I never got married. I don’t have never had other children. During decades, I have not spoken about what happened in this camp. Not because that I wanted to forget, but because no one wanted to hear. until that in 2010, I agree to give an interview for a dissertation project history on the forgotten women of the Second World War.
It was the first and only time I told my complete story. What I have revealed in this interview is fine beyond what has already been said until present because what happened to us to my sisters and our children not finished in 1945. In fact, it did not was just getting started. In the next chapters in this series documentary, I will reveal secrets who remained buried for almost 70-0 years old.
Secrets about real destiny children born in this camp, on the queiner clandestine network coordinated, on the day I found something something I thought was lost forever. But before continuing, if my story affects you in one way or another other, if you believe that stories like mine deserve to be recalled, leave your support with a like and tell us in the comments where you look from because memory is built collectively and each voice counts.
I spent the two years which followed the end of the war in a kind of fog. I wasn’t sleeping not really. I wasn’t really living. I simply existed as a yellowed photograph that is kept in a drawer without ever looking at it. Aurora returned with me to Saint-Rémi, but she was no longer Aurore. She doesn’t hardly ever spoke.
She remained sitting by the window for hours, hands placed on knees, staring at something that I alone could not see. Sometimes she whispered a first name, always the same, the one she gave to her son during the few hours when she could have held it. She died in 1947. The doctor said it was tuberculosis. I knew it was the sorrow. I remained alone.
The people from the village looked at me differently, not with pity, with discomfort, as if I were a reminder living on something he wanted forget. France wanted to turn the page, rebuild, move forward. Women like me, those who wore the scars of war in their stomach and in their soul, do not fit with this new image.
So, I did what was expected of me. I got myself kill. I found work as seamstress in a workshop in Orléans. I rented a small room above of a bakery. I sewed dresses married to women who believed still in fairy tales. I was coming home at home in the evening. I ate alone. I fell asleep thinking about my son. To what did he look like now? Was he five years old? 6 years old can he read? Was he afraid of the dark like me age? Had we told him that he was an orphan? Did we have him lied about who I was? These questions were gnawing, but I didn’t know where
start. I didn’t even know the name given to him. I didn’t know not in which city, in which country he had been sent. Then in 1953, some thing has changed. I received a letter, a simple envelope without address return posted from Munique. Inside, a single sentence written by hand in German “If you want to know what happened to your child, come to t
he following address on March 12 at 2 p.m..” My heart stopped. My hands were shaking so much I had to put down the letter on the table to reread it. Who sent me this? How does this Did anyone know who I was? Was it a trap? But I knew that I would go. No matter the danger, no matter no matter what. On March 193, I took the train to Munich.
It was the first time that I left France since my return. Each kilometer traveled revived memories that I had tried to bury. The uniforms, the orders shouted in German, the smell of the camp. The address indicated was a gray building in a working-class district of Munich. I went up the stairs to the third floor, heart beating so hard I was afraid let it explode. I knocked on the door.
