One Day in Oradour

by Helen Watts

  As quietly as they could, and masked by the noise and smoke of the rapidly spreading fire, the two men wriggled free and crawled to a side door. Previously guarded by one of the soldiers, the door was now unattended.

  Leon and Guy staggered out into the yard beyond, and were amazed to find that they were not alone. Four other men stood there, all but one of them with injured legs or arms, wildly looking around for a way out.

  ‘Quick, over here,’ hissed one of them, who was bleeding from his left arm. He had found a small hole in the crumbling far wall and was rapidly pulling at the loose stones to make the opening big enough to crawl through.

  The others helped, and soon all six men squeezed themselves through into the garden on the other side.

  ‘I can’t run,’ whimpered the last man through, collapsing onto the grass on the other side of the wall. Of the six, he was the most badly injured and was bleeding profusely from both legs.

  ‘Get in here!’ said Guy, pointing to some rabbit hutches lined up along the wall. ‘They’ll never look for you in there. Wait it out. We’ll come back for you when it’s all over. I promise you, my friend.’

  The injured man climbed into the hutch and Leon covered it loosely with a tarpaulin which had been thrown over an old tractor, parked next to the barn.

  Then the remaining five crept cautiously along the back wall of the barn.

  Guy was limping badly. ‘I think we should make a dash for it, across to the Peyrilhac road,’ he whispered to the others. ‘The smoke from the fire will give us some cover. It’s blowing that way. Then we can head over the field behind the mill to the river. We can crawl if we have to. The grass is long enough to hide us.’

  The others nodded. One by one, the first three darted across, and ran down a narrow alley between the houses, keeping lookout for one another to make sure they were not spotted.

  Only Guy and Leon were left.

  ‘I’m not coming with you,’ said Leon flatly.

  Guy looked at him, wide eyed.

  ‘My family and I always said we would meet at the woods, behind the cemetery, if the Germans ever came. I might be the only one left alive, but I have to try to get there.’

  ‘It’s too far,’ whispered Guy. ‘You’ll never make it.’

  ‘I have to try,’ Leon repeated, taking his neighbour’s hand in his. ‘And you must go. Good luck to you, Guy.’

  The two men nodded at one another and shook hands, exchanging a brief, nervous smile, then went their separate ways.

  22: The Hunter

  Leon watched as Guy made it safely across the street and disappeared down the alleyway. The ground where he had been standing just a few moments before was stained with blood and Leon swallowed hard, full of admiration at the bravery of his friend. He had lived next door to him for four years and had always thought him a friendly enough chap, but quite unremarkable. He was just an ordinary man, yet here he was, in the midst of a nightmare, acting so courageously. ‘Please God,’ Leon prayed silently, ‘don’t let him collapse before he makes it to the river. Give him a chance.’ Then, as the image of Alfred sitting by that tree in the woods came back into his mind, he added, ‘And please, I beg you, give me a chance. Help me find my son.’

  The heat from the fire inside the barn was now so intense that Leon could feel it radiating through the stones of the wall behind him and thin fingers of smoke were beginning to creep through the cracks in the mortar. The air was rank with the burning smell and, as the breeze changed direction, the road temporarily cleared and the smoke began wafting instead across the garden into which Leon and his companions had first made their escape from the barn.

  This was Leon’s chance. It was now or never. Holding his breath he ran straight into the swirling grey fog, darting quickly across the end of Rue de la Cimetière and down an alleyway into the open space which lay in between the rear gardens of the buildings which lined the fairground. From there, he could sneak along the backs of the gardens and come out through one of the side alleyways further up on Rue de la Cimetière, hopefully away from danger.

  As he emerged from the worst of the smoke, he looked across the open space in front of him and recognised the back wall of the Mayor’s house. He sprinted over and, keeping low, ran along the wall and down the side passageway of the house. This led straight on to the fairground and Leon flattened himself against the wall to peer cautiously around the corner. He could see the well, where Sylvie and the children had waited for him earlier when they had tried to make their escape. The same German trucks were still parked there and Leon could see that they were unmanned. To his left he could make out soldiers going in and out of the houses on the other side of the field, still searching for survivors, some carrying petrol tanks ready to begin torching the buildings. But there was no one to his right.

  Leon decided to cross the road again and head for the cornfield on the other side. There was a gap in the buildings there and only a small low fence which he would have to vault over. He knew he could do it and he had to be safer in the field than running up the road where he would have no cover at all.

  He took one last glance to the left to check that no one was looking his way, and he ran.

  From his hiding place in the cornfield, Alfred could hear the shooting at the Joubert barn and the screams and desperate cries under the gunfire. He covered his ears and screwed up his eyes tight to try to shut it all out. But try as he might, the noise still seemed to creep through his fingers, seeping into his brain, and he began to realise, from the pattern of sounds, that the same horrible things were happening all over his village.

  He thought about his family. He wondered where the soldiers had taken Christelle and Sabine. And he thought about his friends, Ethan and Rachael, Patric, Jean, Pierre, Monsieur Lefevre and old Monsieur Demarais. Were they safe? Had they been shot? Were they lying somewhere, frightened, like he was?

  Every so often, he dared to raise his head to peep out over the top of the corn. The cornfield sloped gently down towards Rue de la Cimetière, so while the corn was long enough to hide him while he lay flat, if he was careful he could lift himself up a little and get a clear view of the road and the entrance into the fairground through the gap in the buildings. Once or twice he had caught sight of some soldiers. They seemed to be working in pairs, and Alfred wondered if they were taking over all the houses and throwing people out, like they did in Charly, or whether they were looking for something. But why the shooting? What was that big explosion and what were they burning? It was all too much for him to understand.

  The vile fumes from the Joubert barn were starting to stick in Major Dietrich’s throat and make his eyes water. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the dirt and sweat from his face then threw it onto the floor. He didn’t want to arrive in Scholz’s office in Limoges covered in soot and grease and with his uniform stinking of smoke. He was ready to move on. His work here was done.

  The church was ablaze and he was satisfied that the male prisoners at all six locations had been dealt with. He would head back to his command post in the fairground and make sure his platoon leaders understood what they had to do before pulling out. His orders would remain unchanged: round up any stragglers, find and kill anyone who had managed to escape their search so far, and torch the rest of the village. This could be done without him. He had a more important job to do now: to report back to Major General Scholz, debrief him on the success of the mission, and spread the word. He would send out the message to the Resistance, to the whole of France, to the world, that no one could take on the SS without paying for it.

  He imagined the praise he would get, the recognition, the admiration. This was his greatest achievement yet.

  Dietrich strode up Rue de la Cimetière, a self-satisfied man, enjoying a sense of complete control. He had never felt so powerful, so indomitable.

  So when the soot-blackened, bedraggled shadow of a man stumbled out from the alleyway and lurched across the road in front of him, he didn’t
call out ‘Halt,’ or try to apprehend him. He didn’t want to question him. He could see he was a local and he didn’t care who he was or what he was doing there in the street. He just shot him. One bullet. The side of the head.

  The scream came from somewhere to his right. Somewhere up in the cornfield. A long-drawn-out, desperate, wailing, ‘No!’

  Dietrich scanned the field, seeing nothing at first. Then he spotted him. A small boy, maybe seven or eight, with red hair which flamed in the early evening sun. The boy was standing now, his mouth open, staring down first at him, as he stood with his revolver drawn, and then at the fallen man at his feet in the road.

  Time seemed to be momentarily suspended while the two enemies, man and boy, stood there looking straight at one another. Then, like a hunted deer spooked by the sound of a breaking twig under the foot of his tracker, the boy turned and started to flee.

  Dietrich followed, leaping easily over the fence and lunging hard into the knee-deep corn. The boy was moving as quickly as he could, desperate to stay out of reach, but he was running uphill and his short legs struggled to carry him any faster as they waded frantically through the foliage. He was no match for Dietrich, the experienced hunter, who was gaining fast.

  A few more metres and the boy came to the edge of the crop. There was a strip of bare earth, about ten metres wide, then a small lane, and on the other side a wild meadow where the grass grew long and lush. Best to strike now. The boy was completely exposed and definitely in range. Dietrich halted, raised his revolver, aimed and fired.

  The boy seemed to spin slightly in the air, then dropped to the ground.

  Dietrich could hear no sound. No whimpering, no movement.

  Slowly now, breathing deeply to regain his composure after the chase, Dietrich edged forwards to the spot where his prey had fallen.

  The boy was lying twisted, half on his side, on the hard, red earth, one arm and his floppy red fringe partially covering his small pale face. Dietrich noticed that he had no shoes on his feet, and his shorts and shirt were filthy, as if he had been lying there out in the fields for a very long time.

  Seconds passed, and Dietrich remained there, staring down at the young body he had just shot. How had this one little boy managed to escape the eyes of more than two hundred SS troops?

  Keeping his revolver aimed, Dietrich nudged the boy hard in the back with his boot to see if he was still alive. He watched closely.

  Nothing.

  Dietrich smiled. Then he lowered his revolver, carefully replaced it in its holster and walked back down the hill. It was time to go.

  Part 6

  Saturday 10 June, 1944 (Evening)

  23: The Final Two Hours

  It was five o’clock when Major Dietrich sped out of Oradour. No longer concerned about being ambushed by the Resistance, he was driving himself in an open-topped jeep. He was heading for Limoges.

  He had given his SS troops two more hours to clean up the village. He wanted every building checked one last time and his orders had been to shoot anyone found hiding, before burning the place to the ground.

  Even without Dietrich’s dominating presence and his ever-watchful gaze, the majority of the soldiers left behind were so fuelled by their commander’s hatred of the Resistance and his cries for revenge for the murder of Major Klausner that they were more than happy to continue their violent rampage through the streets.

  The silent minority of soldiers who couldn’t convince themselves that the people in Oradour were guilty of anything nevertheless played their part in the evil. Driven by their fear of disobeying their ambitious, ruthless commander, they buried any doubts that they had about the murder of so many innocent men, women and children.

  Rampaging through the houses and homes, businesses, offices and schools, the troops tore down doors, broke into cellars, ripped open crates and left little intact and nowhere to hide. Treasured possessions and family heirlooms were smashed or thrown to one side, while jewellery and smaller valuables found their way into soldiers’ pockets. Beloved cats and dogs fled for cover or shot out of open doors in terror where they were left wandering the streets, searching in vain for their owners.

  Two brothers sharing a car, on their way home from work in Confolens, were passing by Oradour on the road to the south of the river. Seeing so much smoke coming from the village, they abandoned their car and crossed the river by way of a footbridge, anxious to find out what was going on and to see if they could help. They didn’t know that they were about to walk into a living nightmare. They were gunned down in the fairground, and their bodies thrown down the well.

  And so, as the afternoon turned into evening, the slaughter continued.

  Then, just before seven o’clock, the last tram of the day approached Oradour, bringing twenty-two villagers home from Limoges. The stunned passengers could hardly recognise the burning village that lay ahead of them and many of them got to their feet in panic.

  The SS soldiers, who were getting ready to remove their road block near the bridge across the River Glane, their duty almost done, stopped the tram and ordered everyone to disembark.

  The driver was instantly dragged to one side, a gun held to his head, a look of sheer dread in his eyes. The rest of the soldiers then encircled the passengers, their guns cocked and ready. Everyone was convinced that they were about to die.

  Then one of the soldiers spoke, his French surprisingly good but with a heavy German accent.

  ‘Oradour is no more,’ he announced. ‘Everyone is dead. But we are letting you live, so that you can tell the world what you have seen here tonight. The whole of France must learn. You cannot defeat the SS. You cannot resist us.’

  He paused, to ensure that everyone understood. The small crowd remained silent. No one knew what to say or do.

  ‘Now go. You are free.’

  Some of the passengers wept, others clung onto one another, their knees weak with relief and sadness.

  Prodding them in the back with their rifles, the soldiers ushered them back onto the tram. The driver was ordered to take them back to Limoges. He was not to stop until he got there.

  As the tram pulled away, the passengers looked back over their shoulders at the devastation they were leaving behind them, a picture they would never forget, and they reached for one another’s hands.

  24: The River Crossing

  When Alfred poked his head up from the corn and recognised the familiar shape of his father emerging from the passageway onto the fairground, he forgot all about staying hidden. Without thinking, he jumped straight to his feet, ready to shout, ‘Over here!’ But before he could utter the words he saw the second shape, a tall sinister figure, wearing an SS officer’s hat.

  The German raised his gun and fired so quickly, so automatically, that by the time an anguished cry did come out of Alfred’s mouth, his father was already on the ground, dead.

  For a moment Alfred was too shocked to move, his feet as rooted to the soil as the corn stems all around him. He felt numb. He couldn’t believe that what he had just seen was real. This couldn’t be.

  Then he realised that the German soldier was staring straight at him and he knew that it was real, and that he had to move, fast.

  He could sense that his pursuer was gaining on him, but he couldn’t run any quicker through the corn, and the leaves were slicing painfully at his legs. All he could do was keep on moving, and hope.

  Alfred reached the top of the slope and was relieved to see that he was at the edge of the cornfield. If he could make it across this bare strip of land he could cross the lane and would then be in the meadow. He might be able to run more quickly downhill through the grass and from there it wasn’t far to the trees along the river. They would give him some cover and he might be able to find somewhere to hide.

  But then he heard the gunshot, and felt the bullet whistle through his shirt, grazing his waist. He glanced down at his side, and as he did so his toes caught on the uneven, baked earth and he tripped, twisting and gruntin
g as he smacked down hard on the ground.

  He could hear the German’s heavy boots thundering up behind him and knew that if he moved, he would be killed. His only hope was to fool the German into thinking that he already had been. Mustering all his strength and courage, Alfred took a deep breath, covered as much of his face as he could with his arm, and played dead.

  As the German stood over him, Alfred conjured up a happy, peaceful scene in his mind, of his family, all sitting around the kitchen table together eating some of his father’s best pastries. He drew strength from the warmth of it and he felt his body relax. Whatever happened, there was no German in the world who could take away those memories from him. They were his, and he could always keep them safe.

  So when he felt the hard sole of the officer’s boot in his back, felt it rocking him, Alfred did not move. Not a single muscle.

  It felt like the German would stand there looking at him for ever, and Alfred wondered what he was thinking. Why didn’t he just shoot him, to be sure? But no shot came.

  He had done it!

  He listened to the footsteps moving away, off across the cornfield, back to the mayhem that was Oradour.

  Too scared to move, Alfred lay there on the hard, unyielding earth for another two long hours. He was so terrified that the German would come back, or that he could be seen there on the hill by some of the other soldiers, he didn’t even risk altering his position. He just stayed still, his eyes closed, trying not to cry and keeping himself calm by reliving in his mind all the adventures he had had around his village and picturing the faces of all the friends he had made while he had lived there. He stored each memory well, for he knew his life would never be the same again.

  There was Patric, perched on an oil drum in the garage, sharing a story with him. Monsieur Demarais, dipping his nose into a large glass of his favourite red wine, and Monsieur Babin, shrieking with delight on the banks of the Glane as he reeled in his biggest ever catch. Alfred wondered if they were all gone. How many had been shot down in cold blood, like his father? How many were trapped inside those burning buildings? As long as he lived, Alfred would never forget them.