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Three weeks later, the guards returned for Aurora, and my name was finally called. I have chosen not to describe the details of these nocturnal encounters—not out of a dynamic sense of shame, but because some violations are so severe that even the passage of decades defies cursory description. Suffice it to say that von Steiner did not require overt physical coercion; the absolute, asymmetrical power dynamics within the facility were more than sufficient to compel obedience.
Before the winter chill settled over the camp, I discovered I was pregnant. My physique had become bony from malnutrition, and my hair was thinning rapidly, but my body was undoubtedly changing. Soon, the terrifying reality became apparent: Aurore and Séverine were experiencing the exact same development. Three sisters, three simultaneous pregnancies, all from the same source of authority.
The atmosphere in the camp fell as the news spread through the barracks. The other prisoners looked at us with a mixture of deep sympathy, hidden horror, and relief at having escaped our fate. Even the typically strict camp guards seemed distinctly uncomfortable in our presence, avoiding direct eye contact during their daily activities. Von Steiner, however, remained completely unfazed by the situation. He summoned the three of us to his main administrative office on a cool February afternoon. We stood before his polished wooden desk as he methodically reviewed and signed official documents, initially oblivious to our presence.
Finally he looked up and addressed us in fluent French.
“You will remain at this facility to give birth,” he announced calmly. “The babies born will be officially registered as wards of the state, not under the care of their parents, and will be immediately released to their designated families inland. You will return to your assigned duties as soon as you are deemed physically fit to work.”
There was no protest mechanism or legal recourse. We were completely subordinated to his administrative will.
Breakdowns and losses
Séverine was the first to go into labor in April 1943. She gave birth to a daughter. The staff on duty removed the baby from her arms before the umbilical cord could be properly cut. Séverine cried and screamed nonstop for three days, eventually losing her voice completely. She then fell into a state of complete catatonia—refusing food, communication, and unresponsive to any external stimuli. She died six weeks later. The official camp diary attributed her death to typhus, but those of us in the barracks understood that she had simply succumbed to a broken spirit.
Aurore gave birth to her son the following month, in May. Through sheer perseverance, she managed to hold the infant to her breast for a few short hours before the administrative staff arrived to retrieve him. I was positioned right next to her crib when the separation occurred, and I witnessed her emotional breakdown—a rupture so profound in her personality that it could never be fully restored. My delivery took place in June, resulting in a boy with dark hair and tiny hands that instinctively clasped my finger with surprising strength. I experienced a conflicting surge of deep maternal love and profound grief—love for an innocent life, yet an inescapable reminder of the source of our suffering. The staff took him from me the very next morning.
Occupation forces began withdrawing in the spring of 1945, as Allied forces advanced through the region. Von Steiner had completely disappeared from the base before the liberation forces arrived. Some regional rumors suggested he had fled to South America using secret escape networks, while others claimed he had been executed by his own men in the chaotic final days of the collapse. We never received a definitive answer.
Eventually, I walked back to Saint-Rémy-sur-Loire with Aurore. Our mother had died of failing health and bereavement during our absence, and our father’s cognitive state had deteriorated to the point that he didn’t recognize me when I knocked on the door. I stood in the doorway, watching the aging watchmaker stare straight through me as if I were a literal apparition. In many ways, I guess I was.
I lived another sixty-five years after the war ended. I lived a deeply solitary life, earning a meager living as a freelance seamstress. I never married or tried to have any more children. For decades, I remained silent about the events in the camp—not out of a simple desire to forget, but because postwar society showed no willingness to confront such an uncomfortable truth. Only in my old age did I finally agree to participate in a comprehensive oral history project devoted to documenting the experiences of marginalized women during World War II.
This interview was the first and only time I revealed the full scope of my experiences. The revelations I shared extended far beyond the immediate events of the war, as the consequences of what happened at that facility extended beyond the armistice in 1945. In fact, the long-term repercussions were only just beginning to emerge.