See you soon Caroline! Chapter 18. Rivesaltes

Chapter Eighteen:

 Rivesaltes

 

It was Wednesday, the day of the visit to Rivesaltes – the camp where Grandad had lived as a baby. The family had an early breakfast, and was ready to go by eight thirty as arranged. More or less on time, Pierre arrived in a small car driven by a young man in his late twenties. They jumped out, and Pierre made the introductions.

“This is Mr Duval, one of my teachers” he said. “He’ll explain everything to you!”

“Call me Robert!” said the newcomer. “As Pierre said, I’m a teacher at his school. But I’m also a member of an action group which was formed some time ago. We are mostly school teachers although there are a few others amongst us. We are concerned that for years children have been leaving school without the slightest knowledge of what happened around here back in the thirties and forties. We are afraid that if something isn’t done soon, there will be nobody left who remembers. And it’s thanks to us and others like us that things are starting to happen at last. But enough talking! Let’s get on our way. I suggest that Pierre travels with you in case we get separated, and one of you can come in with me.”

It was Simon who jumped in beside Robert, Mr and Mrs Weaver occupied the front of their car, with Caroline and Pierre in the back. Caroline couldn’t help thinking that this visit was off to a good start!

They made good progress along the fast dual carriageway towards Perpignan, but things slowed down somewhat as they passed through the city.

“There is a by-pass” said Robert to Simon, “but it isn’t finished yet, and until it is, it’s best to avoid it altogether!”

They crossed the river and were soon out into the suburbs. Over on the left they could see the airport, and soon after two rows of a giant wind farm made an appearance. In the second car, Pierre pointed these out to the family.

“They are built on part of the old internment camp” he said. “There’s quite a large industrial site being built there too. But there’s still a large part of the old camp left just as it was seventy odd years ago!”

They had turned off the dual carriageway now, and were threading their way past new buildings and round a series of roundabouts. They turned right where there was a notice, which although in French, was obviously pointing to the Memorial of the Rivesaltes Camp. A short distance later, the two cars pulled off the road onto a rough track which was blocked by huge boulders. On the opposite side of the road, there were a series of monuments, each very different, some rather imposing, some quite crude and looking the worse for wear.

They all got out, and were immediately aware of the heat of the sun. They were in an immense plain, the mountains away to the west – the familiar outline of Canigou still visible, and away to the east across the plain, they could just make out the blue of the Mediterranean. They crossed the road to look at the monuments.

“Some of these have been here a long time, others are more recent” said Robert.

“Why are there so many?” asked Simon.

“This camp has had many uses over the years, and all sorts of people have been detained here” explained Robert. “It started with the Spanish who were moved here when the camp at Argeles closed – I believe you know about that?”

They all nodded and murmured agreement.

“Then there were the Jews – your relations amongst them. There were also gypsies, Jehovah’s witnesses, political prisoners, and anybody who the government took a dislike to! Later, when the fortunes of war swung the other way, German soldiers were imprisoned here. Then there were prisoners from the war in Algeria. These monuments have been erected in memory of all these different folk who suffered here. It was an awful place to be. You can feel the heat now, and it’s still early. In the winter it can be icy cold. But worst of all was the wind –today it’s not too bad! Now let’s go and have a look at the camp. Careful how you cross the road!”

They walked back to where the cars were parked. “We’re going to walk down this track” said Robert. “But first, we’ve got to negotiate these boulders. Be careful!”

 Simon and Robert managed to climb over one of the smaller boulders, Mr and Mrs Weaver found a way between two of them some distance away, and Pierre took Caroline’s hand and assisted her across as well.

Once on the other side, they set off down the long straight stony track towards a pair of high stone pillars in the distance.

“What on earth is that noise!” asked Mrs Weaver.

There was a high-pitched noise which quickly got louder and louder as they walked on. It was almost impossible to hear Robert’s answer.

“It’s the cigales! They’re like your grasshoppers, only much bigger, and they live in the trees, not in the grass. As soon as the sun shines and it starts to get hot, they start to sing!”

“It’s awful!” said Caroline. “The poor prisoners, having to put up with this racket all day long!”

“They didn’t!” said Robert. There were no trees here then, so there were no cigales. I think that the prisoners would have been willing to put up with the noise in the trees if it meant shelter from the sun and relief from the wind. There was nothing green here at all then. Not a blade of grass. No weeds even. Just stones and dust, and when the wind blew it got everywhere!”

They were passing the remains of concrete buildings on their left. Not one had a roof intact, and few had much of their walls left. Only the concrete floors remained of most of them.

“Look at that ruined building there!” said Robert, pointing to one which showed less destruction than most. “Can you see what is written above the doorway?”

They all obediently turned their gaze and read the word ‘FOYER’ in bold capital letters.

“That was the Swiss Red Cross centre for the children. Many of these buildings were decorated in various ways, but most of the paintings have faded so much that they are impossible to make out.”

Robert led them on through the ruins, explaining how Rivesaltes came to replace Argeles as a home for the Spanish refugees.

“It was going to be so much better for them” he said, “There were proper buildings here, even toilet blocks and washing facilities. It was planned that there would be a hospital here, with trained staff always on hand. Everything was going to be organised with the welfare of the children in mind.”

“So what when wrong?” asked Mr Weaver.

“Well, these things just didn’t happen! Instead, more and more people were sent here, and eventually it became the assembly point for all the Jews living in the unoccupied zone. The overcrowding was terrible, there were rats and other vermin, diseases spread throughout the camp, and people began to die in large numbers.”

“Do you mean that it was like  Auschwitz?” asked Mrs Weaver.

“No! Nobody tried to kill people here. They just didn’t try hard enough to keep them alive! So two hundred and fifteen people died here, including fifty one children.”

“Is there a cemetery here, like the one Pierre showed me at Argeles?” asked Caroline.

“No – they were all buried in the town cemetery in Rivesaltes. There’s a monument to them there.”

“Can we find where Grandad must have lived?” asked Mrs Weaver.

“Yes!” replied Robert. “We’re going there now, but there’s not much to see, I’m afraid. Ilot K where the Jews were confined was just over here. Originally, it was the area for the children, but when the camp was ordered to hold all these Jewish people for deportation to Drancy, it was Ilot K that became their prison. ‘Ilot’ means ‘little island’, each ilot was surrounded with barbed wire, so they were like prisons within the main prison. He stopped and pointed around. This would have been where your grandfather and all the other Jews were held.”

They looked around, but there was nothing to show that thousands of people had spent some of the last days of their lives in that desolate spot.

They continued wandering along the stony tracks, with Robert pointing out various things of interest, and occasionally finding items in the dirt and dust such as drinking vessels made out of old Swiss dried milk tins. After an hour or so, it became uncomfortably hot as they stumbled along, and Robert decided to lead them back to the road where their cars were parked.

“Jump in!” he said, “we’re just taking a little ride to see something else!”

They drove back down the way they had come, and reached the roundabout in the industrial development. Robert’s car led the way past hundreds of new cars parked ready for dispatch all over France, and turned into a pleasant tree-lined road containing recently built houses. They parked the cars and got out.

“This was all part of the camp originally” explained Robert. “Now have a look at this!”

He pointed to a long straight stony stretch similar to the track they had been walking on earlier. “See how this track bends to the left down there? See that line of trees which follow the bend? This was once the railway track, it curved round to the left and just beyond where you can see the motorway, it joined the main line. The motorway wasn’t there then of course.” He bent down. “Look, you can see where the sleepers were fixed to the ground here and here” (he was pointing to marks in the track), “and look! – here is one of the coupling bolts that held the railway line to the sleepers. This, Mr Weaver, is where your Aunt was pushed onto the train that took her and thousands of others to their deaths in Poland!”

They just stood there, silent, looking and thinking.

Eventually Robert broke the silence. “All these years” he said “this place has just been allowed to crumble away. No-one has bothered to protect what is after all, an archaeological site of historical importance.  It’s only recently that those boulders have been put in place to stop people from just driving in and taking away whatever they could find. That’s why we formed our little group to campaign for a decent memorial museum on this site. And at last, something is being done. In two years’ time we should have the museum completed. I hope that you will come back then and visit us again!”

Simon had a question for Robert that he had wanted to ask for some time. “Was Rivesaltes a concentration camp? Is that the right word to use? I noticed that both Pierre and you have called it an ‘internment camp’! Can you explain the difference?”

“That’s a very good question, and a very difficult one to answer” replied Robert with a smile. “When it was first opened to receive the Spanish folk from Argeles it was called a centre of ‘hebergement’. That means ‘accommodation’.  You would use that word if you were looking for a hotel or bed and breakfast! It certainly wasn’t an appropriate word to use here! You could say that it was a concentration camp, because people were brought together here against their will, in order to be sent elsewhere. It was easier to do that if they were concentrated in one place. But that word has come to be associated with the death camps such as Auschwitz, and so maybe ‘internment’ is a better word. The important thing though is not what word is used, much more important is to know and remember what happened here, and to make sure that nothing like it could ever happen again!”

As they walked back to the cars, Simon remembered something that he had intended to ask Robert. “When we decided to come to Rivesaltes for the first part of our holiday, it was because we wanted to find out something about the lady who saved our Grandad. We seem to have rather forgotten about her! Do you know if there is anyone who could help us?”

“What was her name?” inquired Robert.

“She was called Marion Oakes, and she was Irish I believe!”

Robert stopped and turned to the little group. “Well!” he said. “That’s remarkable! If you had asked me that question even a month ago, I would have to have said that I had no idea where to turn for help! But just recently I heard her name for the first time! It seems that your Grandfather is not the only one who was saved by this lady. An American Professor is also interested in finding out more about her, because he too, owes his life to her. He has started a procedure, which if successful, may result in the State of Israel awarding her posthumously the medal of “Juste parmi les Nations” –that’s “Righteous Gentile” I think in English. It’s an honour they give to anyone who risked their life to save Jewish people from the Holocaust. If I hear anything more, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, let’s exchange email addresses!”

There was a buzz of excitement at this news, and Mr Weaver and Robert got out their diaries and made notes.

“Well, now I suggest that we go and find somewhere cool to have some lunch, and if you have any other questions, I shall do my best to answer them.” suggested Robert. “Let’s go back to the cars!”

As they were walking back, Robert suddenly stopped and addressed a question to Mr Weaver.

“I’ve just thought of something! Have you made any plans for tomorrow?”

“Well, no!” he answered. “Nothing special! I suppose we ought to think about all that we have discovered, probably make some notes, and above all, we ought to write to Grandad and tell him what we’ve found out. Did you have something in mind?”

“Yes, I do believe there’s something else you ought to see. If you’ve got the time, say a couple of hours, I could take you somewhere that you’ll certainly find interesting, and you might just possibly learn something more about your father.”

Mr Weaver looked at the others. “OK for some more discoveries?” he asked.

They all nodded agreement.

“I’ll be round about ten then. Is that OK?” asked Robert

“OK!” they said. “À bientôt !”