I would help her up . When there was a crumb of bread left, I shared it.
When the guards shouted contradictory orders just to humiliate us, I kept my eyes fixed ahead, refusing to tremble. That literally left a mark on me. In the first few days, I met three women who, like me, refused to break completely. Séraphine was a seamstress in Lyon, with delicate hands and a firm voice. She mended torn uniforms with thread she found on the ground, using thorns as needles.
Nadine was a 22-year-old nursing student, with a girlish face but a surgeon’s hand. She cleaned the wounds with dirty water, whispering instructions to avoid infections. Colette was the oldest, 31 years old, a literature professor. In the evening, she recited Rimbau, Baudler Victor Hugo. She said that as long as we could remember beautiful words, he would not have completely won.
The four of us became sisters, not by choice, but out of necessity. We shared the ration. We covered for each other when one of us was too weak to stay up for morning roll call. We whispered absurd promises that we would survive, that we would go home , that we would tell the world. But deep down, we knew the whole truth.
Most of us would die there. The question was simply, when? If you haven’t liked this video yet, do it now. It’s not just a click, it’s a gesture that helps this story reach other people who need to hear it. And in the comments, tell me where you are looking from, which country? Which city ? Knowing that you are on the other side listening makes me feel that these words are not dying in a void. THANKS.
Now, continue with me because what comes next is the part that almost destroyed me. It was a dawn in January 1944 that I understood what it meant to stand against the wall. I had just helped Nadine hide a young Polish woman who had a very high fever. The guards made selections every week. Sick, weak, old, off to the rooms.
We hid the girl under dirty blankets, pretending she was just a pile of rags. It worked, but someone saw us or someone reported us, it doesn’t matter. The result was the same. At three in the morning, I heard the heavy, rhythmic tread of boots. The barracks door was broken down. Lanterns pierced the darkness.
Raos, Raos, described in German. My heart raced . Five of us were dragged outside. Me, Séraphine, Nadine, Colette and the young Polish girl. They lined us up against the cement wall that separated our barracks from the central courtyard. The cold cut like blades. My breath came out in thick clouds. I was trembling, but not from the cold.