We brought the pregnant ladies to a room in the sorting center's basement. It was neither a hospital nor a maternity ward. There, "procedure" signified something that no woman should ever understand. I was there, I made it through, and for years I bore the burden of this silence like a stone in my chest. Now that I'm 85 years old, I've made the decision to come up because what they did to us—women taking innocent lives—cannot pass away with me.
Elise Moreau is my name. In a little Pre-Alpine town in eastern France, I was born in 1918. I grew up in a stone home surrounded by wheat fields and vineyards, where my father fixed clocks in the workshop next to the kitchen and my mother made bread every morning. At the age of 22, I married Henry, a reserved sawmill worker. Our goals were straightforward: a larger home, kids, and a typical existence. Everything was reduced to ashes when the battle broke out.
Henry was captured one morning in the gloom when the Germans invaded our area in May 1940. He stared at me and turned around before he got into the truck. He didn't need to speak, so he didn't. I recognized that gaze as farewell. I found out I was pregnant three weeks later. It was four months later. My belly was beginning to swell. I was in hiding. I stayed out of the main square. I was attempting to blend in. However, nobody remains unseen for very long in an invaded hamlet.
It was a September afternoon. I heard knocks on the door and boots on the street. My heart was racing. I let three troops in. The eldest of them grinned as he observed my stomach. This smile was not human; rather, it was the face of someone who had discovered precisely what he was seeking. I didn't understand what he was saying in German, but I could comprehend the gesture. He gestured for me to follow them, pointing to my tummy. I made an effort to back off. He took hold of my arm. I could feel his fingers pressing on my flesh. Fear rose like a pebble in my throat.
I was placed on a vehicle with six other pregnant ladies. Some were sobbing, while others were stunned and silent. As I looked out, I saw my village go into the forest. I recall the scent of fuel combined with anxiety and perspiration. The sound of the engine comes to mind. "My baby is going to be born, but where?," I recall wondering. And will I survive to witness it?
We spent hours driving. We were in front of a barbed-wire-enclosed compound when the truck came to a stop. This was no typical camp for concentration. It was more covert and smaller. They described it as a "sorting center." However, what sort? I was unaware at the time. The smell of mildew, urine, and poor disinfectants filled the lengthy barracks where I was forced to sleep in wooden berths. There were other pregnant women present. While some had progressed, others, like myself, were still in the early stages of pregnancy. Nobody said anything. There was a thick, oppressive stillness, as though everyone understood that speaking would not make a difference.
Elise hesitated. Her eyes were moist once more as she gazed at the camera. She was aware that it would be hard to hear what came next. However, she was also aware that testimonials such as hers can only endure if someone is willing to hear them through to the very conclusion.
A female guard came in and yelled names the first night. Someone phoned my. I carefully stood up, attempting to manage my leg trembling. I trailed behind her into a little hallway with dim lighting. With each stride, the odor of rusted metal intensified. She pulled open a door. A man in a white coat with no expression was waiting inside, along with a metal table, bright white lights, and medical equipment on a tray. He told me to lie down and undress from the waist down. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no other option, I obeyed.
It was a frozen table. I could feel the cold into my bones and flesh. I shut my eyes. Around me, I could hear voices—German, technical terms, comments. He touched me. Mechanical and cold. It was an inspection rather than a test. Cattle are assessed. One will never forget the sensation of carrying a life within oneself. Physical violence is not necessary for this breach to be catastrophic. The message was quite clear: You are a resource, not a person. After they were done, they instructed me to get dressed and get back to the barracks. Nothing was explained by them. What they intended to do to me was not disclosed to me. All they did was send me away.
I stumbled back, gasping for air. The other women gave me a glance. They were aware. Everyone had gone through or will go through the place. In the days that followed, I started to comprehend. Babies were not intended to be saved here. It was designed to be in charge. Selecting who served and who should have been born. Every operation was based on a methodical, cold logic. Pregnant women were divided based on physical attributes, looks, and place of origin. While some had better meals, others got very little. Some were handled like throwaway objects, while others were carefully studied. The second group included myself.
However, there was another element, which I was unable to identify at this time. A routine, a pattern that affected women who were about to give birth. They vanished, moved to a separate wing, and if they returned, they were altered: shattered and mute. Some had infants that didn't seem to belong to them, while others had none at all. I watched everything, I made an effort to comprehend, and my stomach was expanding along with my terror.
"Don't trust anything they say," a lady named Marguerite, who slept on the bunk next to mine, whispered to me one night. They do things—things without names—prior to giving birth. After that, you are no longer who you once were.
"What do they do?" I inquired.
She turned away and remained silent, but I could see the tears running down her cheeks, and I realized that there was something worse than death. It was to live with the consequences of their actions.
You haven't heard the whole story if you believe you know what pregnant ladies went through throughout the conflict. History texts do not include what Elise will reveal in the upcoming chapters. It's just in the survivors' memories, not in the documentaries. You won't ever discover the secret she held for sixty years if you quit now. Continue, for what follows will alter your perspective on war.
I still recall the day they showed me the basement room for the first time. I had been in this center for two weeks. My belly had grown. I was reminded that I was still alive and that we were still alive by the baby's tiny, delicate kicks. However, I realized something had changed when the guard yelled my name that morning. A solitary hanging light illuminated the tiny stairs she took me down. With every stride, the air became thicker and colder. My throat stung from the overpowering disinfectant odor.
We came to a metal door. She pulled it open. Three guys were inside, two in uniform, one in a white coat, and in the middle of the room was an operating table with instruments I had never seen before. Instead of looking at my eyes, the person in the white coat examined my stomach as though he were assessing a product. He spoke in German. "Undress, get on the table," one of the soldiers said in terrible French. We must verify.
What should I check? Even though I didn't understand, I knew I shouldn't inquire. With shaky hands, I carefully stripped and lay down on this cold table, nude and exposed, causing three guys to stare at me as though I were an item. The physician, if we may refer to him as such, came over. He had on gloves. His hands were icy and deliberate as they rested on my stomach. He measured, touched, and pressed. Then he introduced a long, chilly metal instrument. I won't go into detail about the agony. The shame is what's left, not the agony. It's the man's vacant expression as he was acting in this way. It is the conviction that I was nothing more than a body to manipulate.
He spoke in German about medical words and figures. The other soldier made notes. "You will give birth here," he murmured, still not looking at me, after removing the device and wiping his hands. Then, we'll make a decision.
Choose what? My child? My result? I was afraid to inquire. He went out. I was led back to the barracks by the guard. Marguerite understood when she looked at me that night.
"Did they bring you down?"
I gave a nod.
She shut her eyes. "So you are aware now. Sorting is what they do prior to giving birth, not taking medication. He determines if you deserve to remain with your child and whether your child deserves to live.
My blood became chilly. "And in any other way?"
Her silence was more terrifying than any explanation, but she did not respond. In the days that followed, I kept an eye on the other ladies who were nearing the end. They were brought into the same room. While some returned in tears, others did not return at all. Three days after giving birth, a mother named Hélène returned without her child. She stopped talking. She continued to sit on her bed, arms folded around her now-flat tummy, as though she was still searching for what we had stolen.
I plucked up the guts to question her, "Where is your baby?" one evening.
She gave me a glance. She had lifeless eyes. "They accepted it. They stated he needed to be treated somewhere else since he was ill. However, I am aware that he is lying. Her voice broke. "They didn't want it, so they took it."
I got it. This facility served as a laboratory where they put their grotesque theories into practice in addition to being a site of incarceration. They altered pregnancies because they weren't content with merely keeping an eye on them. They made decisions on which babies should be born and which ones would benefit the Reich. And the others, well, the others just vanished.
We traded murmurs and rumors at night when the guards weren't around. According to others, newborns who were considered inferior were put to death at birth. Others said that German households received them. Others were discussing testing and experimentation. I was unsure about what to believe. However, I was certain that I did not want my child to fall into their clutches. I thus began to act like I was being submissive, to comply without protest, to even smile when I wanted to yell. Maybe he would leave me alone if I was submissive, I told myself. Perhaps he wouldn't turn my child into a statistic. However, I felt deep down that it was insufficient. I needed to safeguard my child, or at the very least, find a way out.
I became aware of the soldier at that moment. He was perhaps twenty years old. He was silent. Every time we were taken for a test, he was at the door. He too looked away, in contrast to the others. I initially believed it to be disdain, but it wasn't. humiliation, perhaps even embarrassment. A piece of bread was waiting for me when I was returned from the basement one day. Silently, without uttering a word. When our gazes connected, I saw humanity in his eyes, something I hadn't seen in months. It was a small breach, but it was there, and it may potentially save my life.
It was the seventh month of my pregnancy. My legs were bloated, my abdomen was enormous, and every movement made my entire body scream in agony. But because I knew that childbirth and the ensuing judgment were on the horizon, the terror outweighed the pain. Would I keep my child? Would I see him at all? Or would I wind up like Hélène, exhausted and shattered, with only the recollection of a cry that was no longer mine?
Exams have increased in frequency. twice a week, occasionally more. It's always the same room, the same icy hands, and the same vacant expressions. Now, however, he was measuring. He documented everything. my heart rate, the location of the baby, and the size of my tummy. They discussed me as though I didn't exist. "Fetus of medium size, French origin, brown hair, green eyes, narrow pelvis, risk of complications." I am an animal, he said. And my child? He was only a product to be assessed.
Every time I visited this room, I felt more worn out than before. Not due to physical effort, but more to the ongoing humiliation. He forced me to strip in front of many witnesses. He sensed me carelessly. He talked about my "faults" as though I were deaf. One stated, "Hips too narrow." "Bad teeth!" said someone else. Since sobbing would give them what they wanted—proof that I was weak—I bit my lip to stop myself from crying.
I once heard a doctor tell his assistant, "This one is worth nothing, but the fetus could be viable," while I lay on this awful table. We'll find out at birth.
I can still clearly recall their words. This one has no value. As like my existence didn't matter, that I was only a holding vessel for their precious possessions. That night, I went back to the barracks with a cold conviction. My baby would be taken by him. Regardless of anything I said or did. In their deranged imaginations, my child was already their property. And after my role was completed, I was only an obstruction to be removed.
Marguerite noticed me sitting on my bunk with my shaking hands on my tummy. She approached me and took a seat beside me.
"Elise!" she muttered. "I understand how you feel. Everybody has been there. But pay close attention to what I'm saying: there is just one thing you can do. Don't be emotional when you give delivery. Avoid crying. Avoid smiling. Keep your love for this child hidden from them. Because they will take it to further break you if they know you adore it.
I knew she was correct, yet her words made my blood run cold. Love was a vulnerability here, and attachment was a tool they employed against us. The ladies who pleaded, yelled, and passionately extended their arms for their infants were the ones who suffered the most. They suffered humiliation, beatings, and occasionally even death. You have no rights, not even the right to love, was the unmistakable message.
I decided as a result. I would do all in my power to look unconcerned when my baby was delivered. I would engage in their terrible game. I would turn into stone. Additionally, I might be able to save him—or at least know what would happen to him—by putting on this façade.
The days went by. My stomach kept expanding. The infant started to move more forcefully and often. I was reminded that I had a life inside of me with each kick. A life that was not worthy of its destiny. A life that had no right to exist in such a harsh planet.
I heard screaming coming from the opposite end of the dormitories one night as I was unable to sleep due to back discomfort. Because she hadn't had time to be removed, a lady was giving birth here on her bunk rather than in the basement chamber. She moaned and begged, and suddenly I heard a newborn's high-pitched wail. Then there was quiet. A few minutes later, the guards showed up. The infant was taken by them. The woman extended her arms.
"My darling," she muttered. "Return my baby to me."
They didn't even glance at her, though. With the youngster covered in filthy fabric, they departed. The woman passed out. She was dead in the morning after crying all night. "Hemorrhage!" said the guards. However, I was aware that she had passed away from grief, hopelessness, and the inability to live following the harm done to her. Something changed in me that night. I knew I shouldn't give up. I had to be tougher than cruelty and stronger than suffering if I wanted to live, because otherwise I would become like her and my child wouldn't even have a mother to remember him by.
In February 1941, one night, contractions began. It was quite chilly. Outside, snow was falling. I was sweating when I woke up, and I was experiencing such severe stomach agony that I was unable to breathe. I summoned the guard. "It's time, take her!" she said as she approached and gave me a contemptuous look.
I was taken out of the barracks by two guards who seized me by the arms. The night's chill struck me like a blow. All I had on was a nice shirt. I didn't have time to halt as my bare feet made contact with the snow. They went down the stairs to this horrible place, which I already knew too well, after going to the main building. The metal table in the middle, the dazzling white lights, and the additional people—two doctors, three nurses, and the young soldier who offered me bread—were what I saw as they opened the door. With his hands behind his back, he stood still in a corner. For a brief time, our eyes connected, and I noticed something I never would have thought to see in his eyes: sympathy.
I was flung upon the table. The chilly metal touched my exposed skin. My legs were strapped by a nurse. My arms were shackled by another. I was immobile, unable to move, and incapable of protecting myself. The contractions become intolerable. To prevent myself from yelling, I clenched my teeth. However, the agony was unbearable. I yelled once more! As if I were merely a clinical case, the physicians were speaking to each other in a chilly, technical manner.
One said, "Full dilation." The other said, "Get the instruments ready."
Although I didn't fully comprehend what they said, I could sense the tone—one of disdain and indifference. I was only an issue that needed to be resolved for them. Hours went by, or maybe minutes—I was no longer sure. I lost all concept of time due to the discomfort. I had a tear in my eye. I let out a yell. I didn't identify the cry. Then I sensed the ripping and the strain. After what felt like a lifetime, I heard a cry at last.
My baby's wail.
My heart stopped. My child, it was him. alive. I heard him weeping, a little, frail sound that indicated that, in spite of everything, life had won out. I was hoping to see him. I extended my hands as far as the straps would let me.
I said, "My baby." "I'd like to see my child."
But I got no response. The youngster was placed in the hands of one of the physicians. I only saw his back, nothing else. He led him to a room corner. One of the nurses kept my head in place as I attempted to turn it to see.
"Remain silent," she said in a chilly tone. "You won't see him ever again."
This was a legitimate threat, so I complied. I listened while closing my eyes. I heard instruments clicking, murmurs, voices, and my baby's waning wail. Then there was quiet. The bones were frozen by the quiet. One of the physicians returned. In his hands was a card. He gave the young soldier a glance. Next, me. "The baby is in good health, but it does not correspond to the criteria," he stated in a tone that was almost bored. He'll be moved.
Like a thunderclap, these words echoed in my mind. does not meet the requirements. What was meant by that? That my child wasn't large enough, blond enough, or flawless enough for their hideous idea of a superior race? And where is the transfer? In what direction?
"Where?" I yelled. "Where will you take him?"
My voice was weak and cracked. I got no response. They covered my infant with a rag. He wasn't even visible to me. Not his eyes, not his face, nor his little hands. Nothing. They removed him from the room. And as my child vanished from my life, I remained there, bound, wounded, exhausted, and wailing in this chilly chamber.
They took off the straps. I was carelessly washed by the nurses. I was given a clean clothing.
One of them said, "Stand up."
However, I was unable to. I was no longer supported by my legs. My body was worn out. My spirit was shattered. I was pulled from the room into the hallway and then onto the stairs. My feet trailed the floor. I was no longer feeling anything. Inside, I was already dead.
Even after the others had departed, the young soldier remained. He trailed me down the corridor. He came slowly, like he was scared, when the nurses dropped me off in front of the barracks entrance. "I'm sorry," he replied in timid, embarrassed French after glancing at me.
That's all. Two words. Two words that did not mend what had been damaged, that would not bring me back my kid, and that made no difference. He meant that at least one person in this hell understood that what had just transpired was wicked, and in that moment, those two words were all that was left of humanity. I went into the barracks after he departed.
The other women gave me a glance. They recognized my face, my shaking body, and my empty hands. They were aware that I had become one of the ghost mothers. Those who had given birth, carried life, and lost everything all in one night. I fell into my bunk. I touched my stomach with my hands. Now everything was flat and empty, as though nothing had occurred, as though my kid had never been born. And I realized something in this quiet, in this excruciating agony. Not only did they take away my child, but they also took away a piece of me that I would never be able to get back.
They brought me back to the barracks after the delivery. I was spiritually, emotionally, and physically empty. Both my body and my spirit were bleeding. The other women gave me a glance. They all had the same expression, so they knew. the expression of those who lost what they would never be able to get again. the expression of people who are mourning without a burial, a corpse, or a farewell. Marguerite took a seat next me. She remained silent. She simply touched my hand. And I realized something basic in this stillness. We were ladies who had lost their humanity due to the war; we were ghosts. Our infants had evolved into experiments, statistics, and instruments. We were only incubators, bodies that were utilized and then discarded like broken, unnecessary objects.
Days went by, followed by weeks. My body was recovering gradually. The physical discomfort subsided and the blood ceased, but my mental state remained unchanged. Never mind. Every night, my kid was in my dreams. In my fantasies, I could hear him sobbing. His weight was palpable in my arms. I caught a glimpse of his little face that I had never had the opportunity to see in person. However, nothing was there when I woke up. Just the emptiness, this persistent ache that never went away, and the utter knowledge that I would never see him again. I had no idea if it was a girl or a boy. I was plagued by this question. I struggled to recall for weeks. Was there a term, pronoun, or other hint that would have helped me? But no, their brutality had been so deliberate and meticulous. They left me with nothing, not even the smallest detail that would have given my kid a face in my mind and enabled me to see it.
It was the same condition as the other ladies in the barracks. Some were silent for days at a time, while others chatted exclusively. The person who lost her kid a few weeks before to me, Hélène, had taken up an odd habit. She held a ball of rolled-up cloth in her arms like a baby. She sung lullabies to him. She whispered softly to him. Despite being beaten by the guards, she persisted since it was her means of surviving and avoiding going insane.
Silence was my choice. I had no conversations. I refrained from crying. I didn't display anything. I had turned into an empty shell, just what they intended me to be. However, everything was on fire inside. The anger, the suffering, the hopelessness. Like a volcano on the verge of erupting, everything was seething inside of me. However, I kept it hidden because I didn't want to give them any more control over me, and expressing my feelings would give them that power.
The guard entered one morning and yelled names. Among them was mine.
"You go. We'll move you.
My heart became constricted. Where? Why? No one was aware. But we were too shattered to fight, too tired to inquire. Lined up in the courtyard, we were led out of the barracks. It felt very cold, penetrating right down to the bones. We wore our thin shirts all the time. Nothing, no coat, no good shoes. The vehicle we were in was the same one that had carried me here months before. Unknown direction.
I wondered if my kid was out there somewhere—alive or dead, adopted by a German family or discarded in a common ditch—as I gazed out the window throughout the trip at the snow-covered fields, devastated villages, and sparse trees. I had no idea. Perhaps more terrible than the reality was this ambiguity. We may have driven for a whole day, but I'm not sure anymore. Time was meaningless now.
We were in front of a different camp when the truck finally stopped; this one was bigger, darker, and more vicious. Ravensbrück. The other inmates murmured this name to me. A women's camp, a purgatory for those who didn't belong in the ideal society they were trying to create. Nobody discussed pregnancies or babies there. That's all: we worked, we died, and we survived. There was just urgent survival and no space for memories or grief. Locate food, stay out of harm's way, avoid drawing attention, and take one more breath.
However, I was unable to forget. My heart dropped each time I saw a pregnant lady, which still happened there. I saw my own round tummy once again as I gazed at her. Once more, I noticed the chilly table. Once more, I heard my baby wail. There were children there, too, born in the camp or brought with their mothers, so every time I heard a kid scream in the distance, I froze. I thought, "Is it him?" as my blood froze. Is this my kid? This was never him, of course. I was aware. My heart, however, would not accept it. Hope is sometimes the only thing that keeps us from falling totally, therefore my heart kept hoping despite all reason and reasoning.
Years passed after months. 1941, 1942, 1943, and 1944. Time went by in a mist of pain and weariness. I was employed in the sewing workshop. My eyes burned in the low light, and my fingers bled on the needles. However, those who were not working quickly enough were moved elsewhere, and this "elsewhere" frequently meant death, so I stitched repeatedly. I witnessed women die from malnutrition, illness, and hopelessness. In the middle of the night, I witnessed quiet disappearances, hangings, and executions. And each time I thought, "Why not me?" How come I'm still here? I didn't know how to respond. Perhaps life is just arbitrary.Perhaps some people just happen to survive. Or perhaps there was a part of me that resisted death. It wanted to testify, wanted to tell the world what had happened.
In 1945, the war came to an end. The Allies showed up. They unlocked the camp's doors. We had our freedom. Free. I thought this term sounded weird. For someone who has lost everything, what does freedom mean? For a person whose body is freed but whose soul is still imprisoned.
What was remained of France was what I went back to. Someone had blasted my village. My house no longer existed. My parents had passed away. My spouse, Henry, never returned. All that was left of me was this indescribable emptiness in my chest and my memories. I searched for my child for years. I contacted groups looking for missing persons, wrote to the Red Cross, and looked through military archives. I provided every detail I could recall, including the date, location, and circumstances. However, nothing. Not a trace. As though my child had never been born, as though the entire pregnancy, birthing, and suffering had all been a dream.
I was informed by some entities that the files had been deleted. Others informed me that it was hard to locate every child since there had been so many incidents that were identical. Others recommended quitting up. They informed me, "It was war." Numerous individuals have lost loved ones. You must go to the next page.
But when we don't even know what happened to our own child, how can we go on? I remarried a decent man who had also survived. He had spent time in a camp for forced labor. He comprehended. He didn't pose any inquiries. Our other three children were a boy and two girls. I had a deep affection for them. However, each time I embraced one of them, I remembered the one I would never be able to hug. I was reminded of this phantom baby by every birthday, first walk, and first word. My kids were ignorant. My spouse was ignorant. No one was aware. Since how can I explain? How can you explain, "I had a baby before you, and I don't know what happened to him. It was stolen from me?" People don't comprehend. "Everyone suffered, it was war," they say. However, there is pain that cannot be spoken. Some sufferings are indescribable. And I had that. My constant grief, my hidden weight.
Years went by, followed by decades. I carried on with my life as usual. I worked, smiled, took part in family festivities, and reared my kids. On the inside, though, I was always this 22-year-old lady, laying on a chilly table and listening to her baby's cry before it was taken away.
Then something changed in 2001. I was visited by a journalist. Pregnant women in the camps were the subject of her documentary. In the archives, she had discovered my name. I was asked to testify by her. Without giving it any thought, I declined right away since discussing it would revive a pain that had never truly healed. However, she kept returning. She was patient and kind. She wasn't rushing. "Your story deserves to be told," she said to me. People must be aware of historical events.
After refusing for months, I finally caved in. Perhaps it was my advanced age, my awareness that I was running out of time, or my realization that if I remained silent and died without saying anything, they had won. My voice wasn't taken, but they did take my baby.
For the first time in sixty years, I said it all while seated in front of this camera in my living room, surrounded by pictures of my kids and grandkids. The icy table, the icy hands, the embarrassing tests, the birth, my baby's cries, and the quiet that ensued. For the first time in sixty years, I started crying. I felt liberated when I sobbed in front of someone. Not entirely, but enough to feel as though my suffering had at last been acknowledged and to breathe again. When we were done, the journalist gave me a hug. She was also in tears.
She said, "Thank you." "I appreciate your bravery in speaking up."
However, it was a need rather than bravery. Because being silent is like having a second jail or tomb. And being a prisoner was enough for me.
Six years after this interview, in 2007, Elise Moreau passed away at the age of 89. The years and the burden of a life filled with grief wore her body down. However, her voice endures because of her story, the fact that someone listened to it, and the fact that thousands more people are now listening to her. Elise thought about this interview a lot in her final years. She questioned whether she had performed effectively.Was it worth it to revisit old wounds? However, she realized that yes—that her tale belonged not only to her but to all women who had gone through the same thing and who had never been able to speak—each time she got a letter from a student who had witnessed her testimony, or each time a historian included her in her study.
Her final months of life were challenging. Her hands were shaking, her eyesight was deteriorating, and her body was fading, but her mind was clear and vibrant. Even the slightest elements of that February 1941 night, such as the cold from the table, the scent of disinfection, and her baby's cry, came back to her with unsettling clarity. She had never forgotten this recollection. She recalled this night with devastating accuracy, even at the end, when she had forgotten her grandchildren's first names.
Only after she passed away did her family learn about her secret. Her children discovered letters—dozens of letters addressed to the Red Cross, archives, and research organizations—while organizing her possessions. They were all dated from 1946 to 2000. They all had the same query: Do you know anything about a baby born at a sorting facility close to Ravensbrück in February 1941? And they all responded in the same way: "No, no trace, sorry."
She had borne this weight alone for so long that she had never thought her children were worthy of having the confidence to share this anguish, which crushed them more than the discovery itself. However, they also comprehended. They realized that certain pains are too profound to disclose, and that some secrets serve as safeguards rather than falsehoods, shielding the people we care about from the evil we harbor.
Marie, her oldest daughter, made the decision to carry out more research. She reached out to historians who focused on the Nazi camps. She looked through recently opened records. She went to Poland, Germany, and any other place she believed she would be able to locate a trace. However, nothing. As though all evidence of this baby's existence had been methodically destroyed. This was most likely the case since what the Germans were doing in these sorting facilities was not only illegal but also an experiment—a systematic program of racial selection that even applied to babies. Through the Lebensborn program, babies deemed "Aryan" were placed with German families. The others, those deemed beneath them, vanished. purged from history, killed, and abandoned.
Elise was aware. She had always known in her heart. However, hope is an odd thing. Even when logic dictates that it should cease to exist, it endures. She had hoped for sixty years. hoped that one day a man or woman of her age would come on her door and say, "I have been looking for you forever." I am aware that you are my mom. However, this day never materialized.
The documentary in which she had testified was replayed after her passing. It was seen by millions of people. Comments were pouring in. Some were awful, some were heartwarming. There were always some who would refute it, claim that it was overstated, that the camps weren't all that horrible, and that women made up stories to get attention. These remarks would have hurt Elise, but she would have also understood. Because some realities are so terrible that people would rather not accept them. Living in denial is more comfortable than acknowledging the potential of mankind.
However, there were also thousands of responses from women expressing thanks and support, such as "Thank you for speaking up." Although my journey is different, I can relate to your suffering. One individual wrote: "I was unaware. I'll never forget that now that I know. From educators who incorporated her testimony into their lessons to youth who learned about this obscure aspect of warfare. Perhaps this is what Elise's true ancestry is. nor the solution she sought, nor the encounter she desired, but awareness, knowledge, and the will to remember. Forgetting is a second death. And these ladies and their children will live on as long as we remember them and tell others about them.
A few years after her mother's passing, Marie, Elise's daughter, authored a novel titled The Ghost Mothers. Pregnant women in Nazi camps testify to it. In addition to her mother's whole narrative, she also shared the testimonies of several other women who had gone through similar experiences. While some had located their children, the majority had not. They all carried the same injury, the same unsolved query, and the same anguish that never really goes away. The book was a human success rather than a business one. It moved people and sparked discussions. It made it possible for additional survivors to speak forward. Some of them were 90 years or older. They believed it was too late to have a conversation. However, the book taught them that their narrative should be told, that it's never too late, and that their voice matters.
One woman reached out to Marie directly. The woman from the barracks whom Elise had mentioned in her testimony had the same first name as her, Hélène. That Hélène, who passed away in 1941, was not the same person. However, it was another ghost mother, another Hélène. A few months later, she had visited the same sorting facility. The same thing had happened to her: the same frigid hands, the same chilly table, the same cry ripped away, the same vanishing. In a little Parisian bistro, Marie and Hélène first met. Hélène had brought documents, letters, and pictures that she had stored for many years. She had also looked, but she had not discovered anything. However, she wanted Marie to understand that her mother wasn't the only one and that hundreds, even thousands, of others had existed, all of whom should have been acknowledged. That day, Marie sobbed because she realized something. Her burden had not been borne only by her mother. Through time and place, she had shared it with all these ladies, who were connected by the same suffering, the same quiet, and the same fortitude required to carry on living after the unimaginable.
There is a memorial today. It's small and unofficial, but it does exist. It's a wall at a Berlin little museum. The names of hundreds of women who gave birth in the camps are listed on this wall, with a blank space for the infant next to each name. Because we frequently don't even know the child's name. All we know is that he was born, that it existed, and that he vanished. This wall has Elise Moreau's name and the following registration: Child born in February 1941. Destiny and sex are unknown. Never be forgotten.
Because in the end, it is the truth. Justice isn't always served. Answers are not always available. However, we may choose not to forget. We are able to provide testimony. We are able to send. Even though these lives were short and terrible, we can make sure that history does not forget them. And for that reason, this testimony still exists and is disseminated. Why is it being listened to now by individuals like you? It's required, not because it's pleasant or comfortable. Because we run the danger of allowing humanity to proliferate if we ignore what it is capable of.
Near the end of her life, Elise posed a question to herself. During this interview, she posed a question to the journalist. A query that is still relevant today: What is preventing us from doing it again if mankind can turn a pregnant woman into an object, take her kid, and carry on as if nothing had happened?
She was at a loss for words. Really, nobody has one. However, she was convinced. There will always be hope as long as there are individuals who are willing to listen, remember, and refuse to remain silent. Her tale was over, thus it wasn't for her, but rather for the next generation. In order to prevent a mom from losing her kid while laying on a chilly table while men in uniform determine his destiny.
Elise's past was known to her grandkids from an early age. Some intricacies are too difficult for little ears to understand. The most important thing, though, is that they be aware that they had an unfamiliar uncle or aunt. Someone who, although not having a name or a face, exists somewhere in the family tree. They also carry this recollection with them. Their own offspring will inherit it, and so forth. Elise has gained this immortality. The memory's, not the body's. She will continue to exist as long as someone can share her tale. She will have achieved her goal as long as someone is left to ask, "How could we let this happen?"
Elise left one more letter before she passed away. A few days after the interview, she wrote it, but she never mailed it. In a drawer, Marie discovered it. It said, "My child, wherever you are."
Elise made no attempt to provide an explanation in this letter. She wasn't attempting to defend herself. All she said was:
"Throughout the four months I carried you, the hours I battled to give birth, and the years that followed, I loved you." Despite the fact that I was never able to embrace you, you have always had a special place in my heart as my first child. I hope your life was enjoyable. I hope someone has loved you. This reality is too much to bear, therefore I hope you never found out where you came from. However, if you ever find out, know that you were wanted and loved, that I never stopped looking for you, and that I never stopped praying for you. even while you're not there. particularly when absent.
Surrounded by her siblings and children, Marie read this letter in front of the memorial. And she shed tears of thankfulness rather than sorrow. Because they were born because her mother had the fortitude to carry on, to start a life, to love again, and to give birth to them in spite of everything she had experienced.
What's left of Elise Moreau is this. Resilience is equally as important as suffering and loss. dignity. the unwillingness to give the executioners the final say. Because she testified, because she spoke, and because she turned her quiet into a voice that is still audible today. Therefore, it is now up to us—those who read, listen, and remember—to keep this memory alive, to keep asking these questions, and to keep refusing to let it fade. Because there is no other way to pay tribute to these women, these ghost moms, and these children who are lost. The only way to make sure their suffering wasn't in vain is to do this.
Elise's tale is not the only one. It tells the tale of thousands of women. A few gave testimony. The majority of deaths were silent. However, everyone should be acknowledged. For their memory to endure, each one deserves to be defended. For this reason, it is important to remember this testimony. nor as a war statistic, nor as a historical curiosity, but as a reminder. A reminder of the consequences of dehumanizing individuals, classifying them, and determining that certain lives are more valuable than others. When we forget that every number has a person, a face, a story, and a heartache behind it.
Born in 1918, Elise Moreau passed away in 2007. mother of four kids, one of whom she has never met. survivor. Observe. For those without a voice, a voice. Her message endures even if her tale has ended. Elise Moreau's history serves as both a testament to the past and a window into the present. These women, these phantom moms, these abducted children—they are more than historical figures. Even now, there are still cries, muted screams, and destroyed lives. They are losing their humanity a second time each time we ignore them and refuse to listen.
Take a time, then. Take a breath. And consider this: How would you wish your mother, sister, or daughter to be remembered?
Don't allow this testimony go unnoticed if it moved you or if the Elise tale made you feel anything. To ensure that there are more tales like this one, please subscribe to this channel. Turn on the bell so you never miss a voice that needs to be heard. Because the only way these tales endure is if someone choose to hear them. if someone choose to affirm, "Yes, that did happen." It does matter. Yes, I'm determined not to forget.
Tell us where you're watching this video from in the comments, but most importantly, share your feelings. Which statement caught your attention? When did you experience heartbreak? Which question is bothering you right now? Your remarks are more than simply remarks. These are acts of recollection, proof that Elise's suffering was not in vain and that her narrative still has resonance. that something in you was altered by her bravery in speaking after sixty years of quiet.
Because, deep down, that's the true question—the one Elise posed to you just before she passed away, the one she poses to you now from the other side of time: If mankind could do that once—turn pregnant women into objects, take their children, and obliterate their existence—what stops us from doing it again?
Books don't contain the solution. You possess it. in your unwillingness to turn away. When you choose to remember. in your voice that declares, "Never again."
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