Rosie's War

by Rosemary Say

‘Apart from dear Pat, who never seems to leave off her ski ensemble. She’s lorded it over the rest of us quite outrageously and for long enough. It’s time to change.’

  ‘Hear! Hear!’ someone cried.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Margaret continued. ‘In the little storeroom by the north wing there are a whole load of linen mattress covers. They’ve been deloused and nobody seems to want them. Let’s use them to make some spring clothes.’

  We readily agreed. We got dyes of all colours, needles and threads from our loyal group of French prisoners. We bubbled and boiled for two nights and under Margaret’s supervision we made skirts, slacks and blouses. They were, in truth, quite basic but we didn’t care. We emerged in our hand-dyed and handmade finery feeling like true Parisians. I even left off my ski suit for a while! The change in the weather combined with our new outfits gave us all a new sense of optimism. We had survived the shock of the first few months of imprisonment and the dreadful winter. We felt that we could face whatever came our way.

  It was around this time the rumours started that we were all going to be moved to new quarters. By now Frida and I had learned to take such speculation with a pinch of salt. The camp was, after all, a massive rumour mill. The pessimists, who seemed to include most of the Prisoners Committee, claimed that this time we would be moved to Germany, but in our room we were optimistic.

  Frida was convinced that the Germans would use us as a propaganda exercise to show the humanity of the Third Reich. Our confidence on this point was somewhat dented one evening when the Schwester arrived after dinner to inform us that our kind guardians were taking us to a lovely new place.

  ‘I cannot tell you where it is,’ she said. ‘And I shall not be going with you. But I am sure that you will all be very happy there,’ she added with a malicious smile.

  We were all panicked by this news. The pessimists seemed to have been right: we were being sent to a German camp – the unspoken nightmare for us all. I spent the next couple of days when working at the office trying to get some more information. As it turned out, my concern was misplaced. I got on quite well with the Kommandant’s secretary and found out from her that we were going to the town of Vittel, which before the war had been a prosperous watering spa in the Vosges region. Apparently there were smart hotels, a large park, a casino and even bathrooms! I related this news breathlessly to Frida as soon as I could. I thought she’d be pleased but I was wrong.

  ‘So, Pat, that’s the end of the struggle,’ she said bitterly. ‘Welcome to tea parties in the Home Counties.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Frida. Just about anything would be better than this. It’s dreadful here.’

  ‘Maybe it is. But remember that we gain strength only in the face of adversity.’

  ‘That’s just a political slogan. For God’s sake, Frida, I can’t wait to go.’ I flounced off with tears in my eyes. I was disappointed by her reaction and dismayed at our argument.

  A couple of days later our Schwester told us that we would need to have all our clothes and belongings ready for delousing the following morning. We ourselves were to strip in the showers and be scrubbed down with disinfectant by the Schwesters.

  ‘So, the sedate and bourgeois town of Vittel is frightened that thousands of verminous females will bring an invasion of lice and bugs,’ said Frida grimly as the Schwester left the room.

  ‘Well that’s understandable,’ said Penelope. ‘Anyway, I’ll be glad to get rid of these dratted lice once and for all.’

  This arrangement seemed reasonable enough until we heard later in the day that following our shower we would then have to wrap ourselves in blankets, walk across the cinder courtyard and wait around for our clothes to be deloused. This news did not particularly worry the younger women who hardly gave it a thought. But it created a minor revolution among many of the older inmates. That evening a large Scottish woman who looked like a retired hospital matron complained bitterly to me.

  ‘It’s dangerous to walk straight out of a hot shower into the cold air.’

  I nodded vigorously in agreement.

  ‘And what if the blanket falls off or the guards decide to pull one off just for the fun of it?’

  ‘Perhaps we should approach the Committee,’ I suggested hesitantly.

  ‘Well, let’s see what the others think,’ she replied as she walked away. ‘But I don’t see how that body of wet fish can do anything.’

  It turned out the Scottish matron was wrong. There was a great strength of feeling among many of the older women. I’m not sure if it was a result of their fear of being exposed naked in the courtyard or just the anti-fresh air brigade becoming militant but the Committee was persuaded to send a delegation of protest to the Kommandant.

  He received us in his office with only his administrative officers present. Fortunately, his Gestapo assistant was away for the day. We argued that the delousing procedure had to be changed: clothes and belongings should be brought to the douche and not the other way around. The Kommandant looked concerned. A bevy of protesting females was exactly what he didn’t want at this moment. He was obviously under pressure to start the evacuation of the camp as soon as possible.

  ‘Another point, Kommandant,’ I added brightly, ‘is that you and your fellow officers will surely want your clothes just by the douche when your turn comes.’

  To his credit, he smiled at this. He seemed ready to reach a compromise. But there was the matter of honour at stake: who was in charge of the camp? He finally agreed to our request but stationed a group of sentries in the middle of the courtyard with rifles at the ready. The delousing went ahead smoothly.

  We left Besançon a couple of days later. It was a warm day in early May. What a sight we must have been: thousands of female tramps laden down with all sorts of clothes, bags and other possessions. One woman clutched two saucepans made from cans, while another next to me had three old forks carefully tied up under her belt. It was a very different group from that tired but orthodox-looking collection of women who had arrived a few months before. Our time in Besançon had taught us that even the most despised piece of rubbish could have value.

  We trudged in a slow line down the road leading to the railway station. I glanced to the right of me at the town so near by across the river. I could see people huddled in doorways watching us pass. It was somewhat bewildering to be in contact again with the outside world. I had been in captivity since before Christmas.

  It took a number of hours for all of us to board the train and even then there was a long delay before we finally began our journey. We had been told to take food that we had saved from our meals: beetroot jam sandwiches and what tasted like dog biscuits, unless you were fortunate enough to have some Red Cross provisions left. Ersatz coffee was passed to us on the train. It was horrible but we still drank it greedily.

  I was in a compartment with Frida, six other women and a German guard. He was a thin, middle-aged man with a streaming red nose who came from Freiburg, just across the border. Frida chatted to him. As always she wanted to know about the war and how ordinary Germans felt about it. He became quite friendly and even shared out his scarce ration of chocolate.

  Our journey lasted three days and two nights. On and on the train crawled through the dull, flat country west of the Vosges mountains. It would stop for hours, seemingly for no reason and in the middle of nowhere. I have no idea why that journey took so long. It is only about one hundred kilometers as the crow flies between Besançon and Vittel. Over half a century later I did the same trip by car. In the middle of a torrential winter downpour my journey took slightly over two hours.

  ‘I think we’re arriving. It’s Vittel!’

  I awoke on the morning of our third day on the train to hear Frida’s excited voice. She was craning out of the window. We all pushed to have a look. Even the guard seemed excited, showing his yellowing teeth through a broad smile. As we slowed down I could make out a number of large hotels that looked boarded up and closed. The train pulled into the sta
tion and we poured out.

  We marched half a mile or so through the town. As in Besançon, the local inhabitants were out in force and watching us suspiciously. We were told later that this time they thought we were German women staying at the spa for our convalescence. I don’t know how this story tallied with our wretched appearance. We passed elegant shops, firmly shut. The whole town had a gloomy and deserted air.

  We entered a large, wooded park and reached the entrance of an impressive building, the Grand Hotel. It looked rather like a Parisian apartment block in the Septième. There seemed to be a big turnout of German officers to greet us at the entrance. There were also some civilians with cameras. They looked German. Frida grabbed my arm.

  ‘The bastards are filming us! Keep your heads down everyone,’ she shouted to those around her.

  We quickly realized that the whole scene was being filmed for propaganda purposes, presumably to show how well we were being looked after. So we hid our faces like film stars and all rushed into the building, ignoring the dismayed shouts of the cameramen.

  The hotel was in a pretentious, turn-of-the-century style with pillars, gilt mirrors, candelabra and lofty staircases. It was the sort of place that rich patients came to before the war to take the waters. No one then would have imagined that its latest clients would be such a bedraggled collection of women, some encased in mattress cloth and carrying with them all their worldly possessions.

  An elderly man in black patent pumps was in the foyer, somewhat frantically trying to organize accommodation for us. He was the proprietor of the hotel, as he told us at frequent intervals. His cries of ‘Mesdames, je vous en prie!’ seemed to become more fraught by the minute. ‘Where is the princess?’ I heard him shout.

  He smiled ingratiatingly at two rather aristocratic-looking women and led them off to their room. This was presumably one of the better ones on the lower floor which were, I discovered later, as ornate as the hotel: carved marble fireplaces, high ceilings and enormous beds. I disliked the man at once. He reminded me of a pompous restaurant waiter who checks your clothes before deciding on which table to give you. With barely concealed distaste he hurried away a small group of prostitutes down a dark corridor. ‘Come this way, Mesdames, this is where you belong,’ he said to them.

  When he came to us he seemed surprised by our youth. Perhaps he was wondering what damage we could do. ‘Room 660,’ he said quickly. ‘The guard will unlock the door for you.’

  My little group of five – Shula, Frida, Penelope, Olga and me – had been given a room on the top floor. We seemed to be in the old servants area, which suited us fine. While we waited for the guard to arrive we clambered up the winding stairs to the roof from where we could survey our new home.

  We were duly impressed. Below us were more elegant hotels, including the Palace (which was to become the medical centre) and the Continental (where the older women and the nuns were put). In front of us was a columned arcade of luxury shops all closed and shuttered. Next to this was the Casino with a beautiful dome. We were surrounded on all sides by an enormous park which had a number of buildings dotted about. Everything was closed. The lush, green park and the rolling hills in the distance made it all seem much more gentle, if less dramatic, than the majestic bleakness of the Jura Mountains surrounding the Caserne Vauban.

  The guard finally arrived to let us into our room. We bounced on the beds and opened the big wardrobes with cries of delight. There was a bathroom just along the corridor with taps that worked. Luxury indeed!

  PART THREE

  Breaking Free

  MAY – NOVEMBER 1941

  CHAPTER TEN

  Vittel: The Model Camp

  F or the second time we seemed to have been moved to our prison camp in a hurry. Food was scarce for a while until the Red Cross and our families caught up with us and the all-important parcels began to arrive. It didn’t seem that the authorities had even thought about security, as there were no physical restrictions around the complex of hotels. So, for the first few days we were not allowed out of our building until the German soldiers had installed barricades and barbed wire around the grounds. After that we were able to move about quite freely within the compound, which stretched for a number of acres. But we were not, of course, allowed into the town of Vittel itself.

  It would be difficult to imagine two POW camps more dissimilar than Besançon and Vittel. To picture the former, just think of the numerous postwar films about Colditz and the like: dour surroundings, large courtyards, harsh conditions, constant surveillance and the continual presence of lice and other bugs. Vittel, on the other hand, was almost luxurious. We found that there were a number of untended but perfectly adequate tennis courts, albeit without nets. Coming from the bleak, cinder courtyard of Besançon, we were now in the middle of a landscaped park complete with a small pond and swans (this being France, we weren’t allowed to walk on the grass). The rules on parcels, food and jewellery were quite relaxed. Most of us had small rooms which we shared with a few others. There were baths on our floor, although the hot water was erratic and limited. Most importantly, there was proper sanitation at last.

  We were constantly reminded, however, that this was a gilded cage: it was a prison camp. The hotels had been closed for a year or so and the carpets and curtains remained mothballed. Everywhere was very crowded and noisy; the army boots that many of us had been given at Besançon had wooden soles that created a constant clatter. It was bitterly cold during the first few weeks of that spring until the weather improved. The heating wasn’t fired up until the autumn.

  It soon became clear to us that Vittel was being used by the Germans as a propaganda camp: a model internment area to show the world that the horror stories and violence attributed to German soldiery were untrue. Hence the newsreel cameras at our arrival. Visiting groups of German VIPs were shown around the spacious grounds and we began to feel like show puppets. One of my friends, Madeleine White, complained many years later that people after the war would dismiss her imprisonment with a shrug, saying, ‘Oh, tu étais à Vittel, c’était un paradis.’ Yes, it was better than Besançon but as the war went on the nature of the camp changed. It became a staging post for Jews going to death camps in Eastern Europe.

  In the early weeks at Besançon there had been a laxity of discipline. Contact with the French prisoners had been easy and frequent. We were able to purchase wine and food through them. It was very different in Vittel. The French male prisoners of war had been moved with us, again to act as general handymen and labourers around the camp. But now they and the French doctors were located in quite separate quarters and we hardly ever saw them.

  We also had little contact with the German guards. Indeed, the grounds themselves were so large that we rarely seemed to encounter them. They were ungainly men in their poor quality uniforms, thick dirty boots, all-enveloping helmets and army belts with ‘Gott Mit Uns’ (God With Us) stamped on the buckle. Most of them were very second-rate soldiers; after all, guard duty in a camp such as ours was not for the elite of the army. They lived in an enormous building in the park which we nicknamed the Villa des Fées or Fairies’ House.

  As at Besançon, Frida managed to spend hours talking to them, trying to find out what ordinary German soldiers thought about the war. Most were imbued with Goebbels’s Nazi propaganda and ignorant of everything else. Only occasionally would she come across one who had some glimmerings of doubt and who understood that there might be propaganda on both sides. Such soldiers genuinely did want to hear about life in England.

  Like most of the other inmates, I had little to do with the guards. Only a few were approachable. Some had been separated from their families for years and they would sadly show us photographs of young women holding babies. But most were pretty arrogant. When war was declared on the Soviet Union in the summer of 1941, they accepted Hitler’s change of policy towards Stalin without question. They were cock-a-hoop and would often goad us by saying that the campaign in the east would be over in
a few weeks. Then it will be England’s turn, they would add. ‘Our Fuhrer knows what he is doing,’ was their constant refrain. It was only as the first reports came through of Soviet resistance in the autumn that these men became less enthusiastic about being transferred to the Eastern Front. I was told by Shula after the war that some soldiers would be weeping and drunk as they left for the front.

  The Vittel camp was portrayed in a film called Two Thousand Women, made towards the end of the war by Frank Launder. It had a star-studded cast that included Phyllis Calvert, Dulcie Gray, Patricia Roc and Flora Robson. The last portrayed an uppity English lady who arrived with a lady’s maid; she was to be accused of espionage and sent off to Germany. The first two actresses played the heroines Rosemary and Freda (of course!) It was all pretty silly stuff, with Rosemary at one point sitting up in bed in a negligée to find an RAF man hiding in her room. A discreet love affair starts between them. He evades detection by dressing up in voluminous washerwoman clothes like Toad from The Wind in the Willows and finally makes his escape dressed as a German officer.

  I watched this film at a cinema in London’s West End at the time it opened, when the memory of my imprisonment was vivid and fresh. I found it ridiculous and insulting. I saw it again over a half a century later on afternoon British television. This time I was struck by how well the film portrayed the class divisions that soon appeared. You might see a woman in a hat, white gloves, smart dress and high-heeled shoes chatting to another internee similarly dressed. Yet next to them would be a woman dressed in boots and a First World War army uniform or perhaps a dress made from mattress covers where the dye was already fading in patches. The regular visits of a hairdresser from the town made no difference to me, but to many of the older women it meant elaborate, waved hair and the reappearance of colour. I described the camp in a letter to my sister as a ‘mixture of Mayfair with artiness and heartiness’. It was this resurgence of class distinctions that gave our new quarters a sour taste. Bridge parties flourished and those who didn’t play would gossip alongside the tables. It might have been any afternoon in Bournemouth! Frida gave a memorable description in a letter home: