to be wearing my nun’s garments, because they gave me some protection against the cold, which wasn’t the case for most of the other prisoners. Our headdresses had been tossed out, but we still had our veils and headbands.
Dysentery began ravaging the camp. The toilets had been set up outside, and there were many sick people who fell down on the stairs while making their way toward them, and sometimes they died on the spot.
In our building, the stretchers were all jammed up against each other. The women were embarrassingly close to one another. The prisoners’ smell became intolerable at times and made me nauseous. I had never thought I would be able to bear such a stench. We only had very little water at our disposal to bathe ourselves. Besides, the water that came out of the taps was terribly cold and, since there was no heating in the building, we didn’t dare get undressed to wash.
A few days after we arrived at the camp, we noticed that our straw mattresses were infested with bugs. Under those circumstances sleeping became practically impossible. Gloomily I kept wondering when this nightmare would end. As exhausted as I was, I took comfort in the thought that I was healthy and there were prisoners who needed me.
The soldiers assigned us certain tasks. Sister Marie-Wilbrod and I were ordered to deliver medicines to sick prisoners. So we assisted Dr. Gilet, a prisoner himself, in his duties, the doctor being unable to cope with the task on his own.
Every evening, we made the rounds of the buildings with our box containing pills for sore throats, liniment for aching muscles, and rhubarb pills against constipation. This job did me the world of good. It drove away my black thoughts. Night after night I waited for the moment when I finally felt useful.
Every now and then, as we did our rounds, German soldiers tried to talk to us. They showed us pictures of their children. Seeing nuns held as prisoners must have stirred up feelings of remorse in some of them. Immediately other soldiers would move toward us, and that put an end to the attempts to communicate.
One of them asked us at some point to treat his sore throat. Sister Marie-Wilbrod advised him to go and see a German nurse. She would have been able to help him, but was too worried about the consequences. “We can never be careful enough in our situation,” she warned me.
When we got back from our rounds, shortly before curfew, the Germans were counting the prisoners and searching our straw mattresses to make sure we hadn’t hidden any weapons in them. From time to time they brought us a bit of bread. They must have thought they were being generous. Although the bread was hard as a rock, ash-grey, and already mouldy, we ate it anyway. Hunger gnawed at us too much. The food parcels sent by our religious community rarely reached us.
Since I couldn’t stop myself from writing, I kept a diary, but was afraid the soldiers might find it. We were often alerted about searches by other women prisoners. Then I hid my notebook in a fold of my habit. Sister Marie-Wilbrod, my cousin, and some other women in the camp had already warned me against possible reprisals if my diary were ever found. They had witnessed all sorts of atrocities for acts much less serious than mine. But I disregarded their advice because writing, for me, was life itself.
One day, about fifty novices of the congregation of the Petites Soeurs des Pauvres entered the camp. The oldest one, who was in charge, pleaded with the commandant to let us have the services of a priest. A few days later, he sent us a priest, an internee himself. From then on, Mass was celebrated daily. This ritual was a great comfort to us and helped us endure captivity. We had set up a small chapel where we could go during the day to pray. Since the camp commandant was a Catholic, we were able to attend Midnight Mass on December 25, 1940. There were some soldiers present.
The Red Cross watched over us and even provided decks
Dysentery began ravaging the camp. The toilets had been set up outside, and there were many sick people who fell down on the stairs while making their way toward them, and sometimes they died on the spot.
In our building, the stretchers were all jammed up against each other. The women were embarrassingly close to one another. The prisoners’ smell became intolerable at times and made me nauseous. I had never thought I would be able to bear such a stench. We only had very little water at our disposal to bathe ourselves. Besides, the water that came out of the taps was terribly cold and, since there was no heating in the building, we didn’t dare get undressed to wash.
A few days after we arrived at the camp, we noticed that our straw mattresses were infested with bugs. Under those circumstances sleeping became practically impossible. Gloomily I kept wondering when this nightmare would end. As exhausted as I was, I took comfort in the thought that I was healthy and there were prisoners who needed me.
The soldiers assigned us certain tasks. Sister Marie-Wilbrod and I were ordered to deliver medicines to sick prisoners. So we assisted Dr. Gilet, a prisoner himself, in his duties, the doctor being unable to cope with the task on his own.
Every evening, we made the rounds of the buildings with our box containing pills for sore throats, liniment for aching muscles, and rhubarb pills against constipation. This job did me the world of good. It drove away my black thoughts. Night after night I waited for the moment when I finally felt useful.
Every now and then, as we did our rounds, German soldiers tried to talk to us. They showed us pictures of their children. Seeing nuns held as prisoners must have stirred up feelings of remorse in some of them. Immediately other soldiers would move toward us, and that put an end to the attempts to communicate.
One of them asked us at some point to treat his sore throat. Sister Marie-Wilbrod advised him to go and see a German nurse. She would have been able to help him, but was too worried about the consequences. “We can never be careful enough in our situation,” she warned me.
When we got back from our rounds, shortly before curfew, the Germans were counting the prisoners and searching our straw mattresses to make sure we hadn’t hidden any weapons in them. From time to time they brought us a bit of bread. They must have thought they were being generous. Although the bread was hard as a rock, ash-grey, and already mouldy, we ate it anyway. Hunger gnawed at us too much. The food parcels sent by our religious community rarely reached us.
Since I couldn’t stop myself from writing, I kept a diary, but was afraid the soldiers might find it. We were often alerted about searches by other women prisoners. Then I hid my notebook in a fold of my habit. Sister Marie-Wilbrod, my cousin, and some other women in the camp had already warned me against possible reprisals if my diary were ever found. They had witnessed all sorts of atrocities for acts much less serious than mine. But I disregarded their advice because writing, for me, was life itself.
One day, about fifty novices of the congregation of the Petites Soeurs des Pauvres entered the camp. The oldest one, who was in charge, pleaded with the commandant to let us have the services of a priest. A few days later, he sent us a priest, an internee himself. From then on, Mass was celebrated daily. This ritual was a great comfort to us and helped us endure captivity. We had set up a small chapel where we could go during the day to pray. Since the camp commandant was a Catholic, we were able to attend Midnight Mass on December 25, 1940. There were some soldiers present.
The Red Cross watched over us and even provided decks
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