Captured (Bessy Myers) • Chapter 5

We were called the following morning by a soldier who brought us some tea and bread, also some hot water in a jug, which he took to the shed opposite. We were told to go there and wash. Several soldiers stood in the doorway; our washing seemed to intrigue them.

We were hammered into our cells once more. We were so confined for space and had so little air that I realized that it might not be fair to smoke; however, Darby said she didn't mind. There was practically no light, and I had no inclination to continue my diary.

Every time I heard footsteps I thought it must be Henri. I did not know whether he realized that we were still prisoners. If only he were freed soon he might be able to do something for us, should he get to Paris, via the Red Cross. I realized I had been perfectly crazy, for I had never given him my address in London, nor got his in Paris. Darby simply could not understand why we did not exchange addresses ages ago. I could not think why either.

I asked an official who opened the peephole if I could write a letter. I explained that I had left my money by mistake at Soissons, and the Hoch Kommandant of Laon had given me permission to write. He gave me a postcard, and I wrote, "Am still a prisoner and am at Laon. Please forward the money p110 which I left at Soissons." Unfortunately that was all I could put.

During the morning our peephole was constantly opened by soldiers who gazed at us with the deepest curiosity. The majority could speak English or French. They seemed surprised that we should be kept in such a cell, and asked what we had done.

We told them that we had been driving ambulances for the French Government. They seemed shocked by our appalling condition, and their sole explanation was, "You must have said bad things about the Germans." They shook their heads. "You must never say bad things against the German people."

We hotly denied that we had, but we could not convince them, for they obviously thought that no one would be put into such a cell unless it were for some very grave reason. The chief crime in their eyes seemed to be criticizing the German race. If one did this I gathered they thought no punishment severe enough. They told us that German prisoners in England were very cruelly treated.

They shook their heads again. "We ourselves have heard stories —" they began, when I cut them short.

"You listen to stories, stories, stories! Don't you realize that it is pure propaganda?"

"But it is true," they replied, and then hitched the stories on to the Germans who, they said, had escaped from us, and had come back with the most harrowing tales.

I told them it was a curious thing that I had met many German soldiers who during the last war were taken prisoners by us, and who were now fighting. Each one had personally told p111 me he had been treated well, and had had plenty of food. I found I was up against a blank wall and all arguments were hopeless. Incidentally, although our peephole was perpetually opened by the soldiers, we did not get much extra air or light, as it was blocked by their heads. Despite their curious point of view, they were some sort of company, which was better than being left by ourselves in solitude. Later on in the morning an officer told us that an official had been sent to Paris to find out what was to be done with us, as they had received no instructions about us in Laon.

Presumably we had the same lunch as the soldiers, for we were given tasty soup, plenty of bread, and some fruit. The afternoon passed more pleasantly; several young officers unbolted our cell, and with them we strolled about the small courtyard. They had no idea why we were imprisoned, and were very intrigued and quite friendly toward us. The easiest way to talk about Henri, I found, was to call him my fiancé. I asked over and over again if there was any chance of getting back to Soissons. They said they could not tell us anything whatsoever; it apparently would all depend upon what was decided in Paris. They spent as long as they could with us, and when they bolted us in our cell they left the peephole open; it made a considerable difference.

As the day drew in another official came to us. He said we must be ready to leave for Paris by six o'clock the next morning, and that we should now come under the civil authorities. He seemed to think we should be freed, for he added, "We do not make war on women." He handed me my purse, which I had left with Henri. It had been brought back by a soldier who had been sent to Soissons on an official mission. I was asked to count the money and sign a receipt for it. I knew p112 there would be no message from Henri; it would have been madness for him to have sent one.

So we were going to Paris, not Germany. Was it possible that we were really to be freed? "We do not make war on women" was hopeful. Paris seemed the signpost to freedom, and from this dark, cramped wine cellar appeared a glittering dream.

During the evening the word apparently went around among the Germans that we were not guilty of the unforgivable crime of "saying bad things against the Germans," for doctors, nurses, officers, and soldiers flocked to our courtyard. They let us out of our cell, and had we been an entirely new species of panda could not have been more curious about us. One officer said he would turn on his wireless so that we could hear it, to help break the monotony of the evening. He told me he would try to tune in to an English dance band. I was surprised that they were allowed to get through to an English station, as I was under the impression it was forbidden. They told us they were not allowed to listen to our news, but they frequently tuned in to our dance bands and loved listening to them.

Their blind obedience, and their belief that what they were told to do was by far the best thing for them, simply amazed me. I can not imagine any other so‑called intelligent race obeying so readily and having such blind faith and trust in their p113 political system. The majority thought that the war would be over within a month, and they were more than glad, they said, as most of them had not seen their wives and families for over a year and were tired of sweeping from country to country. Their one idea was to get back home.

"You English are so obstinate," their main argument ran. "Our Führer does not want a war with England; he wants peace. And all we want from you are our colonies back; they have been ours for generations. You have no right to take them away from us; give them back to us, and there will be peace."

I made no attempt to argue, as I knew the futility of it. Give them their colonies; then, besides Europe, they would want living space on the moon.

During the night the procedure was the same as before. Every two hours lights were flashed into our face, but we hardly cared. Paris . . . "We do not make war on women" . . . perpetually rang in our ears. We were called at half-past five and brought some steaming hot tea and slices of bread with lashings of butter. The nurses, doctors, and soldiers came to have a last look at us; two soldiers carried our peasant's bundles and led the way through the dark, dark passages and the innumerable courtyards to a car waiting outside the hospital.

A brisk, monocled, typical German officer was in charge of us. He spoke very little English or French, and sat between Darby and me in the back of the car, but the soldier who drove us seemed to understand English quite well.

Soissons seventeen, ten, five kilometers — surely we were going through Soissons. I asked, and was told that we were.

"Can we stop for just a few minutes at the hospital? I do so want to see my fiancé, who is the official interpreter."

p114 The officer said "No." He was quite adamant, and told me he had orders to get to Paris as quickly as possible.

We went through the town, and as we passed the Hôpital Militaire I found myself writhing in my seat.

A few kilometers farther, the road was blocked by a mechanized convoy, and we had to make a detour. Once we stopped and the officer produced a one‑inch survey map of the district. I glanced at it as he held it on his knee. Every detail of the countryside was clearly marked; the map had been made in Germany. From it I saw that there was a clump of trees and a farmhouse on our left. I looked up to find it, and saw that it had been shelled to smithereens.

"Why," I asked, "do you want to shell so isolated a farmhouse?" His excuse was that it had been full of French soldiers.

We hastily moved on, as several dead animals were still lying about. The villages through which we passed had all been badly shelled and were entirely deserted except for a few German soldiers here and there. Just before we came to Paris the car was stopped and we were asked to get out on to the road; the chauffeur had not been able to overcome his desire to photograph us.

On nearing the suburbs we found the road barricaded across and sentry-boxes placed each side. Cars in front, containing German officials, had been stopped, and their papers were being examined. We pulled up behind them, and when our men came the officer in charge of us produced some kind of document which seemed to give us the right to enter p115 Paris. A large letter "K" was stuck on to the windscreen, which I presume stood for Kommandantur.

We were told we were making for the Hôtel de Crillon, which the Germans had taken over and were using as their headquarters. Neither the officer nor the chauffeur had been to Paris before, and had no idea of their way about. Darby and I directed them, and among the places of interest we pointed out lovely Notre Dame. At last we arrived at the Hôtel de Crillon. The officer went inside, and the chauffeur parked the car at the corner.

I had left Paris on the 8th of June. It was now the 15th of July. What catastrophic changes had occurred in that short time! No longer could the French people call this their capital: the swastika flag hung from all the main buildings; private cars, taxis, and buses had entirely disappeared from the streets; such cars as there were were filled with German officials, and the rest of the traffic consisted of lorries crammed with German soldiers. There seemed to be many more German soldiers than civilians in the streets; the civilians walked hurriedly with a hang‑dog expression, looking neither to the left or right. Perhaps what depressed me most were the innumerable empty chairs and tables outside the cafés, which were so much a part and parcel of the streets; except for one or two Parisiennes, who, Germans or no Germans, were carrying on the customs of a lifetime, and a few German soldiers, the cafés were deserted.

After half an hour the officer returned and told us we were to go on to the Hôtel Majestic. We directed them up the Champs-Élysées, which, devoid of the usual bustling life, was pathos at its height. Again we waited outside the hotel p116 while the officer went in. This also was being used for official purposes and bristled with officers, soldiers, and guards.

An hour passed. We could not understand what was taking so long. Thoughts other than that we were to be freed never entered our minds; we were feeling thrilled beyond words. It was getting on for one o'clock, and we wondered if the officer realized that it was nearly past lunchtime. Would he invite us inside for lunch? He was not a convivial soul, but, since we had had so many ups and dense, it did not strike us as incongruous that he should.

Eventually he reappeared and said we were to go on to the Hôtel Lutétia. Once more we drove down the deserted Champs-Élysées, and as we crossed the Place de la Concorde we pointed out Les Invalides. It meant nothing to either of our escorts until we told them of its association with Napoleon.

We asked if we could see the American Consul, if we could get in touch with Huffer, and if we could go to our headquarters in the Rue Perronet to collect our suitcases. Our officer said he thought we should be able to, and asked us if we had all our papers ready to show. We explained that we had only our passports and our papers from the English and French Governments giving us official recognition as ambulance drivers under the French Government.

Once more, at the Hôtel Lutétia, we had to wait an endless time. When at last the officer returned he had a rapid conversation with the chauffeur. We set off again, but this time we were not told our destination and could not make out where we were going.

We stopped once more. Shops with flats over them on our left — down the length of the street on our right a high wall p117 with a guarded gateway. The officer got out of the car and disappeared through the grass. I craned my neck to see more; beyond the gates I caught a glimpse of a courtyard, and at the farther end a large door over which was written in big letters "Prison Militaire."

"Do you see what I see, Darby?" But she could see nothing from where she was sitting.

I wondered why we were waiting outside — "Prison Militaire" did not sound very healthy to me. We had definitely been told we were coming under the civil authorities. Why should our officer enter a military prison?

Five minutes, ten minutes, passed; still he did not return., After all, I consoled myself, we had already waited half an hour outside the Crillon headquarters, an hour outside the Hôtel Majestic, and an interminable time outside the Hôtel Lutétia without being taken inside, so perhaps we would not have to go in here, or, if we did, it would only be to show our papers. We had already been asked if we had them ready, but why show them here? "Prison Militaire" had an ominous ring, I found myself sighing involuntarily, and lit a cigarette.

As Darby made no comment we continued to sit in silence. Two soldiers approached the car and beckoned us to get out. We grasped our knapsacks and followed them, past the sentries, through the gateway, across the courtyard, through a p118 small door, up a narrow staircase, along an interminable corridor.

I noticed that all the windows were heavily barred. A sharp turn to the right brought us opposite a door which was also barred and which was standing ajar. The soldiers beckoned us in. The impression I had of the room through the open doorway was one of bareness, yet there were two large desks, four chairs, and a table in the center. One of the walls was lined with empty shelves. The window, like all the others we had passed, was barred.

Our officer was talking to a short man with blue eyes and a clipped mustache who, had he not been talking German, and dressed in the German field-gray uniform, would have seemed typically French. He was gesticulating with his hands in a fussy, nervous manner. The officer in charge of us utterly ignored our entry; it was the little man who, in excruciatingly bad French, told us to sit.

"Do you mind if I stand?" I asked. "I've been sitting in a car since six o'clock this morning."

"Now," said the little man, "all your papers, please — every piece of paper you have."

I had all my papers together. I took them out of my pocket and put them on his desk. I noticed my list of English prisoners sticking out of my passport. In case he should wonder how I came to have it, I said very slowly, to make sure he understood, "One of the officers at your Divisional Headquarters near Nogent-sur‑Seine allowed me to make a list of English prisoners taken that day."

p119 He was fussing with the papers I had put down, and I nicknamed him there and then the "Fussy Man."

I glanced at the paper he had put in front of me. It was a form printed in German, and to me it did not mean a thing.

"It is to say that you arrived here on July 13th, 1940, and that you have surrendered to me your personal papers."

I signed. I saw my precious passport, my papers of official recognition as an ambulance driver under the French Government, together with my list of prisoners, and International driving license, disappear into a large envelop. He wrote across it "Fräulein Myers."

Some of Darby's papers were in her knapsack, and while she was going through it the officer in charge of us saw a bundle of postcards she had written.

"Just postcards. I wrote them before I was taken prisoner. I've never had an opportunity to post them."

"So! You write your friends in England that you wish to be the other side of the Rhine." An unpleasant leer passed over his face. "Perhaps we shall send you there."

I could feel the silence which engulfed us. The Fussy Man suddenly laughed. "Very soon we shall be the other side of the Thames!"

p120 The remark seemed to restore the officer in charge of us to a semblance of good humour.

Darby collected all her papers, which, with her postcards, were put into an envelop. She signed a form similar to the one I had signed.

Footsteps outside. A fair, brawny man and a tall boy, followed by a soldier carrying our peasant's bundles, entered the room. The soldier solemnly stood to attention, guarding them. There was general saluting to the brawny man. The tall boy sat at the unoccupied desk and swung his legs while our officer and the brawny man had a rapid conversation in German. Our officer collected his gloves and made for the door, and the brawny man accompanied him. I took this to mean that he was leaving us here. Well, that's that. . . . He went through the door without even a glance at Darby and me.

Had he announced him to be God himself he could hardly have done so in tones of greater awe.

As far as Darby and I were concerned, the Kommandant never rose in the hierarchy higher than the equivalent of Saint Peter, for it was he who ultimately helped turn the key for us the way he thought best.

The Kommandant returned to the room. I asked him in French why we were here. He made me understand that he spoke practically no French or English, and he turned impatiently to the Fussy Man to interpret. The Fussy Man seemed to go all vague and mysterious. I repeated the question, "Pourquoi sommes‑nous ici ?"

He either could not or would not understand. He turned to the Kommandant and spoke in German. The Kommandant turned to me, obviously asking me a question.

"It's no use," I replied in English. "I can not understand one word of German, but I do speak French."

The tall fair boy opened his mouth for the first time. "I speak a little English."

The tall boy spoke to the Kommandant in German, who snapped something out to the Fussy Man, who started off in his laborious, faltering French.

Our 'affairs,' I thought, can only mean the arrangement of our journey to England or a neutral country via the Red Cross, or our exchange for German prisoners. Failing that, and, if the worst comes to the worst, our 'affairs' must be the arrangement of our being sent to an internment camp, or, if the worst comes to the very worst, a concentration camp. Surely our 'affairs' can mean only that? Yet, as Darby and p122 I knew, anything is possible in this queer, mad world. Had the snake in the grass or the Prussian anything to do with this?

I realized the situation might be getting serious. Here we were in a military prison entirely run by Germans.

"Darby, we must find out what all this is about. Do try and get some sense out of them."

She came out with the German word for 'interpreter.' I recognized the word as she pronounced it. The Kommandant nodded and gave an order to the tall boy, who swung himself off the desk and went out of the room.

The Fussy Man inclined his head. I lit a cigarette and offered him one, which he refused.

"Why must we stay here at all? This is obviously a prison, and we belong to the Red Cross. Why can't we work in either a French or a German hospital, as we have done before?"

I waited for him to go vague and mysterious again, and I was not disappointed. He suddenly said. "You must stay here, but you will not have to work. No one works here."

"Oh, but we'd much rather work," said Darby with feeling. "We would much rather have something to do."

The Fussy Man shrugged his shoulders. The Kommandant was leaning against the mantel-piece, looking excessively bored. Silence prevailed.

p123 Footsteps outside. The tall boy returned with a short, swarthy man in civilian clothes, obviously French. He bowed to the Kommandant and held himself rigidly to attention.

The swarthy one interpreted my question in apparently fluent German, and I was relieved to be in contact with some one who could understand both languages.

I gave it up. It was beyond me. I found I had no more questions to ask, and apparently Darby had none either, for there was a pause. The Kommandant nodded dismissal to the p124 swarthy one, who clicked his heels, bowed to the Kommandant, and marched out of the room.

He's mad, I thought, quite mad. It then flashed through my mind that there are occasions when officers have to give up their swords — but why, and where, and when? A memory of Covent Garden hovered before me. Surely Rhadames, when he betrayed the Egyptians, had to give up his. Do these idiots think my belt is the equivalent of a sword, and I the equivalent of an English officer?

"I'm not an officer," I said firmly. "I've nothing to do with the Army — I'm an ambulance driver."

For the first time I heard a harsh note creep into the Fussy Man's voice. I glanced at the Kommandant — he was still leaning against the mantel-piece and still looked bored. The tall boy had again seated himself on the desk and was swinging his legs. Darby muttered, "You'd better put your belt on the table. It's no use arguing."

"No! But it's so damned silly." I undid my belt, detached my leather purse, and threw my belt on the table.

p125 The horror in her voice made me look at Darby closely. I saw utter misery expressed in her face, but it was the first time I had seen real horror. Why horror? I thought. For this isn't so bad. We're only going to be searched, and that in itself doesn't mean a thing . . . and yet all thoughts of freedom suddenly left me. England became an island where I had once lived a long, long time ago. It was somewhere the other side of the world. Neutral countries were nebulous things in the clouds. The International Red Cross was all right, if one believed in fairies. Everything seemed very far away, except Darby and the four men in the room. I undid my tie and, without comment, put it on the table.

The Fussy Man then made me go through all my pockets and put their contents on the table, which soon became littered with a curious collection of objects. As I had two pockets in my skirt, five in my coat, and two in my shirt — all fairly full — the proceedings took some time.

He glanced at me from head to foot, and his glance remained fixed on my stockings.

Heavens! I had completely forgotten my chastity belt. To admit, or not to admit?

The three men had a quick consultation. The Kommandant p126 barked something at the soldier who was still standing rigidly to attention over our bundles, and the four men trooped out of the room. I noticed the door had a glass panel.

"I wrote it such ages ago that I had forgotten about it. Besides, at the time there didn't seem to be anything in it. In any case, I never thought we were going to be searched, did you?"

"I'm ready." My skirt was down and my belt in my hand and the three men re‑entered the room. The guard remained outside.

The Fussy Man then proceeded to examine minutely all that lay before him. He fiddled around with my lipstick cases, obviously wondering if they could contain anything other than lipstick. My flapjack was opened, the filter taken out, and the powder gazed at, and so on all through the odds and ends I carried around with me. At last he seemed satisfied, and started counting my money.

'We treat our prisoners very well. You shall have all your money back. England treats all our soldiers very badly. They lose their money — it is taken away from them. We do not treat our prisoners so."

I had no idea if German soldiers were relieved of their money in arrival in England or not, but if it was taken away p127 from them I was quite sure that at the end of the war it would be returned to them.

"You people listen to so much propaganda which isn't true," I said. "We treat our prisoners very well."

The Fussy Man shrugged his shoulders and produced another piece of paper. I made no attempt to continue the argument; we had already learnt our lesson.

"I write on it how much money you have, and you will sign." I signed, and to my surprise the Fussy Man told me to gather up all my things, with the exception of my tie and belt.

It was now Darby's turn, and she had to go through exactly the same procedure. Then I was asked to undo my knapsack. Lying on top were three sixpenny books which I had bought in Paris and not yet read. One of them was The Escaping Club. I had already glanced through it and knew that the theme was the various methods of escape adopted by English prisoners in Germany during the last war. As far as I could recollect the book was far from complimentary to the Germans. At a moment like this I would have such a book with me! However, there was nothing to be done: I put the books on the table, and the Kommandant picked them up and looked through them.

" 'Escaping Club' — what does that mean?" he inquired in English. I realized that he understood more than I had thought, and so replied slowly in English. "The Escaping Club is a very old club of ours — in fact, one of the oldest. It has its headquarters in Piccadilly, and this book is all about the history of the club — how it was founded in the fourteenth century. We have lots of very old clubs in England." I prattled on. The Kommandant looked satisfied; I breathed again.

p128 Nothing more seemed to interest them in my knapsack until I came to my washing‑bag, when my face flannel, soap, and tooth-brush were examined in turn.

"That was given me," I explained, "by the Hoch Kommandant of Soissons. He was a type très chic." I hoped the remark would sink in.

"That's a tin‑opener," I told the Fussy Man, who seemed puzzled by what he was looking at.

"Oh, that's my diary. You see, so many interesting things have happened to us that I've made a note of some of them."

"It's of no importance to any one but myself, and it amuses me to keep it. It passes the time. I don't want to give it to you now. I want to continue it while I'm here."

"No, I haven't." He picked up my diary, which, together with my tie and belt, he put in the envelop with my other papers.

He licked the envelop down. "I'm sorry to keep your diary, but if you wish to write while you are here I will send you up paper."

Darby and I glanced at each other. At any rate we should be together — that was something.

Darby then had to go through all her belongings, and at last we came to the large peasant's bundle on the floor.

"There's nothing of interest in there," I said. "It's just rugs, blankets, and old clothes."

Darby and I undid the innumerable knots which Lucien had so neatly and carefully tied.

The contents which we had so laboriously collected looked dirty and rather sordid in the harsh light of the room. I felt rather ashamed of them.

The Fussy Man became intrigued in a pair of Darby's shoes. He started tapping the heel. The Kommandant said something to the Fussy Man which must have convinced him that the heel was not false, for he wrapped up the shoes in the dirty rag which Darby had found to pack them in.

His eyes became riveted on some packets lying at the bottom of the bundle. He picked one up, became mysterious, and demanded to know what he was holding.

He became even more mysterious and took the innocent object over to the Kommandant and the tall boy. The three men examined it minutely from all angles and tried to read the writing on the packet. Darby and I both had to smile. Surely the light of day would dawn on one of them! It apparently dawned on the Kommandant, for he handed the packet back to the Fussy Man, who returned it to the bottom of the p130 bundle. He looked disappointed. At last everything had been examined.

We were told to do the bundle up, and Darby and I became involved in the many pieces of string and rope. The tall boys apparently could bear watching us no longer, for he came over and tied it up himself.

My question was interpreted to the Kommandant, who looked amused, and shrugged his shoulders.

I walked over to my knapsack, took out a towel and my washing bag, and grabbed my pajamas.

I concluded it was hopeless and dropped them, and with my towel and washbag walked back to the door.

Meanwhile Darby had collected her washing things, and the Kommandant handed her the three books on the table and said she might keep them.

"But, look here, we must have a rug and an extra jersey; what shall we do if it gets cold?"

The Kommandant made a sign which I took to mean we could take a few clothes out of the bundle. Darby and I slipped p131 a rope off a corner and grabbed what we could. She got a shawl and a rug, and I my eiderdown, blanket, and a jersey, but we both seemed unable to realize that we were to leave all our worldly possessions behind, for despite the fact that we had taken a few things out we automatically bent down to pick the bundle up.

We were roared at by the Kommandant to put it down. He came over to us intrigued by the rope which helped to tie it together, and it was not difficult for him to separate it from the various pieces of string to which it was attached. It was a good long stout piece, and, putting it round his neck, he implied by gestures that had we taken the rope with us it might have been our intention to hang ourselves. He chuckled, and waved us out of the room.

It was Darby who held up the proceedings. She slowly crossed the room and walked over to the window where the tall boy had flung our knapsacks. We all watched her in astonishment, and there was dead silence while she opened it and with perfect sangfroid whipped out a toilet roll. As she walked back to us a smile gradually spread over the Kommandant's face. It was a curious smile; it started high up on his left cheek and ended at the bottom of the right-hand corner of his chin. Beneath all that brawn there seemed to be a sense of humor.

We grasped what was left to us, and I added my greatcoat as we followed him out of the room. It had been lying on a chair near the door.

p132 "You really do have your moments, Darby. You were supreme when you whipped out your toilet roll."

She looked surprised. "I don't see why I shouldn't have it. It's been more than useful."

We came at last to the end of the corridor and went down a narrow staircase, through a barred door, into a large inner courtyard, which was divided by high walls and steel doors into four. Rows and rows of barred windows loomed around and above us. The Fussy Man kept on opening steel doors, which clanged behind us.

I had a feeling of utter desolation as we walked behind him, farther and farther into this impregnable fortress whose walls looked as though for centuries they had defied all attempts at escape. I could feel them encircling me; so we were to be left here in an alleged aura of mysterious "affairs" which apparently had to be "arranged." Nothing in my imagination could be worse than Laon, but, oh God! Please God, don't let them put us into cells. . . .

"You are making it very dirty, dragging it along the ground," said the Fussy Man, as he tucked it more firmly under my arm.

We came to a doorway which was locked and guarded by a sentry. The sentry saluted the Fussy Man, and from a large bunch of keys unlocked the door. We were faced by a wooden stairway. For the fourth time I tripped over my eiderdown, and in my efforts to gather it together I dropped the blanket.

I gave it to him with a sigh of relief, and as he took it in his arms I placed my greatcoat on top. If he was going to carry anything for me he might as well carry the lot.

p133 He led the way upstairs, and we came to a landing which had an enormous steel door on each side. We trailed up to a second landing similar to the one below. The third was obviously the top. There was a large table pushed against the banister. The Fussy Man's shouting produced a tall Herculean man from the landing below, and a rapid conversation ensued between them. The Fussy Man returned my belongs, bowed, and disappeared down the stairs.

While he extracted a key from his bunch I noticed the Herculean Man's well‑cut features. He unlocked one of the enormous steel doors, and with a charming, rather apologetic smile motioned us through. We looked down a dark, narrow, corridor; the walls either side were a dirty white, broken by closely set thick wooden doors studded with nails and secured by large iron bolts. . . . Cells. . . .

He shot back one of the bolts, and as it fell against the studded doorway it made a sharp metallic thud. I hardly noticed the sound at the time any more than a man enduring Chinese torture of perpetual drips of water on his forehead might notice the first drop, but it was a sound which ultimately bit deep into our consciousness and subconsciousness, for we were to hear it maddeningly and incessantly day in and day out, from six o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock at night. It penetrated from the far corridor through the enormous steel doors which divided the landing; it penetrated from the floor below each time a cell door was opened or shut. In time it became mingled with all the other prison noises with which we grew familiar.

The Herculean Man pushed open the door and waved me in. Darby made to follow me, but he came between us and indicated that I should go in alone. I asked him if he spoke p134 English or French, but he shook his head. I tried to explain by gestures that the Kommandant and the Fussy Man had said we could be together. Although he watched my gestures carefully, no gleam of comprehension reached his face. I continued gesticulating, but he firmly but gently put his hand on my shoulder, pushed me through the door, and shot the bolt home. A similar sound close by made me realize that Darby had been put next door. A quick look around told me all I wanted to know: it was better than Laon, but only just. There was a window high up in the whitewashed wall — so high that it would be quite impossible to look out even standing on the bed. It apparently opened and shut by a wire-and‑steel contraption fixed in the wall. There were thick bars outside. . . . The size of the cell was •about nine feet by five; a bed with a wooden shelf and an iron pail beside it was all the furniture except for a small, hard broom and a cracked looking-glass in a bamboo frame dangling by a piece of string from a nail in the wall. This was such a friendly-looking object that I found myself gazing at it for some time. I noticed the iron pail had a lid, which curiosity made me take off. The smell which arose made its use abundantly clear.

I threw myself on the bed. It was so hard that I got up to examine the cause. A dirty, unimaginably coarse army blanket was thrown over a straw mattress which lay on three wooden planks supported by two iron trestles. I tried to push out a few of the iron-hard bumps in the mattress, but even stamping on it made no impression. I sat gingerly on a corner of the bed and banged on the wall.

As I got no further reply, I lapsed into silence. I had forty cigarettes left and a box of matches. I lit one and walked up and down, but soon got tired of doing this in so small a space. I sat on the bed and gazed at the wall. We had survived Laon, so presumably we should survive this. But they couldn't leave us here for many days — they couldn't.

I sat on the bed once more, but gazing at the wall became so monotonous that by negotiation I wriggled myself into the bumps and lay down, resigning myself till dinnertime. By now it was well on in the afternoon and we had clearly missed lunch.

Footsteps. The bolt was clanged down and the door open. The Herculean Man was standing outside accompanied by a man in an extremely well‑cut uniform with rows of medals across his breast. Quantities of silver were on his peaked cap. The illusion he gave of a cinema attendant was enhanced by his speech: "You may buy chocolates, cigarettes, and jam." I could almost see him selling them on a tray. I managed to hide a smile: He looked at me rather severely and continued. "You may have exercise here each day. I do not know how long you will remain here." My door was pushed to.

After what seemed an interminable time the Herculean p136 Man reappeared. He stood in the doorway and said, "Essen."

Since something was obviously expected of me, I got off the bed and walked to the door. The two steel doors on the landing were open, so I could see down the whole length of the corridor. Most of the cell doors were standing open, and in the half-light I could see the shadowy forms of women coming out.

So there were other women here besides Darby and myself. I wondered who they were, and how long they'd been here. They clustered silently round a large pail which was standing in the center of the landing. Each one was holding a tin in her hand. A man in a dirty blue overall was ladling soup out of the pail. When their tins were filled the women filed silently back to their cells.

This sight made Darby and me almost speechless, but I managed to get out, "So much for our slap‑up lunch!"

The Fussy Man put his fingers to his lips. I had not noticed him on the landing. "Speech is absolutely forbidden here," he said. "You must speak to no one, not even your friend."

"But this is fantastic! Why should we be treated like this? We've done nothing wrong, and we belong to the Red Cross."

He went all vague and mysterious. "Perhaps to‑morrow I shall have orders that you may talk to each other, but until then neither of you must talk."

A soldier who had been leaning against the table disappeared down the corridor and returned with four tins and two spoons. He handed them to us, explaining in French that one tin was for water and the other for soup.

The man in the blue overall, I found out afterwards, was the cook. He ladled out some colourless liquid which looked an apology for any kind of soup. It then dawned on me that "Essen" must mean soup or food. The letters Cherche-Midi painted white on the soup bucket gave the official name of the place. I was to know later that it is one of the most notorious prisons in France. It struck me as incongruous that Cherche-Midi ("Find the south") will be the romantic name of such hell. I have never found the origin of the name, but I have often pictured the yearnings for the south of some poor devil left there in a past century.a

We were marched back and bolted in our respective cells. The soup was as tasteless as it looked, but the coating of grease which was left in the tin told me that it had a certain amount of nourishment. I didn't realize it as yet, but the fetching of Essen, our "promenade," and the few minutes we had for washing in the morning were to become the only high spots of the day.

"Promenade!" yelled the Herculean Man to me. He had again opened my cell door and was now marshaling the women into line on the landing. Darby was out of her cell, so together we walked toward them. I was put at the head of the line and she at the tail, presumably to give it a military touch.

p138 We were all counted, and the Herculean Man signed to me that I was to lead the way downstairs. This was perfectly easy until I came to the enormous steel door on the ground floor, leading to the inner courtyard. This blocked further progress. The silent cortège behind me was halted until the Herculean Man produced some keys. We were led through the large inner courtyard, another door was unbolted, and I was waved through to a similar yard on the right. There were two benches against the wall at right-angles to each other. I made for one of these, sat down, and breathed in the sunshine and fresh air. It was interesting to get a better view of the cortège as it silently filed past.

With the exception of an elderly woman of about sixty, whose teeth were as yellow as her hair, a friendly-looking soul whom I at once named Grand'mère, and two others, the cortège was composed of women who, despite their laddered silk stockings and crumpled clothes, were obviously well-educated. All were walking around in a circle with an air of utter hopelessness, except a brisk-looking woman and a beautiful but rather sly‑looking girl.

The yard, the women, with the soldiers guarding them, the walls, and the steel doors, the countless barred windows — this, I thought, is exactly like a film, except that women would not be guarded by soldiers. As the scene had no reality for me, I watched it objectively. Surely reality is only that to which one becomes accustomed. . . .

A young soldier noticed that I was sitting down and signed to me to get up and walk around with the others. As I preferred to be where I was, I looked blank and pretended not to have understood him. It was a rather pretty, fair, fluffy woman who said to me in French, "I'm afraid you're not p139 allowed to sit, you'll have to walk." I joined the cortège, and with them walked around and around.

Twenty minutes passed; the Herculean Man came and joined the soldier by the door. The Fluffy Woman every time she passed tried to attract his attention. As she dismally failed, she presumably plucked up more courage and cringingly approached him. The supplications of this fawning woman made me feel sick. However long had they been there? Whatever had the place done to them? I found myself wondering about them, and there and then formed a resolution that whatever happened to me I must try at all costs to retain some form of dignity.

I overheard the Fluffy Woman interpreting for some one. As I wanted some interpreting done for myself, I walked over and joined the group.

She obviously asked permission to speak to me. The Herculean Man nodded. She explained that what we were allowed to buy was brought around to us in the evening.

"That's a blessing," I said. "I'm glad we don't have to buy them now because I've left my money in my cell."

A tall woman said, "You should keep your money on you. You should never leave it in your cell. Don't you realize it might be stolen?"

As usual I'd never thought. . . . Actually I had put all my money in my coat pocket.

The tall woman said to the Fluffy One, "Please ask if I can buy anything for my husband, as I don't think he has any money on him."

The Herculean Man said he would see that whatever she bought for her husband he would receive in the evening. Then, unlocking the yard door, he indicated to me that I was to lead the way back.

I had been gazing at the ceiling for some time when the Herculean Man again appeared. He started rattling off long sentences in German. At last, apparently realizing that speech was hopeless, he went, leaving the door open. I had no inclination to explore the corridor; escape was obviously out of the question. In a matter of minutes he returned with the Fluffy Woman, who told me I had to collect my things and follow him. I did not even bother to ask why.

I was led down the corridor, through the now unlocked enormous steel doors on the landing to a cell in the far corner which I was told would be my new quarters. There was an added attraction in the form of a large box which could serve as a cupboard; otherwise the cell was identical with the one I had left, except that it had no mirror.

I turned to the Fluffy One: "Will you ask this lieutenant if I can fetch the mirror from my other cell?"

I foresaw myself losing this homely friend. Its possible loss became a tragedy out of all proportion to the situation. It had at some time probably been part and parcel of somebody's home and gave me a feeling of contact with the outside world.

As she translated this the Herculean Man shook his head. p141 I was still standing hesitatingly by the door . . . he probably thinks it's just out of conceit that I want the damn' thing. . . . But it was not so, for he looked quite concerned. The Fluffy One said, "The lieutenant is sorry that you can not have the mirror. If he could let you have it he would, but it is against his orders to move anything from one cell to another." He seemed genuinely sorry.

Since there was nothing more to be said, I walked into the cell. It took me no longer to install myself than on the first occasion. I suddenly noticed a glass peephole in the door about the size of a man's pocket handkerchief. By looking through it I could see a few yards down either side of the corridor. This occupation entirely absorbed me until I noticed a door opposite which had two letters painted on it. I could not make out the first one, but the other was obviously C. This, then, was the door of a W. C. If they had them here why did we have to use the buckets? The problem became interesting, but after some time my thoughts turned to the more immediate mystery of my removal. It was the glass peephole which gave me the clue: evidently for the future I was to be watched. Why had I suddenly become the bad girl of this party? What could I have done in the short time I'd been here? My thoughts rambled on: I suppose by now they've had time to read my diary. Well, on the whole, tant mieux! They would realize that we were ambulance drivers and nothing more dangerous, but if that were so, why put me where I could be perpetually watched? Then it dawned me. . . . God! They know I planned to escape. . . . They think I shall try again — that's why they put me so far from Darby. Of course they know everything! A sudden pain in the pit of my stomach became so violent that it forced p142 me to sit on the bed. If I wanted to incriminate Henri and the bakers I could not have done better — they've got it in black and white. . . . What had I written? How much can they read? Exactly what have I put? . . .

I've never had such a pain in my life; it was so violent that it crowded out all thoughts. It was like two iron bands trying to pull my entrails apart, and the agony went up through my body right into the brain. It was so painful that tears rushed down my cheeks. . . . It's no use making a bloody fool of yourself, you've got to think — you've probably implicated Darby as well. This is awful — it's the end; but something has got to be done. . . . This is an occasion when one wants an ice‑clear brain . . . what is an ice‑clear brain anyway? Obviously something I haven't got. . . . I must be mad, mad, mad . . . I really must be mad. Jokingly people have often said so; they're right . . . joke over.

What will happen to Darby, Henri, and the bakers? Will they be questioned? I must warn them. I must get hold of Darby . . . she's the other side of two enormous steel doors — she's locked in her cell, and I can't get out of this one. . . . The women's faces didn't look too dirty, so they must be let out to wash. Wherever we wash I'll meet her — but that, I suppose, won't be till the morning. Will they question her before? Well, if they do it's just too, too bad for Darby. God! I wouldn't have done this for worlds. . . . The most that can be said is you meant well. . . . People who mean well are born every minute . . . they ought to be exterminated at birth — they should never be allowed to live. What's going to happen to Henri? Will he be shot? He couldn't be shot — such things don't happen. But it may happen . . . poor Henri. He may be shot or get several years' imprisonment; so this p143 is the thanks he'll get for all the trouble he took. If Darby is questioned this evening will she have the sense not to deny that we thought of escaping from Soissons? Does she realize that I wrote it all down in the diary? Obviously not — or she hasn't thought about it, for at least she'd have had the sense to tell me to tear the damn' thing up. . . . For that matter, she never tore up her postcard, but that's not important. . . . The opportunities I've had of tearing it up! I should never have written it . . . I must be mad, mad, mad. Would any sane person as a prisoner of war keep a diary and not realize its implications? If, out of interest, one of those men in The Escaping Club wrote down the other's plan of escape, then blissfully handed it over to the Germans, what would the other man do to him? . . . Quite a lot.

Surely the Germans won't imprison Henri for merely discussing it with me — after all, we did not make any actual attempt. But surely he'll be questioned. . . . Of course he'll deny that we had any intention of escaping. Darby's sure to deny it too — all our stories will be utterly different. I shall be questioned, I suppose, for hours and hours. What exactly had I written? "Henri tells me no tire." Did I add for car? "Henri tells me no tire." Did I add for car?º Did I or didn't I? If I did they will know that he's got one (how he will bless me!). I'm sure I didn't add for car.b "Gave Henri money for tire." I'm sure to be asked why I gave Henri money and why he wanted a tire. . . . That's easy enough: I gave Henri money to buy things in the town — I wanted him to get me a new tire because the one on the bicycle was worn out. Of course, Henri when he's questioned will swear I never gave him any money, and he'll never admit to having bought a p144 tire. He'll never think of saying he bought a tire for my bicycle — or will he? Shouldn't think so.

Of course to think clearly one really needs space — why, I wouldn't know. If one's got anything to think with one ought to be able think with it anywhere. The trouble with my brain is it doesn't think at all, or I should have torn up my diary. I've had plenty of opportunities, instead I continued it at Laon. Mad, mad, mad. I could still have it with me and tear it up now had I slipped into my greatcoat pocket — they hardly looked at the pockets in my greatcoat, and they never noticed that it had an inner pocket at all. I'm sure they would never have seen my diary had I put it there. I could have slipped it in when the men went out the room. Oh, fool! fool! fool! What a peculiar brain I must have — obviously blank with a crack in it somewhere which occasionally lets things percolate through.

If Henri is suddenly questioned about me he'll know something's up. If he's suddenly asked why he bought a tire what reason will he give? He'll probably flatly deny that he bought one. Will the Germans believe him or my diary? . . .

"Henri says most Germans here are Austrians; some like the régime, most are forced."c

That's not going to do him much good. Of course, I can tell them that I wrote the diary in a very abbreviated form, and that what he really meant was they are "forced" to do so by the similarity of their language and being so geographically near. . . . Will they believe me? Shouldn't think so. I'm afraid Henri won't be too popular.

"Henri says the Germans behave like pigs." I'm sure I wrote that somewhere — wasn't it when we went to the garage to see about petrol?d

p145 Some one was patting my shoulder; it was the Herculean Man, and I wondered how long he had been in the cell, as I had not noticed him come in. Although I couldn't understand the words he said, I knew they meant "Don't cry." He probably thought I was making this fuss because I hadn't got the mirror. But I did not care what he thought, or what he did not think. He patted me on the shoulder again in a most comforting manner. Like so many men in the same situation, he looked very embarrassed, and rather shamefacedly offered me a cigarette, which he lit for me. He again said, "Don't cry," and left.

Did I add for car or not? . . . At this very moment is Darby being questioned?

Hours slipped by; a soldier came in with a tray selling jam, chocolates, cigarettes, and matches. Although not hungry, my now firmly fixed acquisitive habits were uppermost. For fifteen francs I bought a fair-sized pot of jam. He would let me buy only one packet of cigarettes and no matches; he merely shook his head, and it was the Herculean Man, who happened to be passing, who told him I could buy matches as well. Another soldier gave me a quarter of a loaf of French bread and a small packet wrapped in greaseproof paper containing a tiny piece of sausage. I put them in the cupboard.

Did I add for car or not? . . . I think I'm going mad. I should think people go mad here quite easily — shouldn't be surprised if this place isn't full of lunatics. To be dead one has to die, then to be mad one has to go mad. Once definitely mad I shall be quite all right; it ought to be painless. I'd better get into bed before it's pitch dark; shan't bother to take anything off. This bed is just as bad as the last. It's an insult to call it one.

I simply must try to sleep; we've been up since five. . . . p146 Shouldn't think any one could sleep in a bed like this — shouldn't think any one has ever slept on one like this. . . . There's going to be a hell of a muddle when we're all questioned. As I wrote down so much of what the Germans said, I wonder if they'll think I'm a spy . . . utterly fantastic! As they've the most suspicious natures in the world, I shouldn't be surprised if they do. . . . Well, well, well! God! I'm tired. . . .

It was the bolt being shot back, now becoming a familiar sound, and a soldier crying "Waschen," which woke me. He left the door open.

"Waschen," I thought drowsily, must mean wash. Darby! I leapt off the bed, and looked for her down the corridor.

Thayer's Notes:

a The prison (now demolished) was named for the street it was built on in the 19c. The rue du Cherche-Midi still exists, and is said in turn to owe its very old name, according to some authors, to a sundial that marked local noon — as does just about every sundial in the world; sundials also mark other times of day as well. In sum, I think this is a bit of folk etymology not worth believing.

On the face of it, the name would seem merely to suggest it was a street you could count on to take you south out of the tortuous warren of little lanes that was Paris in the Middle Ages; southwest, actually. At any rate, here is what historian Jacques Hillairet says in his Connaissance du Vieux-Paris (my paperback copy, Éditions Gonthier, 1954; Vol. 2, p183):

Rue du Cherche-Midi / Cette rue est la réunion, depuis 1832, de trois rues, dont, entre la rue du Regard et le carrefour de la Croix-Rouge, celle appelée du Cherche-Midy en 1595 et du Chasse-Midi à partir de 1628. Peut‑être ce nom s'appliquait‑il à une rue qui, partant de "l'Hôtel de la Chasse", situé dans la rue du Dragon, se dirigeait vers le sud de Paris.

The reader will note that there's no tale of a sundial here, but also that the author stops short of flatly affirming that the name is due to the street's southerly direction.

b She was right. She had mentioned Henri and the tire three times in her diary (all in Chapter 4); in what we have of it in print at any rate, she never says what kind of tire, nor what the tire was for.

p109 5 Cherche-Midi: My Diary Seized

Thayer's Notes:

p109 5
Cherche-Midi: My Diary Seized