See you soon Caroline! Chapter 16 The Argeles Camp (Part 2)

Chapter Sixteen:

The Argeles camp (Part 2)

 

 

It was an hour or more before the two of them returned to the caravan (or chalet – Caroline couldn’t make up her mind what was the right description) to find to their surprise, Pierre sitting next to their father on the terrace.

“Hi you two!” called Dad. “You’ve got a visitor. Your friend came over a few minutes ago. He’s got some news about our visit to the camp at Rivesaltes!  I told him to take a seat, that you wouldn’t be long!”

“Hi Pierre!” said Caroline, rather embarrassed to be caught in her bikini by someone she scarcely knew. “I’ll just get changed!.”  She hastily disappeared into her room, leaving her brother on the terrace to continue the conversation.

“Your father was telling me about the ‘train-bus’ trip you had this morning. What did you think of Argeles?” asked Pierre.

“Well, it’s very different from where we usually go in Greece” said Simon. “I don’t think it’s the sort of place we’d have come to if we hadn’t had a good reason.”

“You didn’t like it then?” queried Pierre.

Before Simon could think of a suitable reply which wouldn’t offend Pierre , Dad said hastily “This time of the year it’s obviously full of tourists, it’s probably very different out of season”.

 Pierre nodded. “It’s very different in the winter. Even in early September, when the weather is still perfect, there are hardly any holiday makers about, and most of the camp sites are almost deserted, and some are even closed completely. You wouldn’t recognise the place. Did you learn anything about the history of Argeles?”

At this point, Caroline reappeared wearing a smart dress.  She had recovered her composure and entered the conversation.

 “We read something about the pine trees. When they were planted, and how from time to time they were cut down!”

“Did you understand who cut them down and why?” enquired Pierre.

“Wasn’t it something about the war?” replied Caroline.

“Which war?” asked Pierre, and then suddenly apologised. “I’m sorry! I’m starting to sound like my school-teacher! I shouldn’t be putting you through all this! It’s just that it’s hard for us who care about what happened here, to see people totally unaware of the terrible things that happened on these beaches. We find it hard to keep quiet! We think that there ought to be a more obvious memorial, just like there should be at Rivesaltes!”

The Weavers looked at one another in concern. Had they been guilty of some thoughtless remark, which had so obviously upset Pierre? What did he mean about terrible things happening on the beaches? And what had it to do with Rivesaltes? They looked at Caroline to answer. He was her friend, after all!

“We know that Rivesaltes was a concentration camp” said Caroline. “And that awful things happened there. That’s why we’re here. To find out about our Grandad.  But we don’t know anything about this place. How was this like Rivesaltes?”

“Argeles too had a concentration camp. Before Rivesaltes! And many would say that it was worse – far worse. But in a different way perhaps.” And then, changing his tone he asked “Didn’t you see the monolith on the promenade?”

They looked at each other again. “I don’t think so” said Dad eventually.

“You probably passed it, but didn’t notice it. Not many people do! It marks the beginning of the Argeles concentration camp that existed there on the beach to way beyond your campsite here.  But first of all, I’ve got news for you. Robert can take you to Rivesaltes the day after tomorrow. How does that fit in with your plans?”

“We don’t have any plans really” said Dad. “That sounds fine to me. How do we meet him?”

“He thinks you should start as early as possible, as it gets very hot there in this weather. Could you be ready by half past eight? He will come here with his car, but you’ll have to take your car as well. Is that OK?”

“OK!” said Dad.

“That’s fine. Wednesday morning then!” Then turning to Caroline he added “If you would like to know what I was talking about just now, I can show you if you’ve a few minutes to spare!”

“Do you mean all of us?” asked Caroline.

“Well, whoever wants to come. It won’t take long!”

Mr Weaver said that he’d better stay as Mum was still snoozing in the shade and he didn’t want to disturb her. Simon made some excuse about charging his camera, so it was just the two of them who set off together.

Pierre led Caroline through a side gate of the campsite and into a leafy lane that she hadn’t seen before. They walked together in silence at first, conscious of being alone together, and neither of them wanting to be the first to break the spell. Eventually Caroline said “Where are we going?”

“Just here!” said Pierre looking both ways before crossing the road. “Quick while there’s nothing coming!”

On the opposite side of the road was a pair of gates, which opened onto a small square grassy area containing a few trees. In the middle of the square there was a tall granite column containing lists of names on three of its sides. Next to this there was a smaller stone pillar with a bright shiny new metal notice board. The board contained three paragraphs, none of which was in English.

“What is this place?” asked Caroline. “What does this notice say?”

“This is a cemetery!” said Pierre. “The notice is in three languages, Catalan, Spanish and French.  I’ll translate it for you. It says:

 

‘To the seventy children (less than ten years of age), Republicans, Catalans and Spanish, Jews and Gypsies who died in the camp of Argeles

We will always remember you and the story of your short lives’”

      

Caroline didn’t know what to say. There were questions she wanted to ask, but just now it seemed right to keep silent. Pierre stood there looking at the memorial (for that was what it was) for a few moments. Then he said “Look at the date!”, and pointed to the top of the writing.

Caroline’s eyes opened wide.  She gasped. “2012! Last year! What happened last year?”

Pierre shook his head. “No, it wasn’t last year. It was long ago, it was 1939 and 1940. But that notice is new, it was only last year that it was placed here! See, there’s an older one below it.”

Indeed there was! It was a small yellow notice with just a few words.

“I’ll read it to you! It says:

 

‘The Children’s Tree

70 children died in this camp.

They were less than 10 years old.

Tree planted in 1999’”

 

“Why are there two memorials saying the same thing?” asked Caroline. “Well – almost the same thing!”

“It took them sixty years to remember those children – babies many of them were. And even then they didn’t explain who they were! The newest memorial does at least mention a little more about them and promises that we will never forget!”

Caroline stood looking at the memorial and then at Pierre. He must have been here many times, but she could see that it still made a great impression on him. She tried to understand what it was all about.

“This was something to do with the war?” she asked quietly.

Pierre looked at her. “Not the Second World War, your Grandad’s war!” he said. “It was the Spanish Civil War.  But these children didn’t die in the war, they died here in the camp which was supposed to give them shelter. They died of hunger, of disease, of cold and lack of care. And hundreds of their parents died here too! Look at the names on that column!”

They stood there together, under the trees, just the two of them, thinking of the seventy children. Then Pierre turned towards the gates. “Let’s go!” he said. “There’s something else to see!” They walked down the avenue and crossed the busy road running alongside the sea. Pierre walked onto the beach followed by Caroline.

“Look at all these people enjoying themselves! They come here to swim, to sunbathe, to relax, to enjoy the wonderful view of the Pyrenees. They’ve no idea what happened here seventy years ago! Do you know, there were one hundred thousand people, men women and children, crowded together on this beach?  It was February, it was bitterly cold, and there was no shelter. Nothing at all! The men scraped hollows in the sand to try and get some shelter. They were surrounded by barbed wire and the sea.”

They were silent again for a few moments. Then Caroline said “This really means something to you, doesn’t it Pierre? Was your family here all those years ago?”

“Oh yes!” he said. “Both my grandfathers and their families. They were all here. Most of the Spanish and Catalan folk living here today had parents or grandparents on this beach. Over two hundred of them died here”

He turned and began to walk back up the beach. Caroline followed him.

“I’m sorry if I seem a bit slow!” said Caroline. “But I still don’t really understand why all these people were here on this beach!”

“Didn’t they tell you about the Argeles Camp when you were on that bus-train?” asked Pierre

“They didn’t say anything about anything!” answered Caroline. “There wasn’t any commentary or anything like that!”

“That’s what I mean” said Pierre. “Visitors are not told anything about the bad things that happened here. It might be bad for the tourist trade! It might give people nightmares! But once you’ve been told what went on here, you can’t visit this beach without remembering!”

“So tell me Pierre! What were all those people doing on this beach?”

“It was the end of the Spanish Civil War” explained Pierre patiently. “Barcelona had just fallen to General Franco, and the roads from there to the French frontier were crammed with people desperate to escape. They were being chased by his army, and bombed by German and Italian planes. They had to struggle through the mountains to get to the frontier where they expected they would be given shelter, food, and safety.”

“And what happened?” asked Caroline, thinking that she already knew the answer.

“They were herded together on this beach, surrounded by barbed wire, and left to manage as best they could! They were immigrants you see, and nobody wanted them!”

“But that notice in the cemetery said that there were Jews and gypsies as well. Where did they come from?”

“That was later!” said Pierre. “That was after the war against Germany had started. By then there were some barracks built on the sands. But conditions were still terrible. That was quite deliberate. The authorities wanted the Spanish to go home. They thought that if they made things too comfortable, they would simply stay where they were.”

“Just like the workhouses!” said Caroline.

Pierre was puzzled. “Workhouses?” he asked. “What are they?”

“It’s something we did in history at school recently” said Caroline. “When people had no work and they were too poor to feed themselves, or when they needed medical treatment and couldn’t afford it, they would have to go to the workhouse. Married couples were separated, and they were made to do hard physical work. Our teacher said that it was cruel, but the idea was that nobody would go to the workhouse if they could possibly avoid it!”

“That must have been many years ago!” suggested Pierre.

“Not really! My Grandad said that he could remember people terrified of the workhouse when he was a child! Thank goodness those days are over!”

“Are they?” asked Pierre. “Don’t you have immigrants and asylum seekers in your country? We do here in France!”

“Well – yes. I suppose we do! But that’s different surely?”

“Is it?” demanded Pierre. “The only difference is that they come in ones and twos instead of half a million in one night!”

Caroline didn’t reply. She didn’t know what to say. She needed to think about these things. People didn’t die in British immigration centres surely? But what happened to them when they were sent back to the countries they were escaping from? She hadn’t thought about that before!

 Together they returned slowly to the campsite without saying much more to each other. Then Pierre stopped at the gate and said “Thanks for coming Caroline! Sorry if it was all a bit gloomy, but I thought you ought to know that Rivesaltes is not the only place around here where terrible things happened. There were other camps like Argeles just along the coast. At St Cyprien and Barcares for example.”

He smiled and touched her shoulder. “À bientôt !” he said.

She wanted to give him a hug, he looked so sad. But it could be misunderstood she thought. So she just smiled back and said “À bientôt !”