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previous: Chapter 7 This webpage reproduces a chapter of Captured by Bessy Myers published by D. Appleton Century Company, New York and London, 1942 the text of which is in the public domain. This text has been carefully proofread and I believe it to be free of errors. If you find a mistake though, please let me know! next: Chapter 9

 p212  8
Fresnes Prison

The prison of Fresnes is near Fontainebleau; I believe it may have improved since I was there, but our arrival would have made a good prelude to Dante's Inferno.

We were led to a washroom and told to leave our bundles there while the water for our showers was being heated. The attendant told us we were allowed these showers once a month. We were then taken across the passage to the room where prisoners were allowed to see visitors; it was divided by wire meshing which formed a narrow corridor down the center of the room. The prisoners were always kept in this narrow corridor while talking to their friends. As there were so many of us, we were separated into two groups, on each side of the netted partition, through which we could see each other and speak.

The attendant of this section of the prison was unique. Had she been portrayed in any play one's first reaction would be that she was hopelessly overdrawn; if Europe had been searched for a harder, more brutal-mannered woman to be put in charge, a better choice could not have been made. My dealings with her were perfunctory, so I do not know whether under that granite-like exterior lay a heart of gold, silver, or stone.

Darby was my side of the room; Schiaparelli was comforting  p213 Collette, who was in tears; the Brisk Woman was consoling the Sly One, who had completely broken down; Zeta the Polish woman was still sobbing and writhing in pain — she had acute appendicitis. Zeta was in prison because she had dismissed her cook, who had since borne a grudge against her and had reported to the Germans that her mistress's behavior was suspicious. There was no specific charge yet against Zeta. The little Mouse sat against the wall, silent as usual. Carmen Morey was sniffing around like a dog; on the other side of the wire partition Louise, Jeanne, and Marie, the magnificent Polish woman, were quite calm; every one else was in tears.

It had been an anticlimax; at the Cherche-Midi we had hoped for better things. Most of us were not weaklings, but many realized that years of our lives might be spent in that prison; we formed a desolate picture. It was the general collapse, which was not a pretty sight to watch, that made me think — I have read about suffering and hell, but here it is before me.

My nerves were on edge, and I let Carmen Morey hold my attention on her pet subject — herself. She told me that for many years she had lived in Berlin with her German fiancé. I gathered they had both carried on espionage for the Germans. The rift in the lute was caused by her fiancé's friendship with a man, and Carmen's being madly jealous. They carried on a ménage à trois for some time until the two men left together for Paris. Months passed. Carmen told me how she had suffered. Eventually she heard that her fiancé had been seriously hurt in a motor accident, and was in hospital in Paris and wanted her to go to him. Some of her German friends advised her against it, as they smelled a rat. She paid  p214 no attention to their advice, took the next train to Paris, but was arrested as she got out of the train. Later she found that her fiancé had been promised immunity by the French Government if he could effect her arrest. However, as soon as they had Carmen Morey, they arrested him and the man with whom he had been associating.

"Well, what happened to you all?" I asked wearily.

"After two years' imprisonment and trials we were both condemned to death. We were taken to a town outside Paris; my fiancé was shot. The Germans entered the next day and released me."

"What happened to the other man?"

"He was so effeminate," Carmen said gloatingly, "that he could not stand the Cherche-Midi for more than a year."

"And after that?"

"Oh, he died there."

"Were you upset when your fiancé was shot?"

"No, he deserved it. He had been my friend for so many years. . . . It just shows — you can trust no one."

"If I thought that, life would not be worth living."

"It is true!" Carmen yelled.

"I do not agree with you at all — for example, I trust Darby."

Darby overheard my remark and said, "I trust you, Myers."

It was all rather dramatic.

Carmen insisted that the war would soon be over; Germany had as good as won, and the King with our Royal Family was in Canada. She infuriated me to such a pitch that I found myself screaming at her. Darby said, "Myers, I must talk with you for a minute." Louise had made an urgent excuse and persuaded one of the nuns to unlock the doors; she had  p215 whispered a few hurried words to Darby, "Tell Bessy Carmen Morey is only baiting her; she must not take the slightest notice."

I took Louise's advice and talked with the little Mouse, who seemed very lonely in her isolated silence. There had been some discussion among us as to whether it would be better to be guarded by soldiers or by nuns; opinions were divided, and I asked the Mouse what she thought.

"I am not religieuse," she says.

"So you don't mind, then?"

The Mouse surprised me by becoming quite voluble, and in a short while I had heard much about her life. She had married very young, and he adored her daughter, an only child. The marriage had been very unhappy, for her husband had a distorted mind, but she remained with him, since she did not want to be parted from her child. By the time the girl was thirteen she had been completely turned by him against her mother, to whom she would not speak; then the girl became consumptive and was sent to a nursing home. The Mouse never saw her daughter again. She would neither see her mother nor write; the father was in complete control. When the Mouse wrote inquiring how her daughter was the girl replied in a brief note beginning "Chère Madame." During the time she was ill the correspondence between them was brief, and the Mouse told me that from then onward she always addressed her daughter as Mademoiselle.

"And is the breach healed now?"

"No, she never wanted to see me. My husband had entirely poisoned her mind."

"You never can tell, perhaps she'll be touched when you come out of prison."

 p216  "She died of consumption six months ago." The Mouse again sank into herself.

Schiaparelli had somehow managed to bring with her a bottle of rum, and was offering it around; alcohol never tasted better. We were all smoking like chimneys, as we had been told that all our paltry possessions would be taken from us. We did not mind temporarily losing our clothes, as when they had been fumigated they would be returned to us.

In groups of six we were taken to the washroom for our showers, prison clothes were handed out, and we were then sent back to the visitors' room and six more were sent along. The Petite Parisienne, who was fair, pretty, and chic, was among the first to return; she made us laugh, for she looked like a peacock shorn of her feathers. She assured us that the underclothes were funnier than the dress; to prove it she took off her knickers. The pattern belonged to some past epoch; each leg was about two yards wide, and the fullness gathered in at the waist with a piece of tape. The chemise had no shape at all and was equally wide. Both garments were of the coarsest calico. The stockings were of thick wool, hand-knitted, and came up to the knee, but, as there was nothing to hold them, they fell in folds around the ankles. The dress was made of heavy blue-and‑white-striped cotton damask. The bodice had short sleeves and a square neck; the skirt was voluminous; it was gathered in at the waist and reached to the ankles. Carpet slippers completed the outfit.

The Petite Parisienne, like the Mouse, was in prison for saying sales Boches. She had heard from her husband that he was to be demobilized, and had returned to Paris to get their flat ready. While waiting for a train in the Métro two German officers complimented her on her attractive appearance. She  p217 had replied, "Sales Boches." She was arrested on the spot, and had been unable to leave a note for her husband to tell him where she was.

Darby provided the chief incident in the washroom by suddenly yelling for water. She had not realized that the water for the showers was controlled by the attendant. While she was in the middle of soaping herself the water was turned off, and it was only the general commotion made by us all that induced the woman to turn it on again.

Before the watchful eye of the attendant we had to strip and leave everything in a dust-sheet. We were allowed to take only a toothbrush, soap, and face flannel to our dormitory; even our hair was searched to see that we did not evade this rule. In the general hubbub, while we were being marshaled out of the room, I managed to dash back to my dust-sheet and snatch a few of the things I needed most.

While we were all waiting impatiently for the French Directeur to tell us the rules of the prison, Carmen Morey again described the soup.

The prison was completely controlled by the Germans, but they did not interfere with the French criminal prisoners who were there. These came under the charge of the French Directeur, and were looked after by nuns. The German soldiers who arrived from Cherche-Midi were to be put in an entirely separate part of the prison.

When the Directeur came he told us that although we were German political prisoners and under German authority, we should be looked after by the nuns and come under the ordinary rules of the prison. We might write letters on Wednesdays and Sundays; he could not tell us yet whether  p218 we should be allowed visitors, and so far there was no arrangement for us to buy extra food. Smoking was absolutely forbidden.

We asked if there would be any work we could do, and were told there was none. The Directeur, a courteous, sympathetic man, said he hoped to have further instructions about us from the Germans.

The nuns, who looked fresh and clean, led us up to the first floor, to our dormitory, which was spotlessly clean. It was a long narrow room with polished boards. There were thirty beds split up into rows of ten. Each bed was sprung, and had a flock mattress, two coarse white calico sheets, a pillow and pillowslip, and two blankets. Along the length of the wall at the far end of the room was a narrow sink with ten taps. We tried them and found there was cold running water. There was a door on the left-hand side of the dormitory which led to the lavatory; this had running water too. Later when we asked the nuns why we could not open the window, which was heavily barred from the outside, we were told that an inspector who had visited the prison some years ago had ordered it to be shut; it had not been opened since.

The windows which ran the whole length of the dormitory were divided from the room by a brick wall •four feet high, and from the top of this wall to the ceiling were bars placed close together. Wall and bars formed a corridor along which the nuns incessantly passed. They would stand there for hours watching us through the bars, and if our voices rose above a subdued whisper they would put their fingers to their lips: "Shush, shush, tut, tut." They were for ever counting us. Since we were securely locked in, if we were  p219 not in the dormitory the only other possible place we could be was in the lavatory.

It was only nine in the morning; we had nothing to do. As there were no chairs, we threw ourselves on the beds. The door was unlocked and a German officer looked in, but before Carmen Morey could try her usual Mata Hari tactics he had disappeared. The nuns returned to say the German authorities would not allow us to lie on the beds. We inquired whether we should stand, or sit on the floor, and the nuns said they would bring us some chairs. They brought twenty‑one low three-legged wooden stools without backs; we looked at them in horror. "Do we have to sit on these all day?" The nuns said there was nothing they could do; they would not even allow us to put our pillows on the stools — it was against the regulations. Since they would not give us work, the prospect of sitting on these stools all day long seemed refined torture.

After an hour the door was unlocked and we were taken across the passage into the dining-room. This was similar to our dormitory except that half of the room was divided off by a curtain; the far end was used as an infirmary. The nuns dished out the soup from a large cauldron; we could have as much of it as we wanted, and take as much bread as we liked. The bread was always fresh.

Carmen had not exaggerated over the soup. To call it such was diabolical. Perhaps at the beginning of the month when it was first made there may have been some nourishment in it; it was made of mixed vegetables, carrots, turnips, peas, and potatoes, but after adding water daily the vegetables had become almost colourless and tasted like blotting paper. So  p220 much for the soup. We had it and the bread at ten in the morning and again at three in the afternoon; it was all the food we had.

In the mornings and afternoons we were allowed to promenade for about twenty minutes in the courtyard, which was shared by French criminals and the juveniles. We were not allowed to mix; when one group was out the others had to be in. However, we did sometimes overlap.

Frenchwomen are allowed to have their babies with them in prison. They certainly must have had different food from ours, otherwise they could not have fed them. The juveniles certainly did; their kitchens were underneath our dormitory, and one of my worst memories of Fresnes was the smell wafting up of cooking steak and sizzling onions.

Sitting on the hard stools was body-breaking. Soup again at three. We were thankful when the nuns gave us night-dresses at eight o'clock and said we could go to bed. We were not allowed to talk after eight-thirty.

Louise suffered from a bad heart and could not lie down for too long at a stretch; Jeanne was not a good sleeper, as she was far from well. My bed was next to theirs, and they whispered together for a while; it was such a relief for me to get into bed that I fell asleep. When the nuns called us in the morning Carmen reported to them that Louise and Jeanne had been talking in the night, and they were told if this occurred again they would not be allowed out for promenade for a week. After this display of good-fellowship from Carmen she had the astonishing audacity to come over to my bed and ask for my eyebrow-tweezers, which she knew I had smuggled up. Her skin was so thick that I could not insult her. Her bed was next to the sink; two women had  p221 used it during the night. Carmen thought this disgusting and said it ought to be reported to the nuns.

"Aren't you capable of dealing with these petty matters yourself?" I asked. "There are a good many of us here, and if you make yourself too objectionable you won't find life too pleasant."

Carmen said, "If I talk to them both will you support me?"

"Yes, I'll do that, provided you don't report them."

I hated to be associated with Carmen in any way, but in this case there was something to be said for her point of view. I walked over to the culprits. Their excuse was that they had been unable to find the lavatory light in the dark; they assured me their habits in future would be more hygienic.

Soon afterwards the Directeur came to our dormitory. We told him that bugs had been found on most of the beds — to prove it Marie had several in her hand. We assured him we could not have brought them in, as our clothes had been taken away and we had showers. The only explanation he could give was that in the hurry to get the dormitory ready for us they had to borrow thirty beds from other prisons. Such a thing had never happened before in Fresnes.

The Directeur did not know if we should be allowed a canteen. He was sorry there was no work for us, but said he had absolutely insisted we should have books. We could also have some paraffin for the beds, and our face creams and personal effects would be returned to us to‑day.

Zeta was still in great pain. The Directeur said she might lie on her bed and he would get a doctor to see her as soon as possible.

One by one we were taken by the nuns to fetch our odds and ends. Schiaparelli returned with a suitcase full of face lotions.

 p222  "Do you really think all that stuff makes any difference to your face?"

"Yes, I think it does. I always try to look as young as I can. I'm so afraid that six months here will age me."

"Do you think looking old matters so much?"

"It has made no difference to me so far, but I am twenty‑two years older than my friend."

She showed me his photograph. He was a Swiss physical training instructor who lived in Paris. He had the face and figure of a Greek god.

"Have you known him long?"

"We have been very happy together for over five years."

Schiaparelli's outlook was that while there was any happiness to be had from their friendship she saw no reason why they should not enjoy it.

"I am young in my heart and body, and we love each other very much — but there it is: a time must come when I shall really be too old for him, but I hope it won't be yet. Meanwhile, I try to take care of my face."

I was told to go up and fetch my things; they had been stored away in a large room upstairs. A rosy-cheeked nun was in charge, assisted by a young woman in prison clothes. I had not very much to fetch — most of my few things I had already smuggled in — but I asked the nun if I could have a few puffs at a cigarette.

"Smoking is not allowed."

"I know, ma soeur, but just let me have one."

"Well, hurry, hurry, and if any Germans come put it out."

I dived into my greatcoat pocket and lit a cigarette. Even the smoke drifting away seemed wasted. . . .

 p223  The nun asked me why I was there. "I was an ambulance driver and was taken prisoner of war at the front."

If I could have made myself feel at all, my whole urge would have been to leave Fresnes, but here I was talking to a woman who had voluntarily chosen to be a prisoner for life.

While I was smoking the nun was busying herself around the room; her assistant said, "You are lucky to be able to smoke."

"I suppose you are not allowed to either."

"No!"

"Smoke them when you can," I said, handing her several, which she slipped under her dress.

"Have you been here long?"

"A year."

"Why?"

"I am a thief."

This simple statement momentarily brought me to a standstill. "What did you steal?"

"Oh, jewelry, or anything I could get hold of."

"Did you make any money from it?"

"Not much."

The nun was coming toward us, so I added hastily, "Look here, I've got four packets of cigarettes in my coat pocket; don't mistake them for jewelry."

I returned to our dormitory; Collette was sitting on her bed looking very glum. The Germans wanted to interrogate her husband, who had left France. They were holding her as hostage, hoping that she would write to ask him to return. She would probably be a prisoner for the duration, as she had no intention of writing.

I had never spoken to the Brisk Woman, who always had a  p224 humorous twinkle. She smiled as she passed my bed. I remarked, "We have seen each other so often, madame, it is almost time we were introduced."

"My friend told me she had interpreted for you. She thinks your case went very well."

"I hope so, but we have heard no more; one never knows. . . . And your case?"

"Oh, I have been tried and sentenced to six months."

"Is it inquisitive to ask why?"

"For distributing communistic pamphlets."

"Oh, really! When did you do that?

"I've been a communist now for some years, and part of my work is to distribute communistic papers in the streets."

"I suppose the Germans had your name on their lists when they came into Paris?"

"No, I don't think they had even heard of me. They read my pamphlets while I was distributing them and objected."

I looked at her in astonishment. "You don't mean to say you went on distributing your pamphlets in the streets after the German occupation?"

"Why not? It is my work."

"I can't say I altogether agree with your political views, but believe me, madame, I more than admire you."

The Directeur realized that the stools were impossible, and he told the nuns we could sit for some of the time on the wooden benches in the dining-room; at least they had backs and were slightly more comfortable. This suited me, as I slipped behind the curtains and lay on one of the beds in the infirmary. I couldn't face the soup, but I had asked Schiaparelli to call me when it came, as I did not want to be missed. The nuns, if they had looked, could have seen me through  p225 the bars lying on the bed. I reckoned sooner or later they would notice, but at any rate I could sleep in comfort until they did. Carmen Morey, to my annoyance, came and joined me.

Darby, Louise, and Jeanne spent most of the time together. I was with them occasionally, but I never talked to any one for long; I was too bored to exert myself, although Jeanne was one of the most accomplished women I had met. She could speak eight or nine languages fluently; she was a talented musician, portrait-painter, and journalist, and could talk interestingly on any subject; she was unaffected and kind-hearted.

I was sauntering around the courtyard by myself when Collette joined me, and we strolled together. We discussed the eighty English hostages which rumor said were here, and wondered whether they were men or women, and if they were allowed to buy any extra food.

"Je suis Française ! Je suis Française !" I looked around to see who was screaming. The Mouse had just finished an argument with the Directeur and threw herself on the grass plot in the center of the courtyard.

"I'd better go and see what is wrong."

"No, Bessy," advised Collette, "leave her for the moment until she has recovered. I am beginning to understand that it is best, since we live in such close quarters, to see nothing, to hear nothing, and to speak nothing. France should be ashamed of her prisons. I feel I have been sent here for a reason; after I am released I shall do my best to see that no such treatment exists."

I agreed with her.

We continued to stroll around for a while; then I spoke to  p226 the Mouse. "Do come and look at the caterpillar Marie has found," I said.

I could hardly blame the Mouse for showing so little interest — caterpillars have never intrigued me — nevertheless, I dragged her toward Marie. It was an amazing caterpillar, very large and brilliant in color. We had a heated discussion, in which the Mouse took part, as to what kind of butterfly it would turn into.

Soup at three, a short promenade afterwards, our stools in the dormitory until bedtime. Darby and several others thought this was heaven in comparison with Cherche-Midi: from our windows we could see the tops of the trees in the courtyard, and there was grass outside. The peace and quiet of the nuns Darby thought was almost bliss after the tramping and shouting of soldiers. There were some who preferred the Cherche-Midi and others Fresnes. I was asked my opinion. To me it boiled down to a question of bugs; unless they were exterminated quickly here they would become as serious a menace as before, in which case give me the Cherche-Midi. The food there was better, one could smoke and buy little things. I loathed never being able to get away for one second the day or night from a crowd of unhappy, nerve-strained women, who had no outlet or occupation. At Cherche-Midi the suffering was more individual. At Fresnes it was communal. We had no privacy whatsoever; the nuns watched us incessantly through the bars. There one could sleep the time away; here we had nothing but hard wooden benches to sit on all day. However, it would better at Fresnes in the winter, as there was central heating; at Cherche-Midi there was no means whatsoever of heating the cells.

About seven we had a kind of unofficial supper. Some of  p227 us had brought scraps of food from the Cherche-Midi; Collette gave me chocolate, the little Mouse darted over suddenly and presented me with some cheese she had saved up, Louise gave Darby and me a pot of English marmalade to share. These titbits helped to fill an aching void.

In the morning Zeta was still in great pain; she had not yet seen a doctor. But Carmen, to our great relief, was taken away to have her leg attended to, as her wound was becoming septic. It was the only time in my life I hoped a human being would suffer.

The afternoon was warm and sultry. I was sitting chewing some grass when I saw the brawny figure of the Kommandant of Cherche-Midi standing in the gateway. He called me over and said, "You are free." I did not take in the meaning of the words. He continued: Darby and I were to change into our uniform. . . . Although what he was saying became clearer to me, I could hardly believe my ears. His knowledge of English and French was slight, and I thought he might be trying to tell us that we were to be transferred. I rushed over to Louise: "Quickly — do come quickly. I want you to interpret for me!" She talked in German with the Kommandant.

"My dear, I am so glad," she says. "It is true, you are freed. Tell Darby, and hurry into your clothes; the Kommandant will take you back to Paris in his car."

I ran across the courtyard. "Darby!" I yelled. "We are free!" She stood stock still. "Oh, don't be a damn' fool. We are free!" I cried.

Darby did not believe me. She tore over to Louise, who was still talking to the Kommandant, to confirm it.

We rushed upstairs to our dormitory; we were both as near hysterics as we had ever been in our lives. It was true we were  p228 free, but we could hardly take in what freedom meant. Did it mean home and England, or living in France for the duration of war? But these problems were too far ahead for us to consider seriously at the moment. We were free, free, free! It was all we could think about — we were free. . . .

Schiaparelli and Collette followed us up and helped us to undress, while the nuns fetched our clothes from the floor above. Getting into our uniform in our hurry and excitement was difficult. I lost my flapjack; I searched, but it was nowhere to be found. Schiaparelli fetched a beautiful leather one from her suitcase. "Take this — it will do."

"But what about your face? Don't you want it?"

"No, I have another."

I hastily put it in my pocket without bothering to find out if this was true. Schiaparelli was telling us we could go to her flat — we could stay there, her clothes and everything there we could use as our own; the concierge would look after us. We thanked her and explained we already had an understanding that, should we be freed, we should go straight to Claire, a relative of one of the prisoners, who was living in a hotel in Paris.

Collette was gazing through the bars with tears in her eyes. It came as a shock to me that this was a clean break and I must now say good‑by. It was difficult to find words.

"So you are off," Collette said. "Well, I'm glad. . . . Can you let me have your rouge? You can get some more in Paris."

I gave it to her, but except for banalities could think of nothing to say. I hurried from the room. "Look here, Darby, we simply can't cross the courtyard and say good‑by to the rest — I can't face it. There must be another way out."

 p229  Darby agreed, but the nuns told us there was no other way. With a sinking feeling I walked across the yard; every one realized we were free. Grand'mère and her friends ran up to congratulate us, in the distance Marie smiled, the little Mouse unexpectedly threw her arms around my neck and kissed me on each cheek, and as I turned away her sad eyes followed me over to the Kommandant. The others were standing around in groups, and I was thankful I was not among them watching some one freed from Fresnes. Schiaparelli was still telling us should we change our minds to go to her flat. Louise said, "Now, where will you stay?" We told her the name of the hotel, which she interpreted to the Kommandant.

"Have you everything? Have you fetched your money?" some one asked.

We had completely forgotten about it. The nuns hurriedly took us over to the attendant's room where we had been told to leave it when we arrived. The attendant was sitting behind a desk and slowly counted out my five hundred and thirty‑odd francs. We were in such a hurry to be gone that I nearly screamed with impatience while she slowly counted centimes and sous. I was in such a whirl that I hardly noticed the Directeur come in, or paid much attention to what he said. "My sincerest congratulations. I can not tell you how pleased I am that you are freed."

"I can't really believe it. Do you think it is true?"

"Yes, I know it is. I have seen your papers stamped free."

"Darby, for goodness' sake tell them to hurry." The attendant was counting her money as slowly as she had mine. I rushed past the Directeur and joined Louise and the Kommandant. In the brief pause which followed, I knew words  p230 would be inadequate to say good‑by to her. Neither by expression of face nor intonation of voice did Louise show any thoughts for herself or her future.

"Well, good‑by, and good luck, Bessy."

"Good‑by, Louise — thanks for the marmalade, and don't forget to eat what we've left."

Darby was ready; the Kommandant led us to the main gateways of the prison, which were guarded by sentries. With a dull thud the doors clanged behind us, and I hoped they would shut out from my mind for ever Fresnes and all the misery it contained.

We walked along the avenue of trees until we came to a streamlined car waiting outside another heavily barred section of the prison; we were told to put the things we were carrying into the car and go into the building. We asked for our passports and our large peasant's bundle; we were shown to a bench and told to wait. German soldiers were everywhere. When I asked one if I could smoke he told me it was not allowed. As he disappeared down the corridor I took out a packet of cigarettes. I smoked one, and then another. Darby said, "You're a fool; there will only be a row."

"I don't see what they can do. I can always pretend I didn't understand. I haven't smoke for so long. . . ."

I threw my cigarette out of the window when I saw the Kommandant coming along the passage. He led us through endless corridors with barred windows, and eventually we came to a doorway which a sentry unlocked. We went down flight after flight of narrow stone steps. We had been told we were freed, yet we were being led to the bowels of the earth — presumably to fetch our few miserable possessions. I wished they had been kept in a less formidable place, and as  p231 I plunged after the Kommandant I longed to turn and rush back to the sunlit avenue of trees.

The farther down we went the stuffier the air became. The hard glare from the few electric lights which lit the stairway threw flickering shadows on the stone walls. I hesitated and instinctively tried to take in my bearings; any one who is shut away likes to remember his immediate surroundings.

The Kommandant noticed me pause, smiled, and said, "Pas peur — be not afraid." Pitch darkness brought us to a standstill; in reply to the Kommandant's shouts, we heard the hollow echoes of soldiers' voices. In a few seconds the lights were switched on and we made our way to a wide corridor, flanked on either side by steel doors. Each door had a small grille — cells. . . . Down here there was no possibility of windows; the air was putrid, and unless the light was switched on in the corridor the cells behind those grilled doors would be in complete darkness. Something inside me revolted. "It is inhuman to keep people here — it is sadistic cruelty which can do no good to any one. I do not care whether they are Germans, French, English, or Poles, or what nationality is kept behind those doors — it is wholly wicked and utterly wrong."

The Kommandant, though he could not have understood all my outburst, seemed to follow the gist and shrugged his shoulders. I do not think at that time those cells were used to entomb human beings. No sign came from them, and should there have been any one there I feel they would have made some sign on hearing our footsteps and voices.

A door was unbolted; in a small cell were our peasant's bundles and knapsacks. We were asked to see that nothing was missing. Neither of us cared; after a cursory glance we said everything was there. The soldiers carried them, and we  p232 returned to the surface of the earth. Our passports and papers were handed to us, and if anything could have amused us I should have smiled when my diary was returned to me without comment.

The Kommandant sat between us at the back of the open car. The excitement of being freed, the obvious difficulties ahead, the pathos of those we had left behind, the shock of those cells in France in the twentieth century, left me numb. We sped toward Paris in silence.

As we reached the outskirts a gendarme ahead waved us on, apparently not noticing a car coming at full speed from a side turning. It was only the presence of mind of our driver which prevented a head‑on collision. "French policemen very bad with traffic," the Kommandant remarked.

"They always have been," I replied.

We passed Le Bourget airdrome, which had been sprayed with bullets.

"Your honor, or ours?" I asked.

The Kommandant was non‑committal.

We arrived at our hotel, which fortunately had a room. The Kommandant's parting words were, "Be not in the streets in your uniforms — English uniforms bad — be not arrested again. . . ."

We thanked him for fetching us from Fresnes, assured him we would discard our uniforms, and said good‑by.

We were shown to our room, and in a few minutes Claire and her fiancé, Paul, were knocking on our door. Although we had heard a great deal about them both, we had never met.

Claire was French, young, bien aimable, though her life was far from easy. The first thing she did was to dash up to her room and fetch a bottle of gin and vermouth, which she insisted  p233 on our keeping. For the next few hours we drank, smoked, and talked. Claire said she would do everything she possibly could for us, but she was afraid she could do little other than offer advice. She could not lend us money; she had practically none herself. She rigged us up in her clothes, and advised us as best she could. She and her fiancé were dining out with some friends and asked us to join them, but neither Darby nor I felt in the least sociable. They told us of a cheap restaurant near‑by where one could have a fairly good dinner for thirteen francs.

The hotel we were staying in had no restaurant. Claire and Paul, who cooked their own food on a gas ring in her room, asked us to breakfast with them in the morning.

On the way to the restaurant I bought a bottle of cognac and rum. We were neither of us hungry, but were looking forward to coffee and cognac.

It may have been that we were so unused to hors d'oeuvre, meat, vegetables, and sweets that whatever we had eaten we should have considered good, or it may have been that it actually was. We lingered and thoroughly enjoyed the food and liqueurs.

It was strange to be surrounded by so many happy people, chatting away and laughing. Had we been able to see any joke we might have laughed too. We both felt as though we were on the verge of recovering from a long illness only to be faced with another.

Fortunately we had no difference of opinion; it was home, James, and don't spare the horses, but from Paris, now a "German city," to England, we knew, was a long stride.

We doubted if the Germans would ever give us permission to leave Paris for unoccupied France, and from there to England  p234 we did not imagine would be easy. If we could only get in touch with Huffer we should leave everything to him and no longer think. As far as we knew, he was still in Bordeaux, and the chances of making contact with him seemed almost nil.

We had swept aside all thoughts of staying in Paris. We had known for some time that there were always ways and means of leaving, but they required money and seemed fantastically unreal. Nevertheless ways were possible; but a false step and we were back in Fresnes, or the equivalent, this time for a legitimate reason — we would have violated German rules and regulations.

We would clutch at any straw. "But for God's sake, Darby, let's enjoy to‑night."

In our fashion we did, wandering along the streets, seeing people chatting outside their front doors or drinking in cafés; the bustle and hubbub of life was a joy for us to watch. I bought packet after packet of cigarettes and chocolat Menier.

We strolled back to our hotel, and could not understand why we were tired beyond words. We undid our peasant's bundle to get out our pajamas; they were so filthy that we decided to remain in our equally nauseating camiknickers.

Paris still had a black‑out; we turned out the lights, threw open the windows and Darby got into bed. After some time she says, "Do get into bed, Myers. It's getting awfully late."

I did so reluctantly; it had been fascinating to watch the world pass by from windows which had no bars.

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