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woman, who usually had two, three or four
of her own in the pile.
They are all between 15 months and 13 years old
and are indescribably dirty. The three- and four-year-olds are covered with
suppurating sores: impetigo. There would be so much to do for them. But we have
nothing, despite the incomparable devotion of our camp director, Commandant
Kohn. We immediately begin to set up showers. We have four towels, if that
many, for 1,000 children.
We lead the children by groups to be
showered. Stark naked, they are far more terrifying. They are all horribly thin
and nearly all of them have sores. We have to dry all the healthy ones with a
single towel and almost all the rest of them with the same dirty one. Our
hearts simply contract.
Another drama: nearly all of them have
dysentery. Their underwear is covered with unbelievable filth and their little
satchels are next to useless. Their Mamans sent them off with everything packed
just so, but that was several weeks ago and ever since they have been on their
own. Besides, on the train all their belongings got mixed up. Good-hearted
women volunteer to wash their clothing in cold water, practically without soap:
it's hot this time of year and things dry fast – but there are 1,000 of
them.
We quickly realize that everything we try to do is pointless.
When we give these children back their things more or less clean, an hour later
they are soiled. The doctors hand them down the line. They receive carbon for
their stomachs, their open sores are painted with mercurochrome. If we could we
would send them all to the infirmary, but we can't; they're en route to an
unknown destination.
We were cowards; we told them they were going to
be reunited with their parents, so they would put up with anything.
We
will never forget the faces of these children: ceaselessly, they pass before my
eyes. They are grave, profound and, most extraordinary, the horror of the days
they have lived through has been etched into their small faces, stigmatized
them. They have understood everything, like adults. Some of them have little
brothers or sisters and they look after them admirably; they know their
responsibilities.
They show us their most precious possessions:
photographs of their parents that their Mamans gave them at the moment of
separation. In haste, the mothers scribbled tender words of dedication. We all
have tears in our eyes; we can imagine that tragic moment, the immense grief of
the mothers.
These children know that, like adults, they will be
mercilessly frisked by the guards. . . . They wonder if they will be lucky
enough to hold onto a small bracelet, a medallion, souvenirs of happy times.
They know their jewelry has little value, but they know the greed of their
torturers. A little girl of five tells me, "Isn't it true, Madame, that they
won't take my necklace? It's not gold."
Their mothers sewed one or two
1,000 franc notes into their clothes, and one little boy of six tells us, "You
be the gendarme and try to find my money." Sometimes, life gains the upper
hand: like all children, they play games, but games of their own – they
play Frisk, Deportation.
Some are contagious. We quickly send them to
the infirmary. We make little beds with whatever we can find; but there are too
many of them down with scarlet fever, diphtheria, etc. We try to make a list of
their names and we realize something tragic: the littlest ones don't know their
names. A little boy, from whom we try by every imaginable way to coax his name,
tirelessly repeats, "I'm Pierre's little brother." Either the names
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FRENCH
CHILDREN OF THE HOLOCAUST A memorial
Serge Klarsfeld
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