"German troops observed me from a distance, as if I were taking part in an experiment they had witnessed thousands of times, as I was chained to the ice and slowly dying. I was no longer pained by the cold. The scariest thing was that. The body has already given up on you when it ceases to hurt.
My skin was bluish, my fingers were as hard as stone, and my lips were purple. I was aware that today would be my last. Then a guy came forward in the middle of that white, silent horror. That was not the right thing for him to do. He behaved in a way that no soldier ought to have. And for that reason, at the age of 86, I am still here to share this tale.
Isoria de la Cour is my name. In the same area where I was born, raised, and removed in the middle of the 1943 winter, I currently reside in a modest home in northern France. I've been attempting to forget what transpired in that camp for sixty-four years. I've made an effort to live as though it never happened.
I grew old in quiet, got married, and had kids. In actuality, though, you never forget the day you were selected to pass away. You carry that day with you like an unseen scar that never goes away. I've decided to share what I went through today, after all these years. nor out of heroics, nor to earn forgiveness, but because certain tales must live, even if they hurt. When they hauled me away, I was twenty-two.
January 1943 was the month. And it was one of the worst winters in northern France's history. Everything was blanketed in snow, roads were obstructed, and the cold felt like a knife. On the outskirts of the rural community of Montre-Val-sur-Liss, which is close to the Belgian border, I shared a little stone cottage with my mother and my younger sister, Céline.
Everything around us has already been engulfed by the battle. Our soldiers had been slain on the battle lines or sent to work camps. We were condemned to famine since our food was severely restricted. The day the Germans took over the area, our independence was gone. terror was all that was left, a sluggish, persistent terror that lurked within of us like a beast in slumber, just waiting to rise.
Before daybreak, they knocked on the door. With their spotless uniforms, shiny boots, and uninterested expressions, three Wehrmacht troops appeared to be carrying out a standard administrative duty. My mother attempted to protect me with her body, but she was pushed against the wall with mechanical brutality—no joy, no rage, just icy efficiency.
My sister Céline stood in a corner with her hands held to her chest as though to prevent her heart from exploding with fear, her eyes wide and shaking. There was no charge, no judgment, no explanation, just a swift wave of the hand and a short, harsh order that still sounds in my memory decades later.
I was picked at random, as though my name had been randomly selected from a list. Céline sobbed in despair and my mother yelled as I was hauled out of the house. I was too busy to bid them farewell. I was too busy to give them a kiss.
Only when the military vehicle began up and carried me away from all I knew did I get a glimpse of their hazy outlines in the snow. Along with me were seven other young, scared local ladies, ages 18 to 25.
We all knew we wouldn't be returning, even if nobody understood where we were heading. We spent two whole days traveling in a military vehicle that was completely darkened by a thick layer of tarpaulin. My fingers swelled and went purple from the extreme cold. I tried to warm myself up, but it was ineffective as my body shivered violently.
There were no blankets, no food, no drink; only the sound of the engine, the severe jolts of the rutted road, and, sometimes, a suppressed sob from another lady attempting to fight back her emotions so as not to attract the guards’ notice. Nobody said anything. We were all aware that words had become meaningless, and the stillness was oppressive and heavy.
I caught a glimpse of the huge, quiet, black iron gates when we eventually arrived. At least we weren't given a name for the camp. There were decrepit wooden barracks, barbed wire fences reaching as far as the eye could see, and watchtowers whose searchlights swept across the frozen terrain like mechanical eyes that never slept.
A faint puff of smoke ascended from the distant chimneys, and a peculiar, indefinable odor hovered in the air, churning my stomach. I found out later that it was the stench of chemicals combined with burned flesh. Even later, I realized that a lot of people who came in here never came out.
A hard-faced German lady wearing a gray uniform and black boots that made a terrible military clatter on the concrete floor welcomed us. She brought us into a chilly hut where other women were already gathered together, sitting on the filthy floor with their faces etched with fatigue and hunger and their eyes blank. She looked at us with complete disdain, as if we were vermin.
I made an effort to comprehend what was going on throughout the first few days. I searched for reason, logic, and an explanation. However, none existed. Some of us were made to labor in the camp's workshops, stitching uniforms or putting together metal components for unknown purposes.
Others were transported to separate, secluded barracks and never returned. I soon discovered that we were divided in a horrible way. Some ladies were forced to work until they were worn out. Others were retained as silent spectacles, warnings, and role models.
We were deprived of our dignity before we were even naked. With frightening efficiency, our humanity was removed, our names were changed to numbers, and our hair was cut short. I was assigned the number 1228. I had this number permanently inked on my left arm using a big needle and fiery black ink.
I had the impression that Isoria de la Cour had passed away at that very time when I saw that number. It was a worse winter in the camp than it was outside. We simply had flimsy rags that hardly covered us; we had no suitable clothing. Our sole source of warmth was the warmth we produced by huddling close throughout the night in an attempt to live until dawn, as we had no heating.
Once a day, a thin soup made from decaying potatoes was provided, occasionally with slices of bread that needed to be steeped in filthy water before being consumed. Hunger, cold, and illnesses that proliferated like unseen plagues throughout the barracks claimed the lives of several women.
It wasn't until the soldiers arrived the next morning to gather the bodies like trash that I witnessed ladies die next to me in the middle of the night, their eyes wide and motionless. However, neither the hunger nor the cold were the worst. The fear stemmed from what they had done to us. Whispered among the inmates were rumors that medical experiments were being carried out in secret barracks at the back of the camp.
Torture rumors passed off as scientific. There are rumors that women are subjected to extremely low temperatures to see how resilient the human body is before it breaks down. Until the day I was selected, I believed they were only made-up tales. It was a morning in February.
The snow was falling gently, the sky was gloomy, and it was so cold that it hurt to breathe. Along with other inmates, I was in the camp's central courtyard when a guard came up to me, pointed at me, and said, "Come with me." My heart stopped. I turned to look for assistance, but every other woman turned away.
They were aware. They were aware that you seldom returned when you were selected in such manner. I was brought to a remote, remote barracks on the outside of the camp. Inside, there was a metal table, rusted medical implements, and three guys in blood-stained white jackets.
They treated me like a lifeless, silent object that had no right to exist. They brought me outdoors into the snow after undressing and tying me up. Thick, coarse cords that sliced into my skin held me to the ice. My body was exposed to the bitter February cold since my garments had been ripped off.
I had no idea what they were doing. I knew I was going to die, but I didn't know why. At first, the cold didn't hurt. An strong burning feeling followed by a slow numbness that traveled up my arms, legs, and chest was almost unsettling.
It seemed like ice was building up within my lungs, making it harder and harder for me to breathe. I was unable to feel my feet or move my fingers. In a frantic attempt to warm itself, my body shivered fiercely out of reflex. However, it was ineffective. They watched as the cold gained ground.
I was encircled by four men. Three wore white coats and were taking notes. The fourth was a basic guard, a German soldier, who stood far away with his hands in his pockets and an expressionless face. They conversed among themselves in German, exchanging technical comments and periodically checking their watches as though they were timing something. It was as though I were an experimental subject, a human guinea pig whose misery was valuable to science. I opened my mouth to speak, to beg, but nothing came out.
My lips were stiff, crimson, and frozen. My tongue was as heavy as lead. I could only watch them, my eyes slowly shutting, wishing it would stop fast. Then something shifted. They all departed after one of the white-coated men stated something I didn't understand. Everyone but one.
The soldier who had stayed behind was looking at me while standing still. I briefly believed that he was going to kill me by shooting me in the head to put an end to my agony. However, he took no action. He merely sat there in the snow, with a look I couldn’t fathom.
He took one or two quick looks around to make sure no one was observing. Then he approached. Mathis Brandner was his name. I didn't know that till much later. He was only an adversary in a German uniform at the moment, someone who ought to have let me to perish. However, he didn't.
He dropped to his knees next to me, removed a knife from his belt, and cut the ropes binding me. I let my arms drop heavily upon the snow. I couldn't move. I was unable to express my gratitude to him. With a kindness I hadn't experienced in months, he removed his bulky military coat and covered me with it. Then he raised me up.
I had lost all bulk and was as light as a feather. He led me to an old, dilapidated warehouse that was being utilized as a dump at the far end of the colony. He placed me on a stack of used canvas bags, covered me with a ripped tarpaulin and his coat, and gave me a direct look.
What he saw in my eyes is unknown to me. Maybe fear, maybe thankfulness, maybe just a glimpse of a humanity he had forgotten. He spoke not a single word. He simply departed, leaving me his coat. the night, the coat saved my life. I spent hours hiding under the tarp in the warehouse, shivering but yet alive.
My body started to warm up gradually. My fingers started to move again. My breathing returned to normal. I had survived. I had lived in spite of all the odds. But I didn’t understand why. Why had this man spared me? What had motivated him to put his life in danger for an unknown French prisoner? I couldn't stop thinking about these questions; it was like an addiction.
I went back to the main barracks the following morning in an attempt to fit in with the other inmates. Nobody inquired. Nobody was interested in finding out. Asking inquiries meant drawing attention in such a camp, and drawing attention meant being killed. But I was different now.
Something had changed inside me. I had been close to death. His cold breath had touched my flesh. And my hands had been ripped off by a man who ought never to have done such a thing. I had no idea that this was only the beginning and that Mathis Brandner would continue to covertly defend me day in and day out, week in and week out, even if it meant losing everything.
The next days were weird. I never had a direct conversation with Mathis. In public, he never met my eyes. However, I sensed his presence. I sensed that he was keeping an eye on me, but not in a menacing manner. He would stealthily step in, distract the guards, or make up an excuse to get me away when they yelled at me.
I occasionally got an additional piece of bread that was secretly placed in my dish during the distribution of our meager food allotment. He constantly found an excuse to take me somewhere else when other ladies were brought to the hospital. He owed me nothing.
He did it even though he had no cause to. He entered the camp one evening when I was working in one of the sewing workshops, claiming to be checking the area. I knew, but the other guards had no suspicions. He passed each employee at a leisurely pace while pretending to be rigorous in his inspection of their job.
When he got to me, he said something in French and bent over a little as if to look at my sutures. "Trust no one, speak to no one, remain invisible," he said in a low, nearly inaudible voice. Like a holy mandate, these words were engraved in my mind. He was offering me the keys to my survival, I realized.
To stay undetectable, to cease to exist, to merge with the gray mass of inmates until this hellish conflict is over. But why was he doing this? I was plagued by this question. An elderly French woman called Marguerite, who was sleeping next me, murmured something to me one evening as I lay on the decaying wooden plank that was my bed.
She had observed it; she had seen the subtle gestures, the covert safeguards, the unexplainable interventions. She explained to me that Mathis Brandner was different from the other soldiers, that he had a sister in Germany who had passed away during childbirth a few years prior, that he always kept a picture of her in the inside pocket of his uniform, that he had been sent to the front, that he had witnessed unspeakable horrors there, and that he had returned changed.
Marguerite imagined that by saving me, he was trying to save something within himself, something he had lost in the battle. I don’t know if that was real; I never will. However, it made it clearer to me that even in hell, there may occasionally be a glimmer of humanity—a delicate light that is nearly undetectable but incredibly genuine.
The weeks stretched into months. A chilly, wet spring replaced winter. The camp was still just as terrible, just as deadly, but I was still alive, and it was because to him. Mathis continued to defend me without ever asking for anything in return, without ever getting too close, without ever crossing that invisible line that might have doomed us both.
We had a quiet partnership created by fear and necessity, a tacit understanding between us. We weren't lovers or pals. We were two human beings imprisoned in a killing machine that destroyed everything in its path, and each of us had made the decision to fight back.
Rumors started to spread one day in April 1943. The Allies were moving forward. On the Eastern Front, the Germans were being driven back by the Soviets. The conflict was starting to change. The camp guards were anxious, more hostile, more unpredictable. They realized their time was running out. Men can get dangerous when they realize they will lose.
The number of executions increased. Collective punishment started to happen on a regular basis. Every day may be the last as the camp turned into a death trap. Mathis made the biggest risk of his life at this very time. An SS officer started randomly choosing inmates for a fresh round of medical experiments one evening as we were assembled in the central courtyard for roll call.
I was one of them. They gave my number a call. My heart stopped. Knowing that there would be no going back this time, I took my time moving forward, my legs shaking. But Mathis stepped in as I got closer to the row of guys who had been sentenced. He hurriedly addressed the officer, pointing to another prisoner, displaying paperwork, and making up a bureaucratic justification.
The officer paused, muttered, then consented. I was replaced by another woman. I watched her go. As she vanished into the infirmary, I watched. She was never seen by me again. That night, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I was tormented by guilt. I didn't even know the name of the woman who had passed away in my place.
And since a German soldier betrayed his own side to save me, I was still alive. Why? Why me? I was plagued by these questions. I met Mathis at the barbed wire a few days later. He was by himself, looking blankly ahead while holding a cigarette. I summoned the bravery to go up to him.
I asked him openly for the first time, "Why are you doing this? Why are you rescuing me? His eyes were weary from the battle, and he stared at me for a long time. "Because if I don't save at least one person, then I'm no longer human," he said in French, his accent thick but intelligible. I was devastated by their statements.
I realized that Mathis wasn't saving me out of compassion, love, or even goodwill. In order to avoid losing his soul and turning into a monster like others around him, he was saving me. And I discovered something really human in this unvarnished, agonizing reality. But we were running out of time. In June 1943, Mathis was relocated.
Berlin was the source of the orders. He was to go for the Eastern Front, where the fighting was getting more and more brutal. He didn't bid them farewell. He said nothing. One morning, he had simply vanished. I felt a great emptiness. I realized that without him, my survival was once again in doubt. Once more, I had vanished, but this time I was unprotected.
The most difficult months were those that followed. I was on my own without Mathis's covert protection. I acquired the skill of food theft. I discovered how to avoid making eye contact. I discovered how to vanish. Near me, a lot of women passed away. Some from illness, others from the cold. Others were put to death for absurd crimes.
However, I persisted because there was a part of me that would not give up. Maybe it was the message Mathis had unintentionally imparted to me: resistance was necessary to live. The Allies arrived in Normandy in August 1944. The news was disseminated covertly throughout the camp. Hope was revived. But fear followed optimism.
The Nazis intended to leave no witnesses because they knew they would lose. Deportations to the East started. Extermination centers like as Treblinka and Auschwitz received thousands of captives. I believed it was my turn, but once more, destiny had different ideas. Soviet troops started to move closer in January 1945 as winter returned with a vengeance.
In the distance, we could hear the cannons. The earth shook. Panic struck the German guards. While some ran away, others started destroying evidence by setting documents on fire. There was complete turmoil in the camp. The gates eventually opened one morning, but it was for desertion rather than freedom. During the night, the Germans had departed. We were by ourselves.
Unaware of what to do, hundreds of half-dead, famished, and skeleton women stood in the snow. Some were too weak to move, while others ran. I strolled. I spent days sleeping in abandoned barns, eating snow and roots, and walking aimlessly.
I continued to trek until I was picked up by American forces as they moved closer to Germany. They inquired for my name, "Isoria de la Cour," fed me, and took care of me. I didn't feel free, even though they said I was. I felt hollow and empty, like though a piece of me was still there in that camp, frozen on the ice where I ought to have perished.
In March 1945, I went back to France. My mom had passed away. Despite having survived, my sister Céline was unable to identify me. I had turned into a shadow, a stranger. I married a decent man a few years later, and he never questioned me about what had transpired. I had two kids.
My life was ordinary, yet I dreamed of the cold every night. I could still feel the cords around my wrists every night. Mathis Brandner was never seen by me again. After the war, I conducted some study. I looked through the archives and documents. Nothing. Was he killed on the Eastern Front? Did the Soviets capture him? Did he make it through and decide to forget? I'll never find out.
And in a way, it’s better this way. Because our tale was one of survival rather than love. Furthermore, survival just needs to exist; a happy conclusion is not necessary. I consented to provide testimony for a concentration camp memorial project in 2007. It was the first time I recounted this story aloud.
It was difficult, freeing, and essential. I passed away in 2011, four years later. To ensure that no one would forget, I left this account before I departed. ... order to prevent anyone from believing that war is righteous, noble, or clean. So that everyone would know that in hell, there are occasionally men who choose to stay human, even at the expense of their life.
My face is captured on camera, my voice is recorded, and my words are kept in archives for future generations to refer to. However, what I wish to leave behind is a question rather than merely a historical narrative. my is a question that has plagued me for sixty-four years and will still plague everybody who hears my tale.
When everyone else tells a man to destroy a life, why would he want to save it? What turns a soldier from the adversary into a hero? After everything has been destroyed, what is left of humanity? I don't know the solution. Without a doubt, neither does Mathis Brandner. But it is precisely this lack of an answer that gives this story its full significance, for it reminds us that good and evil are not always clearly defined, that the enemy can have a human face, that war transforms everyone, but that some choose to resist this transformation, even at the risk of their lives.
I don’t know if Mathis was a hero. I'm not sure if he should be pardoned for wearing that uniform, but I know he saved my life, and I will always be appreciative of that. I frequently wonder what would have occurred if Mathis hadn't stepped in during that night on the ice.
I would have died, frozen, forgotten—just one of millions. Nobody would have been saddened by my passing. My tale would never have been told. However, he stepped in, and because of him, I am sitting in front of a camera now, telling it. Even if my hands and voice shake, I am still alive.
And this tale will continue to exist for as long as I am alive. I made an effort to lead a regular life after the war. I tried to forget, but you never fully forget. The trauma remains buried like a quiet bomb that occasionally erupts without warning. The scent of smoke, an abrupt sound, and the chill of winter. Abruptly, I find myself back there, strapped to the ice, being watched by the military like a test subject.
My kids are largely unaware of what transpired. I've never informed them. How do you tell your own kids that you made it through hell? How can you explain to them that you were reduced to a guinea pig, an item, or a number? How can you explain to them that their mother, this kind woman who cooked for them and sang them lullabies, was allowed to slowly perish while nude on the ice? I was unable to.
So I said nothing for decades. Silence, however, has a cost; it wears you down on the inside. It produces ghosts that stay with you forever. So I'm speaking today. For everyone who is unable to speak, I speak. I speak for the women who perished in that camp; their corpses were burnt, their identities were erased, and their tales were never shared.
I speak on behalf of Marguerite, who, three days prior to the Liberation, passed away from pneumonia after whispering words of hope to me in the dark. I speak for the lady who was selected in my place, whose name I didn't know, and who never came back. In addition to speaking on behalf of Mathis Brandner—the guy who risked everything to save a stranger—I also speak on behalf of everyone who was unable to get to know him.
This man gave me life—the most exquisite gift a human being can give another—but we never shared more than a few words or kisses. I'm not sure if he made it through the conflict. I'm not sure if he had children. I'm not sure if he had a happy life or if, like me, his memories plagued him.
However, I am certain that he should be remembered as a man who chose compassion over barbarism rather than as a Nazi or a German soldier. A historian got in touch with me a few years back. While studying concentration camps in occupied France, he came across records that mentioned the camp where I had been detained.
He asked if I could verify certain information. I concurred. We spent hours conversing. He gave me documentation, images, and testimony from other survivors. A list of the German soldiers assigned to the camp was one of these papers. His name, Mathis Brandner, caught my attention as I perused the list. "Missing on the Eastern Front, January 1944" was written next to his name. assumed to be dead.
I sobbed when I read those lines. I shed tears for the first time in decades. I was relieved because I finally understood, not because I was happy or sad. I was aware that he had stayed the man he had decided to be right up until the very end and had not fled or denied his deeds.
And in a way, it made me feel at ease since our tale had significance despite being short and disjointed. It had a conclusion and held a truth. However, this narrative continues to exist, thus that conclusion isn't the end of it all. Everyone who hears it is affected by it. It lives in every heart it touches.
She lives on in every question she poses. She will also never pass away as long as there is someone to listen to her. For this reason, I consented to testify—not for me, but for history and memory, to ensure that no one forgets what transpired in those camps and that no one believes it can never happen again. It continues to occur.
People are reduced to numbers, things, and objects everywhere in the globe. Cruelty is chosen everywhere in the globe. However, there are also Mathis Brandners—people who choose humanity—all across the world, and I dedicate this narrative to them. This is my account of a young French woman who was ripped from her life, imprisoned in a concentration camp, tormented, and humiliated.
And left on the ice to fend for himself. But who survived? We are grateful to a German soldier who ought never to have done this. I'm grateful to a man who viewed me as a person while everyone else simply saw a statistic. This is a weighty tale. It's sad and awful, but it's true.
And the truth should always be revealed, no matter how challenging it may be. My name is Isoria de la Cour. I wanted you to know that I am eighty-six years old. I wanted everyone to know that we are never really dead as long as there are individuals who remember us. The tale you just heard is not a screenplay for a motion picture. It's not made up to make you feel anything.
This is the unvarnished story of a lady who endured hell, a soldier who put his life in danger to keep humanity alive in a barbarous world, and millions of other people who were never given the opportunity to share their tales. Before deciding to testify, Isoria de la Cour bore this load for sixty-four years.
She did it to preserve the memories, not for herself. In want to remind you, as you listen to this today, that mankind can persevere even in the most dire circumstances and that tragedy is never as far away as we may believe. Take a moment, shut your eyes, and try to picture how you would feel if this were your story—your mother, your sister, your daughter—torn away from her family and reduced to a number.
Allow yourself to be moved by this tale. Allow it to change you. Please support this channel by subscribing and putting on alerts if this testimony has touched you and you think it should be heard. Subscriptions, shares, and comments all contribute to the preservation of these memories and their transmission to future generations, who desperately need to know what transpired.
Tell us in the comments section where you are seeing this video, what this tale has made you think about, and how it has affected you. Your story and words are important because by expressing your feelings, you also take on the role of protector of this shared memory. And that's exactly what the modern world needs.
People who choose to bear these experiences with dignity and respect, who refuse to forget, who refuse to be apathetic. Although Isoria passed away in 2011, her legacy endures. Everyone who hears it, every heart it affects, and every stillness it inspires when this video concludes are all filled with it.
Today, consider this: what drives a person to preserve a life while everyone else is telling them to end it? When everything has been destroyed, what will be left of us? The solution is not straightforward. However, it could be found in our ability to remember, to share our tales, and to save these lives from being forgotten.
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