One Day in Oradour (14 page)

After a few moments of icy silence in which no one dared meet Dietrich’s gaze, the Major began to speak, pausing after each sentence for his interpreter to make his meaning absolutely clear.

‘Your women and children have been taken to the church where they will remain until we have finished our search of the village.’

There was a ripple of relief along the line. Their wives, mothers, sisters and children would be safe.

‘Now, I am going to give you all one last chance to tell me if you know anything about the kidnap of Major
Thomas Klausner or if you have any information about weapons being stored secretly here in Oradour.’

Dietrich continued to walk up and down menacingly along the lines of men. He reached Henri Depaul, who was sitting rather awkwardly on his briefcase at the far end of Leon’s row, his legs crossed uncomfortably beneath him. Dietrich stopped, turned, and suddenly kicked the Mayor’s briefcase out from underneath him so that he tumbled backwards onto the ground, covering his suit with dust and bits of grass.

Automatically, Denis Babin, who was sitting next to the Mayor, reached out to help his neighbour, but Dietrich screamed out, ‘
Lass ihn!
Leave him! He will sit on the earth like the rest of you.’

Henri’s face was red with anger and humiliation. ‘We have nothing to say to you, Major,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘As I stated before, we have nothing to hide here.’

‘So you say.’

Dietrich smirked then turned and beckoned six of his officers to join him in front of the bewildered men.

‘We are going to teach you all a very important lesson about the SS. You see, we always do our job properly. By the time we leave this village, we will have combed every inch of every building and we will leave nothing – absolutely nothing – behind.’

While the men sat in silence, Dietrich divided the three rows of men into six groups of various sizes, ranging from twenty to sixty men, and assigned one officer to each group. He then gave each officer a map with one of six sites carefully marked upon it. Then he addressed the civilians collectively for one last time.

‘While we carry out our search, you are to be taken to six different locations. One of my men will lead each group of you and you will be closely watched at all times. So don’t try anything stupid. Anyone who tries to escape will be shot.’

With that, Dietrich stepped backwards and folded his arms, content to watch his master plan being put into action.

One by one, the SS officers ordered their groups of men to get to their feet. As they stood, each bewildered crowd of captives was surrounded by soldiers who proceeded to kick, prod and poke them like cattle as they herded them away.

The elderly grandfather of Philippe, a farmer like his son and grandson, was too slow for one SS officer’s liking and received a kick in the leg. He stumbled forwards, crying out with pain, and the group had to close around him to allow Philippe and his father to lift and support him, one arm around each of their shoulders, so that he could carry on.

Two of the groups were taken off to the west, towards the hotel and the Rue Depaul. The first stop was the wine store, owned by Alfred’s friend Monsieur Demarais. The SS leader entered first, violently kicking over a stack of wine crates with his boot to make room for his twenty-five prisoners, among them the Mayor. Dozens of bottles of Monsieur Demarais’ precious wine toppled to the floor, adding a menacing glitter of splinters to the spilled blood-red liquid.

The second group of men, including Patric Depaul, was taken further down the road past the girls’ school, and Patric watched in horror as the soldiers fired at the lock and broke open the doors to his own garage. Buffeted along by the rest of the group, he was shoved through the archway, past the old Fiat which he had been working on so lovingly to restore, and out into the back yard, well away from any tools which could be turned into weapons.

Patric was trembling, more out of anger than fear, and he had to clench his fists and dig his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from screaming out at the injustice of it all. He wanted to charge at the Germans and fight back, but he knew that he had no chance against men with machine guns and rifles. He could end up getting not only himself killed, but the others, too. For now, he would have to stay quiet and endure the
agony of seeing his premises, his own little empire of which he was so proud, invaded.

The remaining groups of men were taken out of the other end of the fairground past the well, following in the footsteps of the women and children. The first group to be led away had the furthest to go. They were taken down the hill beyond the church to an isolated barn near the river, belonging to the water mill. The next group, which included Doctor Bertrand Depaul and twenty-four others, was taken to the smithy. Leon had told Bertrand that Monsieur Lefevre had escaped and, as he was thrust inside, Bertrand realised how wise the young smith had been in his decision to flee. For, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness inside the workshop, he recoiled in shock.

There, left in a heap in the middle of the floor, their bicycles thrown on top of them like rubbish waiting to be collected, were the bodies of the five young tourists. As the meaning of what they saw sank in, the men in the smithy began to panic, turning to try to force their way back out, but the heavy wooden doors were rapidly bolted, condemning them to darkness with no means of escape.

The final groups of men were shepherded into two barns – one, the Masson barn, on the corner of Rue de la Cimetière and the other nearer the church, on
the main road out to Limoges, belonging to Denis Babin, the clog-maker. The larger of the two barns was owned by Monsieur Joubert, a local farmer, and this was where Leon Fournier and his next-door neighbour, Guy Dupont, found themselves along with about sixty others. Although the barn was the largest in Oradour, bales of hay were stacked up along three of the walls, and the centre space was filled with Monsieur Joubert’s selection of farm carts. Seeing the lack of room inside, one of the SS soldiers ordered Leon and six other men to drag the carts out into the street, clearing a passageway into the middle of the barn. While they did so, two other soldiers began sweeping the floor at the entrance to the barn. At first, Leon was surprised to see them helping, but his surprise turned to concern when the two soldiers then began setting up their machine guns on the freshly-cleared ground.

With a small space cleared, the rest of the men were directed to enter the barn where, squashed into an anxious huddle, they watched helplessly as the two machine gunners turned their barrels to point menacingly at them. They were trapped like bees in a honeypot.

A nervous hush descended on the barn as, one by one, conversations between the men died away into silence.

Dietrich’s plan had placed all six groups of men in locations out of direct line of sight of one another. Had they been able to see where the others were being kept, Leon and his fellow prisoners would have realised that they were all in the same predicament. Stationed outside the Masson barn, the mill owner’s barn, the garage, the wine store and the smithy were similar machine gun posts, each backed up by five or six other soldiers carrying rifles or hand-held machine guns, their ammunition belts coiled expectantly around their shoulders.

Huddled together in their makeshift prisons, throats and mouths dry, and with fear exuding from every pore in the suffocating heat, all the men could do was wait, and hope.

For now, Oradour was quiet.

As he watched the last few prisoners being led out of the fairground, Dietrich calmly leant back on the cool stone of the village well, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He tipped a cigarette out of its slightly crumpled packet and put it into his mouth. Then he took out a matchbox from his trouser pocket, picked out a match and struck it on the side of the well. He lit his cigarette, drew on it deeply and blew out a long, slow stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the warm afternoon air.

So far, all had gone smoothly and he knew that in less than a couple more hours, it would all be over. He could be back in Limoges before six, sharing his success with Major General Scholz. The thought brought delicious goosebumps to the surface of his skin, and the pleasure this gave him, combined with the sudden rush of nicotine through his veins, made him feel distinctly light-headed.

He surveyed the empty fairground and considered his next move. His men needed time to move their prisoners, but the plan was well on track, so he still had time to visit all six target locations on his way to the church. He checked his watch. 3.45. Perfect.

Dietrich took one last drag on his cigarette then threw it to the floor, grinding the stub into the dirt with his foot. Then he adjusted his cap and swaggered off in the direction of the wine store.

There was shouting coming from the Hotel de la Glane, and as Dietrich cut across the terrace he saw two soldiers dragging a woman and two young girls out through the glass doors. Seeing Major Dietrich, the soldiers stopped in their tracks.

‘We found them hiding in the cellar, Major. They’re Jews. They were too spineless to come to the fairground. We were going to take them to the church.’

‘It’s too far,’ said Dietrich, taking out his revolver. ‘There isn’t time. They can come with me.’

He took hold of the woman by the arm and shoved her in front of him.

‘Walk! All of you!’ he shouted, and marched them across the road. ‘Tell her to be quiet!’ he screamed at the mother, as the younger daughter started to cry loudly.

At the entrance to the wine store, Dietrich ordered the woman and the two girls to go inside and join the
men. Standing between the two machine guns, he stood and briefly surveyed the prisoners, meeting the hate-fuelled gaze of Henri Depaul, still clutching his now scratched and dusty briefcase, waiting there to hear his fate with the rest of the terrified group. Looking directly into the Mayor’s eyes, Dietrich spoke calmly to the machine gunner at his side. ‘I want the woman and her brats kept at the front. Make sure they are the first to fall.’

Then he turned his back and walked away, ignoring the cries of outrage and the wailing of a mother in despair.

After the wine store, Dietrich visited all five other locations, finishing up at the small barn by the mill. At each post, he conferred with his men, made sure that their orders were clearly understood, and checked that the machine guns had been set up as planned. Content that everything was well under control, he reminded his troops to stay calm and wait for the signal.

It was time to head back up the hill to the church.

As he came round the end of the wall and climbed up the gravel drive into the churchyard, Dietrich was pleased to see that the church doors were already closed. Clearly all the women and children were secure inside and his men were guarding all the exits.

‘How many are there?’ he asked the officer who greeted him.

‘Well over four hundred, we reckon, maybe four hundred and fifty,’ the officer replied nervously. ‘Major… are you sure this is the right thing to do? There are so many of them.’

Immediately he regretted asking, as a look of rage swept over Dietrich’s face. ‘Are you telling me you wish to be relieved of your duty?’ he enquired, fingering the butt of his revolver as it rested in its holster at his hip.

‘No, Major. Not at all,’ answered the officer quickly. ‘I was just checking there had been no change of plan.’

‘Of course not!’ snapped Dietrich. ‘Now get back to your post.’

Dietrich swung away from the shamefaced officer then crossed the yard to a parked truck, guarded by its own small platoon. This was the truck which his driver, Ragnar, had observed being loaded up secretly back in Saint Junien.

After a few brief words from Dietrich, the platoon began carefully unloading a crate holding one of the mysterious packages from the back of the truck. When they had finished, Dietrich gave them a salute. It was the signal that they could move in.

They knew exactly what to do.

Sitting at the side of the nave near the choir, Sylvie and the children waited patiently. Sabine had pulled a piece of string from her pocket and was keeping Louis and Paulette entertained by showing them how to play cat’s cradle. Christelle sat a few inches apart, her back to the wall, staring out in front of her and saying nothing. Sylvie reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. She couldn’t bear to think about the scenes her daughter had just witnessed and as she looked at the troubled young face she felt the anger welling up inside her.

Although it was relatively calm now inside the church, there were so many people crammed into the pews and into every alcove that it was hard to keep track of any noises coming from outside. Every time Sylvie thought she could hear something, a baby would cry, a child would cough or one of the women would shift about, trying to find some comfort on her hard wooden seat or stony floor.

Every so often Sylvie would catch Audrey’s eye and the two women would swap comforting glances, a consoling exchange of sympathy, affection and mutual support.

Sylvie glanced at her watch. It was four o’clock. Normally the church bells hanging high up in the tower above her would be rung every hour to broadcast the time all over Oradour. Today the big bronze bells
remained motionless and silent, as if time had been forced to stand still.

A moment later, the front door of the church opened and in came two young soldiers, aged about twenty Sylvie guessed, gingerly carrying a rough wooden crate.

‘Make way!’ they shouted, as they forced a path up the aisle through the tightly packed crowd of women and children and placed the box on the altar.

‘Oh my God,’ mumbled Sylvie. From where she sat she could see both sides of the altar, and her sharp eyes did not miss the long wires which trailed down from the back of the crate and onto the floor.

She glanced at Audrey who was staring at the soldiers, her mouth open in horror. She had seen the wires too.

Sylvie didn’t realise that the long piercing scream which then rose and filled the air in the nave was her own. Somehow, she felt disconnected from herself. It was as if she was watching the soldiers preparing the detonator fuses from outside her own body, and it must have been someone else, someone too desperate and too hopeless to be her, who threw herself at the German soldier as he turned, ready to run past him, to flee from the death-trap he had just created. But she was aware of him pushing her off, she saw him raising his arm, and
she felt the bullet thump into her chest. And as she fell crashing down, she knew that the blood which began to flow onto the cold stone floor was hers.