Pierre Jorand
HUSUM
"Here life is exterminated"
The martyrdom of the prisoners
of the Schwesing sub-concentration camp
Originally translated from the French by Jürgen Hansen
and the Advanced French Class of the
Theodor Storm School in Husum (Class of 1995)
VERLAG NORDFRIISK INSTITUUT, BRÄIST/BREDSTEDT, NF
Translated from the German by Nic Witton, Sydney
2000
Foreword
by Jean LeBris
The crimes committed during the war in Germany and the countries occupied by
Germany are remembered with latent inertia. The commemoration ceremonies of the 50th
anniversary of the liberation of the concentration camps have disturbed this inertia.
Due to the media and frequently also due to responsible German politicians, the few
survivors of the concentration camp system have - at least for a certain time - once more
come "into fashion". The veil over the tragedy has been lifted a little more. The former
prisoners realised that people were now ready to listen to their agonised memories. Thus
their old writings, which at the time of their appearance did not find a wide audience, are
today receiving more attention and are being appreciated for their historical significance.
And so our friend Jürgen Hansen has translated into German our comrade Abbé Jorand's
book "HUSUM: Here life is exterminated", which he wrote shortly after his return from
deportation.
As a former prisoner in the Husum camp I read this moving document again and found
my original impression justified: his clear and precise words attempt to find in human
language an expression for an extreme horror which is actually utterly senseless and
inexpressible.
At first, I thought I detected hate in the priest's words, for which one could forgive that
saintly man. But after a discussion with Jürgen and after longer consideration I recognise
that what we are dealing with here is a dimension of quite a different kind which honours
the author: abhorrence of the violation of the humanistic tradition.
For anyone who had known nothing of the tragic existence of this camp, the author
could appear severe. In reality he is, however, a person who acts precisely and with vision,
without hate and without favour, and bears sincere witness; his is a testimony which is
burdened by terror but nevertheless remains empathetic and vivid, a testimony which from
now onwards will shame and dismay the nostalgic apologists of National Socialism.
I would like to commemorate and honour those who died. We will never forget them.*
Jean LeBris is the President of the 'Amicale de Neuengamme', the association of the
former French inmates of the concentration camp at Neuengamme.
* N'oublions jamais is the title of the magazine published by the Amicale de Neuengamme.
Introductory Comments
by Jürgen Hansen, Fiete Pingel and Thomas Steensen
The French priest Pierre Jorand was one of over 2000 prisoners from the concentration
camp at Schwesing near Husum who, in the autumn of 1944, were used on the building of
the so-called Friesian Wall. It was essentially a military installation consisting of anti-tank
ditches which were established on Hitler's instructions along the entire German North Sea
coast as a defence against a feared second Allied invasion. Militarily the ditches were
completely senseless, and after the war they were to a large extent filled in again.
Starting in 1939, there had been, in the Schwesing district of Engelsburg, a camp for at
the most 400 men who had been employed on the construction of an air base planned for
there, but which had served only as a decoy airfield. The huts which then became empty
were enclosed in 1944 by a barbed wire fence and watch towers. On 25th September 1944
the first prisoner transport from Neuengamme arrived. 1500 men, jammed into cattle
wagons, had been brought via the railway line which at that time ran directly by the camp.
On 19th October a further 1000 prisoners followed. They came from the large
concentration camp at Neuengamme near Hamburg, which in the autumn of 1944
maintained two sub-camps in today's Shire of Northern Friesia: as well as the one in
Schwesing there was one in Ladelund close to the Danish border.
Apart from a few Germans, the prisoners came from more than a dozen countries
occupied by Germany. They had fought against German occupation forces, had been
taken as hostages and had tried to escape hard labour in Germany or had been
transported to the concentration camp for some arbitrary reason.
Every day the prisoners dug ditches in the heavy clay of the North Friesian marshes.
These were more than three metres wide and about three metres deep with sloping sides.
Usually, the prisoners marched on foot the more than ten kilometres between the camp
and the work sites. Constant rain in that autumn of 1944 made the work more difficult.
Guards and privileged prisoners ("Kapos") treated them completely arbitrarily and drove
them mercilessly, shouting commands and beating them with clubs. In the camp, the
prisoners were exposed to atrocities, degrading abuse and "roll calls" for hours on end in
rain and cold weather.
As for food, the prisoners received hardly more than poor quality bread and thin soup.
The oppressively crowded accommodation, the catastrophic hygienic conditions and
completely inadequate medical attention contributed to their worsening condition. Up until
the abandonment of the camp in Schwesing on 29th December 1944 at least 300 prisoners
died. Many more died later during the return transport to Neuengamme or from the
consequences of their incarceration. The Neuengamme sick bay record for the Schwesing
sub-camp registers a total of 484 deaths.
Abbé Jorand's document appeared in 1946 in Nancy under the title "HUSUM . . . Ici on
extermine! Les camps de la mort" (HUSUM . . . Here life is exterminated! The death
camps). As a significant historical source it had been consulted by researchers.
Nevertheless the work remained to a large extent unknown to the German-speaking public.
That made its publication in German appear very desirable. The translation was carried out
by the advanced French class of the Theodor Storm School in Husum (class of 1995)
under the direction of upper secondary school teacher Jürgen Hansen. Jürgen Hansen is a
member of the working party which since 1983 has been looking into the history of the
concentration camp in Schwesing and in particular fostering relations with the former
French prisoners.
The French formed one of the largest groups in the Husum-Schwesing camp and Pierre
Jorand's report looks at what happened from their perspective in particular. It is thus not a
scholarly report: it is a prisoner using his own memories to describe everyday camp life with
impressive intensity.
The text should be seen against the background of the time as a historical document
which causes the differing views and lines of conflict to stand out in sudden sharpness.
Abbé Jorand's observations speak for themselves, there is no need for any commentary.
The translation was kept as literal as possible, frequent spontaneous changes between
past and present tense in the original were likewise maintained, as were the three dots
used by the author as a means of expression and which are therefore in no way indicative
of omissions.
Special thanks go to M. Jean LeBris, the president of the Amicale de Neuengamme, for
his foreword and to Mme. Annie Jorand, the niece of Pierre Jorand, for his biographical
details.
References:
Klaus Bästlein/Perke Heldt/Rainer Kühnast/Friedrich Pingel/Thomas Steensen/Martin
Vollmer/Helmuth Wlazik (Hrsg.): Das KZ Husum-Schwesing. 2. verb. Aufl., Bräist/
Bredstedt 1983.
Konzentrationslager Ladelund 1944. Wissenschaftliche Dauerausstellung in der KZ-Gedenkstätte, Ladelund 1990.
Olde Lorenzen: »Macht ohne Moral«. Vom KZ Husum-Schwesing zum Mahnmal für die
Opfer, Heide 1994 (vgl. dazu die Besprechung in: Grenzfriedenshefte 1/1995, S.
61-64).
Thomas Steensen: Nordfriesland im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. In: Geschichte Nordfrieslands. 2. Aufl., Heide 1996, bes. S. 376-378 und 390f.
Paul Thygesen: Laege i tyske koncentrationslejre. 2. Aufl., Kobenhavn 1964.
Abbé Pierre Jorand
By Annie Jorand
Pierre Jorand was born on 8th June 1907 in Saint Etienne les Remiremont, a small
village in the Vosges Mountains.
His parents were textile workers. They were not wealthy, but devoutly Christian and
attached great importance to moral principles. Pierre was the oldest of five children. When
he was twelve he entered high school and in 1934 he began training for the priesthood.
As vicar in Bruyères and Saint Maurice sur Moselle, two small Vosges villages, he
devoted himself above all to the local youth: through the choir, theatre and various religious
study groups he gained the empathy of the young people of the area. In 1939 he was
appointed minister (Curé) of a congregation of three villages and successfully continued his
work there.
When the Second World War began, his congregants could hardly have imagined that
he would become involved in the Résistance. But he did, mainly organising the passing on
of weapons and materials which were dropped by the British by parachute. His position as
a cleric and his cassock granted him a certain protection. For example, he was stopped
once in the winter of 1943-44 by a German patrol when, despite a strict curfew, he was on
the way to a dropping-off point. They let him pass when he gave them to understand that
he was on his way to a seriously ill person to perform the last rites.
He remained unscathed up until the communion celebration of 1944. Then, on 5th
June, he was arrested by the local Gestapo: although warned by a friend, he had buried
incriminating material in his garden. After preliminary interrogations in Nancy and
Compiègne, he was taken to Germany, first to Salzgitter, in October to Husum-Schwesing
and finally to Dachau, where he was liberated on 24th April 1945.
His family knew nothing of his activities in the Résistance. After his arrest they had no
news of him until his release. His health suffered serious consequences from his
incarceration and he was no longer able to fully carry out his duties as a priest. His last
years in particular were marked by increasing weakness. Pierre Jorand died in April 1978 in
Bruyères.
Annie Jorand is a niece of Pierre Jorand and principal of the Marie Curie High School in
Torbes.
HUSUM
Here life is exterminated
by Pierre Jorand
Preface
Two years ago exactly to the day, on the parade ground of the concentration camp at
Neuengamme, there was a sight which, even for those who were used to such things, was
heart-rending and quite extraordinary. . .
The return of the human wrecks from the Husum sub-camp. . .
The word wreck is not exaggerated, as you will see.
But why, after two years, revive painful memories which only very few Frenchmen (few,
because the others are dead . . .) can still recall? For two reasons:
First of all, the families are justifiably anxious to find out as many details as possible of
the via dolorosa of their disappeared, to know all the stations and all the places where they
suffered before they died. Many have expressed this desire, some have even pleaded for
it.
Secondly, it is surely good for the documentation of the "death camps" to be as
complete as possible.
It is clear that much still remains to be told. However extensive the number of
publications may be, the topic is inexhaustible . . . It is true that the living conditions were
essentially identical from camp to camp, from sub-camp to sub-camp; but there were
differences in the degree of brutality, and this normally depended on one man, be he SS,
"camp senior" or Kapo.
So only very little room in this modest work has been devoted to things which different
camps had in common. It was our intention to limit ourselves to the specific memories of
Husum, i.e. to those which burnt the particular brutality of our executioners into our memory
and into our flesh.
The author was in Neuengamme before he was assigned to Husum; later he was sent
to Dachau. So he is in a position to portray the differences.
In writing these pages he has been careful to be strictly objective; occasionally,
however, his hand has trembled. May the reader excuse some expressions which one
would not normally hear from a priest . . . The fact is that these are the memories of the
place where we were all prisoners and that this is the language we used. If this appears a
little ... exaggerated in places, please forgive us ( . . .)
15 December 1946
Husum - an unknown camp
In the list of the dark places in Germany, where so many French patriots suffered and
died, Husum is rarely cited. No doubt because only few survived . . .
Husum. The Husum sub-camp was however one of the two or three cruelest.
Husum. Terrible memories, from which one cannot free oneself even after two years . . .
Pictures of horror . . . A relentless sight for the spirit . . . Scenes of unparalleled brutality,
cruelty . . . hunger . . . cold . . . toil . . . beatings . . . murder . . . inhumanity, exercised by
degenerates and criminals appointed to be rulers over life and death. How many of us did
not leave? Some figures: On 5.10.1944 the sub-camp held approximately 1500 prisoners,
among them about 200 Frenchmen. On this day a pitiable transport of 500 ailing men was
replaced by 500 other deportees. On 15.12. the sub-camp was dissolved. There were no
more than 300 men left alive, so weak that they could no longer be used to work. On this
day these 300 were again integrated into Neuengamme, where 50 of them died in the
following week.
The hellish living conditions in the concentration camps have been described
elsewhere. In Husum they were even worse - the numbers stated above bear tragic witness
to this. The cruelty of the Reporting Officer contributed to this, the sergeant with the bulldog
face and icy, brutal gaze who actually ran the camp. The circumstances were made even
more inhuman by the cruelty of the Kapos, German criminals who had been condemned to
life imprisonment for infamous crimes and immoral offences. Green and black triangles.
We will describe them in more detail later.
The labour demanded from the prisoners was the hardest imaginable. The food was
totally inadequate. The sick died without care and without assistance. Dysentery quickly ate
away at their emaciated bodies. Daily we carried three, four, ten dead comrades back to
the camp on our shoulders; they had died of exhaustion or of the consequences of the
Kapos' brutality.
I will describe an authentic example to whose truth the survivors can testify since this
crime took place before our eyes. One day -- it was approximately 5th November . . .
1400 deportees are digging tank ditches in the icy wind and rain of this northern region.
We are hungry and cold. In this swampy plain the rain inundates the ditch dug the day
before and causes subsidences which must be eliminated. We have no commitment to the
work. The SS man approaches, armed with the handle of a shovel, every third man is
pushed into the water up to his knees. We have to dig to a depth of fully two metres. Some
were pushed into the ditch so violently that they completely went under. The beatings
become more violent.
A comrade - a Dutchman - collapses; brought upright again by kicks from the Kapo nicknamed "the tornado" - he drops his shovel. Some minutes later he intentionally throws
himself into the water. We fish him out again. "I want to die! I want to die!" he utters weakly.
"I can't go on, I can't go on." We explain the situation to the Kapo, hoping for some
compassion, he laughs scornfully and continues on his way, distributing beatings right and
left.
Our unhappy comrade's second attempt . . . Once again he throws himself into the
muddy water of the ditch. For the second time he is pulled out, dripping wet. We would
gladly protect him, but we have to keep digging.
A quarter of an hour later, the poor chap who did not manage to drown himself pretends
to attempt an escape. A guard notices him and shoots once into the air. The fleeing man
turns, spreads his arms and begs with a desperate gesture for the liberating bullet. The
bullet does not come. So he continues his escape. Rooted to the spot, we watch the events
unfold.
Now a man is detailed to stop the escapee. He refuses. The Kapo rushes over and
brings the victim back; his strength has left him and he collapses. Now a terrible thing
happens:
The Kapo kicks him, strikes him with a truncheon, hits him in the side, in the face, over
his whole body. He flogs him with unbelievable cruelty. The blood flows . . . the victim does
not move. Frightened and full of helpless rage we watch this terrible scene, powerless to do
anything. The beating intensifies; we can hear the sounds - it is occurring only a few metres
away from us. The SS man is there; he looks on, laughing . . .
Exhausted, the brute stops hitting. The last strokes were unnecessary anyway . . ."you
wore yourself out in vain, you swine, the fellow has already been dead for a long time".
The corpse is left lying before our eyes all day long. Poor chap, in the evening four of us
carry the swollen, bloody, dirty body back at a trot six kilometres through the swampland on
our shoulders . . .
Sequel
The next morning we are told that there will be punishment because of this incident: the
guard is put on detention, because he merely shot into the air instead of immediately
shooting the escapee.
For a human being to be so despairing - and this is not an isolated case - the living
conditions in this sub-camp must have been particularly inhuman and cruel.
We will try to demonstrate this.
Those in authority
The rules were strict, their execution pitiless. This was ensured by the composition of
the crew of guards headed of course by the SS. Immediately below them were men drawn
from the naval infantry - amongst them a French-speaking teacher from Colmar in Alsace
who had been drafted against his will and who helped us by passing on items from the
German news, sometimes also in the English version.
We had hardly any complaints about them. Some could even show themselves to be
human.
At the bottom of the hierarchy, in direct and constant contact with the prisoners, were
the Kapos and their foreman, the scum of the German or any other nation. Only one
Frenchman, thank God, dared to take on such a position.
But let us continue. We will describe these people in due course.
The camp commander was an extremely brutal drunkard. We did not see him often,
thank God, but when he appeared he always spread terror. One day, when it was time for
the four-o'clock roll call for those who for some reason were not out working, he was
strolling through the blocks of huts:
A whistle gives the signal to assemble on the camp parade ground. The men come
running. The commander, whose violet face betrays his drunkenness, states that they did
not line up fast enough. So he loads his gun and fires aimlessly into the crowd. Twelve
comrades are seriously hurt.
Below him is the Obersturmführer.
Ah - he was already in charge when we were in Neuengamme where he was
considered one of the two most dreadful guards in the camp. Bestial face, mean look,
hateful, intolerable. And a loudmouth - we had called him the "dog", the "yapper". Crueler
than any other guard: The prisoners' nightmare . . . As an SS sergeant he is practically the
boss of the camp. He "is" the camp police. He takes the roll calls and puts on additional roll
calls, or extends them, at whim. I never saw him without his truncheon. If he broke one on
the back, or preferably on the head of a prisoner, he immediately had a new one.
It was he who examined those who thought they had a reason not to go to work and
whom the doctor had certified as needing "consideration", i.e. to whom he had given a
release note. Such reasons were: wounds on the hands or the feet which made it
impossible to march to work or use a shovel. All these "released" prisoners assembled on
one side: head, hands or feet bound with paper bandages. A dreaded moment: The
sergeant approaches, he orders the bandages to be removed, he pretends to examine the
wounds. He finds the number of wounded excessive and returns them to the ranks. One
moment he laughs scornfully, the next he roars . . . Often he is seized by a fit of rage and
strikes the hands with the terrible wounds full of pus with his truncheon or with his riding
whip. And our comrades are forced to join the work gang again.
The Obersturmführer spends his day hunting for "malingerers", for those who were able
to escape joining the work gang. He goes through the camp, searching the blocks. Woe
betide anyone who was not able to hide in time: he faces a beating which leaves him half
dead.
This real cur seems to be constantly on the watch for an opportunity to mistreat
someone. And there are plenty of opportunities. First of all there are the dreaded morning
and evening roll calls. Everyone in France now knows of the nightmare which the roll calls
meant for the prisoners; because of their unnecessary length and the times at which they
were held.
In Husum the sight is approximately the same each morning. After rising at 4 o'clock or
4.30, the food is distributed and there is ablutions for those who are able to go to the wash
rooms; a whistle, everyone outside! Drawn up in ranks the prisoners are counted and
counted again. Then, on another signal, the men gather at a designated spot.
This is when the first terrible scene of the day takes place: the Kapos walk or run back
and forth, screaming, shouting, striking without reason. The counting is never exact
because of their unbelievable stupidity.
The SS join in. By excessive beatings with truncheons the ranks are lined up again,
however hardly perfectly straight. And that takes time . . . and goes on and on . . . It rains, it
is windy, it is freezing cold . . . What can we do, we wait and wait . . .
During this murderous waiting one or more collapse almost every day. We immediately
drag them out of the ranks. Some days there are four, five, six emaciated bodies . . . Are
they dead? Are they still alive? We will soon know . . . The sergeant, armed with his
inevitable riding whip, walks along the emaciated bodies. He strikes them with the utmost
cruelty. If one of them gets up again under the brutal beating, he must stumble back to the
ranks.
Otherwise this monster does not stop hitting until the lack of any reaction indicates that
he is hitting a corpse or at least that the unconsciousness is not feigned.
Occasionally some resort to pretending to faint in the hope of escaping a day of work or
even to get into the sick bay. This stratagem did not often lead to the desired result,
because the way the would-be patients were whipped removed any desire to fall back on
this stratagem.
Each time during this morning roll call there would be an incident which provoked
indescribable acts of violence.
Daily brawls
The prisoners in Husum were used in two ways: on the one hand for the digging of antitank ditches and on the other for work in the town. The latter was popular, since the work
there was less arduous and the guards less feared, and because the hope of procuring
some food had a magical attraction for us.
Now this troop was made up of those prisoners who were standing at a certain spot on
the parade ground at dismissal. Naturally we soon found out where this spot was . . . The
ensuing chaos was indescribable. Men tried to insinuate themselves into this spot and take
some comrades with them . . . But the spot was often already full; now the brawls between
the Frenchmen and the others began; brawls, which were even more aggravated by
beatings from the Kapos. In the end another group would be detailed for the work in the
town which one could not get into any more except by deceit, which some paid for dearly . .
.
The working party
At the same time the sick assembled at a special place. A dreaded moment, for reasons
which have been described above . . . I saw unfortunate comrades come back weeping,
with bleeding hands and festering wounds, to join the hapless working party again for work
in the open.
Finally a last signal is given and the column moves off in order to leave camp. That is
the minute, even the second, where the greatest temptation looms to escape the day's
labour; a undertaking full of risks, to which we will return later.
In rows of five, holding each other by the arm, the prisoners are kept under strict
surveillance. They turn in the direction of the railway tracks where the train is to collect
them. But the waiting continues . . .
The train comes. It stops. And again the fights in the rush for the wagons begin. Some
of these are extremely comfortable, that is to say, they are partially or completely roofed
over. They are of course immediately recognised and very popular; we rush to one, lift a
comrade up who then helps the others up. Nevertheless the Kapos find the whole process
too slow and try to accelerate it by beating the men with whips . . .
24 men are put into each wagon, in the centre of which half a dozen guards supervise
everything more or less strictly. Sometimes the supervision is mean: for example the cruelty
of the guard who forces us to face a certain part of the wagon and compels any stubborn
prisoners to do so with blows from the butt of his gun.
Once we are stowed on board, squashed in together since there is too little room and it
is cold, we enjoy the most undisturbed moments of the day. Some talk, some withdraw and
pray. The topic of the discussions is always the same: "Where are we going today?" Pieces
of news, more or less freely invented, make the rounds . . . But that is quite normal for the
prisoners in Husum . . .
What glee, when an obstacle forces the convoy to slow down, to stop. Stay in the
wagon . . . stay as long as possible. It sometimes happens that problems on the track entail
an extension of our "trip", one hour, two hours, once even three hours . . . We have
difficulty hiding our gladness, which makes our guards irritable. But it's not as if everything
is pleasant. There are incidents, particularly between prisoners of different nationalities.
Someone gets pushed around under the pretext that he is taking up too much room. He
complains and this would quickly degenerate into a fight if the guards were not there.
It occurs - more and more frequently - that some poor fellow suffering from dysentery
cannot hold back any longer . . . He defecates into his trousers . . . He relieves himself in a
corner of the wagon . . . A Pole or Dutchman quickly identifies the poor chap, especially
since the stench betrays him. Protests, curses, blame, reproaches, threats and sometimes
a beating.
During one of these journeys we make the acquaintance of a teacher from Alsace who
was forcibly inducted into the German army. His name has escaped me, which I regret,
because the Frenchmen who became close to him deemed themselves fortunate to have
met him. . .
I have already mentioned him. But perhaps it is important to say how he made himself
known . . .
One day a French comrade says something stupid, which causes amusement in the
whole wagon. To my great surprise the guard who is sitting beside me also spontaneously
begins to laugh. . . I look at him and say to my neighbour: "What is this animal here
laughing for?" With lowered voice and without anger the guard answers: "I can speak
French as well as you."
"You're a Frenchman? What are you doing here?"
"I'm from Alsace, I was forcibly drafted . . ."
And turning around in order not to be noticed by the other guards, he continues with the
conversation.
From this day on it was a real relief for us if we found ourselves in his wagon. He did not
abuse our confidence . . . (He even prepared an escape plan with one of our number.)
But one morning he did not appear again any more . . .
Altogether the daily departure was really the best moment of the day. The return in the
evening was far less interesting, the reasons for which I will describe at an appropriate
time.
What the German townspeople saw every day
Finally the train stops. The convoy has arrived at its destination. Sometimes we get out
at Husum station, sometimes at a smaller station, often enough in the middle of the
countryside.
Here the prisoners, who are counted again and again, become the target of quite
unjustifiable brutalities. Then the long column starts moving. If we happen to pass through
the town, we feel a certain relief: people come and look . . . They may appear rushed or
look morose, but they are living humans, not just SS or Kapos . . .
This feeling quickly gives way to a more sombre emotion. These people who can move
around freely, these people see, watch our sad procession, they are witnesses to the
beatings which the Kapos distribute in abundance . . .
Some turn their heads but no-one protests, no-one shows disapproval . . . There are
even some who have neither the courage nor the decency to restrain their laughter, more
or less applauding the brutal spectacle taking place before their eyes . . . What anguish this
causes!
The column marches on, sometimes at the double, and soon reaches the endless,
swampy plains by the North Sea, where our hard labour is carried out. This cheerless plain
under a usually pallid sky is crossed here and there by rivulets or small streams over which
at certain spots there is a bridge, a wobbly footbridge or simply a plank. A great
amusement of our guards is to station themselves on these crossings to hasten the
prisoners on . . . For us that means crossing these watercourses by leaping from one bank
to the other . . . and that is not easy. Sometimes an individual or a group tries to hurry, but
loses its head completely in trying to escape the beatings. Result: A leap into the water,
into the mud . . . A good opportunity for the brutal guards to be amused by the general
disorder, to make the situation even worse for us by striking us again and again . . . And
this game sometimes goes on for an hour. . . or even longer because the distance we have
to march varies between three, five, eight or even twelve kilometres.
At work
Nothing is as depressing as our arrival at the work site . . . At breakneck speed one
must grab oneself a tool, a hoe or shovel, in order to start working without delay. What is
the work like? We have to dig anti-tank ditches several kilometres long, approximately ten
metres wide and two metres deep, sometimes even more, in order to ensure that the water,
which on some days turns into veritable torrents, can drain away.
The work is done in groups of three: the first man, down in the ditch, throws the earth
over the edge to the second, who shovels it further away to where third must pile it up in a
prescribed manner.
But each morning the same farce is repeated: the night has destroyed the work of the
day before; water has collected in the half-finished ditch. And nobody feels like standing up
to his knees or more in the water. Quarrels break out between the workers in the same
group, since no-one wants to get down into the ditch . . . The Kapo intervenes and quickly
settles matters.
And the work ceases only in the evening . . .
What a sad sight these 1400 men make, bent over their tools, not daring to raise their
heads until they are sure not to be seen by an SS man or a Kapo, bent over under
continuous threat and always within the range of an undeserved beating . . . Sometimes a
shout of pain rings out: A comrade quite close by is being beaten . . . It is hard to avoid . . .
On some days it is absolutely impossible.
The work itself is quite exhausting. The guards make it intolerable.
Let us talk about the Kapos, the foremen.
The Kapos
Who are these people? Prisoners like us for the most part, but Germans, who supervise
us.
Better dressed and nourished than the other prisoners, they make us very conscious of
the fact that they are Germans and thus derive some benefit from the freedom which the
SS give them, although the latter despise them.
Although most of the Kapos are Germans, they are assisted by a considerable number
of foreign prisoners whose obvious inhumanity and lack of character have accorded them
this privilege. As for the Germans, most were the scum of mankind: convicted felons,
criminal types, sexual offenders, miscreants . . .
This was indicated by the colour of the triangle we all wore under the number on our
jackets: a small triangle whose colour showed the reason for our arrest. Red for political
prisoners, green for criminals, thieves, miscreants, murderers. None of the German Kapos
of the Husum sub-camp wore the red triangle. That is an indication of the morals of these
people. Even worse than the "greens" were those who wore a yellow triangle with the
number 175, the number of the section of the law against homosexuality, the sexual crime
which is so common in this country . . . - they are the scum of mankind. Even in the camp,
this sordid riffraff were able to practise their filthy vice by surrounding themselves with
young Russian or Polish good-for-nothings whose favours they paid for with extra bread or
soup diverted from our rations and by giving them the right to beat us. In a word, they were
the worst creatures one could imagine. And they were our superiors, striking, tormenting,
even killing, without any of the SS ever having demanded that they account for their
actions.
I was there . . . I was there . . .
The nicknames which we gave the Kapos speak volumes about the character and the
duties of these despicable, despised, but feared brutes.
I repeat that, except for some Dutchmen and Poles who were more likely to be foremen
or sub-Kapos, all these men were Germans.
The most feared of these was "the skull". A death's-head with sunken cheeks, green
complexion, wild brutal eyes deeply sunk over the taut mouth; a real portrait of death. "The
skull" seemed to be taking revenge on us for the fears which approaching death unleashed
in him. By beating us he poured out all the resentment of his life, the lawless life of a
hoodlum, which would end soon anyway. He was filled with hate.
He occupied himself by running the length of the 1500 or 2000 metres of the work site,
cold-bloodedly dealing out beatings with his truncheon. No-one could even temporarily
escape from him except by an unpredictable coincidence. He was a real horror . . . We
watched him approaching with his calm, relaxed stride. He struck and struck, without
looking where the blows fell. He only stopped beating in order to spit out some bits of his
rotted lung. But as soon as the last of the clotted blood had run from his terrible mouth, he
continued on his way and went on beating. What subterfuges were employed in order to
evade his beatings. We kept a lookout for his arrival. As soon as we saw or felt him nearby,
we redoubled our ingenious efforts to avoid him. Sometimes this ruse worked; but
sometimes it gave him the excuse to deal out a proper thrashing. With his eyes, "the skull"
followed whoever had the temerity to flee before him . . . With slow steps he pursued him
and then . . .
One Saturday afternoon this brute approached a comrade of ours. Naturally the latter
doubled his work rhythm, but in vain. "The skull" attacked him ferociously and beat him for
almost a quarter of an hour over his whole body, including his head, with such force that
the poor chap finally collapsed . . .
Then "the skull" continued on his round, he had spied another victim.
The "bludgeon"
The "bludgeon", also called "bullet", had this same penchant for brutality, however it
came to light less regularly.
The "bludgeon" was a small thickset man of laughing cruelty. He would pretend to have
a confidential chat with someone and then in an attack of rage mercilessly maltreat the very
person he had just been joking with. But his face never lost its smile.
One day he approaches a group of Frenchmen - we knew that he abhorred us.
Naturally we all now work as fast as we can. The "bludgeon" gives us a sign to slow down:
"Slowly, slowly . . ." fearfully we look at him, without slowing down our shovelling and
digging. But he repeats his invitation: "Slowly, slowly . . ." Everyone raises his head . . . But
at this moment he pulls a leather whip from his boot and whips us with it so violently that
the blood squirts onto his clothes. Even the sight of this fails to calm him down. He
becomes even more furious and swears at us: "Work, work, you lazy Frenchmen . . ." We
only calm down a little when we see him at the other end of the work site where he is busy
tormenting another group.
The "tornado"
Just as feared as "bludgeon" was "tornado". Full of insidious meanness he frequently
supervised our group of Frenchmen. While others of his kind were amused by and enjoyed
the cruelties, the pleasure of causing suffering did not even bring a smile to his lips. He had
fits of rage, when he screamed, cursed, roared . . .
He mostly walked silently around the work site with his arms folded. Without being
visibly amused, he would approach the men who were shovelling away the earth at the
edge of the ditch . . . With his shoulder or a sudden kick he would push one or two of them
into the ditch, the water, the mud.
We called him "tornado" because of the raging speed with which he wielded his
truncheon. He thrashed and flailed without a pause between one blow and the next.
What misery for those who had to bear the brunt of his unexpected attacks of rage.
He tried to curry favour with the SS. They obviously despised him, but they could rest
assured: in his hands the prisoners were well guarded.
But we must descend even more deeply into the abyss of human meanness to discover
a being even more abhorrent than these . . .
The Kapo with the nickname "little madman" represented the epitome of degradation
and enfeeblement, which degenerated into sadistic cruelty. At 67, the "little madman " was
the scum of mankind, wearer of the yellow triangle and condemned for life for the crime of
homosexuality. His vice was only too apparent. As his number indicated, he had been
imprisoned for twelve years as an incurable recidivist.
The most terrible thing was, that even in the camp he found opportunities to satisfy his
horrible passion by surrounding himself with young Russian or Polish prisoners. He paid for
the favours of these accomplices of his dishonourable conduct with extra rations of stolen
food or, worse still, he gave these pitiful boys of 16, 17 or 20 the right to beat us.
Cruelty was a lascivious pleasure for this bestial monster. When he got into a rage, he
no longer had himself under control: he attacked whoever was nearest and maltreated
them pitilessly . . . This terrible sight repulsed even the most hardened observer. The old
swine stamped around, his eyes flashing, something bestial shining from his disgusting,
filthy gaze. He aimed particularly at the face, striking his victim again and again with both
fists until the blood flowed from eyes, mouth, ears and nose. As he did so, he screamed,
slobbered and roared. Finally, the sight of the blood calmed him and he sat down
completely out of breath from his butchery and lit a cigarette.
We also called him the "Guillotine", because he had a disgusting, broad scar on his
neck, of which we said that even the guillotine could not cut through his "pig's skin".
It was such people who were entrusted by the SS with the guarding of the prisoners.
They literally had the right to decide life or death because they were never reproached,
even if they beat someone to death. Sometimes an SS man would watch the fatal
maltreatment of a prisoner, impassively or laughing.
I never witnessed a human gesture, an act of pity by these horrible creatures. Secure in
the power which had been given to them, they had nothing whatsoever to fear from us.
Nevertheless they concentrated their efforts on the weakest.
One day I was so exhausted and feverish that I could hardly stand upright. Not only
could I hardly use my tools any more, I could only see them with difficulty. You can imagine
what my work was like under these circumstances. My workmate, Louis Fleury from the
Haute-Marne, was a genuine comrade, who, because of the experiences we had shared,
had become a good friend. Concerned about my condition, he observed the coming and
going of our Kapo, the "truncheon". When the latter moved away, I gave up pretending to
work to recover my strength. But unfortunately, the "truncheon" appeared unexpectedly and
saw that I was not working. He kicked me so hard in the kidneys that I fell down . . . Then
dear Fleury went over to him and explained my weak condition, in an attempt to calm him
down . . . But he was to repent that. "Truncheon" seemed to listen to him, but then struck
him wordlessly with his truncheon, with the result that my poor friend still carries the
consequences of his act of pity today . . .
These accursed brutes tyrannised us all day long. Their "guard duty" only ended when
we returned to the camp, where we came under the whips of another group of thugs who
were hardly any better.
Other examples
I have taken some time to talk about these filthy beasts . . . and I reaffirm that nowhere
else, neither in Dachau nor in Neuengamme - with everything that occurred there - did I
encounter anything like these brutes.
All camps had a more or less large number of inhuman Kapos. Those who were sent to
Husum attained the limits of the possible in cruelty..
Re-reading these pages, I find that the words I have used are insufficient to describe
the mentality of this scum of the German people and to give any idea of the extent of their
cruelty and barbarism. I could have revealed much more about the depravity of these
fiends . . . But what for? Which pen, which words could exactly describe these criminals
who find themselves outside, i.e. lower than, mankind.
Despite the revulsion it causes me, I intend to end this description with some
peculiarities of the "foremen" or Unterkapos. These were normally chosen from among the
foreigners on the basis of their subservience and the speed with which they ingratiated
themselves with the Kapos and did them dubious favours in the hope of receiving a piece
of bread, some soup or a cigarette . . .
They were even more despised by their compatriots, if that is at all possible. And they
revenged themselves for this hate-filled contempt by being just as brutal as their masters. I
cannot forget the despicable Dutchman who wore his "foreman's" armband with arrogance
and even with pride. At first he just cursed and screamed but didn't hit much. But a remark
or a threat from his compatriots was enough for him to become dangerous. He began to hit
out like the others . . . But his brutality did not last long. One day, when he was to supervise
a group, he led the men away a few hundred metres in order to get tools. When they
thought that the distance from the work site was great enough, four men attacked him,
strangled him and threw him into one of the ditches . . . They came back somewhat
uneasy. . . However three of the group brought the corpse back and put it down not far
from the work site before going back to work.
From this day on the Dutch foremen did not hit out as often or as violently.
Terror
To say that we lived in an atmosphere of terror is not to exaggerate. Men who worked
hard were flogged just as much as the most skilful sluggard. A few seconds of forgetfulness
and one was beaten.
How many died from the after-effects of these beatings? The victims who had been
bashed in the first few working hours had to continue working despite rising fever. In the
evening they could hardly crawl. Some of their comrades would carry them to the train on
their shoulders.
In the camp, the injured were carried as far as the door of the sick bay, where they had
to endure a long wait.
Many died before they entered the door, others briefly after they got inside. Among
them I remember good friends, like for example Pater Arnaud.
From 7 or 8 o'clock in the morning till 5 or 6 o'clock in the evening is a long working day
- in wind, cold weather and rain - particularly on the days when a murderous whim of the
Kapos forced us to take our clothes off.
There were days on which their fury and madness exceeded all bounds: particularly on
All Saints' Day . . .
The blows fall with such force that we think a general massacre is under way . . .
Prisoners collapse: cries of pain and protest, gasping and groaning are heard. The number
of injured rises: people die . . . It would be rash for anyone to imagine he would be safe for
even another hour . . . terror . . . terror . . .
We had been told that Husum was a particularly harsh and terrible "disciplinary camp".
And it was, one can imagine nothing worse. But the deportees in the sub-camp had not
been selected because of any particular lack of honour. We were either resistance fighters
or civilian deportees . . . But the selection of the Kapos pointed to the fact that it was
intended to make life impossibly difficult for us, that a definite plan existed to destroy us.
"You have come here to be exterminated", an SS man had said at our arrival at
Neuengamme. This was confirmed in Husum even more than anywhere else. For the rest it
is certain that for the Germans we were only human cattle to be kept at work by convicted
criminals.
Without bending the truth, one can state that everything was intentionally organised to
destroy in us any feeling of self esteem. For how can one feel human if any animal that
comes along can determine the way one lives? If such a brute can force his will or any
whim upon one, without protest or human indignation being possible, since this would lead
to violent punishment? One dared not reveal one's inner indignation, no matter what kind of
infamous treatment one experienced, no matter whose hand dealt out the beatings.
One day one of the young Russians with whom the disgusting "little madman"
surrounded himself is crossing the work site armed with a bludgeon, striking the men with
an amused expression on his face and with apparent satisfaction. He approaches me,
stops and watches me . . . I am working exactly the same as my neighbours. Suddenly the
young fiend begins to shower me with blows. The more I try to evade the club, the more he
exerts himself, laughing loudly. Why this malice? Doesn't he like my face? I don't know . . .
My comrades swallow their rage and indignation. Who would have dared to kick this
depraved scum, although we were all itching to, or even to utter a single word of protest?
One would have risked one's life or at least a similar thrashing.
I myself could not hold back the tears; they were not tears of pain, but tears of
compassion . . . How old was he, this pitiful youngster? 15? 16? He was enjoying himself . .
. Would he have behaved differently if we had been cattle and not humans?
In the Husum sub-camp we felt even more cut off, excluded from the rest of the world,
than elsewhere. The camp had been built eight kilometres from the city, far from
civilisation. On some days, as I have said, we had to cross part of the city or small villages
in order to get to the work site. The city of Husum has no special attractions, but to us it
appeared magical. The villages were average . . . we regarded them with delight. The fact
that there were still men, women and children who came and went, civilians who were not
prisoners like us, appeared to us marvellous, amazing, hard to believe. We passed through
these communities, which to our unaccustomed eyes seemed like paradise, at the double
in order to reach the immense, hostile, boundless, marshy plain as fast as possible.
One day a special assignment took our group close to a small house where a level
crossing keeper lived. We did not see anybody, but from behind the closed window
shutters we heard radio music: "The Farewell Waltz" by Chopin. How can I describe our
emotion, our delight? Music? A private house? So that sort of thing still existed? Several of
us could not hold back the tears, special tears, our own tears, tears of homesickness and
of hope . . .
No diversion could have taken from us this feeling of isolation. We had absolutely no
contact with the outside world . . .
There was no other news apart from rumours which came from nowhere; we were
under constant, malicious surveillance; with these guards there could be no expectation of
any kind of normal life.
Guards
Our guards - the SS - were, as I have already mentioned, at the top of the hierarchy. At
the bottom were the Kapos. Between them were the sentries.
If I occupy myself somewhat longer with the latter, then this is in order to underline the
strange character of the German soldier.
Generally these people were not as terrible as the others. The majority were older
soldiers of the marines. They had been assigned secondary duties which had been
transferred to the armed forces, e.g. guard duty in the concentration camps. They hardly
bothered to hide their annoyance at the fact that they were still in military service at their
age. One, who occasionally conversed with us as if we were human and confessed to be
68 years of age, thought more about his grandchildren and his family life than of the glory
of the Third Reich and, when he was alone with us, cursed war which for the second or
third time had torn him from his home.
We could not complain about them. However they pretended to be very strict whenever
the SS approached. I noticed how one of them, who had just been conversing almost
familiarly with us, immediately became sullen when he caught sight of an SS man or when
he felt observed by another soldier.
A shameful result of fear. The old soldiers, now and then prepared to make a human
gesture, were abruptly transformed into proper brutes upon an order from the SS or simply
through fear.
Here is an example:
One day a comrade and I are busy some distance away from the main group. About
one o'clock, soup is distributed to the guards. The guard closest to us checks the contents
of his dish and then, perhaps moved by our emaciated faces or simply only because the
soup doesn't appeal to him, places his dish on the ground and gives me a sign to come and
take it, while he makes as if to move away a little by turning his back on us. I seize the dish
with all haste and my comrade and I hurry to empty it. Afterwards I replace it at the spot I
took it from. The guard comes to take it away again and distances himself from us by
turning his back.
At this moment there is a commotion, which comes closer. By kicking him, an SS man is
forcing a prisoner along. He gives a sign and the guard turns around. On the briefest of
orders from the SS man he uses the butt of his rifle to strike the unfortunate fellow lying
stretched out on the ground in the back and the kidneys with outrageous cruelty.
Thee was no way he would have been able to see or know for which crime - whether
actually committed or not - the poor chap was being punished. The SS had ordered it. Was
that sufficient for this man, who an instant before had been humane to me, to immediately
become a blood-thirsty brute?
Common scenes
At this point in my report I must mention the following in order to explain why there were
bodies lying scattered about the whole work site, some of which were writhing in pain and
some of which were dead. In addition to the maltreatment there was also illness, above all
dysentery and exhaustion, so that there were always more or less moribund bodies lying
around on the ground.
I can evoke only crushing memories . . . What impressions I live through again!
We were working together with a comrade and suddenly - without a word and without a
sound - he collapsed. Quickly we ran to his side. The poor chap groaned weakly for a short
time, then he died.
Another time a comrade suddenly died as if struck down. If a priest was nearby, he
discretely gave absolution and murmured a prayer.
Becoming hardened
Is it a disgrace to confess that our exhaustion was so great that we sometimes used the
corpses to gain respite from our labour. I believe it was on 20th October about 10 o'clock in
the morning when a young man in a group supervised by a Dutch foreman collapsed. I was
working quite close by together with my good comrade Loulou Lafleur. He was a masterful
prankster who would seize any opportunity to avoid work, even if only for a few minutes.
He sees the young man falling, takes me with him to the prostrate body, walks back and
forth, pretending to treat give him medical treatment, opening his clothes etc.. At this
moment the foreman approaches and asks questions . . . Without hesitating one second,
Lafleur presents me as a physician. We continue to busy ourselves with the young man
who obviously did not need our attention any longer: he was dead . . .
Lafleur asks the foreman whether we can move the "patient" . . . The Dutchman agrees
. . . I make the sign of the cross over the corpse and we begin to carry him away.
All day long we remain at the side of our dead comrade . . . When the guard
approaches, we pretend to be busying ourselves with him. As soon as he departs again,
we sit down beside the corpse, and so on hour after hour.
At least we, Lafleur and I, were freed from work. If we had not carried on this pretence,
we would have had to work like slaves the whole day.
But in the evening the corpse had to be carried on our shoulders to the railway trucks
with the help of two other comrades.
Returning to the camp
Incidentally, there was no day when we did not have to perform these macabre
transports. One corpse, mostly two or three, now and then five or even ten . . . That
reminds me to say something about our return to the camp.
About 4.30 or 5 o'clock a whistle gives the signal to stop work. Immediately we have to
form groups of a hundred in order to be counted a first time; this never took place without
shouting and beatings . . .
After the first check is complete, a second is executed; it includes all personnel. A long
and unpleasant period of standing follows. Afterwards the long human chain is set in
motion toward the railway station under the same conditions as when we came: The track
through the quagmire, where one's shoes get stuck, the falling into holes in the marsh
which one does not see in the darkness, beatings . . . In short, nothing but malice, every
imaginable brutality perpetrated on defenceless men exhausted by a long day's work.
What we were afraid of most when leaving the work site was to find ourselves near a
corpse or someone ill stretched out on the ground. Since neither of these could reach the
train by their own efforts, prisoners were assigned to carry them.
What sheer drudgery! As far as those who were ill were concerned, there prevailed a
spirit of solidarity among the Frenchmen. Even if we swore as we did it, we nevertheless
did not wait to be told to care for an inert comrade. With the corpses it was different. I do
not remember any Frenchmen dying at the work site. On the other hand there were some
Dutchmen who died. And it seemed reasonable that the task of taking them back be
incumbent on their compatriots. Unfortunately often threats and punches were necessary in
order to force them to take charge of their dead. They frequently tried to get out of it at the
last moment by sneaking through the ranks. This caused indignant protests from the other
nationalities who now had to take over the sad task.
The bearers, whose marching was hindered by their macabre burden, had to keep up
with the column. I believe it is impossible to imagine the ordeal involved in these transports
if one has not witnessed it oneself. That perhaps explains, but in no way justifies, the fact
that corpses were sometimes left in a flooded ditch (which extended and complicated the
procedure of the roll call after arrival in the camp). For the abandoned corpse was missing
and so the prisoner count did not tally.
I may add that, in desperation, prisoners occasionally jumped into the water themselves
after having abandoned a corpse there. Then both were found there the following day.
Actually we should have been glad at the thought that the duration of our suffering had
now diminished by one day, but we were so tired that we only walked silently and with
lowered heads, dulled, to the place where we took the train. There we often had to wait one
or two hours without moving. We freeze in our wet clothes which stick to our bodies in the
cold gusts of the north wind. And when the train finally comes, it is just as in the morning:
the fights to "take over" the covered carriages. Loading the corpses and the ill makes the
situation even more difficult, and the darkness does not improve matters either. You push,
you hold on tight, you force your way through in order to get a spot in a corner or against a
wall. You trample the corpses under foot, stumble over them and fall. The sick groan as
they are trampled. My God . . . And throughout this hellish chaos the shouting of the Kapos,
the dull sound of the blows of their clubs falling indiscriminately . . .
Finally the train starts moving . . . While in the morning we are glad if the train stops, this
causes shouts of complaint in the evening because soup and rest await the prisoners. If the
silence is broken, then almost always by the same questions: "What will the soup be like?"
and the same fears: "How long will the roll call last?" The consoling white lies hang in the
air . . .
We squat, leaning against each other because it is cold and our stomachs are empty.
We keep silent, because we do not have the strength to speak. Do we have the strength to
think? Not every day, you may be sure . . .
And when the train reaches its destination, one is swept along once more in the melee:
the wild rush to leave the carriages, to line ourselves up in order to be one of the first to
leave the checkpoint and return to the camp and the huts.
The sick-bay?
In my report I did not plan to expand on places and occurrences which were not
particular to the Husum sub-camp and which the "old hands" of Husum had in common
with deportees from other camps. A large number of publications have already described in
detail the experiences of prisoners in the concentration camps. That is the reason why I do
not detail life in the huts, for it was neither better nor worse than in Neuengamme, Salzgitter
or Dachau. There was relative peace and quiet - depending on the mood of the camp
leader. The huts themselves: the plank beds, the dirt, the overcrowding, hardly differed
from what would have awaited us in other camps.
The same applies to the food, but I would like to add that though the quality was the
same, we rarely received the same quantity as in other camps.
There was a time in November in which the food rations were considerably reduced, the
daily piece of bread became even thinner and the soup less than before.
The malnutrition, which worsened from day to day, and the harshness of the work,
which was carried out almost exclusively in the water so that our clothes were constantly
wet through, brought about a veritable epidemic of dysentery and festering oedemas. The
harshness of the Obersturmführer had to yield to the prevailing state of affairs: The number
of casualties grew from day to day, they were unable even to crawl . . . beatings had no
effect.
The queue of those begging for medical attention or just a simple bandage for their
wounds got longer and longer at the door of the sick-bay.
I will tell of this sick-bay in Husum because I never saw anything comparable in other
camps and I assume that nowhere was there a similar abomination. I firmly believe that in
this regard Husum was the epitome of shame and I am aware that I am unable to give an
accurate description of that terrible place. I will try to at least give an impression . . .
I went in there four or five times to visit friends and to give the terminally ill religious
succour. Each time I encountered the same revulsion.
The building intended for the sick was at the furthermost end of the camp. From the
outside it looked no different from the other huts.
But inside . . . What a sight! What horror!
The sick, the dying and also the dead, jammed in, jumbled together, completely naked,
two, three or four on each plank bed. In the narrow aisles which separated the rows of beds
lay corpses in horrific poses. They had simply been thrown out of the beds. They remained
there for hours or for the whole day. Excrement lay everywhere on the floor. Every time I
entered, I immediately had difficulty in breathing. What impression can one give of the
circumstances, of the smell of the decaying corpses, of the emanations from the filthy beds
of those suffering from dysentery and unable to stand and of the stench of the containers
set up everywhere, which served for them to relieve themselves but which were often
knocked over. If the patients died of nothing else, death by asphyxiation was a constant
threat.
As far as care is concerned, I can certify that for days on end the patients received
nothing of the kind.
This is how things were:
Each morning at five o'clock and in the evening after return from the work site, a long
queue of people waited at the door of the sick-bay. Under the most favourable
circumstances, five, six or up to ten were admitted. Were they the sickest? Not at all . . .
They were primarily those who paid the Dutch orderly who was in charge, that is to say,
those who gave him their piece of bread. Once inside, the patient either received medical
attention or did not, depending on the whim of the Dutch orderly or the size of the piece of
bread.
And since the sick-bay was completely overcrowded, after five or six short openings the
door remained inexorably closed for the others, who returned to their huts and had to be
content if their protests and complaints were not silenced by the usual beatings . . . Later,
further huts were assigned to the sick and injured.
The physician designated to care for the patients was a Dane. This wretch: how many
human lives he had on his conscience. Not due to cruelty, but to his apathy, his inertia and
laziness. With murderous indifference he would either examine the patients or not, would
neglectfully issue a "consideration" note (certificate for release from work) or tape up a
gaping wound with a paper bandage.
But he did not provide this minimum of care every day . . .
How often did those seeking attention wait there in vain! This gentleman remained in
bed, smoking his cigarettes and not wishing to be disturbed. And there he would stay for
three, four or five days in a row, without setting foot in the sick-bay where he was urgently
needed. In all probability he could not stand the stench there. Of course we knew that he
had only very few medicines. Nevertheless he was acting in a criminal fashion because
these few, reasonably and conscientiously used, could have saved lives.
So the task of distributing these medicines was mostly left to a dreadful Dutchman who
did not dispense them according to the gravity or kind of illness, but according to whether
the suppliant paid more or less generously.
I have forced myself to write down this report of my personal impressions as objectively
as possible. I admit that I can nevertheless hardly suppress my outrage when I evoke the
memory of this selfish and cowardly Danish doctor . . . And the even more repulsive
memory of the Dutch orderly . . .
Let us say a word or two about the latter . . .
He was a tall devil with a rough face and evil eyes, a liar and thief, who robbed the dead
and had become a murderer. In normal life he had been a stable hand and for probably
shameful reasons unknown to me had been given this post as medical orderly.
As soon as he appeared, he behaved like a tyrant and caused palpable fear in this
place where a little cheerfulness and peace would have been so curative.. The criminal
negligence of the doctor only served to exacerbate the situation. It was the orderly who
personally decided, according to the criteria already mentioned above, who was allowed
into the sick-bay, and who pitilessly and arbitrarily determined who should be dismissed.
He shamelessly stole the patients' food, taking this or that from their rations, according
to impulse or appetite. He did not wait for the dying to die before searching their plank bed.
For fear of losing his position if a too truthful report should accidentally reach the SS, he
constantly refused entry into the sick-bay to a French comrade who was a good physician. I
am not saying that he could have saved the lives of patients who asked for his help, but he
certainly could have eased their suffering with the aid of some good advice or suggestions.
And I cannot leave unmentioned the brutality with which he mercilessly punched and kicked
me one evening:
Using my position as a priest, I had asked him for permission to let me enter for a few
minutes in order to render religious assistance to a fellow prisoner who had been expressly
asking for me for several days. He refused. Because I knew that my comrade was dying, I
was not deterred by the thought of a possible beating. Since I could not enter by the door, I
decided to get in by the window. Thinking that the maniac would only guard the door and so
would not notice anything, I crept through the rows of plank beds and reached my poor
comrade who was still breathing weakly but did not respond any longer. I spoke the words
of absolution and surreptitiously made the sign of the cross. Turning around I saw the
Dutchman standing there watching me. He sprang at me, seized me, bashed me and by
kicking me forced me outside without my having the time or strength to defend myself . . .
Filthy animal . . . I believe that this mean individual was hanged in a train carriage during
the return journey to the concentration camp at Neuengamme.
I have indicated that from 10th November, i.e. fewer than six weeks after the
establishment of the camp, one, then two, then three other blocks were chosen to house
those unable to walk, the injured and the sick. In one of these blocks I spent ten days.
Having been released from work outside the camp and only obliged to perform a few
duties, we were allowed to lie down for a few hours during the day. The Danish doctor
never set foot in that hut. No one was given the job of orderly. This duty was taken over by
the healthiest inmate, who voluntarily cared for the others . . . At least nobody could misuse
their position as a "medic" to steal our soup or our bread ration from us.
And at the precise moment, when the last of the blocks was to become a sick bay, the
SS decided to dissolve the camp and return to Neuengamme.
Of the assigned undertaking, much was still incomplete. Nevertheless no more
prisoners were sent to Husum. It was said that the reason was the proximity of Denmark,
where the Germans feared an allied landing. However it is more probable that they realised
that the results of our labours was in no relation to the number of men who were deployed
to guard us.
One thing is certain: they did not dissolve the sub-camp because of any humane
feelings at the sight of the many sick and dead.
One day an officer of the naval infantry - a guard - was speaking with the SS officer, the
camp commander. He told him of our injuries, of our exhaustion and the many deaths; he
suggested that we should be granted one rest day per week and that in this way the work
performed would be of a better quality. The response of the SS man was: "I don't give a
damn . . . if 500 of them died today, I would call Neuengamme and they would immediately
send me 1000 replacements . . . "
I could terminate my report here, by giving him the following epilogue:
When the 300 survivors of Husum arrived on the Neuengamme parade ground, an
informative scene took place, which revealed their mental state: all or nothing.
The prisoners, who had undoubtedly been extremely provoked by two Kapos and a
foreman whose functions, however, were now at an end, attacked the three of them and
literally beat them up under the eyes of the SS, who looked on laughing . . .
For it to have come thus far, the poor chaps must have been at the end of their tether to
risk nothing more nor less than a machine-gun salvo . . . I cannot explain the attitude of the
SS, their amused inactivity.
Ah! But the breach which was not torn through their ranks at that moment by German
rifle bullets, was accomplished later by death. In the week which followed the legendary
return of the human wrecks, at least 50 died in the camp sick bay, in block 12, which had
become the recovery block, i.e. the "death block" . . .
Physical misery - moral misery
Among the Dutchmen, dysentery claimed the most victims. Without meaning to offend, I
can certify that these men were not as robust as the others, neither physically nor morally.
Their large bodies were used to plentiful, nourishing food and they were definitely less able
to bear privation and hunger. They very quickly exhausted all their physical energy and
their will was broken.
Stricken by dysentery, they committed the worst foolishnesses and the most fatal
stupidities. It is obvious that the first and most fundamental means of alleviating this illness
is to consume nothing liquid. Many of my countrymen even went so far as to do without the
soup in order to recover or at least not aggravate their condition. That was admittedly a
heroic measure for men who were hungry from morning to evening and from evening to
morning.
One of the consequences of this illness is that water is extracted from the body, which
inevitably causes a very strong thirst. But the Dutchmen not only did not give up their soup,
but also did not have the strength of will to keep their thirst under control; they would rush
to the taps, the water in which was obviously unhealthy. Worse still. How many of them
have I seen on the camp parade ground, lying on their stomachs to drink from the dirty
gutters and even quenching their thirst in muddy and dirty puddles into which men had
urinated . . . Some hours later the illness crushed them brutally and the poor chaps finally
collapsed, fell to the ground and could not rise again . . . In the evening it was their corpses
which we carried.
Among these numerous Dutchmen we met a few very pleasant chaps. But generally
they behaved in an unfriendly manner towards us Frenchmen, some even displaying an
incomprehensible enmity toward us. They were egotistical and they could not share. In
addition they were often shameless and annoying beggars. The proportion of thieves
among them was larger than that of the other nationalities.
If we Frenchman, we comrades, did not always see perfectly eye to eye with one
another in Husum - as anywhere else, it is not surprising that the degree of friendship
between different nationalities varied greatly. What one could not forgive at all, or at least
only with the greatest difficulty, were thefts between prisoners. Unfortunately thefts were
frequent.
Certainly the inconceivable misery to which we were exposed explains many things, but
it does not justify them. For in situations which are comparable to these, a person's
character must prove itself, their true moral worth must come to light.
One day, we Frenchmen had to seriously reprimand an older man - who claimed to be a
general, which was perhaps correct - because we surprised him stealing a piece of bread
from a comrade.
It must be said that our lords and masters worried extremely little about the mental and
moral health of their prisoners . . . On the contrary, everything was designed to destroy it in
those who were not equipped with firm convictions, had no strong will, could not rely on
religious faith, on an ideal or did not have the determination not to be subdued. On the part
of the SS, the Kapos, the Germans, no consideration was shown to weakness, illness or
age. It is probably unnecessary to remind readers of the prohibition of any religious rites, of
the outrages and the ridiculing of the priestly office.
Finally, no respect was shown for death nor for the dead. The corpses were piled up in
disorder in the corner of a hut which served at the same time as washroom and toilet. They
remained there until, at irregular intervals, a cart came to collect them and take them I know
not where.
I have taken the liberty of including these general observations, although they are not
only typical of the Husum sub-camp, because they throw light on two events which in my
opinion are worth recounting.
An Episode
First I would like to relate as exactly as possible an bold deed which was both
dangerous and humorous. It concerns two people who - by reason of their situation, their
education and their mentality - were very different, but whose open-hearted friendship
brought them closer to each other and gave them the solidarity for this bold deed, which
was perhaps unique in its way - at least for the history of the camp in Husum.
One of the two was a young 22 year-old. Let us call him Larose.
Having grown up without a family, he had, by the time he had reached the age of 15,
engaged in all the sorts of activities which led directly prison. Indeed he had just come out
of prison. As a consequence of the verdict of the court, he had been assigned to a battalion
in Africa. There he was sent to a training camp. When the allies landed in Africa, he was
returned to France and imprisoned. He was released, only to be then deported to
Germany.
There were two things which were remarkable about him:
First his loyalty to and sacrifice for his comrades. Then his acute instinct. I use this word
in the absence of better words and would like to express it in this way: The little chap had
antennae everywhere. These permitted him to instinctively take advantage of any
favourable situation. Did he weigh things up and come to a conclusion? I do not know . . .
In any case his decisions were fast and spontaneous, and if he reflected, then only briefly.
His antennae led him safely and securely . . .
Apart from him there was another beneficiary of his ability, this special ability of a young
streetwise criminal. It was . . . a priest, considerably older, the second fellow in the story
which I am going to tell. God alone knows to what extent his apostolic efforts for the soul of
his young companion showed any salvational effect . . . On the other hand, it is quite clear
that the skill of his companion was of inestimable service to the priest.
Larose familiarly called his comrade "padre". The latter always tenderly replied with "my
son". They were inseparable. The priest blindly obeyed the other's decisions. If he said:
"Come here!", he came. If he commanded: "Stand over there!", he would run there, always
secure in the knowledge that he would be evading a dangerous situation or be spared
some unpleasantness if he followed these instructions.
This was without doubt a paradoxical but admirable alliance which caused some
prisoners astonishment and perhaps also upset some. For the two friends, it was a matter
of conscience. Larose had a completely idiosyncratic conception of the term "conscience" .
. . If he thought about God and the immortality of the soul, he felt he could not assume that,
solely due to the fact that he had caused the evil Germans some harm or had led them a
merry dance, he would inevitably, as it were automatically, deserve an eternal reward . . .
The concepts of "native land" and "justice" were also quite vaguely defined in his mind
and he did not like thinking about them.
He rarely gave any thought to his native land, mainly because it reminded him too much
of prison. So it was completely understandable that he called his comrade an arsehole for
getting locked up because of his activity in the Résistance.
The idea of "justice" aroused in him no fewer unpleasant memories: the police, the
judges: all people who did not wish him well - and for good reason -, so that his
assessment of what was just or unjust was to a large extent pessimistic and he was
strongly inclined to consider only those crooked activities which were unsuccessful to be
unjust. The priest found it necessary to make it clear to him that this was exactly the
mentality of the Nazis and in this way he was able to lead him toward healthier and more
moral ways.
His loyalty to his friends and the self-denial, unselfishness and self-sacrifice that this
involved was for him like a doctrine, or rather: a habit. He did not hesitate to expose himself
to danger in order to prevent a comrade from making a false move. He was always on the
watch for good opportunities to "organise" a potato or a turnip. If he succeeded in removing
some tasty sandwiches from a guard's lunch bag, he never consumed them alone.
The "padre" realised that his moral tutoring was having only limited success, but he
consoled himself with the thought that charity is a virtue which God praises and rewards
above all others.
For the rest, the young man's soul reflected a degree of naturalness and - as I see it - a
certain innocence and in due course divine grace made it its own.
At a much later time, in the sick bay at Neuengamme, the priest, completely
despondent and unable to control his grief, was given an unforgettable look by his dying
friend, at the very moment he was administering the last rites: an unforgettable, noble look
which reflected perfect clarity and the greatest peace, a peace which God grants any soul
of good will.
One morning the column of workers, which had already been counted several times on
the parade ground, started moving toward the railroad tracks. The first ranks had already
passed through the camp gate . . . Suddenly Larose gives his neighbour, the padre, a light
blow in the ribs and says just these two words: "Look sharp!". They were both at the end of
a line and were just passing a block to which they did not belong. Larose pushes his
neighbour through a door and leaps through after him. Opposite them in the hut is a very
narrow but tall cupboard. There the two chaps hide.
They had to remain there without moving and without a making a sound until the whole
column had left the camp.
After this had passed without incident, Larose opened the door of the cupboard a little,
pricking up his ears and appearing anxious. Indeed someone could be heard talking and
moving about.
But even so, the two accomplices could not remain there any longer. . . They crept
outside, Larose in front, left the block and, keeping close to the walls, reached their own
hut. Not a word passed between them . . . Up till then the unexpected situation had not left
the priest time to think about the danger the two had placed themselves in. He began to get
worried . . . But he trusted his comrade and preferred not to imagine the consequences if
the SS adjutant, who was called "the snout", were to sight them on his rounds . . . Larose
did not look so confident any more either. The two men hid behind a row of bunks where
they stood for approximately half an hour, making no sound . . . Then any doubts they may
have had about being discovered were dispelled . . . A man with a broom was approaching.
"We've had it", thought the padre.
Larose, still silent, did not lose his head so easily. Without making a sound, he set one
foot and then the other on top of the lower bed and then reached with his hands for the
head end of the upper bed . . . Needless to say, the padre imitated his every move. In this
way the man with the broom would not come across any strange feet while carrying out his
work. He did not seem very conscientious and that was their salvation for the moment. He
pushed his broom around superficially in wide semi-circles. . . stopped . . . started again . . .
stopped again, then he disappeared.
The two men's situation became intolerable . . . It could have been seven clock or half
past.
The padre had not the slightest notion of what Larose's plans were; in an attack of
anxiety he could only ask himself what outcome their escapade would finally have . . . But
there were more surprises in store . . .
About eight o'clock their backs were hurting and their joints had gone stiff. The two men
groaned quietly. Larose had not uttered a single word and his companion was losing his
patience . . . - when there was a movement in the room.
The Blockführer and another German, both with their arms full of wood, began to light
the large stove which was only lit when the prisoners were out working . . . The fire blazed
and the two sat down and began talking . . . The situation was obviously developing badly
for Larose and his companion . . . After perhaps a half hour or a little more the two
Germans left . . . Just in time . . . Our two friends were at the end of their strength. But what
to do now?
In a quiet voice, Larose told his companion: "We'll lie down under the beds." The
manoeuvre was carried out and the two chaps lay there flat on their stomachs, their
foreheads on their arms . . . The Germans soon came back, sat down again and began to
eat.
Horror of horrors . . . This time they were probably there for longer . . . Indeed they sat
there till two o'clock in the afternoon and ate, smoked, chatted and warmed themselves . . .
the two Frenchmen, stretched out full length and even able to hear themselves breathing,
were worried they might betray their presence, even by the smallest movement . . . Was
that what Larose wanted? (Later, after they had mastered the necessary tricks better, the
inseparable pair carried out another act of bravado, but did not spend their day so
onerously: One, equipped with a roughly made broom, the other with a shovel or a bucket,
they went around the camp from one block to the next pretending to be working hard. If
danger threatened in one place, they moved to another as necessary, but nevertheless
gave themselves extended rests . . . But this first time they had still not yet found a ruse
which enabled them to remain in the camp and escape the backbreaking work in the antitank ditches.)
The two Germans left at two o'clock . . . The priest had not paid much attention to their
long conversation, he was so shaken . . . Larose had not let a word they said escape his
attention and had understood that they would be away for quite some time . . . He had also
understood other things . . .
The "Boches" (Germans) had hardly gone, when the priest could no longer hold back
and began to protest: "If this is what you wanted, my son, then you've succeeded. For my
part, I swear I prefer the work site. I can't go on . . . Come what may, I'm going . . ." A
strong blow with the elbow in the side, accompanied by a "Be quiet; don't move!", was
Larose's response, and at the same moment he left his hiding place and disappeared.
A quarter of an hour later he returned, holding something under his jacket. He says to
his companion in a loud voice: "You can come out now." And from under his jacket suspended on a piece of wire - he pulls out a cat, the Blockführer's cat, and holds it over
the fire . . .
During his short absence, Larose had caught the animal, clubbed it to death and
skinned and cleaned it in the toilets. What an unexpected feast for the two men. They sat
close to the stove, eating the cat. It was only half cooked but tasted so good that they did
not leave anything . . . neither the bones . . . nor the head . . .
Two things in the Germans' conversation had made Larose prick up his ears: Firstly,
that they would be away for some time. Secondly, the following: in reply to a remark by his
companion, the Blockführer had said: "Don't worry about my cat, it's locked up at such and
such a place and won't be able to get out."
Epilogue. It was the Blockführer's cat . . . What is there to add? A spoilt, cosseted and
overfed animal which for this fellow made up for the lack of company, family, fatherland,
everything. When the unfortunate man realised that his pet had disappeared, he exploded
in indescribable fury, looked everywhere for it, wept real tears and uttered terrible threats
interrupted by genuine sobbing: "My cat ... my cat ... "
In the meantime the workers had returned from the work site. As a punishment, a long
additional roll call was imposed upon the men of his block, fearful witnesses to the
Blockführer's deranged outbreak of rage, but they forgave the two guilty ones the next day
when they found out the reason for the German's fury.
This anecdote, funny and dangerous at the same time, illustrates the terror which the
"work site" represented and the risks the prisoners were sometimes prepared to undergo in
order to escape having to work there . . . There were many others who were caught and
paid with a thorough beating with a rubber truncheon for a rest break of several hours
which they had thought they could grant themselves,.
Memories of All Saints Day
On some days in particular men would try anything at all to escape the atmosphere of
the work site. On the day after All Saints Day many felt this temptation, to which they
succumbed with more or less success.
Ah! This All Saints day of 1944 . . . Oh cursed day of all the days of our deportation . . .
Yet it had begun with wonderful, really extraordinary weather. Although everyone's
thoughts were gloomy because of their memories of All Saints Day in France, a certain
energy prevailed because of the sunshine . . .
About ten o'clock the weather worsened, then very quickly a violent thunderstorm broke
over us with heavy downpours which continued until evening.
Was it the thunderstorm? Was it the fanaticism of the godless criminals, heightened by
certain unexpected considerations, or was it the attitude independently adopted by a large
number of Frenchman on the same day? Who can say what provoked a veritable frenzy on
the part of the SS and the Kapos?
Be that as it may, several of them began beating prisoners with indescribable violence .
. . Their bodies collapsed. . . On all sides there was groaning, cries, black and blue ribs . . .
By eleven o'clock five or six were already dead. One would think that these animals
were driven by a mad desire to exterminate us. Many of us believed that and expected the
worst. A priest, assessing the danger, turned to his comrades who gathered around him:
"Men, if the time has come, let us prepare to meet our God. Have courage . . . Have trust . .
. I will give you absolution . . ." While saying this, he had put down his shovel and made the
sign of the cross . . .
An SS man caught sight of him . . . What misfortune . . . A short dialogue . . .
"What did you just do?"
"..."
"Answer me!"
"..."
"What are you in civilian life?"
"I am a priest."
Oh! That evil omen of a grin . . . And at the same time the beating, dealt out with all the
fury of one demented: Kicks, blows . . .
The priest fell to the ground, unconscious . . . The beating intensified until the blood
spurted from his swollen face.
In the evening, still unconscious, he was carried by his comrades together with all those
others who could not reach the train by their own efforts. On this day there were forty,
exactly the same number of dead as there were sick and injured.
Worse than fear
There is one final incident for me to tell. I will report it completely objectively and without
comment. Please excuse the intentionally abrupt style.
The incident occurred on 20th or 21st November . . .
Three prisoners, released from work outside the camp, are busy on internal duties,
more exactly, sweeping out and cleaning the wash rooms and the corridor. Two are
French, the third Polish.
The two Frenchmen are moaning and complaining about being hungry . . . One of the
two, interned and deported a year before, had recently received several packages from his
family, from which he still had some packets of cigarettes left. So he said to his comrade:
"If I could at least swap my cigarettes for something to eat . . . "
The Pole pricked up his ears, approached and made a suggestion: His best friend, he
assured him, was employed in the kitchen of the SS. Occasionally he would bring him
some meat, surreptitiously of course, which he had secretly put aside for him. If the French
comrade liked, he could try to come to an arrangement with the kitchen hand. For his part,
he would arrange to meet his comrade and ask him what the price would be . . . but he
must understand that it was dangerous, etc. . . .
Upon which he left the two Frenchmen . . . and returned within half an hour.
It was settled . . . That night he would bring the meat and exchange it for two packets of
cigarettes. The deal was struck . . .
That night the Pole sought out his two customers at the place agreed upon, handed
them a small roughly wrapped package, put the cigarettes in his pocket and disappeared.
The two Frenchmen hastily opened the package and found two pieces of liver which
they immediately devoured raw, since they had no possibility of cooking them . . . They
found the pieces a little thin for the price, but no matter, their stomachs were satisfied . . .
The next day, the men were busy with the same duties: the two Frenchmen, the Pole of
the day before and another Pole.
One of the Frenchmen happened to mention to the Pole who had procured the meat,
that the quantity had not been worth as much as two packets of cigarettes. An argument
very quickly developed . . . The Pole laughed away even the vilest insults . . .
In answer to a direct question from one of the Frenchmen he retorted that he had no
"comrade" working in the kitchen . . . Then he and his friend made fun of the two
Frenchmen began to utter the most furious threats, not being able to understand a word of
what they were saying . . . The Pole only teased them the more . . .
This altercation, as I've already mentioned, took place while they were on internal duties
in the washrooms. At the moment when they were about to come to blows, the Pole
pushed open a door and said: "See what you ate . . ." and he pointed - while beating a
hasty retreat - . . . to a cut-open corpse . . . From a gaping wound hung the remainder of a
roughly cut-out liver. . . (I had mentioned above that the mortuary bordered on the wash
rooms in the same hut.).
Epilogue
At the conclusion of this report which, at the risk of its becoming impersonal, I have tried
to write objectively and matter-of-factly, the priest may be allowed to say a few words, the
French priest who witnessed all the things reported here and who closely identifies with
them and who - this is his firm conviction - escaped death only due to supernatural
protection which more than once appeared in the guise of a comrade's self-sacrifice. He
saw these obscenities, he suffered them, he condemned them. His human, Christian and
priestly conscience rose up many times against the dreadful things which occurred, and
often his incensed protests turned to curses.
Upon the individuals? No . . . the unfortunate men who persecuted us were basically
only pitiable wretches, driven by error, vice or fear. For them we must feel compassion.
I would immediately throw the preceding pages in the fire if I considered them likely to
ignite in just one heart a feeling of hate for these confused men who, because of a vile
doctrine, became butchers . . . due to their "convictions". By the way, we had neither the
time nor the strength to hate . . . And even if afterwards oaths of revenge were sworn by
comrades bitter and at the end of their tether in order to relieve their frustration, we know
what came of it.
As far as the immoral doctrine is concerned, which was the root cause of this barbarism,
we cursed it in order to protect our very being from it. In times of chaos such a doctrine can
insinuate itself even into the best of people until some expect salvation only from power
and the rule of violence, be it by an individual, a group, a party or a nation. Cursed be the
veneration of power, of race, which holds human life in contempt. If one isolates people's
hearts from the concept of God, of faith in God for whom all humans are children, if in one's
mind one confuses good and evil, if people are given arrogant delusions of grandeur based
only on power or material domination, let us never forget to what misconceptions, to what
cruelty, to what inhumanity they are thus ruinously corrupted.
The Germans thought:
"Destined to rule, due to I know not what decree, I will rule . . . So long as I am the
underdog, I will grovel and flatter, I will remove any obstacle which stands in the way of my
destiny so that I may overcome . . . When I have the upper hand, I will hold sway over you.
If you resist: Death . . . But beforehand, power gives me the right to deal with you in any
way I like: as harshly treated slaves or even as unvalued animals. For my race is inherently
superior to yours . . . "
How many times did we see our tormentors put these doctrines into practice.
"Deutschland über alles . . . "
The worst scoundrels, condemned for the most infamous crimes, made use of this
supposed German superiority in order to dominate us with indescribable arrogance. This
riffraff really believed they possessed a little of Germany's might . . . And the SS supported
this abominable attitude which turned these dregs of humanity, utterly despised by their
own countrymen, this scum, into our provisional masters.
The prospect of having to one day account for their acts before God, for whom all
humankind is equal, might have held the instincts of these arrogant ruffians in check, but . .
.
"There is no God here", said an SS man to a priest, furiously wrenching away the rosary
which the latter had hoped to keep. The Germans' lack of any sense of morality aroused in
them unbelievable feelings of fear . . . a confused spirit . . . a lack of courage. The fear of
appearing weak, the fear, as a German, of not being unmerciful enough . . .
How many became cruel through this feeling alone. They only felt secure and
completely without fear when spreading fear themselves. From that point on, what room
was there in their cowardly hearts for a compassionate thought, for even the hint of pity?
God said: "Thou shalt love thy neighbour (whoever it may be) as thyself."
But they say: "Germans, help and support one another, defend in your own way the
privileges of being German. The rest of humanity does not count. If you do not succeed in
acting according to this precept, woe betide you. . . "
This demonstrates the whole difference . . . The true God is "Mercy". The German god
is: "Hubris".
Friends, we will never forget . . .
We will never forget . . . That is the motto of the former inmates of the concentration
camp at Neuengamme of which Husum was a sub-camp.
How many are we? How many are there who can remember the abominations in
Husum? I am not sure whether there are more than about 20 left. But these at least will not
forget . . .
The images are always before our eyes; the beatings have left scars in our flesh and in
our hearts; ever present is the thought of so many comrades who, though they did not all
die in Husum, died because of Husum, because of the grievous wounds and the diseases
which they contracted there - the way one dies of hunger or cold.
These memories belong to us, the survivors; one could say: only to us . . . How could
we share them with others? It is already difficult enough for us to recall them. One would
like to bury them deep down in one's memory where no one would dare to disturb them.
People around us are tempted to do this.
But let us never forget, let us forget nothing, if you will, comrades . . . Above all let us
not forget the one and only consoling memory which we brought back from there!
Let us remember that despite our differing opinions, our different social backgrounds,
we felt bound to one another by something that we ourselves could not exactly describe, by
something strong, robust, durable, my God, in a word: "France". Amongst us Frenchmen,
who had been flung so deeply into misfortune that we no longer believed that we would
ever come out alive, there was this aura which bound us.
This of course did not stop us sometimes roughly snapping at one another when we
were completely exhausted and provoked. But it never lasted very long. A joke of Paul's
(where are you, Paul, so good-humoured, who told crude jokes and afterwards apologised
to the priest?), a joke of Paul's quickly turned bad temper into a good mood again . . .
We snapped at each other; but if one of us got diarrhoea, someone gave him some
bread to barter for coal if there happened to be a little heating in the block; and then we
quickly turned away in order not to be tempted to take the bread back again . . . Basically
we got on well with one another and all of us as Frenchman strove to keep it this way. This
sufficed us, without however neglecting contact with others (is that not so, Pierre Barbier?).
For in the end this is what we felt: If we shared the same misfortune, it was because of
the fact that the enemy wanted to harm us because we were French.
The enemy called us bandits, terrorists, Gaullists, communists, capitalists and Jewish
Marxists - I could go on, but I won't - the Germans hated our French spirit of resistance in
the face of anti-Christian and anti-French oppression.
So let us distrust those who try to misuse the suffering of the survivors and the death of
the victims for their own purposes.
Let us be honest and not mince words; if we opposed these cruelties and so many of us
lost their lives in doing so, then it was neither for material gain, nor for the colours of the
flag, nor for humankind, nor for a party. It was for typical French ideals: Liberty, humanity
and peace.
If our thoughts inevitably turned to our homeland far away, where aged parents, a
fiancée, a wife and small children were waiting, our deeds were for the land, for our land,
where one could live well, in other words: for her . . . for France.
This, my friends, my comrades from Husum, from Neuengamme and elsewhere, this I
swear to you:
THIS WE WILL NEVER FORGET . . .