lorries and driven off to one side of the main gate. The other women were divided, so far as Geoffrey could make out, by age and physical attributes. Those who seemed fittest for work were herded along the same route as he and Trembath had been, presumably to shaving and disinfecting; the older and frailer were loaded on to more motor transports. Some of the Special Unit were now pulling corpses from the train, while others began to hose out the reeking wagons. Geoffrey ground his teeth and tried not to breathe too hard.
He was told to join a motor lorry and to expect orders at the other end. He stood on a metal plate above the rear bumper, holding on to the tailgate as the truck trundled over an unmade road towards a white house beyond an orchard. Here there was a makeshift holding area, a sort of stockade, in which Special Unit prisoners, screamed at by SS guards, were struggling to deal with the multitude of people.
‘
Schnell, schnell!
’ the guards kept shouting.
In German, an officer who seemed calmer than the others told Geoffrey what to say. ‘Tell them they must remove their clothes and leave them in piles here. Then they must go through that door. They will then be allowed to take a shower in this building. After that they will be given clean clothes and something to eat.’
But the words would not come to Geoffrey. He seemed dumb. He had lost all recollection of the French language. He cast his mind back to school, to home, Limoges, his mother … French, French. God, he was bilingual, but where were the words?
Ôtez les vêtements … Déshabillez vous
…
Demain, tout sera bien
… He cleared his throat and called, ‘
Attention!
’
There was the sound of a pistol being fired. A Special Unit prisoner lay dead beside him, shot by a guard impatient at his slowness. Women were beginning to cry, children to howl. No one knew what was going on or what to do. The guards began to scream louder, sensing the uprise of hysteria. Geoffrey felt a rifle stuck into his back. ‘
Schnell! Heraus mit der Sprache! Schnell!
’ Speak up! Geoffrey’s throat was swollen. He ground his clogged foot into the ground. It was speak or die.
‘
Messieurs dames, attention, s’il vous plaît!
’
None of the Germans could understand French; that was why he was here. He could say anything. ‘
Je ne sais pas ce qui vous attend
.’ I don’t know what awaits you. He felt a hundred eyes on him. At last the French had in him what they had wanted: an insider who could explain.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I’ve heard rumours … Why are you here and not in the camp? Are you old? Are you young? Are you dying? This place is not like any other. I have heard screaming …’ Geoffrey found the words were coming in English. He didn’t know if they passed his lips or whether they formed only in his mind.
But somewhere in the dark a French voice was speaking. It was telling them that there were clean clothes and, on the other side, hot food for them. Don’t let that voice be mine, Geoffrey thought; dear God, don’t let me lead them on.
They were starting to undress; some were going into the building. The tide of hysteria was beginning to ebb. The SS officer nodded at him and told him to keep talking. Through a gate in the perimeter wire he saw a flatbed lorry piled with pine trees driving towards a sawmill. He thought he heard the screech of metal teeth on sappy wood, too young to burn well, and saw another lorry leaving from the back of the mill with its load of pine logs cut to length, heading towards a building with a tall chimney that was pouring black smoke into the night.
The prisoners of the Special Unit were told to turn their backs on the white cottage, to avert their gaze, and, as dawn was seeping through the forests, Geoffrey was ordered back to D block. He clambered into his bunk alongside Trembath, too tired and ashamed to speak. He had lost his bearings, didn’t know in any case what he might
He was told to join a motor lorry and to expect orders at the other end. He stood on a metal plate above the rear bumper, holding on to the tailgate as the truck trundled over an unmade road towards a white house beyond an orchard. Here there was a makeshift holding area, a sort of stockade, in which Special Unit prisoners, screamed at by SS guards, were struggling to deal with the multitude of people.
‘
Schnell, schnell!
’ the guards kept shouting.
In German, an officer who seemed calmer than the others told Geoffrey what to say. ‘Tell them they must remove their clothes and leave them in piles here. Then they must go through that door. They will then be allowed to take a shower in this building. After that they will be given clean clothes and something to eat.’
But the words would not come to Geoffrey. He seemed dumb. He had lost all recollection of the French language. He cast his mind back to school, to home, Limoges, his mother … French, French. God, he was bilingual, but where were the words?
Ôtez les vêtements … Déshabillez vous
…
Demain, tout sera bien
… He cleared his throat and called, ‘
Attention!
’
There was the sound of a pistol being fired. A Special Unit prisoner lay dead beside him, shot by a guard impatient at his slowness. Women were beginning to cry, children to howl. No one knew what was going on or what to do. The guards began to scream louder, sensing the uprise of hysteria. Geoffrey felt a rifle stuck into his back. ‘
Schnell! Heraus mit der Sprache! Schnell!
’ Speak up! Geoffrey’s throat was swollen. He ground his clogged foot into the ground. It was speak or die.
‘
Messieurs dames, attention, s’il vous plaît!
’
None of the Germans could understand French; that was why he was here. He could say anything. ‘
Je ne sais pas ce qui vous attend
.’ I don’t know what awaits you. He felt a hundred eyes on him. At last the French had in him what they had wanted: an insider who could explain.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I’ve heard rumours … Why are you here and not in the camp? Are you old? Are you young? Are you dying? This place is not like any other. I have heard screaming …’ Geoffrey found the words were coming in English. He didn’t know if they passed his lips or whether they formed only in his mind.
But somewhere in the dark a French voice was speaking. It was telling them that there were clean clothes and, on the other side, hot food for them. Don’t let that voice be mine, Geoffrey thought; dear God, don’t let me lead them on.
They were starting to undress; some were going into the building. The tide of hysteria was beginning to ebb. The SS officer nodded at him and told him to keep talking. Through a gate in the perimeter wire he saw a flatbed lorry piled with pine trees driving towards a sawmill. He thought he heard the screech of metal teeth on sappy wood, too young to burn well, and saw another lorry leaving from the back of the mill with its load of pine logs cut to length, heading towards a building with a tall chimney that was pouring black smoke into the night.
The prisoners of the Special Unit were told to turn their backs on the white cottage, to avert their gaze, and, as dawn was seeping through the forests, Geoffrey was ordered back to D block. He clambered into his bunk alongside Trembath, too tired and ashamed to speak. He had lost his bearings, didn’t know in any case what he might
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