Part 13 (1/2)

I am perhaps saying too much, things you do not wish to hear. But I must do this to tell you how Elizabeth lived-and how she held on hard to her kindness and her courage. I would like her daughter to know this also.

Now I must tell you the cause of her death. Often, within months of being in the camp, most women stopped menstruation, but some did not The camp doctors made no provision for the prisoners' hygiene during this time-no rags, no sanitary towels. The women who were menstruating just had to let the blood run down their legs. The overseers liked this, this oh so unsightly blood; it gave them an excuse to scream, to hit A woman named Binta was the overseer for our evening roll call and she began to rage at a bleeding girl. Rage at her, and threaten her with her upraised rod. Then she began to beat the girl.

Elizabeth broke out of our line fast-so fast She grabbed the rod from Binta's hand and turned it on her, hitting her over and over again. Guards came running and two of them struck Elizabeth to the ground with their rifles. They threw her into a truck and took her again to the punishment bunker.

One of the guards told me that the next morning soldiers formed a guard around Elizabeth and took her from the cell. Outside the camp walls there was a grove of poplar trees. The branches of the trees formed an allee and Elizabeth walked down this by herself, unaided. She knelt on the ground and they shot her in the back of her head.

I will stop now. I know that I often felt my friend beside me when I was ill after the camp. I had fevers, and I imagined Elizabeth and I were sailing to Guernsey in a little boat. We had planned this in Ravensbriick-how we would live together in her cottage with her baby Kit It helped me to sleep. I hope you will come to feel Elizabeth by your side as I do. Her strength did not fail her, nor her mind-not ever-she just saw one cruelty too many.

Please accept my best wishes, Remy Giraud

Note from Sister Cecile Touvier, in the envelope with Remy's letter Sister Cecile Touvier, Nurse, writing to you. I have made Remy go to rest now. I do not approve of this long letter, but she insisted on writing it.

She will not tell you how ill she has been, but I will. In the few days before the Russians arrived at Ravensbriick, those filthy n.a.z.is ordered anyone who could walk to leave. Opened the gates and turned them loose upon the devastated countryside. 'Go,' they ordered. 'Go-find any Allied troops that you can.'

They left those exhausted, starving women to walk miles and miles without any food or water. There were not even any gleanings left in the fields they walked past. Was it any wonder their walk became a death march? Hundreds of the women died on the road.

After several days, Remy's legs and body were so swollen with famine oedema she could not continue to walk. So she just lay down in the road to die. Fortunately, a company of American soldiers found her. They tried to give her something to eat; but her body would not receive it. They carried her to a field hospital, where she was given a bed, and quarts of water were drained from her body. After many months in hospital, she was well enough to be sent to this hospice in Louviers. I will tell you she weighed less than sixty pounds when she arrived here. Otherwise, she would have written to you sooner.

It is my belief that she will get her strength back once she has written this letter and she can set about laying her friend to rest. You may, of course, write to her, but please do not ask her questions about Ravensbruck. It will be best for her to forget.

Yours truly, Sister Cecile Touvier From Amelia to Remy Giraud Mademoiselle Remy Giraud Hospice La Foret Louviers France

16th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Mademoiselle Giraud,

How good you were to write to us-how good and how kind. It could not have been an easy task to call up your own terrible memories in order to tell us of Elizabeth's death. We had been praying that she would return to us, but it is better to know the truth than to live in uncertainty. We were grateful to learn of your friends.h.i.+p with Elizabeth and to think of the comfort you gave to one another.

May Dawsey Adams and I come and visit you in Louviers? We would like to, very much, but not if you would find our visit too disturbing. We want to know you and we have an idea to put to you. But again, if you'd prefer it that we didn't, we won't come.

Always, our blessings for your kindness and courage,

Sincerely, Amelia Maugery From Juliet to Sidney 16th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Sidney,

How comforting it was to hear you say, 'G.o.d d.a.m.n, oh G.o.d d.a.m.n.' That's the only honest thing to say, isn't it? Elizabeth's death is an abomination and it will never be anything else.

It's odd, I suppose, to mourn someone you've never met But I do. I have felt Elizabeth's presence all along; she lingers in every room I enter, not just in the cottage but in Amelia's library, which she stocked with books, and Isola's kitchen, where she stirred up potions. Everyone always speaks of her-even now-in the present tense, and I had convinced myself that she would return. I wanted so much to know her. It's worse for everyone else. When I saw Eben yesterday, he seemed older than ever. I'm glad he has Eli. Isola has disappeared. Amelia says not to worry: she does that when she's sick at heart.

Dawsey and Amelia have decided to go to Louviers to try to persuade Mademoiselle Giraud to come to Guernsey. There was a heart-rending moment in her letter-Elizabeth used to help her go to sleep in the camp by planning their future in Guernsey. She said it sounded like heaven. The poor girl is due for some heaven: she has already been through h.e.l.l.

I am to look after Kit while they're away. I am so sad for her-she will never know her mother-except by hearsay. I wonder about her future, too, as she is now-officially-an orphan. Mr Dilwyn said there was plenty of time to decide. 'Let us leave well alone at the moment.' He's not like any other banker or trustee I've ever heard of, bless his heart.

All my love, Juliet From Juliet to Mark 17th June 1946 June 1946

Dear Mark,

I'm sorry that our conversation ended badly last night. It's very difficult to convey shades of meaning while roaring into the telephone. It's true-I don't want you to come this weekend. But it has nothing whatsoever to do with you. My friends have just been dealt a terrible blow. Elizabeth was the centre of the circle here, and the news of her death has shaken us all. How strange-when I picture you reading that sentence. I see you wondering why this woman's death has anything to do with me or you or your plans for the weekend. It does. I feel as though I've lost someone very close to me. I am in mourning.

Do you understand a little better now?