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There was no random brutality, there was a method. One of the older soldiers with greying hair was talking while he worked. His voice was almost paternal. “Do you know why you are here?” he asked in French with a strong German accent. “It’s not out of hatred, it’s not out of anger, it’s because you chose to be dangerous.
” You have chosen to help the enemies of the Reich. You have chosen to be examples. “He will be yet another bolt on Simone’s chain.” She groaned in pain. “And now,” he continued, almost philosophically, “you will become examples in another way.” You are going to show what happens when French women forget their place. Elise felt rage rising like bile, but she said nothing.
She knew that every word would be used against her. January 26, 1943, 11:35 AM. There were only a few hours left. The barracks were quieter than ever. Marguerite had stopped breathing two hours earlier. No one noticed it immediately. It was only when the soldiers entered for the morning inspection that they noticed.
One of them checked his pulse, shook his head and made a note on a paperweight. ” And one hour,” he said, as if he were timing a scientific experiment. Registration. Cardiac collapse due to extreme stress. He looked at the other women. Seven more hours. Let’s see how many make it to the end. It was at that moment that something inside Elise broke.
not his will, not his strength, but his illusion that it all had a rational meaning. These men were not trying to obtain information. He did not try to frighten them. He destroyed them simply for pleasure, for control, for power. And then something extraordinary happened . The chain that held Elise’s left wrist, weakened by months of use, corroded by rust and the blood of dozens of women before her, did not break completely, just enough for her to be able to move her hand. Elise looked around her.
The soldiers had left. She had at most fifteen minutes before he returned; she moved her fingers slowly, testing the amplitude. A sharp pain shot through her shoulder, but she ignored it. With a superhuman effort, she managed to reach the hook that held the chain from her waist. Click! The chain fell.
Simon, standing next to her, opened his eyes wide. Elise, what are you doing? I survive. What Éise did not know as she slowly freed herself from her chains was that her desperate escape would become one of the most devastating testimonies of World War II. Decades later, his account would be used in international trials, revealing to the world the existence of psychological torture centers that were never officially acknowledged by the Third Reich.
But at that moment, in January 1943, Duret was not thinking about history. She wasn’t thinking about justice. She was only thinking about one thing: whether she could live for another 48 hours or whether she would die trying. January 26, 1943 12:02 PM Elise Duret was free from her chains but she was still a prisoner.
The barracks had only one exit, the iron gate through which the soldiers entered and exited, and she knew it was locked from the outside. There was no window, only a small ventilation opening in the ceiling covered with metal bars. Even if she managed to reach it, it would be impossible to get through. But Elise wasn’t thinking about escaping.