Colette
Copyright© 2022 by Iskander
Epilogue
July – August 1975
“Camille?”
I looked up from the novel I was reading. “Yes, my love?”
My husband, David, was holding a letter that trembled in his hands. “Perhaps ... a clue about Colette.”
We never knew what had happened to our daughter after she was captured. She had been interrogated at the SD offices in Saarebourg but after that the trail went cold. In the aftermath of the war, I searched the records I could find, even visiting the nearby Natzweiler-Struthof Concentration camp in the Vosges but there was no record of Colette there, nor did the people I found who survived that place recall her being there. I did manage to find and speak with one of the men she had worked with – Alain.
Through him we learned more of the circumstances surrounding her capture. Colette was going into town with another girl to have repairs made to the radio’s dynamo, but they never made it. Their capture was bad luck – a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. After a brief gun battle in which the girl, died, Colette was captured and taken to Saarebourg, where she was interrogated.
I tried not to think about what happened to her there.
After Saarebourg, we had been unable to find any trace of her.
“Camille?”
I blinked back into the present. “Sorry. Yes?”
“A historian has been going through some jumbled Nazi papers in Strasbourg and came across a reference to Colette.”
I stood up. “We need to go and meet him, look at the papers.”
David smiled. “Her.” He looked back down at the letter. “Jean-Marie Buisson. There’s a phone number. I’ll see if we can go and meet her.”
We took the train from Paris and spent a day in Strasbourg, meeting with Jean-Marie. She had found only one document relating to Colette – a page from the Saarebourg SD records – listing Colette as a prisoner. The page had suffered water damage, so some of the entry was almost illegible. There appeared to be something stamped beside her entry – but we couldn’t make it out. With Jean-Marie’s permission, I took several photographs of the page and had them developed back in Paris. Even blown up, we could not make out the stamp.
A few weeks later, the phone rang. “Madame Roberts?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Mademoiselle Buisson. I have found a reference to a person being transferred from Saarebourg to Ravensbrück concentration camp about a week after your daughter was captured.”
I waved across the room at David. “There’s no name mentioned?”
“No, I’m afraid not ... but the date is about right for it to be your daughter.”
I mouthed ‘Colette’ at David as he moved to my side. “And there’s nothing else?”
“Not so far. But I will contact you if I find anything else.” Mademoiselle Buisson’s voice was full of sympathy.
“Thank you so much.”
I put the phone down, realising that David was holding my other hand. “Someone was moved from Saarebourg to Ravensbrück concentration camp at about the time Colette disappeared.”
David sighed. “Perhaps this is nothing ... just another dead end.”
I shrugged. “Perhaps ... but perhaps not.”
David stroked my arm. “We’ll go to Ravensbrück, then?”
“Let me make some enquiries first.”
But Colette’s name did not appear on the Ravensbrück prisoner lists, such as were available without a personal visit. We discovered there was a rededication of the camp memorial in August and a new museum opening – if we went there, we could inspect the records in person.
I had stared at the photograph from the SD records for hours before I thought perhaps the illegible stamp was NA or maybe NN – but I had no idea what either could mean.
We travelled by train to Berlin and then north to Ravensbrück, staying in the town. We had arranged access to the records held at the camp, but after a day’s work there was still no trace of Colette. We went to the rededication the following morning which was attended by about a hundred former inmates. David and I then walked round the camp, ending up in the Kommandantur. As we walked down the cell corridor, a family group with a young child in a pusher was in front of us. The older woman dropped to her knees in front of one of the cell doors, scrabbling at the meal hatch.
One of the museum staff spoke to her in German and she stopped. The young man in the group offered the woman a hand up, speaking in German – but I understood one word – “Colette” and nearly staggered.
David’s hand tightened on my arm.
He leant towards the woman. “Excuse me ... did you just mention ... Colette?”
The woman turned, scanning across the people nearby and speaking English. “Who just asked about Colette?”
David glanced at me. “Umm ... that was me. Did you know Colette – an English SOE girl?”
“Please forgive me, but who are you to be asking about Colette?” The woman’s voice hinted at suspicion.
I drew myself up. “We are Colette Roberts’ parents.” I returned her suspicious look. “Who are you?”
She must have heard my French accent as she switched to French. “I am Frida Schmidt.” She slid a finger across a name badge I had not noticed. “I was imprisoned here as a child. The Nazis had me working in these cells for the final year of the war.” She bared her left arm, showing her blue prisoner number. “Colette started teaching me English.”
We gazed into each other’s eyes, finding the hurt buried there.
I swallowed. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Our eyes stayed locked then she turned back to the museum guide, speaking in German. After a brief exchange, the guide walked back down the corridor.
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