I was 20 years old when I learned that the human body could be reduced to a stopwatch. I’m not talking about metaphor, I’m talking about something literal, measured [music]. Repeat with mechanical precision for 9 minutes. This was the time allotted to each German soldier before the next one was called.
There was no clock hanging on the wall of room 6, no invisible dial. And yet, we all knew with terrifying accuracy when those minutes were ending. The body learns to count time when the mind has already given up thinking. My name is Elise Martilleux. I am 88 years old today and this is the first time I have agreed to talk about what really happened in this converted administrative building on the outskirts of Compiègne between April and August 1943.
Almost no official records mention this place. The few documents that mention it are lying. They say it was simply a sorting center, a temporary transit point to larger camps . But we, those of us who were there , know what really went on behind those grey walls. I was an ordinary young girl, the daughter of a blacksmith and a seamstress, born and raised in Saintliss, a small town northeast of Paris.
My father died in 1940 during the French defeat. My mother and I survived by sewing uniforms for German officers. Not by choice, but because it was that or starve to death. I had chestnut hair that fell to my shoulders, small and skillful hands, and I still believed, with that naivety typical of youth, that if I kept my head down, if I didn’t draw attention to myself, the war would pass by me without really touching me.
But on April 12, 1943, three soldiers from the Vermarthe knocked on our door early in the morning. The sun had not yet risen. They said my mother had been reported for hiding a clandestine radio. It was n’t true, but in those dark days, the truth no longer mattered . They took me away simply because I was there, because I was the right age, because my name was on a list that someone somewhere had drawn up in a cold, anonymous office.
We were transported in a freight truck with eight other women. No one was speaking. The engine roared, the rough road shook us. I held my mother’s hand as if we were still able to protect each other. We arrived around 10 a.m., a grey building, three stories, narrow and tall windows.
They separated us as soon as we entered. My mother was on the second floor. I, who lived on the ground floor, never saw him again . We arrived at the building around 10 a.m. A grey, three-story building with tall, narrow windows. A facade that must have been elegant in the past. Now she was cold, impersonal, devoid of all humanity.
We were made to get out of the truck. We were lined up in the courtyard. An officer counted twice. Then we were pushed inside. We were stripped naked. They shaved our heads. We were given a grey shirt. Nothing else. We were led into a large room on the ground floor . Twelve young women, all between 18 and 25 years old. I remember their faces.
I can still see them today. Marguerite was barely ten years old . Short, blond hair. She was crying silently. Thérèse, aged Grande Brun, she prayed in a low voice. Louise, 21 years old, hand damaged by fieldwork. Simone, 23 years old, a philosophy student, with an unwavering gaze, and the others, names I will never forget.
We were given thin mattresses. On Pierre’s floor, the smell was suffocating. For me, that’s for sure, sir. Disinfectant. Late in the afternoon, an officer entered. He wore an impeccable uniform. He spoke French with a perfect accent. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need it. His voice was calm, almost bureaucratic.
He said that this building served as a logistical support point for troops in transit, that soldiers passed through here before leaving for the Eastern Front, that these men were exhausted, that they needed rest and moral support. He used those exact words, then specified that we, the prisoners, would be chosen to fill that role.
There would be rotations. Each soldier would be entitled to exactly 9 minutes. The designated room was room 6. At the very end of the corridor, any resistance would be punished by immediate transfer to Ravensbruk. We all knew that name . He left. The door closed, silence fell. Lord, suffocating, Marguerite vomited on the floor.
Thesis closed her eyes. She began to pray. I was staring at the door. I was trying to understand how this was possible? How could men have decided that 9 minutes was enough time to destroy someone? That night, none of us slept. We lay there, eyes open in the darkness. We listened to the ragged breaths, the stifled sobs.
We waited until the next morning, and the calls started. A guard opened the door and shouted “No.” The girl would get up, follow, come back or not. Some came back staggering, others remained silent. Marguerite was called in the afternoon. When she returned, she no longer spoke. She sat down in a corner. She stared at the wall.
For hours, no one dared to speak to him. We knew. The first time I heard my name called was on a Tuesday morning. I remember because the sun entered through a crack in the wall, a thin blade of light on the cold stone floor. I thought to myself, how can there still be sunshine ? In a place like this, a guard came. He opened the door.
He shouted Martilleux. My heart stopped. I got up slowly. My legs were trembling. I leaned against the wall to move forward. The other girls were looking at me, some averting their eyes, others staring as if they were trying to memorize my face in case I didn’t come back. The corridor was long and narrow.
He smelled of dampness and cold sweat. There were six doors. The last one at the back was room 6, pint, worn copper handle. Nothing special, nothing that hinted at what was happening behind the scenes. The guard opened the door. He pushed me inside, then he closed it. The room was small, perhaps three meters by four , a narrow iron bed against the wall, a wooden chair, a high window boarded up.
The smell, the smell was what lingered the longest. A mixture of sweat, fear, and something older. Something I still can’t name. A soldier was already there. He must have been 25 , maybe 26. Blond, with a face marked by fatigue. He didn’t look me in the eyes. He simply said it in broken French. Take off your clothes.
I couldn’t move. My body had ceased to belong to me. It was as if I were outside, looking at myself from the ceiling, seeing this 20-year-old girl who still didn’t understand how she got there. He repeated it louder and I obeyed. I’m not going to describe what happened next, not because I don’t remember it .
I remember it with a precision that still haunts me. But because some things don’t need to be said to be understood. What I can say is that the 9 minutes was not an estimate. It was a strict rule. Another guard would knock on the door when the time was up and the soldier would leave. Without a word, without a backward glance, I remained lying on that bed for several minutes after he left.
I was staring at the ceiling. There was a crack that looked like a river. I focused on that crack so as not to think about what had just happened, so as not to feel my own body. Then the door reopened. Another guard, another soldier. Minutes on and on. That day, I counted seven times, seven soldiers. 7 times x minutes, 63 minutes in total.
But for me, it lasted forever. When they brought me back to the common room, I could no longer walk properly. Thérèse helped me lie down . She gave me some water. She said nothing. What could she have said? The following days blended into one another. There was no longer any difference between morning and evening.
Just phone calls, doors opening, footsteps in the hallway, and that number nine. Some girls tried to count how many times they had been called. Others refused to count. I did n’t count by choice, but because my mind clung to anything that still resembled logic, order, something measurable. As if by counting, I could maintain some semblance of control.
But there was something worse than the minutes themselves. That was the expectation. Not knowing when your name would be called, hearing footsteps in the hallway and wondering if it’s for me this time, seeing the door open and feeling your heart stop until you hear another name. And then when it wasn’t you, there was this shame, this terrible shame of feeling relief because it was someone else, because you still had a few hours of respite, a few hours where your body still belonged to you.
That, I believe, is what he wanted to destroy in us, not just our dignity, but our very humanity. He wanted us to see ourselves as objects, as numbers, as minutes on an invisible clock. One evening, Thérèse spoke. She said she had read before the war that there were methods of psychological torture where the torturers did not even touch their victims.
They were simply creating a system where the victims ended up destroying themselves. She said that’s what he was doing to us, that room six was not just a place of physical violence, it was a place of psychological demolition. And she was right. But what she didn’t know yet, what none of us knew, was that even in a place designed to break us, some of us would find a way to resist.
Not in a heroic way, not in a spectacular way, but in a silent, invisible, yet absolute way. There was a girl in our group named Simone. She was 23 years old, with short, boyish black hair . A gaze that never wavered, even in the worst moments. Before the war, she studied philosophy at the Sorbonne. She had been arrested for distributing leaflets calling for passive resistance.
Simon didn’t talk much at first. She often stayed in her corner, arms crossed, observing everything with almost scientific attention. But one evening, after we had all been brought back to the common room, exhausted, broken, some of us unable even to cry, we were so drained. Simone got up and sat down in the center of the room.
She waited until silence fell. Then she said something that has stayed with me forever. She said, “They can take our bodies, they can lock us up, break us, use us like objects. But there is one thing they cannot take. What we choose to keep inside ourselves.” At first, I didn’t understand what she meant .
I was too exhausted, too broken. But Simone continued. She said that as long as we remained able to remember who we were before this place, as long as we kept within us a fragment of our identity, our dreams, our memories, our loves, as long as we refused to become only what he wanted us to be, he could not destroy us completely.
She said, “Every night, we will tell each other about our lives, not the one here, not the one in room six, but our real lives, the ones they will never know.” And that’s exactly what we did every night when the guards finally left us alone, when the heavy footsteps in the corridor faded away and the door to the common room closed with that sinister metallic sound, we gathered in a circle on the cold floor.
Some sat on their thin straw mattresses, others directly on the stones, and each told a story: a childhood memory, a moment of happiness, a dream she had , a book she loved, a dish her mother prepared on Sundays, a song she hummed while working. anything. As long as it was ours, as long as it was something he couldn’t take away from us, something that existed outside these walls.
Our evening circles became our sacred ritual, the only thing that truly belonged to us in this place where everything had been taken from us. Our clothes, our dignity, our freedom, he had taken it all. But our stories, our memories, our voices, they remained ours. Marguerite, the youngest, who was barely ten years old and who still sometimes cried at night, calling out to her mother in her sleep to tell her about the first time she had learned to swim in the river near her village in Brittany.
She described the cold water on her skin, the July sun that made the surface sparkle like thousands of diamonds. The laughter of his older brother, who shouted encouragement to him from the riverbank. As she spoke, her eyes lit up. For a moment, she was no longer that terrified and broken girl.
She had become once again the carefree child who played in the clear water. Thérèse spoke of her husband, a village schoolteacher who would read her poems by Verlin and Rimbau in the evening by the light of an oil lamp. She recited entire verses for us, which she knew by heart. Her voice trembled with emotion as she spoke these words that reminded her of a time when love still existed, when beauty was possible.
Louise, whose hands were damaged from working in the fields and who came from a village near Rouan, sang a lullaby that her grandmother used to sing to her when she was little. Her voice was soft, fragile, almost broken, but she sang until the very end. And when she finished, we all had tears in our eyes. Not sadness, but something deeper, perhaps gratitude for this moment of beauty amidst the horror.
I told the story of my father’s forge. My father was a blacksmith in SN. He had a small workshop at the back of our house, a space filled with tools that gleamed in the firelight with a massive anvil in the center and a bellows that snored like a living animal. When I was little, before the war came and destroyed everything, my father often took me with him to the forge.
He let me sit on a small wooden stool near the fire. While he was working, I loved watching the metal redden under the intense heat, gradually transform, become malleable, ready to be shaped. My father would take the incandescent metal with his tongs, place it on the anvil and strike it with his hammer in a regular, precise, almost musical rhythm.
Each blow echoed in the workshop and little by little, the metal took shape. It became a grid, a horseshoe, a lock, a tool. My father always told me this with that patient smile he had. “Do you see Eise?” Iron bends under pressure. It resists, it sometimes deforms, but it does not break. And even when it seems completely destroyed, even when it is twisted and unusable, it can always be reforged.
We can give it a new shape. He remembers what he was like before. At the time, I didn’t really understand what he meant. I was too young. I simply nodded my head and continued to watch the flames dance. But in that room, amidst his broken daughters, his bruised bodies and his torn souls, I finally understood.
We were like that . They beat us, they twisted us, they deformed us. But we didn’t break completely. Not as long as we retained within us that memory of what we had been. Not as long as we refused to forget who we really were. Simon said that it was our most powerful act of resistance. Not armed resistance, not spectacular resistance, but existential resistance.
Refusing to be reduced to what he wanted us to be . Maintaining our humanity intact at the very heart of dehumanization. And she was right. In room six, during those endlessly repeated minutes, they were trying to destroy us. But in our evening circles, we rebuilt ourselves minute by minute, story by story, memory by memory, we were doing what my father did.
Battered, twisted, deformed, but not broken. Never completely broken. One day, something strange happened . Something deeply disturbing. A soldier entered room six as usual. I was lying on the narrow iron bed. My body tense, my mind already detached, ready to mentally fly away to another place during these interminable 9 minutes .
But this time, he did nothing. He did not approach. He didn’t touch me. He simply sat down on the wooden chair in the corner of the room and remained silent. I didn’t understand. My heart was pounding . I was scared, perhaps more scared than when things were going on as usual because I didn’t know what it meant. Was it a cruel game? Would it get worse next? Was he going to punish me? For something I didn’t know about? But he remained seated.
He was looking at the wall or maybe the ceiling, I don’t know. The minutes passed in an almost unbearable silence. Then the guard knocked on the door and the soldier left without a word, without a glance in my direction . I was confused, terrified, I didn’t know what to think. But he came back the next day and again the day after that.
It’s the same thing every time. He would come in, sit down, and remain silent. Then he would leave when the time was up. On the third day, I dared to look up at him. I actually watched it for the first time. He must have been 20, maybe 20, with short white hair , a face marked by fatigue and something else, a kind of deep sadness that etched itself into his features.
Her hands were trembling slightly. On the 5th day, he spoke first in German, words that I did not understand. Then he pulled himself together and tried again in French with a heavy accent and hesitant sentences. He said, “I’m sorry.” I didn’t reply. What could I have said? What could apologies change about what was happening here, about what all these other men were doing to all of us day after day? He continued despite my silence.
He said he had a sister who was my age, that she lived near Munich, that he thought of her every time he entered this room, that he didn’t know how he had become this kind of man, how he could have accepted it. to participate in this monstrous system. He said he had been sent to the Eastern Front, that he had seen terrible things there, that war turns men into monsters.
I listened to him without saying anything. Part of me wanted to scream, wanted to spit in his face, wanted to tell him that these apologies were worthless, that he was complicit, that he could have refused, that he could have done something. But another part of me saw a broken human being before me, not broken like we were, not in the same way, not with the same suffering, but broken nonetheless, trapped in a system that was beyond him, that was beyond all of us.
I never forgave him. I want to make this absolutely clear. What he did, or rather what he failed to prevent, was unforgivable. Nothing can justify what happened in that room, in that building, in all those places across Europe where women were reduced to objects for the moral support of soldiers.
But that day, when I really looked at it for the first time, I understood something important, something that took me decades to fully accept. They too were caught in a system, a huge, bureaucratic, dehumanizing system. which transformed human beings into machines, into numbers, into minutes, into cogs in a machine of mass destruction.
And this system was bigger, more powerful, more dangerous than any of us. In our evening circles, I ended up telling the other girls about this episode . Simon listened to me attentively. Then she said something I will never forget. She said, that’s exactly what Hannah Arent would call the banality of evil. It is not always monsters who commit the worst atrocities.
These are ordinary people who obey orders, who cease to think for themselves, who allow themselves to be transformed into instruments of a system that is beyond them. Thérèse shook her head. She said she could not accept that, that every man had a conscience, a choice, a responsibility. And I understood his point of view too.
The truth, I believe, lies somewhere in between. Yes, each person has an individual responsibility, but totalitarian systems are designed precisely to crush this responsibility, to dilute it in a chain of command where no one really feels guilty because everyone is just obeying orders. That’s the most terrible lesson I’ve learned in this building, that horror doesn’t always need monsters.
To exist, it just needs ordinary people who look the other way, who obey, who keep quiet. In June 1943, something began to change. The calls have become less frequent. German troops were moving en masse eastward towards the Russian front, which was turning into a man-devouring abyss . The building was gradually losing its strategic importance.
There were fewer soldiers in transit . The rotations were slowing down. Some girls were transferred elsewhere to labor camps or to unknown destinations. Others, like poor Marguerite, died of illness, lack of nutrition, or simply from having given up all will to live. But even in these last few weeks, we have continued our circles.
Even when there were only seven of us left, then five, then three, we continued to tell each other our stories, to keep alive that inner flame which was all we had left. Simon said that this was our act of resistance, the most powerful, not armed resistance, not spectacular resistance, but existential resistance, refusing to be reduced to what he wanted us to be, maintaining our humanity intact at the very heart of dehumanization.
And she was right. In room 6, during those 9 minutes repeated endlessly, they tried to destroy us. But in our evening circles, we rebuilt ourselves minute by minute, story by story, memory by memory; we were my father’s iron, struck, twisted, deformed, but not broken, never completely broken. One morning in August 1943, an officer entered the common room.
He said, “The building is closing; you will be transferred tomorrow.” Or ? Nobody knew, but we were too exhausted to ask questions, too broken. To fight us, they loaded us into a truck, the same kind that had brought me there. Direction unknown. During the journey, I looked through the cracks at the fields and villages.
I wondered if I would ever see Snis again. The truck stopped in front of a huge camp. Ravensbrook, the name we all dread, a camp for women. A fair one, over there . No more room, no more minutes, just work, hunger, slow death, I survived. I don’t know how, maybe out of habit. Perhaps because something inside me refused to die as long as I held onto those memories.
The evening circles were endless, but the stories remained within me: my father’s forge, Marguerite’s river, Thérèse’s poems , Simone’s philosophy. She was carrying me. The war continued. The allies were advancing, the bombings were getting closer. They arrived in April 1945. The doors have opened. We were free.
The word “free” sounded false. What is freedom? When we had lost everything, after the liberation, I returned to Sanli. Or at least what was left of it. The house had been looted, the furniture had disappeared, my father’s forge tools had been stolen, even the family photos hanging on the wall had been torn down.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, remained of my former life. I remember standing in front of that empty house for a whole hour, unable to move, unable even to cry. My body was there, physically present, but my mind was still elsewhere. A part of me had remained in that grey corridor, in that room with the iron bed, in those minutes that never really ended. An elderly neighbor, Mrs.
Rousseau, saw me and invited me into her home . She gave me some tea and stale bread. She looked at me with that pity that I would see so many times later in people’s eyes. This pity mixed with unease because he didn’t know what to say. Because he couldn’t understand what we had been through .
She asked me where I had been. I said it in Compiègne, in a building. She nodded as if she understood. But I could see that she didn’t understand anything. How could she have? I lived with my aunt Jeanne for a few months. She lived in a neighboring village. My aunt was nice, but a real stunner. She didn’t know how to talk to me.
She walked around me as if I were fragile, as if I were going to break. At the slightest word, the nights were the worst. I hardly ever slept . When I closed my eyes, I could see everything again. The corridor, the door, the faces of the soldiers and above all I saw the other girls again.
Marguerite was crying. Thérèse who was praying, Simone who was talking about resistance. All those voices were still echoing in my head. I woke up in a sweat, my heart pounding. Sometimes I would scream, my tent would run away and I would find myself huddled in a trembling corner. She never asked me what had happened, and I never told her.
Milovy says, “I found work in a textile factory. I sewed clothes from morning till night in a noisy workshop. The work helped me. As long as my hands were moving, I didn’t have to think. It was a way of keeping the madness at bay. The other women workers sometimes talked about the war. They recounted where they had been, what they had lost.
But I never spoke . When she asked me questions, I answered vaguely. I was in a detention center. No one pressed me. Some things were too painful to say. In Emil Theater, I met Henry. He worked as a mechanic in a garage. He was a quiet man with skillful hands and a gentle gaze. We met in a bakery. He smiled at me. I smiled back.
A hesitant smile, as if I had forgotten how. We started seeing each other.” He would take me for walks in the old lanes of Senley. He never asked about my past, and I never asked about his. We were two survivors trying to rebuild something on shattered foundations. Henry was patient, terribly patient. When I would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, he would take me in his arms and wait for the shaking to stop.
He never asked why. He was just there, present, solid. We were married in May in a small ceremony at the town hall. No big party, no music, just a signature and a shy kiss on the steps. We had two children. Marie was born in 1950. Jacques in 1953. I loved them. God, I loved them. With an intensity that sometimes frightened me.
When I held Marie for the first time, I cried, not from sadness, but from relief. That innocent little life was proof that something beautiful could still exist. to exist, that despite all the horror, it was possible to create love, hope. I was a good mother. At least, I tried. I fed them, clothed them, educated them. I sang lullabies.
I did everything a mother is supposed to do. But there was always this distance, this invisible barrier between me and the rest of the world. A part of me remained in that corridor and never fully returned. Marie, at 15, asked me one day, “Mom, why don’t you ever really smile?” I was unable to answer. How could I explain that my genuine smile had been torn from me years ago in a place whose existence she would never know ? Henry died in 1989 from lung cancer.
During the last few weeks, he asked me if I had been happy with him. I said yes. And it was n’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. Henry had been good. He had given me a home, children, a stable life. But the happiness, the true happiness I had known before, that had never returned to me.
How can you explain that you have spent your whole life trying to forget something that your body refuses to forget? That even in the sweetest moments, there was always a shadow? Always that number nine. In 2009, 66 years after my release, a young historian came to see me. Her name was Claire Dufren. She was researching makeshift detention centers during the occupation.
She had found my name in an incomplete register at the national archives. She wanted to know if I would agree to testify. I initially refused. Net. I was 84 years old. My hands were trembling. Why reopen this wound after spending my whole life trying to close it? But Claire came back several times. She was gentle and patient.
She wasn’t rushing me . She was just telling me your story deserves to be known so that it never happens again. And one day, after months of refusal, I gave in. Maybe because I was old, maybe because I knew I didn’t have much time left, or maybe because I realized something. If I didn’t speak, if I died in silence, then they would have won.
He took me minutes at a time. He had taken my youth, my dignity, but he would not take my voice. So, I sat in front of this camera in my small apartment in Saint on two afternoons in November 2009. Claire set up a tripod. She asked me questions and for the first time in 66 years, I spoke. I told him about the corridor, the grey door, the minutes, the girls’ faces, the names I had tried not to forget.
I told him about Simone and her storytelling circles, about Marguerite who no longer spoke, about Thérèse who prayed even when she no longer believed in anything. And I told him about that soldier, the one who sat in silence, the one who had said, “I’m sorry.” Claire asked me if I had forgiven her.
I answered no because for me, forgiving would have meant accepting that what had happened could be erased, and that cannot be done. It shouldn’t. But I also said that I now understand something broader: that war not only transforms the victims, it also transforms the executioners. And as long as we as humanity continue to build systems where human beings can be reduced to numbers, minutes, objects, nothing will really change.
The interview lasted for hours. I cried. Claire cried. When it was over, she hugged me. She said, “Thank you, Elise. Thank you for having the courage.” It wasn’t courage, it was a necessity. Silence had become a prison. By talking, I freed myself a little. The documentary was released in 2011.
It was called Minutes, Room 6. It was broadcast on television in France and Germany. Thousands of letters arrived from survivors I didn’t know, from families, historians, and young people. Some were saying, “I was there too. Thank you for speaking up for us.” Others, I didn’t imagine that existed. Now I know, and I will never forget .
I answered them all to the best of my ability . I have been invited to commemorations and to conferences in schools. I was speaking to young people. I showed them photos of the building. I was telling them about the evening circles. They listened in silence. Some were crying. A young girl once told me, ” Thanks to you, I know that dignity can survive anything, even the unspeakable.” I cried.
My family discovered everything through the documentary. They cried, they hugged me . They said, “Why didn’t you tell us anything?” I answered: “Because I didn’t want you to grow up with that shadow. I wanted you to know a world where those things belonged to the past. But now I understand that silence doesn’t protect anyone, that silence actually does, and allows those things to happen again .
I died in March in a small hospital room in Compiègne, not far from where it had all begun, seventy years earlier. I was 18, my body was worn out, but my mind was clear. My children were there, Marie was holding my hand. Jacques was at the foot of the bed. I smiled at them. I told them: “Don’t cry too much, I’m finally going to rest.
” They cried anyway, but they understood. Before closing my eyes, I thought about everything again: Slis, my father’s forge, the truck, the gray corridor, room six, the minutes, the girls’ faces. But I also thought about what I had kept from the evening circle, the stories, To Simone, who refused to forget, to Marguerite’s river, to Thérèse’s poem .
I thought of Henry, of Marie, of Jacques, of this life I had built. Despite everything, and I thought of you, of those listening to this story today, I want you to know one last thing. What they did to us was monstrous. They tried to reduce us to objects, to minutes, to nothing. But they didn’t succeed because we kept what they couldn’t take from us: our memories, our names, our voices, our stories.
In Room 6, for nine minutes at a time, they tried to destroy us. But in our evening circles , we rebuilt ourselves, story after story, memory after memory. We were my father’s iron, struck, twisted , deformed, but not broken, never completely broken. To you who are listening, I leave you a message. The last one: never let a system decide who deserves to be human.
When you see Speak out against injustice. When you see silence, break it. When someone says “That was a long time ago,” reply “No, it’s today, if we forget, to protect the dignity of each and every one of us.” Because dignity is not a luxury, it is what makes us human. I was robbed of 9 minutes at a time.
They stole my youth, my confidence, but they didn’t steal my right to tell you. So, I tell you, with all that I have left, keep it, pass it on, and if one day you hear a story like mine, listen to it to the end. Because as long as there is someone to listen, to remember, to refuse to forget, we will not have truly left.
We will still be there in your memories, in your voices, standing tall. Elise Martilleux. Yeah.
