Every day, each German soldier was permitted to spend seven minutes with each French prisoner.
It was a long, narrow corridor. It smelt of chilly perspiration and dampness. Six doors were present. The final one was Room 6, which had a worn copper doorknob and was painted white. Nothing noteworthy or suggestive of the events that took place behind it. After pushing me inside, the guard shut the door. It was a little space, maybe three by four meters. A wooden chair, a high window obstructed by boards, and a narrow iron bed against the wall. The scent that stuck with me the longest was a blend of perspiration, dread, and an older scent that I'm still unable to identify.
There was already a soldier present. He was about twenty years old, blond, and had a worn-out expression on his face. He didn’t look me in the eye. "Take off your clothes," he urged in terrible French. I couldn’t move. My body was no longer mine. Observing this 20-year-old girl who was still unsure of how she got there made me feel as though I was hovering close to the ceiling. I complied with his louder repetition. I won't go into detail about what transpired next, not because I don't recall—I remember with an accuracy that still haunts me—but rather because certain things may be comprehended without words.
All I can tell is that the nine minutes was a rigid requirement, not an estimate. When the allotted time had passed, another guard knocked on the door, and the soldier walked out without saying anything or turning around. I lay on that bed for a few minutes. I gazed at what appeared to be a river-like fissure in the ceiling. In order to avoid thinking about what had just transpired or feeling my own body, I concentrated on that crack. The door then opened again. One more guard. One more soldier. Nine minutes, repeatedly. I counted seven times that day. 63 minutes total, seven troops. However, it seemed to continue forever for me.
I was unable to walk properly when they returned me to the common area. Thérèse offered me water and assisted me in lying down. She remained silent. What was there for her to say? The days that followed blended together. Calls, doors opening, footfall in the hallway, and that number—nine—were all that remained between dawn and nightfall. A few females attempted to tally the number of times they had received calls. My mind clung to everything rational or quantifiable, therefore I didn't choose to count. As if by counting, I could preserve some kind of control.
However, the waiting was worse than the minutes themselves. Hearing footsteps and wondering, "Is it for me this time?" without knowing when your name will be called Your heart stopped as you saw the door open and heard another name. And when it wasn't you, there was the awful humiliation of feeling relieved—relieved that it wasn't you and that you had a few more hours of rest until your body was once again yours. I believe that this is what they want to demolish in us: our humanity as well as our dignity. They encouraged us to think of ourselves as things, as digits on an unseen clock.
