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A German‐Jewish refugee in Vichy France 1939–1941. Arno Motulsky's memoir of life in the internment camps at St. Cyprien and Gurs

2018; Wiley; Volume: 176; Issue: 6 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1002/ajmg.a.38701

1552-4833

Arno G. Motulsky,

Migration, Health and Trauma

Arno G. Motulsky was born in Germany on July 5, 1923 and died in Seattle on January 17, 2018. Through his research, writing, and mentoring, he helped found the fields of human and medical genetics. His contributions as a scientist, physician, and mentor were enormous. His life and contributions are detailed in obituaries published by the New York Times (Grady, 2018), the American Journal of Human Genetics (Jarvik & King, 2018a, 2018b), Genetics in Medicine (Jarvik, in press), The American Journal of Medical Genetics (Obitz, 2018), and the University of Washington (Jarvik & King, 2018a, 2018b). On the deck of the St Louis in 1939. The arrow points to Arno. Photo used with permission, AP/Wide World Photo. Cuba deemed the entry cards to be invalid and did not allow the passengers entry to Cuba. The captain asked to land in a U.S. port with the refugees, but the U.S. government did not allow this (Breitman & Lichtman, 2013a, 2013b) and neither did Canada. So the St. Louis headed back toward Germany. A few days before the ship was to land again in Hamburg, four countries agreed to take the refugees. By lots, the passengers were divided among England, France, Belgium, and the Netherland. Arno's family was sent to Belgium. A few months later, the Germans invaded Belgium, and Arno was arrested by the Belgians for being a German “enemy alien.” He was separated from his family and sent to internment camps in St. Cyprien and then Gurs (Holocaust Encyclopedia, 2018). Days before his 18th birthday, he left France in June 1941. From Lisbon, he sailed to the United States, where he arrived in 1941. Soon after he immigrated to the United States at age 18, he typed this memoir (which he titled “Adventures of a young man in mad Europe, 1939–1941”) about his 2 years in Vichy France, published here for the first time. His original manuscript is archived at the US Holocaust Memorial Museum. It appears here as he wrote it (in English, his fifth language) with only minor copy editing. We publish it here to document key years in the life of a great geneticist and also for future historians to learn from a holocaust survivor. My name was among the 900 people listed in the passenger list of the German Ship S. S. “St. Louis.” It was May 1939 and we were sailing from Germany to Cuba. Our spirits were high because everybody was glad to escape the hell of Hitler. The trip was eventless except that an old man died of a chronic disease, and that he was buried on high sea. After 2 weeks, we arrived in Havana port and were ready to disembark. But next day and the day after, we still had not left the ship. The incoming newspapers had printed stories that all our entrance permits were not valid. Excitement spread, for if Cuba did not allow entry, the ship would sail back to Hamburg. All efforts by American and local committees proved fruitless. We had become victims of political struggles going on in Cuba at that time. Five tense days passed, and the Cuban President ordered the “St. Louis” to leave the port. Only one man had succeeded to reach land. He had slashed his arteries and then dove into the shark-infested sea with the intention to commit suicide. Now he was in a Havana hospital after being saved by the harbor police. Europe came closer. Nervousness grew almost to panic. Frantic cries of help were cabled to the world. If help did not arrive, the concentration camp would be the sure outcome. Jubilantly the message was received 2 days before the ship would have arrived in Germany that England, France, Holland, and Belgium were willing to give temporary refuge to the unhappy exiles. From left to right. The Motulsky family in 1934, before leaving Germany. Arno's mother Rena, Arno at age 12, his sister Lia, his brother Lothar, and his father Herrman. Nazi soldiers marched into Poland, England, and France declared war on Germany but still Belgium was spared the horrors of war. After two invasion rumors alarmed the little kingdom and proved false afterward, the Belgians calmed down, although they maintained reinforced army strength. In the meantime, I had received my American immigration visa and was preparing my voyage across the Atlantic. In the early morning of the tenth of May, 1940, I was suddenly awakened by terrific explosions in the vicinity. My first thought was that a thunderstorm raged outside, but when seeing the blue sky and the swarms of giant bombers flying in formation, I realized that the German war machine had struck at Belgium. I got dressed in a rush and was ready to do everything just to leave the country. I threw all my belongings into a suitcase and pondered desperately how to reach any harbor for ocean-going vessels. In the streets, I would be arrested by the Belgian police as an alien, for the radio announced that all Germans living in Belgium faced internment. Despite our pleas that we were Jewish refugees having American visas, soon five soldiers requested that my mother, little sister, and brother report to the nearest police station. In a big hall, there were thousands of men, women, and children, most of them Jewish refugees but also a few Nazi citizens of the Reich. The officer directed himself to the crowd and announced that women and children may leave. I, being 16 at the time, included myself among the children. I hurried out with the people sent home, but unfortunately, I was taller than anyone else of them. The officer hailed me and after asking me for my age, he told me I had to be detained. I was just 7 months over the age limit. All male German subjects between 16 and 59 were gathered from the different police stations at a huge armory. Without any examination of our status, we were driven out of the yard and ordered to run. Five thousand men some waving big suitcases others carrying cardboard boxes, still others having nothing for they had been picked up in the street, galloped disorganized through Brussels' boulevards pushed on by the charged bayonets of the Belgian guards. The mob jeered and booed at us with curses like “Swine, rascals, 5th column.” Left and right we saw some damage done by the Luftwaffe that morning. Pointedly, a German Stuka had dived on the yard where the German nationals had been thrown together, had seemed to drop a bomb, but then had let its load fall about 500 yards from us. Possibly, the pilot did not want to shed the blood of his Nazi brethren. Arriving at a freight yard highly exhausted from the 15-min run, we were tightly packed into a waiting freight train. Fifty to sixty men shared one freight or cattle car. Late that night the train slowly set into motion. All of a sudden, several miles before the French frontier, we came to a stop. We heard the roaring of planes and the explosions of bombs. A dive bomber came screaming down and dropped TNT. Then in a fraction of a second a terrific explosion shook the train. A freight train loaded with gravel was squarely hit, and the shattered parts of the cars and the locomotive and the rocks burst into one of our own cars. Twenty-five of our people, among them some German and Austrian Nazis were killed by their own “landsmen.” Thirty were seriously injured. Six hours were required for the clearance of the debris. Next morning, we pulled into Tournai, the French frontier town. Car by car we were allowed to leave the train for a short rest period. One of the men in the car next to mine tried to escape, and just as I watched he was shot dead while running down a hill. Some hours later, we were marching through the streets of Tournai toward the big armory, that 2 days later was a heap of ruins. We stood eight full hours in the yard under a blazing sun, every 15 feet a soldier with a charged bayonet watching us. These soldiers were particularly outraged, their division had been destroyed the day before and only a few hundred had escaped the razor-like mowing panzer division. In the night, we heard from afar the grumbling of guns. The Germans sped through Belgium like devils. The next morning, May 14th, 1940, some food was distributed, but only a few privileged got something, I and many others had to move out without anything. Another march through the upset town, people yelling and jeering again, the station, 40 persons pushed into a cattle car and off we went. Here the most unbelievable episode of my odyssey starts. We had to stay 52 hr in these cars without a drop of water, without a crumb of bread. Parachutists, fifth columnists and other nice names were painted on our train and always when passing a village pebbles, stones, and foul eggs were thrown on the miserable man freight. A man in our carriage was hit squarely in his face and bled during the whole trip. He only recovered from his wounds several months later. Two of our fellow passengers began to rave. One of them, a scholar in Egyptology, did not stop grumbling: Give me a small bottle of water and a little one of mineral water. He never recovered and lives today in the hospital of Camp de Gurs. We began sucking our toothpaste; we drank mouth wash. Mirages of opulent meals passed before my eyes, when I chewed a piece of leather. Suddenly the door opened, our guards asked for our beakers and other vessels. We gave them everything in the belief that they wanted to bring us some water. Some seconds later, we heard the vessels crashing on the track. It was a cruel and sadistic joke. Slowly our resistance was vanishing. We stopped at some odd station. Nurses with big water vans and field kitchens watched our arrival. We heard the transport chief shouting: These swine were just fed and watered, and the train went on. The guards robbed wallets, jewels, watches. Nobody resisted, we were so weak! Four hours before our arrival we were finally given some stale bread and water. Like starving cattle, we drank water out of hats, the palms of our dirty hands, out of muddy tin cans. Two weeks late we were still thirsty. We arrived somewhere in Western France, near Poitiers. A small camp suitable for 500 persons was packed up with 5000. Our food in the first days consisted of water, of which we drank gallons, some bread, and sometimes a tiny herring. I was so terribly weakened, that I just laid on the straw during all these days. So I had some sleep, during the night our bunk was so overcrowded that sleep almost was impossible. Moreover, a hundred persons always had to stand up. There was no place. Already some days after our arrival, the Nazis separated themselves. We were searched and had to surrender our money except 200 francs. Some Nazis were so thoroughly anti-French that they tore their money. I saw chips of dollar bills in the latrines. Graduation from medical school, 1947. Again, we spent 2 days on a freight train, this time with some food. At last we reached St. Cyprien, our point of destination. This camp near the Mediterranean, that formerly had sheltered thousands of fleeing Spanish republicans, was to be our residence for the next 6 months. Our first impression of our future home was one of horror. A terrific sand storm was raging, whipping clouds of sand into our faces. We saw collapsing shacks and bunks, dirty, and derelict. The fury of that sandstorm that recurred every 3 or 4 weeks is tremendous. One cannot open one's eyes and mouth, it is impossible to walk. The fine sand even permeated the roofs of our huts, and we ate always the plate being full of sand. During the days of the sandstorm we slept on our bellies, a piece of cloth wrapped around our heads. Food in the early weeks of our stay was scarce and monotonous, for 4 weeks we did not get anything else but peaches. There was nothing to buy. Sanitary conditions were horrific and never improved. Going into details would be an offense to good taste. A dysentery epidemic did not spare one of us. Doctors short of medicines could not do anything to help the sick. Our ramshackle huts had no floor and we were not given beds, either. Lying on the few straw bits in the sand, we were plagued by myriads of fleas. Mice and rats devoured our food. Flies and mosquitoes bit us. We learnt to understand why Spaniards had named this camp: The hell of St. Cyprien. The camp was completely sealed and the guards would not utter a single word about the military and political situation. We only knew through a scrap of newspaper the wind had brought us that Belgium had signed an armistice and that German armies were penetrating into French territory. On the other hand, the 500 Nazis again separated from us spread rumors throughout the camp. They told us about the fall of Paris, about the defeat of the French and all the other war news that later on proved true. We laughed at them, called them taletellers and would not believe a word of their stories. Some radio engineers among the Nazis had transportable wireless sets in their suitcases and always listened to the news. That is what we learnt later. They even seemed to have a transmitting station. One day we were told by a guard that the German radio had brought a detailed report about conditions in St. Cyprien. Then, on June 24th, we were officially told that France was about to sign an armistice with Germany. The Prussian war machine was deep in the heart of France, the French armies had been completely defeated. We realized with difficulty the news we were told. We would not believe it. The big French army, the best in Europe, should not have been crushed; it could not be true! After surprise in the beginning serious worries appeared. The Nazis were celebrating the victory, they burnt their shacks and sang. We are sailing against England. They would go back to Belgium, but what would happen with us? Nobody knew. Shortly after the conclusion of armistice, we were given wine, fruit, tomatoes, peaches. Now the French camp authorities wanted to show their benevolence to the Germans. Some days later the Nazis were shipped back to Belgium, where everyone got a damage premium of 150 dollars. Our guards, little disciplined before the armistice, now without any order, began trading with us. We were half-starved, taking this to their advantage, these fellows offered us bread and chocolate to sky-rocketing prices. We had to pay for a loaf of bread 2–4 dollars. Most of us could not afford these luxuries, (only a few had managed to hide their money during the search); we simply had to continue walking around with an almost empty stomach. After some time, we were permitted to open a canteen, which however did not sell bread or chocolate. After some weeks passed and nothing happened, we realized that we had to stay for some other months there. So we began repairing and tightening the gaps of our huts. The camp was separated into eight districts of which only three are inhabited. Each district consists of four rows of fifteen shacks, in each of them is room for about fifty men. They are made of wood and roofed with corrugated iron. There was no furniture, no electric nor gas light. We had to buy candles. We tore down some inhabited huts and built primitive chairs and tables. From the corrugated iron of the roofs we built “beds.” In all this misery, there was one highlight: bathing. Two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon we were allowed to swim in the deep blue Mediterranean Sea. There we laid after swimming in the sand and tried to forget for a short while all our misery. Mysteriously some persons fell sick. Every day an increasing number of men laid down with fever. Our doctors could not do any research about this sickness, they lacked the most primitive means. We could complain as much as we wanted, the French authorities did not care, even after some persons died of this sickness. A courageous doctor cleared the mystery. On the danger of being shot, one night he left the camp and took some water and blood samples to Perpignan. He had the water and the blood analyzed and the next night he returned with the results. The water was highly contaminated with all kinds of germs, and blood tests clearly showed that the sickness was typhoid fever. We were bold enough to show the written testimonials of Perpignan medical institute to the commandant. In face of these proofs, he did not dare to punish the doctor, he even reported to the health board and a week later we were vaccinated against typhoid fever. That was 3 weeks after the first cases. Two hundred persons already were sick of which 60 had died. Malaria plagued us too and we even got the necessary quinine. Many of the internees possessed valid visas for oversea countries, particularly for the United States. But no one was released. Thus the visas expired and nobody knew when he would be given the possibility to make a new application. In compliance with the armistice regulations, people outside the camp having visas could not leave France, either. Conditions becoming worse and worse, we tried to get out of this hell. Plenty of internees who had money and relations in France escaped, other ones tried to go back to Belgium to their families. A big transport of Belgium-goers reached Bordeaux in the occupied territory and was sent back by the Germans to St. Cyprien where the typhoid fever epidemic was raging. Another group of rather poor men had escaped and having no money went into a camp directed by the American Quakers in Toulouse. One morning they were rounded up and sent back to Cyprien where the commandant put them in a special district. They got worse food and were not allowed to leave their shacks. Newlywed Arno and his wife Gretel, 1945. In the meantime, October had come without any change in our situation. Every day we repeated our protests against bad food, and particularly we demanded again and again not to keep us during the winter time in the hell of St. Cyprien. We had to witness, however, still a catastrophe where we were close to death. Rain had been pouring several days, a tempest was howling and the sea was roaring. On October 18th, 1940, we awoke and found our camp surrounded by water. Camp St. Cyprien was situated on a hill and all the country around us was inundated. The water was rising from hour to hour being already in the barbed wires. We found several dead bodies and a lot of furniture on the beach. Entire villages in the Pyrenees had been pulled away by the torrent rivers. Perpignan was already seriously menaced. Miraculously the water stopped rising in the late afternoon after the hospital of the camp which was lying somewhat deeper had been evacuated. Ten days after the inundation we were moved to Gurs, the biggest internment camp of France. We found a large camp, already crowded with about 10,000 people. Three days before Jews from Baden and the Palatinate (Germany) had arrived. The Nazi authorities had forced them to leave their homes within 1 hr while the unfortunate, mostly old, people had been gathered and were sent into unoccupied France, where French authorities brought them to Gurs. The appearance of these thousands of “transplanted” men, women, and children was distressing. Even insane and sick were among them. There they stood at the barbed wires and looked at us old and experienced internees with bewildered eyes. In these first days they did not yet know what internment means, they gave us half-starved men almost all their bread. Gurs seemed at the first superficial glances much better than St. Cyprien. The sheds had floors and electric light. There were even stoves and the structure of those miserable huts seemed solid in comparison with those at St. Cyprien. But soon we learnt that Gurs was worse than the former, and if we had called St. Cyprien a hell, this was super-hell. Rain was pouring during 5 days in the week. The loamy ground was soggy and we sank ankle-deep into the mud. After a month, we were given the possibility to buy rubber boots. But most of us had little or no money and could not afford them. So we went on in the mud with feet always wet and catching all kinds of diseases. Almost everyone suffered from rheumatism. Food was too little to live on and for many of us just enough to die. From November to the middle of January 550 persons died. A large percentage among these lost their lives from the consequences of under nourishment. Several thousand suffered from a dysentery epidemic. Medical care was wholly inadequate. We had enough doctors but practically no medicines. Our food consisted of two times a day a watery soup and the daily bread ration of about 9 ounces. Sometimes we got a small salt herring and a spoonful of jam. In the first months of my stay, we had a canteen where mainly apples and candy were sold. Later the canteen dissolved. So-called “black traffic” in food was flourishing. Highest prices such as 6 dollars were obtained for a loaf of bread. Our sheds had no windows, only flaps in the walls which on account of the cold could not be opened. We had stoves, but we did not get enough wood. We could keep them burning only for some hours in the evening. So we vegetated in the dark, starving and freezing. Many men became completely apathetic, lying all day on the floor, incapable of any mental or physical effort. One rainy afternoon when nobody was outside the sheds I went through the camp. An old woman of about 75 years was struggling through the tough mud toward me. Suddenly she stood still unable to get her feet out of the mud. After some vain efforts of loosening herself, she started sobbing and fell down into the mud. I brought her to her hut where she laid down like a dying animal. French authorities did not know who we were, nor did they make any efforts to learn about our situation. They simply carried out what the French ministry and the Germans told them. As long as we stayed behind the confinements of the barbed wires they did not care what we did and we could do whatever we liked. One day, when we complained once again of the bad food, the French officer in charge of the camp's food department frankly admitted: If ever a famine in France breaks out, it is you who will starve first. Despite these terrible conditions, cultural life was flourishing. Not one night went by without some sort of entertainment. Scientists, politicians and artists lectured about different subjects. Enterprising actors staged theater performances and music hall shows. Famous musicians gave excellent concerts. A small camp university was established. From philosophy to handicraft training, everyone could find a course to his liking. We had relatively large libraries with literature in many subjects. Books had been donated by the International Red Cross and the Y. M. C. A. which also sponsored all the other cultural activities. A bureau for social work, where I worked as a correspondent, centralized material aid (that means mainly clothes and money) that were sent by French Jews and from neutral Portugal and Switzerland. Packages from the United States never arrived. With time going on the American Quakers offered through their French branch some food. The Camp Council decided to give it to the old people. All schools in Switzerland organized collections. The result was the establishment of “Swiss Aid.” Through “Swiss aid,” every boy and girl up to 21 was given an additional meal consisting of a fortifying beverage, cheese, and fruit. The Swiss children saved by their spirit of sacrifice many a life of innocent kids. From the very first day of our stay in Gurs, almost everyone including me made all possible efforts to arrange an emigration from France. Our immediate goal for leaving was the obtainment of the French exit visa, whose issuance was controlled by the Germans. The first exit permits were given in February, I got mine in the beginning of March and was brought like every other possessor of that visa to a special emigration camp near Marseilles: Les Males. Here we were given ample possibility to get in touch personally with our respective consulates in Marseilles. We lived in a big former brick-yard factory. Conditions were somewhat better than in the other camps. We had beds and first of all much better food. Besides the usual watery soup, we got vegetables, sometimes meat and always a dessert such as cheese, fruit etc. During the first month of my stay in Les Miles, we could go to Marseilles as much as much as we wanted and even stay some days there. Normal life after 10 months of seclusion seemed wonderful to us. We could walk in streets, we could go into stores (at that time already there was hardly anything to buy however), and, the best thing, we could take a hot-water bath. The warm and soft bed in Marseilles was the impersonation of paradise. But after some weeks we got accustomed to civilization and we faced the big problem of managing to get a visa and passage. Standing in line 6–8 hr to get an information at the U.S. consulate was not unusual at all. The same thing happened at any committee dealing with emigration problems. Requirements of the American consulate for the obtainment of the visa were rather hard and many cables and letters crossed the Atlantic until finally the fortunate emigrant got his visa issued. Lots of minor questions had to be settled, bribes were quite common to speed up the irksome procedure of getting transit visas and steamship passage. Every week new prospective emigrants from different internment camps, but mostly from Gurs, arrived at Camp des Miles. A consequence of this afflux was a curtailment of leaves to Marseilles. As French authorities wanted to keep from the camp victuals bought in the town, we were searched in coming back from Marseilles. Whenever food was found, our guards confiscated it. Internees who had got their visas, but could not leave within a month, were forced to take French ships sailing right from Marseilles to Martinique. There, they were told, they would have ample possibility to reach the United States and all other countries of the Western Hemisphere. Three ships got through to the isle, but passengers were interned again. Most of them had to wait 2 months until they could proceed to this and other countries. Almost every day I had to go to the consulates in Marseilles and to return in the night. We had to walk four miles to the train or bus station, and still to ride 1 hr and a half in overcrowded cars until we arrived in the center of Marseilles. My feet were full of blisters and I could only hobble. During the day we ran through Marseilles from consulate to committee and inversely. The food situation in the largest town of Unoccupied France was very critical. Meat was almost lacking on the market. So did most other essential victuals. Poor people suffered much from these conditions. On the other hand, the black market flourished. Practically any article could be found, if one could afford to pay twentyfold of the normal price. As bread was severely rationed, Marseilles gangsters were forging bread ration cards. One of their printing presses was found by the police with forged cards for 550,000 lbs. of bread. An interesting fact is, that a large part of the population bought phony ration cards and got their additional bread. I once spoke with a French housewife about this problem. She said frankly: I do not want my children starving. To keep them healthy I buy the forged cards. Besides, everyone is buying them, why should not I do it? In the end of April, an American vice consul gave me a formal written promise saying that I got the visa if I had a passage and a valid French exit permit (my old one had expired). I obtained a ticket to Martinique, and my French exit visa was renewed. Some days before I was to get my American visa the English captured a ship sailing to Martinique. Any further sailings to the remote island were canceled. I had to look for some other way to leave Europe. This time I was luckier. By chance I found a tourist agency in Marseille offering a few steamship tickets for ships sailing from Lisbon. After 350 dollars had been paid by my father and my relatives here, the precious ticket was mine at the risk of losing 50% in case I could not sail. Some days later I got my American visa. The next step to do was obtaining the Portuguese and Spanish transit visas. For some unknown reason Portugal had curtailed the issuance of visas, only 60% of applicants got the necessary stamps in their passports. Except to Jewish men of German nationality between 18 and 30 years of age, Spain issued transit visas to all persons having Portuguese entrance permits. This measure had been imposed by the Germans who feared that young men could go into the English army. It was mid-June, I would be 18 on July 5th, my steamer was to sail on July 10th. If I would not get through Spain within 3 weeks before my birthday, I faced the possibility to be compelled to stay in French internment camps up to the end of the war, or worse still I might be sent into the Sahara as a worker for the Trans-Saharan railroad. A terrible outlook! Luck was with me, however. Friends in Lisbon intervened on behalf of my visa case, and I had my Portuguese entrance permit within 10 days. As I was still 17, I got my Spanish transit visa within two afternoons. The following day I got my certificate of liberation saying that I had to leave French territory within 3 days, otherwise I had to be sent back to Camp des Miles. On June 28th, I left Marseilles bound for the Spanish frontier at Canfranc. On account of coal shortage, only a few trains were running. 230 miles from Marseilles to Canfranc took me 30 hr. Frontier formalities were rather quickly done. I was sitting in a Spanish train and could not yet believe it. Nightmare France was behind me! After a fatiguing night and an entire morning in a rattling coach with crowds sitting on the benches and on the floor, I arrived in Madrid. The trip from the frontier to the capital had been rather interesting. Food smugglers hid their costly packages under seats and whenever one of the soldiers accompanying every train passed, they