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-Ge- denkstätte, 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 Nordfries- lands. 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 anti- tank 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 anti- tank 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 . . .