March 1, 1944
We are in the train! We are going despite everything. During
the last twelve hours we have been through the most heart
rending experiences. Every half hour there were changes. At
6:00 p.m. the camp administration called out, over the loud
speaker, the names of all those who were not on the list. A few
persons were lacking to make up the transport, so we hoped
that we, too, would be taken. My mother rushed to the commandant, but soon returned with a downcast face; it was too
late. But she did not give up hope, and kept praying that some
thing would happen at the last moment.
And it did happen. At 10:00 p.m. transports arrived from Titmoning and Liebenau, and it turned out that there would be room for some more internees. The administration summoned the native Americans, and my mother was accepted at once. At first my father was supposed to remain in Vittel, and my mother agreed to this, because she was convinced that at the last moment there would be another change, and that my father would be allowed to go with us. Meanwhile she packed all our things. Just as in Warsaw, a number of people visited us and gave us the addresses of their American relatives. They helped us to pack and bustled around us. Niusia W. prepared our food for the trip, while Bola lay weeping in her room. At seven in the morning, my mother went to the camp administration office and, a few minutes later, she came run ning back, crying, “We’re all going!”
I shall never forget the moment when we said farewell to the people with whom we had suffered so much, constantly suspended between life and death. Everyone said, “Please don’t forget us, all our hopes are pinned on you. Don’t be silent. See to it that we are rescued...” All without exception, men, women, and children, wept. Hundreds of hands waved to us from the windows beyond the barbed-wire fence. In the distance I could see Erna wiping her eyes. Beside her stood Rosa, Harold, and many others, friends and strangers. Our compartment is the one adjoining our German escorts. They are in a state of extreme nervousness. I have never seen Germans so upset. They keep checking the number of their prisoners against a list in their hands.
March 2, 1944
We have been in Biarritz for several hours. The train halted two miles from the main station. Among the passengers there is a growing fear. According to some rumors, a number of the internees will be sent back to Vittel, because there are allegedly too many of us to exchange.
March 3, 1944
A few minutes ago we exchanged all our money for dollars. This has finally reassured us; we really believe we are going to America now. All the men were made to sign a pledge that they would not fight against Germany in any army. When they left the cars to sign this pledge we saw a train with German internees arrive on another track. They have come from America to be exchanged for us. All of us actually pitied these Germans.
March 4, 1944
Our train is now on Spanish territory. At the stations some people greet us with the “V” sign. The poverty of Spain strikes one at once. Ragged children stretch out their hands, begging for a coin. There are many soldiers, especially smartly dressed officers. The civilian population is dressed in rags, and the people have hollow cheeks.
Many of the Germans who escorted us have remained on the French side of the border, and those who still accompany us now are dressed in mufti. With their uniforms, they have shed their insolence.
And it did happen. At 10:00 p.m. transports arrived from Titmoning and Liebenau, and it turned out that there would be room for some more internees. The administration summoned the native Americans, and my mother was accepted at once. At first my father was supposed to remain in Vittel, and my mother agreed to this, because she was convinced that at the last moment there would be another change, and that my father would be allowed to go with us. Meanwhile she packed all our things. Just as in Warsaw, a number of people visited us and gave us the addresses of their American relatives. They helped us to pack and bustled around us. Niusia W. prepared our food for the trip, while Bola lay weeping in her room. At seven in the morning, my mother went to the camp administration office and, a few minutes later, she came run ning back, crying, “We’re all going!”
I shall never forget the moment when we said farewell to the people with whom we had suffered so much, constantly suspended between life and death. Everyone said, “Please don’t forget us, all our hopes are pinned on you. Don’t be silent. See to it that we are rescued...” All without exception, men, women, and children, wept. Hundreds of hands waved to us from the windows beyond the barbed-wire fence. In the distance I could see Erna wiping her eyes. Beside her stood Rosa, Harold, and many others, friends and strangers. Our compartment is the one adjoining our German escorts. They are in a state of extreme nervousness. I have never seen Germans so upset. They keep checking the number of their prisoners against a list in their hands.
March 2, 1944
We have been in Biarritz for several hours. The train halted two miles from the main station. Among the passengers there is a growing fear. According to some rumors, a number of the internees will be sent back to Vittel, because there are allegedly too many of us to exchange.
March 3, 1944
A few minutes ago we exchanged all our money for dollars. This has finally reassured us; we really believe we are going to America now. All the men were made to sign a pledge that they would not fight against Germany in any army. When they left the cars to sign this pledge we saw a train with German internees arrive on another track. They have come from America to be exchanged for us. All of us actually pitied these Germans.
March 4, 1944
Our train is now on Spanish territory. At the stations some people greet us with the “V” sign. The poverty of Spain strikes one at once. Ragged children stretch out their hands, begging for a coin. There are many soldiers, especially smartly dressed officers. The civilian population is dressed in rags, and the people have hollow cheeks.
Many of the Germans who escorted us have remained on the French side of the border, and those who still accompany us now are dressed in mufti. With their uniforms, they have shed their insolence.
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