I kept silent for six years, not by choice, but because there are things that, when told, destroy the listener. And because there were men, powerful men on the victorious side of the war, who did not want me to speak. My name is Hélène Du Valallet, I am 80 years old and what I am about to tell you is the first and last time I allow someone to record my voice.
I’m not doing this for justice. Justice died with me in 1943 in a windowless room in the basement of a building that never appeared on any official map of the German occupation of France. I’m doing this because if I die without speaking, those 71 days will have been erased from history and the men who locked me up there will have won twice. I’m going to be clear from the start.
What happened to me is not in the history books. There is no photograph, there is no official document. The Germans destroyed everything before retreating, and the Allies, when they liberated the region, preferred not to investigate. There were so many greater horrors, so many mass graves, so many extermination camps that a small clandestine detention center where 11 women disappeared without a trace was not worth mentioning.
But I survived, and that made them furious. Today, sitting here in front of these French researchers who finally found me, I know that my voice is trembling. I know my breath catches when certain words try to come out, but every word I’m about to say is true. Every detail, every sound, every smell, I remember it as if it happened yesterday.
If you have ever heard of the Nazi occupation of France, you probably know stories of resistance, brutal prisons, camps like Drancy or Ravensbruck, but no one has heard of what happened in Ville Mor on the East because Ville Mort should never have existed. And perhaps by listening to my story, you will understand why there are truths that some prefer to bury forever.
Because what they did to me and the other women who were there wasn’t just cruelty, it was an experience. And the results were so disturbing that when the war ended, they preferred to pretend that this place had never existed. But it did exist, and I was there for 7 days. Before we continue, you need to understand one thing.
I wasn’t special. I was not a heroine of the resistance. I was not a spy. I had no Jewish blood. I was just a 18-year-old girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and saw something she should never have seen. It was Friday, March 12, 1943 . It was raining heavily in the small town of Louvier in Normandy where I had been living with my aunt since my parents died in a British bombing raid in 1940.
I worked in a textile factory that had been requisitioned by the Germans to produce military uniforms. The work was exhausting but it kept me alive and in those days just being alive was enough. That afternoon, verse, I left the factory through the side door, as I always did, to avoid being searched by the German guards at the main entrance.
I was carrying a piece of bread that I had hidden in my apron pocket. It wasn’t theft, it was survival. But as I turned the corner onto Rue de la Madeleine, I saw something I should never have seen. Two German soldiers, an SS officer with the Sturmban Fury insignia and another younger one from Vermarthe, retrieved something wrapped in a tarpaulin from the back of a military truck.
The tarpaulin was stained with red and when moving it, the tarpaulin opened for a moment. I saw a woman’s face. She was dead, her eyes still open, her mouth slightly open, blood flowing from her nose. I froze. The officer turned his face in my direction. Our eyes met and I knew, at that exact second, that my life had just ended.
He didn’t shout, he didn’t run, he simply nodded to the young soldiers and said in German with terrifying calm: “Dida! The girl is over there, bring her over.” If this story touches you in any way, if you feel that stories like Helen’s need to be told, leave a comment saying where you’re looking from. This helps us continue to bring to light testimonies that should never be forgotten.
I ran, my God, how I ran. I ran up the Rue de la Madeleine , without looking back, my heart pounding in my chest, my lungs burning. I heard shouts in German behind me, heavy footsteps, the sound of boots hitting wet asphalt. I turned left, then right. I went into an alley that led to the old market. I jumped over a fence.
I tore my dress on barbed wire. I kept running, but they They had radios, they turned out to be trucks. And me, I only had my legs. I couldn’t reach my tent. I was captured three blocks away, on Saint-Pierre Street, by three German soldiers who threw me to the ground with such force that I felt my shoulder dislocate.
One of them put his knee in my back, another pulled me up by my hair. The third just watched, smoking a cigarette, while I screamed for help: “Nobody came.” Nobody ever came. They threw me into the back of a military truck covered with a tarpaulin. Inside, there were already two other women. One was about 30 years old, with black hair and trembling hands.
The other was older, perhaps fifty years old, and kept crying softly. Nobody said anything. The truck started to move and for almost two hours the three of us stayed there in the dark, hearing only the sound of the engine, the creaking of the suspension on the potholed roads and occasionally the laughter of the soldiers in the cab.
When we finally stopped, the tarpaulin was torn off. The daylight had already disappeared. We were in an isolated place, surrounded by trees. There was a low grey concrete building with few windows. There was no sign, there was no flag. There was nothing to indicate what this place was. But I could feel it in the air.
That was the end. They dragged me inside. We went down a narrow staircase. The smell was unbearable. Mold, urine, something rotten. The walls were made of damp concrete, stained with mold. Faint light bulbs hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. At the end of the corridor, there was a metal door. They opened the door and pushed me inside.
The room was at most 4m wide by 6m long. There was a thin mattress on the floor, a jump around the corner and this other woman, very young, very scared, very dirty, thin with empty eyes. One of them looked at me and said in broken French, “Welcome to the place that doesn’t exist,” and then the door slammed shut behind me with a metallic crash I’ve never forgotten.
Hélène du Valallé had just entered a nightmare that would last eleven days, a place where women disappeared without a trace, where German soldiers conducted something that was never officially recorded, and where, on the sixth day, something so disturbing happened that the German soldiers themselves destroyed all the records before retreating .
What happened in that room? Why were these women chosen? And what did Hélène see on the last day that, decades later, still wakes her up screaming? The truth is about to be revealed, and you won’t believe the lengths they went to to erase it from history. I’ll tell you something. Something historians don’t like to hear. War doesn’t turn you into a hero; it turns you into an animal.
In that room, during the first two days, I realized that everything I thought I knew about myself was wrong. I thought I was brave. I thought I could endure pain. I thought that if I were ever captured, I would resist. But resistance dies very quickly when you are deprived of everything. The first night, I didn’t sleep.
None of us slept. There were nine of us women crammed into that narrow room. Nine trembling bodies, nine ragged breaths, nine desperate souls staring at the ceiling in near-total darkness. The only light came from a small bulb above the door. A dirty, yellow light that flickered intermittently. It never went out completely.
That was intentional. He wanted us to never know if it was day or night. After a few hours, one of the women, the one who had taken me in , She approached me. Her name was Marguerite. She was 24 years old. She had been there for 11 days. “Listen to me carefully,” she whispered. “There are rules here.
If you follow them, you can survive. If you don’t, you disappear.” I looked at her, my heart pounding. What kind of rule is that? She glanced toward the door, then continued in a low voice. “Rule number one: never look the soldiers in the eye. Never. If you meet their gaze, they’ll think you’re for interrogation.” ” Interrogation? Don’t ask,” she cut me off.
“Rule number two: if he calls you, you go immediately. If you resist, he’ll drag you, and if he drags you, you’ll come back in pieces.” A shiver ran through me. ” And the third rule?” Marguerite hesitated. Then she said in a barely audible voice, “Don’t trust anyone here, not even…” Me. The morning of the second day, well, I suppose it was morning because we heard more frequent footsteps upstairs.
The door opened suddenly. A German soldier entered. young, perhaps 18 years old, blond, with an impassive face. He pointed at two women at random. From the one of Raos, you and you, outside. The two women stood up, trembling. One of them, a thin redhead in her thirties , began to cry softly. Bit, bit, n please. Please.
No. The soldier did not reply. He pushed them out of the room. The door closed. We remained silent. 10 minutes later, we heard screams. High-pitched, piercing cries came from somewhere above us. Then a dull thud, like something heavy falling, then silence. The two women returned three hours later. The redhead had a nosebleed.
She said nothing. She lay down on the mattress and stared at the wall, her eyes wide open, her breathing rapid. The other woman, a brunette with a sallow face, sat down in a corner and began to rock back and forth while murmuring something in Polish. Marguerite approached her. She tried to talk to them.
They did not respond. And it was at that moment that I understood what the Germans were doing here had nothing to do with interrogation. It wasn’t to obtain information, it was to destroy. On the third day, they came to get me . I still remember the sound of the key in the lock, the creaking of the door, the harsh light from the hallway hitting me right in the face.
Two soldiers, not the same ones as the day before , but older ones. One of them was wearing a badge that I didn’t recognize . Like a myth, you come. I watched Marguerite. She looked away . I got up. My legs were shaking so much that I almost fell. They led me down a long, narrow corridor. The walls were covered in brownish stains. The smell was unbearable, a mixture of disinfectants, sweat, and something metallic.
We turned left, then right. Then we went up a small staircase and there they led me into a room that I will never forget . It was a cold, rectangular room , lit by two lamps hanging from the ceiling. In the center, there was a metal chair. Nothing else. A German officer was standing near the window. He was smoking a cigarette.
When I entered, he turned around slowly. He was about 40 years old, with very short grey hair, icy blue eyes and a calmness that terrified me more than any violence. He looked at me for a long time, then he smiled. This ZCI, sit down. I hesitated. One of the soldiers pushed me towards the chair. I sat down.
The officer approached. He placed his cigarette on the windowsill. Then he took a small notebook out of his pocket and opened it. Hélène du Valallet, he said in French with a marked German accent, 19 years old, born in Rouen, parent died in 1940, has been working at the textile factory in Louvier for 2 years. He closed the notebook.
You are not a resistance fighter, you are not Jewish, you are nothing. He leaned so close to me that I could smell the tobacco on his breath. So, why are you here? I didn’t reply. My throat was tight. He smiled again. You are here because you saw something, something you should never have seen. He straightened up.
And now, you’re going to help us understand how to prevent other people from seeing what you saw. I blinked in confusion. I don’t understand. You don’t need to understand. He cut it off. You just need to obey. He signaled to the soldiers. One of them placed a small metal box on the table next to me. The officer opened the box.
Inside, there were tools, pliers, blades, syringes. My senses went cold. “We’re going to do some tests,” he said calmly, to see how far an ordinary person can go before completely losing their mind. And that’s when I understood. We were not prisoners, we were guinea pigs. They called it Das Programm. The program.
I only found out much later, years after the war, when I met a former deportee who had worked as a forced translator for Vermarthe. He told me that Ville Mor on the East was not an ordinary detention center, it was an experimental site. The Germans wanted to know how long a person could withstand total deprivation of sleep, food, and dignity before becoming psychologically unusable.
He wanted to measure the thresholds of human suffering. Not to torture, but to understand, to document, to create a reproducible model. And we, the women of that cellar, were their subjects. But what I understood much later was that this program was not isolated. It was part of a series of experiments conducted at several clandestine sites across occupied France.
Places that did not appear in any official records. Places where the prisoners had no names, no identity, no hope. We were numbers, variables in an equation, bodies used to test how far the human mind could be pushed before it completely broke. On the second day, they started waking us up every hour. The door opened suddenly.
A harsh light flooded the room. A soldier was shouting in German. We had to get up immediately, stand against the wall, with our hands behind our heads. He counted to 60, slowly, methodically, as if he were timing our reactions. Then he would leave . An hour later, he would come back again and again and again.
It wasn’t random, it was calculated. He knew exactly what he was doing. It destroyed our ability to distinguish day from night, sleep from wakefulness, reality from nightmare. After three days, I no longer knew if I was awake or asleep. My mind was floating between two states.
I saw shadows that did not exist . I could hear voices that weren’t there. Sometimes I would wake up screaming, convinced that someone was strangling me, but there was no one there. The other women were experiencing the same thing. One of them woke up screaming that there were insects on her. She scratched herself until she bled.
Another woman spoke to invisible people, whispering entire conversations with the dead. And the soldiers watched. They were taking notes. They barely touched us. He didn’t need to do that. We were destroying ourselves. Marguerite cracked first. She started screaming in the middle of the night or day, I couldn’t remember.
She was screaming that she wanted to die, that she couldn’t take it anymore, that she would prefer he kill her right away. She pounded on the door with her fists until her hands bled. She begged, she cried, she vomited. Two soldiers entered. They didn’t hit him. They just looked at her with that cold, clinical expression, as if she were a laboratory animal that had failed an experiment.
Then they dragged him outside. She never came back . And we all understood at that moment that begging was useless, that giving in meant disappearing. So, we all tried to hold on, to remain silent, to show nothing. But that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to see how far we could go by holding everything in .
He wanted to measure how long it would take before our silence turned into madness. But what was even more terrifying than the physical deprivations was the absolute silence of the soldiers. He never laughed. He never insulted us. He almost never hit us, only when it was strictly necessary to make us obey. They acted like technicians, like scientists in a laboratory.
Each day, a different officer would come to observe us through a small barred window in the door. He was taking notes in a black notebook. He was asking questions in German to another soldier. Then he would leave again. I didn’t understand German, but I eventually recognized some words that came up often.
Reaction, Witherst, Zusammenbrur, reaction, resistance, collapse. We were not prisoners, we were data. One day, one of them opened the door and asked us in broken French, ” Who among you has suicidal thoughts?” No one responded. He repeated the question louder, scanning our faces one by one. A woman, the one who had been whispering in Polish for several days, slowly raised her hand. His eyes were glassy.
She didn’t even seem to understand where she was anymore. The officer smiled. He made a sign. Two soldiers entered and took him away . She came back the next day, but she wasn’t the same anymore. She no longer spoke, she no longer ate. She remained seated in a corner, her eyes fixed, her mouth slightly open, her breathing irregular.
It only moved to sway back and forth , slowly, like a broken metronome. Three days later, she died. They removed her body during the night, without a word, without ceremony, as if she had never existed. The next morning, there was a new woman in the room, younger, perhaps years old. She cried incessantly, curled up in a corner, and the cycle began again.
On the 22nd day, I was counting by tracing invisible marks in my mind. They started giving us poisoned food. Not fatally, just enough to make us sick. Diarrhea, vomiting, fever. The food had a metallic, bitter taste, but we were so hungry that some of us ate anyway. Others refused. They preferred to starve to death rather than accept what he gave us.
They died within a few days, slowly, painfully. Their bodies went out like candles. I ate because survival, even in pain, was still preferable to death. But every bite tore at my stomach. Every night, I woke up in a sweat, my stomach twisted by unbearable cramps. And they observed, they noted, they measured how long it took us to get sick, how long it took to recover, how many times we could be poisoned before our bodies stopped reacting.
But the worst thing wasn’t the food, it was the gradual dehumanization. They stopped calling us by our first names. We were now just numbers. I was number sep. They tattooed it on our wrists with black ink. An indelible mark. A constant reminder that we were no longer human beings. They shaved our heads. Not for hygiene reasons, but to remove the last thing that connected us to our identity.
When they shaved my head, I cried. Not because I cared about my hair, but because when I looked at myself in the blurry reflection of a broken window, I no longer recognized myself. They gave us identical grey gowns, too big, which smelled of disinfectant and death. They were stained with dried blood, the blood of other women who had been there before us.
And then they forced us to stand naked for hours in a freezing room while an officer examined our bodies like laboratory animals. He took measurements, he noted our weights, he inspected our teeth, our nails, our eyes. He spoke about us in the third person as if we weren’t there. Yesterday istvar nicht lang durchalten.
This one is too weak, it won’t last long and little by little, something inside us began to die. Not our bodies, but our humanity. We stopped looking each other in the eyes. We hardly spoke to each other anymore . We simply existed. We breathed, we waited, we waited for death. Or worse, we were waiting to become like the one who was already dead inside.
There was a woman among us named Elise. She was 22 years old. She was a school teacher before the war. She often spoke to me in a low voice during the rare moments when the soldiers were not there. She told me stories, stories of her life before, of her students, of the small house she shared with her sister, of her dream of becoming a writer.
When we get out of here, she told me: “I’m going to write all of this down. I’m going to tell what they did to us so the world knows.” I wanted to believe her, but deep down I already knew that none of us would ever leave that place alive. And yet, Elise continued to talk, continued to dream, continued to believe.
She was the only one who refused to be broken, the only one who still had a glimmer in her eyes. But the soldiers noticed her and decided to test her until the day they came to get her for what they called the final evaluation. Four soldiers entered. They pointed at Elise. She stood up slowly. His face was calm, almost serene.
Before leaving, she looked at me and said, “If I don’t come back, remember me.” I nodded, tears in my eyes, and she left. She returned six hours later. His face was grey. Her hands were trembling. She could no longer walk properly. One of the soldiers literally threw him into the room. She collapsed to the ground. I rushed towards her.
Hey, what did they do to you? She looked at me. And her eyes? His eyes were no longer human. They were empty, lifeless, as if everything that made her a person had been sucked away. She opened her mouth and said, in a monotonous, mechanical voice, “They told me that if I told them I was fine, they would let me go. I stared at him, my heart pounding.
” And you told them, she nodded slowly. Yes, I told them that I was fine, that I wasn’t in pain, that I didn’t want to resist anymore. She smiled, a terrible, empty, broken smile. And now, I’m going home. I hugged him. I felt his body tremble against mine. Elise, you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here with us.
But she wasn’t listening to me. She murmured again and again. I’m going home. I’m going home . I’m going home. Two days later, Éise was taken out of the room. She never came back. And I understood at that moment what the final evaluation really meant. It wasn’t an exit, it was an elimination.
The one that resisted for too long was broken. The one that broke completely was eliminated. There was no possibility of survival. There were only different ways to disappear. And I was still there. Number 7, the one that was still holding up. But for how long? I arrived in the sub-day. I don’t know how. I don’t know why me and not others.
Of the nine women who were in that room when I arrived, only three remained. Me, a ten-year-old girl named Anaïs, and an older woman, Marie-Claude, who had completely lost her mind. Marie-Claude was no longer speaking. She sat in a corner, knees to chest, and played a lullaby on repeat. His eyes were glassy. She was no longer reacting to anything.
Anaïs was the only one who still seemed lucid, but barely. She spent her days staring at the door, waiting for the moment when he would come to get her. “They’re going to kill me today,” she often whispered. “I can feel it.” I stopped responding. I no longer had the strength to reassure her because I knew she was right.
On the morning of the 71st day, something changed. The soldiers arrived earlier than usual. They opened the door abruptly, but this time they didn’t call anyone. They simply stood there watching us. Then the officer, the one who had questioned me at the beginning, came in. He was holding a file in his hand. He opened it.
He turned the pages slowly and silently. Then he looked up at me. Number 7, he said, you survived longer than expected. I didn’t reply. He smiled. A cold, calculating smile. Congratulations. Then he closed the file. He turned to the soldiers and said in German, “Brinkoben Tom test.
” Take her upstairs for the final test. They dragged me out of the room. I was too weak to resist. We climbed a narrow staircase. then another one. Then we walked through a long corridor that I had never seen before. At the end of the corridor, there was a steel door. One of the soldiers opened it and I was pushed inside.
It was a large , cold room, lit by harsh white neon lights. The walls were covered in white tiles, like an operating room. In the center, there was a metal table and on this table, attached by leather straps, there was a woman. She was young, maybe 25 years old, brunette, with her eyes closed. She was breathing shallowly.
The officer entered behind me. Come closer. He gave the order. I stepped forward, trembling. ” Look at her closely,” he said. This woman survived for sixty days but she failed the final test. “What a test,” I murmured. He approached me. He placed a hand on my shoulder. The test of absolute loyalty.
He made a sign. Another soldier entered. He was carrying a syringe. The officer continued. We asked her to kill another prisoner to prove that she had completely renounced her humanity. She refused. He paused. Now it’s your turn. My blood ran cold. What ? He handed me a knife.
If you kill this woman, you will live. If you refuse, you will both die . I looked at the knife, then at the woman on the table, then at the officer. And at that moment I understood what he was really looking for. He wasn’t trying to break us physically. He was trying to turn us into monsters. I took the knife.
My hands were shaking so much that I could barely hold it. I approached the table. The woman opened her eyes. She looked at me and whispered in a barely audible voice. Do it. I shook my head, tears streaming down my cheeks. I can’t. Do it! She repeated, “Otherwise we’ll both die for nothing.” The officer crossed his arms, observing the scene with clinical curiosity.
“You have 10 seconds.” I raised the knife. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears. I looked at the woman; she closed her eyes. I gripped the knife. Then something inside me exploded. I whirled around and plunged the knife into the officer’s arm. He screamed. The soldiers rushed at me.
They hit me again and again. I fell to the floor. I could taste blood in my mouth, but I was smiling because, for the first time in 71 days, I had regained control. They dragged me out of the room. They threw me into solitary confinement, and for three days I had nothing—no water, no food, nothing. I thought I was going to die there.
But the On the fourth day, the door opened and an American soldier entered. When the Americans found me, I weighed 38 kg. I could no longer speak, I could no longer walk. My mind was hovering somewhere between life and death. They took me to a field hospital near the camp. For three weeks, I remained in a coma. When I woke up, a French nurse was at my bedside.
She smiled at me and said, “You are safe now.” “The war is almost over.” But she was wrong. For me, the war never ended. After I left the hospital, I tried to tell people what had happened at VilleMort in the East. I spoke to journalists, soldiers, historians. No one believed me. They told me I must be mistaken, that my memories were distorted by trauma, that there was no document proving the existence of such a site.
An American officer even told me, “Frankly, miss, we found death camps with millions of victims.” We’ve seen things you can’t even imagine. Your story is tragic, but it’s just a drop in the ocean. And that’s when I understood. He didn’t want to hear my truth because my truth was too small, too isolated, too difficult to prove.
So, I remained silent for a year. But in 2003, something changed. A French historian named Philippe Garnier contacted niè. He said he was investigating clandestine Vertmart sites in Normandy. He had found partially destroyed German archives mentioning a dead city project. He wanted to talk to me. At first, I refused.
I was years old. I wanted to die in peace. But my niece insisted. She told me, “Auntie Hélène, if you don’t speak now, no one will ever know what happened .” So I agreed. In 2004, I gave this one and only interview, the one you’re hearing now. Philippe Garnier listened to me for five hours. He recorded everything.
He took notes. He cried several times. At the end, he told me, “Hélène, I believe you, and I’m going to prove you’re telling the truth.” He kept his word. In 2006, two years after our interview, Philippe published a report based on German documents recovered from Russian military archives. These documents confirmed the existence of Project VilleMORT, an experimental program designed to study the limits of human psychology under extreme stress.
The report mentioned 11 women, all French, all captured between March and June 1943. Only one survived: me. But even after the report was published, the story remained confidential. No major media outlet covered it, no museum. He didn’t mention it. Because, you see, some truths are too disturbing. They remind us that human cruelty isn’t limited to major atrocities, that it also exists in the forgotten corners of history, in cellars, in interrogation rooms, in experiments conducted by men who believed they were serving science. And it
reminds us that even after victory, even after liberation, some victims remain invisible. Today, I am 80 years old. I know I will soon die. My body is worn out, my lungs are weak, my heart beats irregularly. But before I go, I wanted someone to hear my voice, for someone to know that I existed, that those 71 days existed, and that the 10 other women who died in that cellar did not die in vain.
So, I ask you, who are listening to me now decades later, this question: If you had been in my place in that room with that knife in your hand, What would you have done? Would you have killed to survive? Or would you have chosen to die while remaining human? I don’t know the answer, even after all these years.
But I do know one thing: war never truly ends. It lives within us, in our nightmares, in our silences, in the stories we try to forget. And sometimes the only possible victory is refusing to forget. Hélène Du Valallet died in 2014, at the age of 90, in a small house in Normandy. She took with her scars no one could see, nightmares no one could understand, and a truth the world tried to erase.
But today, thanks to this testimony, her voice still resonates, reminding us of something we must never forget. History is not only written by the victors; it is also carried by the survivors who had the courage to speak out. If this story has touched you, if it has awakened something deep within you , then don’t let Not to die in silence.
Hélène remained silent for six years because she thought no one would listen. But you are here, you listened. And now, it’s up to you to decide if her story deserves to be shared, if her memory deserves to be honored. Leave a comment below. Tell us where you’re from. Tell us what this story has awakened in you because every comment, every word you leave here proves that Hélène did not speak in vain.
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Turn on notifications because every subscription tells us that you want to hear more stories like Hélène’s, more truths. Buried deep, other stories that refuse to die. Leave a like if this documentary moved you. Not for the algorithm, not for the statistics, but for Hélène, so that wherever she is now, she knows that her story mattered, that her courage touched thousands of people around the world, that her voice was not silenced by time, nor by shame, nor by the will of those who wanted to erase what she had lived through.
A simple gesture from you can make all the difference. Share this video. Send it to someone who needs to understand what survival truly means, what resilience truly means, what it truly means to refuse to forget. Because with each share, Hélène’s story reaches one more person. A person who may also be carrying a silence too heavy to bear? A person who may find in this testimony the strength to speak out in turn.
You have this power in your hands, use it. And now, ask yourself this question that Hélène asked us. left before she left. If you had been in her place in that room with that knife in your hand, what would you have done? Would you have killed to survive, or would you have chosen to die while remaining human? There is no right answer.
There is only the unbearable weight of a decision that no one should ever have to make. And that is precisely why we must remember, so that no one, anywhere, is ever again forced to make that choice. Thank you for listening. Thank you for not looking away, and above all, thank you for remembering Hélène du Valallé. Yeah.
