January 1944 in the morning. It was minus four degrees at the camp. chirmik. On the dark banks of the log Alsace annexed, the wind came down from voes. It burned my skin. He wore the acrid smell of chimney smoke and this metallic smell, that of fear. My name is Claire Duret. I had twenty years. I stood during morning call like all the others.
My hands were not only shaking cold. Next to me, a woman with graying hair let out a muffled moan. A guard returned immediately. “Silence !” he shouted in German. She bit his lip until it bled. I squeeze the skins and in the pockets torn from my striped uniform. I knew this pain. We we all knew. It was pain which came after the act the act that the soldiers imposed as punishment.
as a control, as a means of break until there’s nothing left nothing of our dignity. I wasn’t there long, only three months. But 3 months to Shirmec, it was already an eternity. I’ll tell you how it all happened started for me, how did I end up there in Shirmec in this hell that no one wanted to name. It was October 1943.
I was years old. I lived in Strasbourg or rather I survived. I was not religious. I was a teacher before the war. But when Alsace was annexed, when the Germans imposed their language, their law, I chose my side. I became messenger for the resistance. I carried messages, documents encrypted, lists of allied pilots dejected people who had to be transported free zone.
I sewed the papers into the lining of my coat. I crossed the checkpoints with an innocent smile and the heart beating at s per hour. That day, in October, I came from a Benedictine convent on the outskirts of Strasbourg. The sisters helped me. She hid Jews, they smuggled messages. She prayed for us. I had an important package, a message from my brother Étienne. Étienne was 26 years old.
He was the leader of a cell Strasbourg. He coordinated the escapes, sabotage, radio transmissions. The message contained information vital, the roads to pass two British pilots. I had it sewn into my coat. I was almost arrived in Saverne, my point of contact, but the guest àap was waiting for us. They emerged from the convent, they have everything searched.
They found the papers hidden at the sisters and at my house, they found the package. I tried to burn in the convent fireplace, but there were too many soldiers. One of them tackled me to the ground, he hit me on the face. I remember the blood in my mouth. The sisters were crying. The Mother Superior stood in front of me.
She said: “Smooth it.” She didn’t do anything. But they took us all in, me and three sisters who had been helped by hits. The sisters were sent elsewhere. I was put in a truck alone. The trip lasted hours. I was attached. A guard me was monitoring. He looked at me, he smiled. He said in German “You will regret having played heroines.
When the truck stopped, it was night. I was taken down. I was at Chirmec. The camp was small, not like the big camps of which we heard talk, but he was worse in his own way. About two women, all French for the most part. Resistance fighter, nurse, institutricis, civil denounced. They got me pushed into the courtyard, I was undressed, they shaved my head, they gave me a tattoo number. I wasn’t crying yet.
I gritted my teeth. I was given the striped uniform. I was put in a barracks. There I met Marguerite. She was around fifty years, former nurse from Lyon. She welcomed me. She gave me a little water. She said, “Don’t show them never your fear.” That night, I did not not slept. I listened to the moans of others.
I already felt the pain who would become my partner. The next day, the call, the work, the interrogations and pain. This pain when you sit, that’s when it all really started. The first interrogations no started the day after my arrival. I was dragged into a small room in the basement of the building administrative. It was cold. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, a table, two chairs and him, the officer His name was Klaus Richter.
Obst were SS, around 40 years old, angular face, eyes clear, cold as ice. He spoke French fluently. He had studied at Paris before the war. He used this like a weapon. He made me sit down, not attached, not yet. He opened a folder. He took out photos. Of photos of my brother Étienne. Pictures of me with resistance fighters.
Miss Lasted, he said with a polite smile, “we know everything. You are a messenger, your brother is the head of the cell of Strasbourg. Just tell me where find the radio transmitter and everything will be easier.” I kept my eyes lowered. I didn’t say anything. He sighed like I was a stubborn child. Very well, we have time.
The first days it was just questions. Hours of questions, always same. Who is the boss? Where are the weapons? Where is the radio? I replied always the same thing. I don’t know anything. I was just a teacher. He smiled. Then he changed tactical. He was talking about my family, my mother died two years earlier, from my father mobilized in 1940 and disappeared.
Your brother is young, 26 years old, he has life before him. Why sacrifice it for a lost cause? I squeezed them teeth. One day he brought bread, real bread and a cup of coffee. Eat speak and you will have more. I ate the bread. I didn’t speak. This is where they the real torture began. The first time, it was a board wood with slightly protruding nails, covered with a thin cloth.
They got me forced me to sit on it. During hours, the pain was immediate, deep. I couldn’t move. Every movement made things worse. They ask questions, I don’t didn’t answer. So they pressed my shoulders. To push more, I I bit my lip to keep from screaming. Afterwards when they took me back to barracks, I could no longer sit down.
I remained standing or lying down on the stomach. Marguerite helped me. She cleaned the water with water cold. She said “It’ll get infected if we do nothing, but we have nothing.” The infections were common. Many women were bleeding. Some develop absesses. Others don’t could no longer walk straight. But we don’t didn’t speak. We looked at each other, we knew.
The pain when you sit down was their brand, their way of reminding us that we were no longer women, just objects. One morning, after a particularly long interrogation, I saw a young woman in the yard, no more than 20 years old, sitting on the ground, legs apart, blank stare, blood on his uniform, a guard got it pushed with the foot.
Get up, she didn’t move. I stopped a second, too long. A guard hit me on the back. Advance. But this image haunted me. This girl was what we all risked becoming. I swore to myself not to give in, even if the pain becomes unbearable, even though I couldn’t sit down anymore. The routine at camp was settling in like a second skin.
Every day resembled the previous one and, yet, each day brought its share of new suffering. The call to five o’clock in the morning, no matter what temperature, regardless of whether one of us could barely stand standing up, we were lined up in the courtyard. We were counted twice, three times if a guard was in a bad mood.
The one who fell was dragged or beaten or left in the snow until whether she gets up or doesn’t more relevant. after the call, work 12 per day in the ammunition warehouse lift heavy boxes, transport them, load them on trucks. The air was saturated with powder dust. This irritated the lungs, many of them blood. But we continued.
If we slowed down, a guard shouted or hit with a baton. I remember a woman, a teacher from Colmar. Her name was Helene. She had a hernia due to fillers heavy. One day she couldn’t lift your box. A guard hit him in the stomach. She fell. She doesn’t have more moved. We left him there. We have continued to work around it.
The evening, return to the barracks, soup, hot water with peelings, sometimes a piece of moldy bread. We ate in silence, we looked at each other, we shared the little we had. It was there that solidarity was born, the only thing that kept us human. Marguerite was my pillar. She had fifty years old, former nurse.
She had been arrested for treating wounded resistance fighters. She knew injuries. She knew how to clean with almost nothing. A cloth soaked in cold water, a little salt stolen if she found some. She took care of me afterwards each interrogation. She didn’t say nothing. She passed the cloth gently. She sometimes whispered, breathe Claire, breathe.
There was also Anne, years old, arrived with his daughter Louise, 16 years old. Anne was strong. She protected Louise like a lioness. She gave him her portion of soup. She covered her with her blanket at night. Louise was terrified. She hardly spoke. Her eyes were huge. She tells me recalled my little sister, who died as a child. We formed a small family in the barracks. We supported each other.
We shared the news, the rumors, the hopes. We whispered at night. The allies are advancing, we have heard bombing. The war will end. Even if we don’t didn’t really believe anymore, it kept us alive. We helped the news arrivals. We explained to them the rules. Don’t look at the guards in the eyes. Do not speak during the call.
Hide your pain. We told each other about our lives before so as not to not forget who we were. Daisy was talking about Lyon. of her husband mobilized in of his evacuated children. Anne spoke of her husband prisoner in Germany. Me, I spoke little. I was thinking of Étienne. I wondered if he was safe. A evening, news arrived.
She was called Simone, 20 years old, arrested for having distributed leaflets. She trembled, she cried. Marguerite has it taken in his arms. Don’t cry too much loudly, they hear everything. Simon has whispered. They forced me to sit on we knew, we didn’t pose questions, we surrounded him, we asked him gave him a little water, we held him hand.
That was our resistance daily. Don’t leave them to us turn into animals, continue to us help each other. Continue to be human. Even when the pain tore us apart, even when we could no longer sit down, this solidarity saved us. not the body but soul. I remember one night when the fever took hold of me. After a infection, I was delirious.
I thought I was at home with Étienne. Marguerite is remained at my bedside. She put some cold rags on the forehead. She has sung softly, a lullaby. In the morning, I was still there. She said to me “You are strong, Claire, you will survive for him, for all of us.” And I survived day after day thanks to her. February 4, the interrogations intensified.
Richter was no longer satisfied with polite questions or discussion boards nails. He was trying to break me otherwise. One morning, I was summoned earlier than usually. The court was still in the darkness. The snow was falling on the street. I I walked with a slight limp. The pain still there, pulsing with each not.
In the room, Richter was there with two guards and a special chair. A chair with a metal bar attached at headquarters. The bar was rough, rigged small points. “Sit down, clear,” he said calmly. “I hesitated, a guard pushed me. I am sitting. The pain was immediate like I was being torn apart from the inside. I gritted my teeth. I didn’t scream.
” Richter started the questions, always the same. The radio, Étienne, contacts. I didn’t answer. So he did sign to the guard. They pressed my shoulders to sink deeper. I saw stars. I bit my lip until the blood. The hours passed, I I don’t know how many anymore. At one point, I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was on the floor.
They got me dragged to the barracks. Marguerite saw me arrive. She fainted. She laid me down on the stomach. She cleaned like her could. “You’re bleeding a lot,” she said. whispered. “You need to speak, Claire, they will kill you. I shook my head. If I speak, Étienne dies and all others.” She didn’t say anything.
She just held my hand. The following days, it was worse. Rita changed her method. One day, he threatened me with Louise, the daughter of Anne, 16 years old. He brought her in in the room. She was trembling, she cried. “Clear,” he said, “If you don’t talk, she’ll take your place on the chair.” I felt my heart break.
Louise looked at me, her eyes implored. I closed my eyes. I thought of Étienne, of the resistance, of all those who contain on my silence. I don’t know anything, I whispered. Ritter has mouse. He made the guard sign. They took Louise. They forced him to sit down. His cries resonated in the whole building. I still hear them today.
When They brought her back, she didn’t walk anymore. Anne carried him to the barracks. She laid him down. She was crying in silence. Louise did not speak again for days. She was staring at the ceiling. She was no longer eating. Anne looked at me sometimes with hatred, with understanding. I don’t know. The guilt gnawed away. I chose Étienne.
I had chosen resistance. But at what price? Marguerite told me one night. It’s not your fault, it’s the war. Don’t let them make you wear this. But I wore it anyway. Richter returned to the charge. He threatened now all the news. He said: “If Claire doesn’t speak, you all will suffer. Some women look at me differently, some with pity, others with resentment.
Once, a woman whispered to me. Speak for us all. I answered the if I speak, they will kill us all anyway and resistance will continue to fight. She didn’t say anything. The threat to Louise continued. Richter used it as lever. He made her come. He threatened in front of me. One day he said: “Tomorrow, if you don’t speak, Louise will take your place for good.
And this times, I won’t stop. That night I didn’t sleep. I have watched Louise sleep. She was moaning in his sleep. I thought about speaking really to save her, but Marguerite took me aside. He’s lying. He doesn’t will not spare him. He just wants you break. I nodded but doubt was there. The next day, I was summoned.
Louise was already there, attached to the chair. Richter said: “Last luck. I looked at Louise, she was crying. I have opened my mouth, I was going to speak and that’s when the explosion rang out. A Allied bombing, close. The chaos has started. It was my chance. But that, that’s for later. On April 2, 1944, I remember this date as if it was yesterday.
An Allied bombing hit closer than usual. A bomb fell near the depot ammunition outside the camp. The explosion was enormous. The ground has trembled, the guards panicked, the sirens screamed, the prisoners been requisitioned to extinguish the fire. We were running with anal. The confusion was total. This is where I saw my chance.
I was carrying a jump when I noticed part of the fence. The shock wave had him damaged. The barbed wire was torn down in places. The guards were all were turning towards the fire. My heart was beating so hard that I thought we heard it. I looked around me. Nobody was paying attention. I have dropped the jump. I ran towards the fence, I passed the body through the opening.
The barbed wire torn leg. Blood was flowing. But I didn’t stop. Behind me screams, gunshots. I was running in melting snow towards the forest. I don’t I didn’t look back. I ran until that my lungs burn, until my legs give way. I hid behind a fallen tree. I waited. The guards searched. They passed close, very close. But night was falling.
The snow covered my tracks. They have renounced. I heard them leave. I waited a long time again. Then I got up. I took out the papers, my registers, the pieces of paper that I had hidden in the lining of my uniform, names, dates, descriptions. They were soaked but readable. I held them against my skin and I walked south, towards the voges.
Six days, six days without decent food. I drank the water streams. I ate snow, I hid during the day, I walked at night. The pain was terrible, the ples were becoming infected. I was delirious at times, but I kept going. I knew the trails, the farms friends. On the 6th day I saw the farm, the one where I left messages before.
I dragged myself to the door. I knocked weakly. The door opened. An old farmer told me looked. He recognized me, he let me in. Its wife put me to bed. They took care of me. I was safe at last, but I was not yet free. Not really. I stayed hidden there for several weeks. I was regaining strength. And one one day, the farmer said to me: “There is someone you need to see.
” They got me transported, hidden in a cart under the straw, to a safe house. And there I saw him. Étienne, my brother alive. He hugged me. He cried. I told him everything. The camp, torture, registers. He has looked at the papers. He said “It must reach the allies. The world must know.” And that’s what happened. But that’s for the future.
After my escape, I remained hidden in the closes for several weeks. I resumed strengths. The old couple looked after me like their daughter. They risked their life for me. I finally slept, without cry, without constant pain, but I was not calm. I was thinking of others, to Marguerite, to Anne and Louise, to all those remaining there.
I asked for news. The farmer listened to clandestine radio. The Allies were advancing, the landing was approaching. One day he said to me “There is someone for you. They transported me at night in a cart under the straw to a safe house near Sainte-Marie aux mines. And there, in a cellar lit by an oil lamp, I saw it. Étienne, my little brother.
He was thin, a new scar on his face, but alive. He squeezed me so so hard that I believed he wouldn’t let me go more. He was crying. We thought you were dead. I told him everything. The camp, the tortures, the pain when you sit, the names, the registers. I gave him the crumpled papers, stained but intact.
He read them in silence. His hands were trembling. Clear, it’s priceless. It must happen to allies. The world needs to know what they do to women. He contacted the network. The records were sent to a British officer via Switzerland. I stayed hidden. I was helping as I could. I transmitted messages. I was treating the wounded.
The war continued, but I knew that my words would survive. In May 1944, the registers arrived at London. They are used for document crimes. In us, the allies liberate Alsace. Shirme is empty. The prisoners remaining are released. I learn that Marguerite died in March of infection. Anne and Louise survived. They returned home.
I cries for Marguerite. She had sacrificed for me. The war ends in May returns to Strasbourg. Étienne is there. We hug each other. I resume a normal or almost normal life. I become a teacher again. I Mary. I have children. But the pain remains physical and in the soul. I can’t no longer sit down. I keep after-effects.
And at night, the nightmares come back. I don’t speak for years. I keep silent like so many other post-war women. I am returned to Strasbourg in the city was in ruins. My books. Étienne was waiting for me. We hugged each other a long time without speaking. I took back my life or at least I tried. I am became a teacher again. I taught children.
I them spoke about peace, tolerance. I got married in 1948 to a former resistant, a kind man. We have had two children, a boy and a girl. Outside life was normal, but Inside, the silence was heavy. I don’t didn’t talk about the camp. Never. To my husband, I only said “I was deported, It’s over.” He didn’t insist.
The nights, the nightmares came, the physical pain too. I couldn’t still can’t sit down for long. The doctors said: “It’s because they irreversible!” I kept the registers hidden in a box attic. I sometimes reread them alone. The names, the dates, the suffering. I cried in silence. In 1950 I learned that Shirmec had been closed, the buildings destroyed like if we wanted to erase.
It put me in anger. The Nuremberg trials were finished. Some guards had been judged, but by he had disappeared. I I asked if he was still alive, if he was laughing again. The 1970s, my children are growing. He asks me “Mom, What did you do during the war?” I say “I helped the resistance. I was prisoner. They want to know more.
I’m changing the subject. In 1993, a journalist Philippe Mercier finds my registers in the attic of a house abandoned in Sainte-Marie aux mines. The farm where I had been hidden. The old man couple was dead, the house sold, the forgotten box. Merci published an article then a book. The forgotten ones of Chirmec. The story comes out.
Finally, the survivors speak little numerous. I am being interviewed for first time. I talk a little. I say the pain, the torture, the names. The book made noise in France. In Alsas, we create a memorial to Chirmec. I’m going for the inauguration and I put up a plaque with the names. I cries in front of everyone.
Since then, I speaks in schools to young people. I tell them “Remember, hatred can destroy everything but love, solidarity can survive anything. My children finally understand, they are proud. My husband supports me, I live with that. Physical pain subsides with age, pain of the soul also a little. I know I did the right thing.
I testified for her every recent years. I lived to be a year old. I saw my children grow up, get married, have their own children. I saw the France is changing, Europe is rebuild. But I still wore dear guy in me. Physical pain had faded, but the memories no. 1964 when Philippe Mercier’s book is released everything changed the forgettings of Shirmik my records were there published with names, dates, descriptions, the world revealed, finally the newspapers talked about it, the television.
I was invited to testify. I accepted. I went in schools, high schools, universities. I was talking to young people, I showed them the registers. I them said “It happened here in France”. under occupation to women like yours mothers, your grandmothers. They were listening in silence. Some were crying. I them said: “Hate can destroy everything, but the resistance, even small, even silent, can save humanity.
” I was talking about Marguerite, of his sacrifice, of Anne and Louise who survived, of all those whose names are on his papers. I said the were not film heroines, they were ordinary women, teachers, mothers, wives. Who have said no? At last the young people came to see me. They took my hand. He said: “Thank you, we won’t forget.
” And I thought 1981, the Shirm memorial was was inaugurated. I went there. I asked a plaque with all the names that I was able to collect. I spoke in front the crowd. I said, “It wasn’t a camp like the others, but the horror was the same. Dehumanization, pain inflicted to break the soul. I have cried publicly, but it was tears of liberation.
After that, I continued to testify until the end. I wrote articles, I gave interviews. I wanted the future generations know that memory does not die. I always said the same thing. The pain when we sits was their weapon. But our silence, our solidarity, it was our victory. Today, the registers are in the museum of the resistance in Strasbourg in a showcase under soft light.
The young people watch them, they read and I know that my fight was not in vain. I left in 1989 at age 74. I was ready, my body was tired, but my heart was at peace. And held on to my bedside. My children, my grandchildren, I smiled at them. I told them, I will join them, Margerite, Louise, all the others. They cried.
I didn’t cry. I was happy. Before to close my eyes, I thought of chemical, pain, snow, screams. But I also thought about solidarity, with hands clenched in the darkness, whisper of hope. I thought about my published and preserved registers. I thought to the young people who read them today, at the Strasbourg museum.
I thought of you, of those who listen this story now. I want that you know one thing, the last. The pain when sitting was their weapon to break us. But we don’t We’re not broken. We resisted silence, in writing, in ourselves catchy. We kept our humanity and that, they never gave us taken.
Today when you think about war, think of us, not as victims, like women who said no. Think of Marguerite who sacrificed so that I could live and testifies. Think of Louise, 16 years old who suffered the unspeakable and survived. Think of all those whose names are engraved on this plaque in Chermec. And promise me one thing: don’t let Hate never wins.
Don’t let indifference never wins. When you see the injustice, speak up. When you see the suffering help because the silence can be a refuge, but it can also be a prison. I kept silence for decades by fear, out of shame, out of respect for those who had not returned. But at the end, I spoke and in speaking, I freed not only my voice, but the lure to all of you who are listening. Thank you.
Thanks for hearing. Thank you for wearing a little of our history. Continue to transmit to children, friends, unknown because as long as someone remember, we’re not really gone. We are still standing, even if it hurts when you sit down. I leaves you with this, with love, with hope. Claire lasted. I left in 1989 at age 74.
I was ready, my body was tired but my heart was in peace and Tienne was at my bedside. My children, my grandchildren, I have them smile, I told them, I will join. Margerite, Louise, all others. They cried. I don’t have cried. I was happy before closing the eyes. I thought of Shirmic, of pain, to the snow, to the cry, but I have also thought about solidarity, with hands clenched in the darkness, whisper of hope.
I thought about my published and preserved registers. I thought to the young people who list them today, at the Strasbourg museum. I thought about you, to those who listen to your stories. Now I want you to know one thing, the last. The pain when you sit down was their weapon to break us, but we do not We’re not broken.
We resisted silence, in writing, in ourselves catchy. We kept our humanity and they never gave us that taken. Today when you think about war, think of us, not as victims, like women who said no. Think of Marguerite who sacrificed so that I could live and testifies. Think of Louise Xan who suffered the unspeakable and survived.
Think of all those whose names are engraved on this plaque, in Chirmec. And promise me one thing, don’t let Hate never wins. Don’t let indifference never wins. When you see the injustice, speak up. When you see the suffering, help because the silence can be a refuge, but it can also be a prison. I kept silence for decades by fear, out of shame, out of respect for those who quickly did not return.
But at the end, I spoke and in speaking, I freed not only my voice, but the lure to all of you who are listening. THANKS. Thanks for hearing. Thank you for wearing a little of our history. Continue to transmit to children, friends, unknown because as long as someone remember, we’re not really gone.
We are still standing, even if it hurts when you sit down.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.