My name is Sister Marie-Thérèse. In 1943, I was 24 years old. Today, I am 86. I have never spoken about this, not to my superiors, not to my fellow nuns, not even to my confessor. But time passes and the silence weighs heavily. So, before I leave, I want someone to know, someone to remember. We were seven sisters in the small convent of Saint-Joseph near Compène.
We treat the wounded, we hide Jews, we pass messages, we pray. One morning in September at 5 a.m., the trucks arrived. The soldiers knocked on the door. They shouted in German and then in French. Open Guestapu! I can still remember the sound of boots on the cloister tiles. I remember the upper sea coming out before us, arms outstretched, and calmly saying: “My daughters, remain dignified.
God sees us.” They made us leave in a line. We were in formal attire. The wind was cold. They pushed us into a truck. I remember the look of a little sister, Sister Claire, barely 10 years old . She was trembling. I took her hand and said, “Don’t be afraid, we ‘re together.” We didn’t yet know that we would never return.
We drove for hours. The truck was covered with a tarpaulin, it was dark. We were huddled together . I could feel Sister Claire’s breathing against my shoulder. She was still trembling, nobody was speaking. From time to time, the Mother Superior would whisper: “Hail Mary!” We answered in unison, very quietly.
That was all we had left. Around noon, the truck stopped. We were made to get off the train. We were in a barracks courtyard. Somewhere in Germany. I don’t remember exactly where. Perhaps near Cologne. There was barbed wire, watchtowers, and barking dogs. An SS officer looked at us. He smiled, a cold smile.
He said in French with a harsh accent, “Interesting nuns.” We were separated from men. There were also priests, resistance fighters, and Jews. We never saw them again. We were taken to a separate barracks. There were already other women there, Polish, Belgian, and French women too. Some of these states have been there for months.
They were barely talking to you anymore . In the evening, we were given hot water soup with peelings. We ate in silence. Then we were ordered to undress completely. I still remember the shame. We were nuns. We had taken vows of chastity. We had never shown our bodies, not even to another sister. But the guards were there, women in grey uniforms.
They were shouting, they were hitting with their batons. We obeyed. We lined up naked . The guards shaved our heads, all of us, even the Mother Superior who was seventy-two years old. I remember the sound of the lawnmowers, the cold on my head, the tears that flowed silently.
Then, we were tattooed with a number on our forearm. Mine was 5784. I still have it. He is pale now, but he is there. We were given a striped uniform, a purple triangle. Bibelforcheur, Bible researcher. It was the signal for religious conscientious objectors, Jehovah’s Witnesses , but they put us with her because we refused to work for the war effort.
In the first few days, we prayed a lot. We believed that God would protect us, that our faith would be our shield. But very quickly, we realized that God there seemed very far away. The first few days at the camp, I don’t remember how many there were, maybe three, maybe five, time was already slipping away. We were given our jobs the very next day at dawn, by phone.
They counted us, they made us run. If one of them fell, they were hit. Then we were sent to the factory. We were manufacturing shells. Shells for German rifles, shells that killed our brothers, our fathers, our soldiers. The Mother Superior refused. She said: “We will not work for the war, it is against our faith.
” So, we were beaten every day with sticks, with belts, with fists. I remember a guard, her name was Irma, tall, blonde. She laughed when she hit. She said, “Your prayers no longer protect you, my little nuns. Here, I am your God.” One evening, after the phone call, she separated us. She took Sister Claire. She was 19 years old. She was so pretty.
Come for yourself. She took him to a separate barracks, the one for the CS officers. We waited all night. We prayed, we wept in silence. Sister Claire returned in the morning. She was walking with difficulty. His face was suspicious, his eyes empty. She no longer spoke, she no longer prayed.
She simply stared at the ground. I took her in my arms. I whispered to him, ” The Lord sees you.” He knows. She looked at me for the first time since her return and she said to me quietly. He wasn’t there, Sister Marie-Thérèse, he wasn’t there. That night, I understood that faith could be broken. The following weeks, it was our turn to take turns .
One sister per night, sometimes two. The officers arrived after dinner. They drank, they laughed, they chose us like one chooses a bottle of wine. I remember my turn. It was in November. It was cold. The officer was tall and blond. He smelled of alcohol and tobacco. He looked at me. He has r. A French nun. This is going to be interesting.
I didn’t scream, I didn’t fight. I was just away. My body was there, but I was somewhere else . I was reciting the rosary in my head. One. Hail Mary for everything he did. When it was over , he threw me to the ground. He said, “You can pray now, my little one, but God can no longer hear you.
” I lay there for a long time . I was bleeding. I was trembling with cold and shame. Mighty Claire has come. She covered me with her blanket. She took my hand. She said nothing. She just cried with me. After that, there were five of us who had experienced that. The Mother Superior and Sister Agnes were spared longer because they were older.
But one day, it was the Mother Superior’s turn. She was 62 years old. She came back broken. She no longer spoke, she no longer prayed, she stared into space. One evening, she took me aside. She told me, “My, my daughter, if we leave here, never say a word. Never. This is our cross, we will bear it in silence.
” I nodded, I remained silent. For years, the winter of 1944 was the hardest. The cold seeped in everywhere. In the barracks, the temperature dropped to -10°C. Seven of us slept on a plank only 1.5 meters wide. The blankets were thin. We shivered all night, but the cold in our bodies was nothing compared to the cold in our souls.
After the first few months, the abuse became a daily occurrence. Not just the rapes, it was worse than that. It was systematic humiliation, the pleasure they took in breaking us. Every evening after roll call, the officers would choose, sometimes one, sometimes several. Sometimes they would make us wait naked in the courtyard in -20°C until one of us fainted.
I remember One December night, they made all seven of us go outside. We were in our shirts, barefoot in the snow. A drunken officer lined us up. He said, ” Sing, sing your hymns. I want to hear your prayers.” We sang the Ave Maria. Our voices trembled, our teeth chattered. He laughed, he made us start again.
When Sister Claire stumbled on a phrase, he struck her in the face with his riding crop. Blood flowed onto the snow. “Sing louder.” Then he took her away. We sang until morning, alone in the courtyard to drown out her cries. When she came back, she couldn’t walk. Two guards dragged her; she was bleeding heavily.
We laid her on the plank. We prayed all night. She died at dawn, 19 years old. We didn’t cry. We had no more tears. The Mother Superior said, “Let’s bury her properly.” But the guards laughed. They threw The body lay in the mass grave with the others, without a coffin, without a prayer. That day, something broke inside us. Faith was no longer a refuge.
It had become a weapon against us. They used our faith to humiliate us further. One day, an officer said to me, laughing, “You still pray, my little nun.” Pray that I will be gentle tonight. I stopped praying, not like before. I began to hate. Hatred against them, hatred against myself, hatred against God who seemed to have abandoned us.
But we were still resisting in our own way. We were sabotaging the work, we were breaking the shells. We slowed down the chains, we hid messages. We were helping Polish women escape. One night in January, we managed to help two Polish sisters escape. They crossed the barbed wire, they ran through the snow, they disappeared.
The next day, collective punishment. We were made to stand in the courtyard from 5 a.m. to midnight in -25°C weather. barefoot in a shirt. Three of us fell. Sister Agnes froze to death. The Mother Superior lost consciousness. I held her in my arms until the guards brought us back. That night, I swore not to God, but to myself.
If I survive, I will bear witness one day. But I didn’t yet know that the worst was yet to come. Spring 1944. The camp changes. Trains are arriving more frequently. thousands of women, Hungarian, Greek, Italian. The camp is completely full. We are still here. There are only five of us left now. Sister Claire is dead, Sister Agnes too.
The abuses continue, but they are becoming almost routine. We no longer shout, we no longer cry, we wait for it to end. One day, a new doctor arrives, a young SS officer. His name is Mengele. He is called the angel of death. He selected the five French nuns for us. He makes us get naked. He examines us, he notes everything.
Height, weight, eye color, skull shape. He smiled and said, “An interesting specimen of a non-Catholic.” I am going to study spiritual resistance. We are transferred to a separate block, block 10, the experiments block. It’s absolute hell there. They inject products into our veins, into our stomach, into our neck.
I remember an injection in the uterus, an excruciating burn. I screamed for hours. I was tied up. Sister Jeanne, 28 , received an injection in her eyes to change the color. She went blind. The Mother Superior refused an experiment. She said, “You can kill my body but not my soul.” They forcibly sterilized him while he was still alive, without anesthesia.
She died of hemorrhage 3 days later. I held her in my arms. She whispered to me, “Forgive them, they know not what they do.” I nodded my head, but deep down , I couldn’t forgive. At night in block 10, we could hear the screams all night long. women who were operated on, twins who were separated, children who… I can’t even talk about it today.
One day, I was chosen for a sterilization experiment. They cut open my stomach. They burned the green plants with a hot iron. I fainted. When I woke up, I was on the table. The doctor was smoking a cigarette. He said, “No more children for you, my little nun. You will serve humanity better that way.” I haven’t had my period anymore. Never.
We were guinea pigs , objects, but we still resisted. We supported each other, we shared bread, we recited psalms quietly. Sister Louise, the youngest remaining, aged 22, began to lose her mind. She spoke to God aloud . She said he was answering her. One evening, a guard heard him. He took him away.
He raped her in front of us to punish us. She didn’t speak after that. We were shadows, numbers. soulless bodies . But deep down, very deep down, a small flame still burned. The flame of hatred and hope, the hope that one day it would end. January 1945, the Allied bombings begin. We can hear the sirens, we can see the planes in the distance.
We know the end is approaching, but for us, this is the most dangerous moment. The SS are going crazy. They know they are going to lose. They want to erase the traces. Executions are increasing. The gas chambers are operating at full capacity. The mass graves are filling up. One morning in January, we were gathered together.
All the women in block 10. We are told it’s a death march westward. We set off on foot in -20°C weather, wearing wooden clogs and striped uniforms. The guards hit us to make us move forward. Those that fall are shot on the spot. I walk next to Sister Louise. She hasn’t spoken in a long time . She’s holding my hand. We walk for days.
Some nights, we sleep in barns in the snow. We eat snow. Many fall. Sister Jeanne, the blind woman, falls on the third day. A guard hits her, she doesn’t get up. He was abandoned on the side of the road. I’m crying for the first time in months. After ten days, there are only three of us left.
Me, Sister Louise, and a Polish woman, Anna. The roads are full of columns, thousands of prisoners, fleeing civilians. Allied planes are flying over us. They sometimes machine-gun the columns. They don’t know who we are. One day, a British plane strafed us. Sister Louise is moved. She falls. I kneel beside her. She looks at me. She smiled.
Finally, she said, “I’m going to see him, she’s dying in my arms. I’m staying here, I don’t want to walk anymore. A guard hits me. I’m not moving.” She raises her weapon, but an SS officer stops her. He said, “Smooth it out, it won’t last much longer.” They leave again. I remain alone with Sister Louise’s body in the snow.
I pray for the first time in a long time , not for myself, but for her. Then I get up and walk alone. I walk for three days. I steal apples from an abandoned farm. I drink the water from the puddles. On May 8th, I heard distant gunshots, then engines, tanks. I’m hiding in a ditch. A tank passes by. It has a white star. American. I’m going out.
I raise my arms. I’m shouting in French. Don’t shoot, I’m French. The tank stops. A soldier gets out. He looks at me, he sees the striped uniform, the number, the rat-like hair, he says nothing. He takes off his jacket. He puts it on my shoulders. He said in English, “Over, you’re free.” I fall to my knees.
I’m crying for the first time in two years. I am free, but I am not the same anymore. May 1945, I am free but I don’t know what to do with this freedom. The Americans took me to a field hospital. They fed me. They washed me. They gave me civilian clothes. An American doctor examined me.
He saw the scars, the burns, the tattooed number. He said nothing. He just nodded. He wrote on a card: severe trauma, permanent sterility, fragile psychological state . I stayed there for three weeks. I slept a lot, I didn’t talk to anyone. Then I was repatriated to France by train with other deportees. In Paris, we were welcomed like heroines, with speeches, medals, and flowers.
I smiled, I said thank you, but deep down, I felt dirty, ashamed, unworthy. I returned to the convent, the same one near Compène. The sisters who had stayed behind welcomed me with open arms. They were crying. She said, “Sister, you’ve come back . God is great.” I said nothing. I went to my cell. I knelt down .
I tried to pray, but the words wouldn’t come. At night, I had nightmares. I relived everything: the beatings, the rapes, the screams, the cold. I would wake up screaming. The nuns would come. They would take me in their arms. They would say, “It’s over, you’re home.” But it wasn’t over. It would never end .
I asked to be transferred to a different convent. Far, far away. I was sent to Brittany, to a small convent by the sea. There, I began to pray again, slowly and with difficulty. I put the habit back on, I resumed attending services. But I never spoke of the camp, never. The years passed. 1950, 1960, 1970. I
cared for the sick, I taught… I attended catechism, I gardened, I smiled. I was calm, obedient, but inside, the silence screamed. One day, a young sister asked me, “Mother, you were deported, weren’t you?” “Did you suffer?” I hesitated. I said, “Yes, but it’s over. “God protected me.” She looked at me. She said, “You don’t pray like you used to, I can tell.
” I cried for the first time in 40 years. That night, I wrote a letter to the Mother Superior General. I told him everything, everything. She replied, “My daughter, you have borne your cross alone for too long. Come and see me.” I went to Paris. I spoke to him . For three days, she listened to me without interrupting.
She was crying with me. In the end, she told me, “You have nothing to reproach yourself for. You are a victim and a saint. Your silence was an act of love to protect others, to protect the Church.” I didn’t believe it, but I was relieved. She gave me permission to speak if I wanted, to a psychologist, to a priest. I began therapy in secret.
I spoke for years. I cried, I screamed, I hated, and slowly, very slowly, I forgave. Not them, I could never forgive them, but myself. The years spent living in the convent in Brittany. I tend the garden. I care for the sick in the village. I pray a lot. Outwardly, I am a good nun, calm, smiling, obedient. But inside, silence is a wall.
A wall I built myself to protect myself, to protect others. I never speak of the camp, never. The nights, the nightmares They come back. I wake up in a sweat. I see the barracks again, the guards, the officers, the shouts. I get up, I go to the chapel. I pray until dawn. A nun sometimes finds me. She asks me, “Mother, aren’t you sleeping?” I answer. I pray for souls.
She doesn’t insist . The First Vatican Council changes everything. Habits fall away. Convents open up. People speak more freely. A young novice nun asks me questions about the war. She saw my number tattooed when I rolled up my sleeve to garden. I tell her, “That’s nothing, an old story.” But she insists. She says, “Mother, you are carrying too heavy a cross alone.
” I cry again. That night, I write a long letter to the bishop. I tell him everything, absolutely everything. He comes to see me, he listens, he cries with me. He tells me, “You have not sinned.” You have been martyred. Your silence was a sacrifice, but now you have the right to speak if you wish.” I don’t want to yet, but I’m starting to think about it.
In the 1980s, I became superior of the convent. I was 60 years old. I guided the young sisters. I spoke to them about faith, suffering, and resilience, but never about the camp. Years after liberation, a ceremony was organized at the Ravensbrück camp. I was invited, but I refused at first. I said, “I’m too old.
” But deep down, I was afraid. The Mother General insisted. “You must go.” For the others, for those who did not return. I’m going . I can still see the barracks, the chimneys, the ditches. I’m trembling, I’m crying. A Polish survivor recognizes me. She takes me in her arms.” She says, “You are alive. It’s a miracle. We talk all night.
For the first time, I speak a little. I’m going home to change. I am beginning to secretly write my memoirs, page after page. I don’t know if I’ll publish them, but I’m writing so I don’t forget, so that someone will know. I am 86 years old. I still live in the small convent in Brittany. I am almost blind.
My hands are trembling but my head is clear. One day, a young journalist came to see me. She is preparing a book about religious deportees. She heard about me from the bishop. She asks me, “Sister, do you want to speak for future generations?” I remain silent for a long time. I look out the window. The mother is calm.
I am thinking of Sister Claire, Sister Louise, the Mother Superior, and all those who did not return. I think of my six years of silence, of the promise made to the upper sea. We will bear our cross in silence. But she is dead, they are all dead. And I’m still here . I told the journalist, “Yes, I will speak, but not for myself, for her, so that we do not forget what they did to us, what they did to women who had done nothing but pray and care.
” “We talk for days.” I tell him everything without hiding anything. The beatings, the rapes, the experiments, the deaths. She is crying. I’m not crying anymore. I’ve finished crying. The book was published in 2007. It is called The Silence of the Sisters. It doesn’t sell well, but it is read. Letters are arriving, from survivors, daughters of survivors, historians.
They tell me: “Thank you, you have broken the silence for all of us. I receive invitations to speak in schools, universities, and at commemorations. At first, I refuse; I am too old, too frail. And in 2008, for the 75th anniversary of our arrest, I go to the memorial in Compiègne. I speak before 200 people.
My voice trembles, but I speak. I say, ‘We were women of faith.'” We thought God would protect us. He didn’t do it, but he gave us the strength to survive, to remember, and today to speak out.” At the end, a fifteen-year-old girl came to see me. She took my hand and said, “My sister, thank you, because of you I know that faith can survive anything, even hell.
” I’m crying for the first time in public since that day. I speak in schools, on television, in books. I’m telling the truth, the whole truth. I say that we have been raped, tortured, dehumanized. I say that some have lost their faith, that others have kept it, that all have a cross that no one should have to bear.
I say that forgiveness is possible, but forgetting is not. Today, in 2009, I am 90 years old. I am the last survivor of our group. I know I’m leaving soon, but I’m not afraid anymore. I spoke, I testified. My cross is no longer alone. It is supported by all those who listen. Today, I am 90 years old.
I am the last, the last of our little group of seven sisters. The last one to wear that number on her arm. The last one I remember. I am sitting in my cell. The window overlooks the sea. The Breton wind blows in gently. It smells of salt, it smells of freedom. I’m no longer afraid to speak. I am no longer ashamed. I finally understood that the shame did not lie with us. She belonged to them.
I often think of Sister Claire, of her years, of her shy smile, of her eyes that have gone dark. I think of the Mother Superior, of her strength, of her calm voice when she said, “Remain dignified.” I’m thinking of Sister Louise, Sister Jeanne, Sister Agnes. They did not die in vain. They died so that I might live, so that I might speak, so that you might know.
I have not forgiven. I do not forgive. Forgiveness is beyond my strength, but I have accepted it. I have accepted that hatred no longer consumes me. God, I don’t blame him anymore. I believe he was there. In our silent prayers, in our clasped hands , in our refusal to become like them. He was there when we shared our last piece of bread, when we covered a sister with a blanket, when we murmured a psalm to cover the cries.
He was there in his own way. Today, when a young girl comes to me and asks, “Sister, how did you survive?” I replied to her: “Thanks to her, thanks to all of us, thanks to the love that was stronger than hate, I also told her: “Never let anyone make you believe that you are less than human. Even in hell, you remain a child of God or simply human.
And that, nobody can take away from you. I’m going to leave soon, I can feel it. My body is tired but my heart is at peace. I no longer have nightmares. I dream about them. They are young, they smile. They reach out to me . I know they are waiting for me . Before I leave, I want to tell you one last thing.
To you who are listening, to you who have heard what I have never said for 62 years. THANKS. Thank you for listening. Thank you for carrying a little of our cross with us. Never forget, never forget what man can do to man when he forgets that he is human. And don’t forget that even in the worst hell, love, dignity, and solidarity can survive.
This is our victory, the only one that matters. I bless you from the bottom of my broken and healed heart. Bye.
