our younger age group. They led the way. ‘Wait and see how clean your room is!’ one of them shouted gleefully.
We were led up a steep, stone staircase. At each floor I could see long, dark, narrow corridors with rooms going off at either side. Reaching the fourth floor, I walked into Room 101, my future home. I stood there, dazed and dismayed. We were in a room about the size of a small hospital ward. Straw palliasses and army-issue blankets were strewn about on the stone-flagged floor, which was swimming in filthy water. A wood-burning stove stood in the middle of the room. Over the walls were the numerous marks of swatted bugs and insects. There was an overpowering stench of urine. The wooden bed frames had been piled down at the far end of the room, where there was a vast hole in the ceiling.
The other girls looked equally aghast. My stupefaction lasted only a few moments before all my boarding school training came to the surface; it had at least taught me to look after myself.
‘Come on,’ I said to Shula. ‘Let’s get our bedding sorted then we can go and see what else they’ve given us.’
We rooted around to find the least damp straw mattress and blankets and dragged the bed frames near the stove. Hearing a commotion in the courtyard, we ran outside and over to the far end where a crowd was gathered. We both drew back in shock. Women were already fighting to grab anything from the pile of sorry equipment left over by the previous occupants. They were watched with amusement by the sentries. We looked on in horror for a few minutes. Then a middle-aged woman near me marched up to a sentry and poked him in the chest with her index finger.
‘Can’t you do anything about helping us clean up this place?’ she shouted. She sounded Canadian.
The soldier looked at her in astonishment and growing fury. Then he fired three shots rapidly in the air. His superior officer came rushing up for an explanation.
‘He’s telling the officer that the woman was laughing at him,’ a stout lady translated for us. The woman was quickly bundled away by her companions.
We both grabbed a spoon and a bowl and quickly went back to our room where we found that our group was beginning to sort itself out. It was a good couple of hours before a French prisoner barged in to tell us with a smirk on his face that dinner was served. I went back down to the courtyard to queue for soup, ladled out from vast urns by German soldiers with aprons over their uniforms. The portions were tiny and I asked for more. The soldier responded by spitting into my bowl with great accuracy.
As dinner came to an end there was a sudden commotion among the Germans. A white-haired man had arrived with a smartly dressed woman and a small child. He was theatrically attired and wore a wide, black hat. The Germans seemed deferential and rapidly escorted his party away. I never saw him again. I was told later that this was Edward Gordon Craig, the son of the famous Victorian actress Ellen Terry and a distinguished figure in the theatre himself. Apparently, he was sent back to Paris soon after this where he spent the rest of the war.
Most people were desperate to wash away the dirt after that long train journey. The facilities were bleak, as we soon discovered: the bathhouse was out of use and some rooms had a single cold tap and a stone basin. We had nothing. Like many others, we had to make do with the large horse troughs in the communal washroom on the ground floor of our building. On that freezing evening there was pandemonium and something approaching panic as hundreds of women tried to attend to their own toilet. The few lavatories at the corners of the courtyard were totally exposed. They did nothing to answer the needs of such a large number of internees, many of whom were elderly and infirm. I turned away as I saw two nuns approach the open latrine. I couldn’t bear to witness their humiliation.
I could not even attend to my own meagre toilet. I had
We were led up a steep, stone staircase. At each floor I could see long, dark, narrow corridors with rooms going off at either side. Reaching the fourth floor, I walked into Room 101, my future home. I stood there, dazed and dismayed. We were in a room about the size of a small hospital ward. Straw palliasses and army-issue blankets were strewn about on the stone-flagged floor, which was swimming in filthy water. A wood-burning stove stood in the middle of the room. Over the walls were the numerous marks of swatted bugs and insects. There was an overpowering stench of urine. The wooden bed frames had been piled down at the far end of the room, where there was a vast hole in the ceiling.
The other girls looked equally aghast. My stupefaction lasted only a few moments before all my boarding school training came to the surface; it had at least taught me to look after myself.
‘Come on,’ I said to Shula. ‘Let’s get our bedding sorted then we can go and see what else they’ve given us.’
We rooted around to find the least damp straw mattress and blankets and dragged the bed frames near the stove. Hearing a commotion in the courtyard, we ran outside and over to the far end where a crowd was gathered. We both drew back in shock. Women were already fighting to grab anything from the pile of sorry equipment left over by the previous occupants. They were watched with amusement by the sentries. We looked on in horror for a few minutes. Then a middle-aged woman near me marched up to a sentry and poked him in the chest with her index finger.
‘Can’t you do anything about helping us clean up this place?’ she shouted. She sounded Canadian.
The soldier looked at her in astonishment and growing fury. Then he fired three shots rapidly in the air. His superior officer came rushing up for an explanation.
‘He’s telling the officer that the woman was laughing at him,’ a stout lady translated for us. The woman was quickly bundled away by her companions.
We both grabbed a spoon and a bowl and quickly went back to our room where we found that our group was beginning to sort itself out. It was a good couple of hours before a French prisoner barged in to tell us with a smirk on his face that dinner was served. I went back down to the courtyard to queue for soup, ladled out from vast urns by German soldiers with aprons over their uniforms. The portions were tiny and I asked for more. The soldier responded by spitting into my bowl with great accuracy.
As dinner came to an end there was a sudden commotion among the Germans. A white-haired man had arrived with a smartly dressed woman and a small child. He was theatrically attired and wore a wide, black hat. The Germans seemed deferential and rapidly escorted his party away. I never saw him again. I was told later that this was Edward Gordon Craig, the son of the famous Victorian actress Ellen Terry and a distinguished figure in the theatre himself. Apparently, he was sent back to Paris soon after this where he spent the rest of the war.
Most people were desperate to wash away the dirt after that long train journey. The facilities were bleak, as we soon discovered: the bathhouse was out of use and some rooms had a single cold tap and a stone basin. We had nothing. Like many others, we had to make do with the large horse troughs in the communal washroom on the ground floor of our building. On that freezing evening there was pandemonium and something approaching panic as hundreds of women tried to attend to their own toilet. The few lavatories at the corners of the courtyard were totally exposed. They did nothing to answer the needs of such a large number of internees, many of whom were elderly and infirm. I turned away as I saw two nuns approach the open latrine. I couldn’t bear to witness their humiliation.
I could not even attend to my own meagre toilet. I had
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