You can read the previous part of Elly’s story here: War years: heading south
There were times when, on that road jammed with cars dead without gas, trucks barely moving and loads of people dragging their tired bodies along the road, there were a few times when we were lucky and got a ride. Maybe because I was young, maybe because I pleaded without begging, maybe because I looked like I was on my last legs, but sometimes, sometimes we were lucky. So here are a few of those.
The moving van
A large moving van from Belgium, Holland or the north of France had stopped and I asked whether they would not allow my Mother and me to come inside. There was room only for one person, so my Mother went inside. I had to climb on the roof which was quite high, but I managed with a boost from someone. One the roof were the mattresses tied down with ropes. I was told to lie on a mattress face down, and push my legs and arms under the ropes to keep me from falling off. So I did. It was cold, rainy, windy and the limbs of trees kept hitting my face. On top of that I had cramps and started my period. Not a pleasant addition to the way I felt.
After a while, the van stopped and someone else climbed up on the roof. This was a soldier who sat at the very front edge facing into the wind, which made it a little easier for me. However he was, unfortunately, totally out of his mind. He had been in an anti-tank army battalion and the soldiers had dug themselves in facing the German army. The French had anti-tank guns but when they tried to hit the incoming German tanks they found that the ammunition they had did not fit the guns they had. The guy on the van was the only survivor. He had lost his mind, seeing all his comrades killed, realizing that the debacle was caused by their own army suppliers. So, after he told me all this between screaming and swearing and crying, I was more scared of him than of the rain, the whipping trees, and everything else.
Not too long after that, the van stopped again, someone came out and told me to climb down. My Mother was already out of the van, standing on the road, crying. Unfortunately she had a bit of a German accent when she spoke French and that was enough for us to be considered enemies.
In a small village
We started walking again and as evening was falling we found ourselves in a small village. It was very quiet and seemed empty. We saw a French Army truck parked on a side street, across from a private house.
I knocked on the door – I was always the spokesperson since I had no accent – and asked the woman whether we could possible spend the night, we would be happy to sleep in the kitchen or any place in the house, just for the night. She looked doubtful but finally said we could stay in the little garden at the back. What I saw of the inside, the kitchen, a dining room, was so nice, neat, warm I think I could draw the place still.
As usual, we offered some of our supply of sugar cubes, as a “thank you” for the shelter. Our supply of sugar was becoming smaller all the time. Money, or anything else, was of no value whatsoever. In the garden was one of those lovely wood and canvas sling chairs, into which my mother snuggled down. There was also, as usual, a footrest attached to it and I curled up on that to get some rest. There was no way that woman would have given us anything to eat, but I did get two glasses of water, one for Mother, one for me.
I trotted across the street through the garden gate and asked the soldiers to PLEASE knock on the gate if they took off, we knew the Germans were very close. They assured me they would do so. In the early morning the woman of the house came out to the garden and told us the Germans were just entering the village, and for us to leave if we wanted to be saved. The soldiers had left in their truck during the night and never let us know. We quickly picked up our belongings, the backpack and the little suitcase, and quickly left in the direction she indicated to us was safe. So another part of the trek started.
With singing soldiers to Troyes
This time, it was really scary. The road out of the village was empty, only one older man was walking. We joined up with him and he pointed out a copse of trees and told us that, if we heard the German motorcycles coming – they were always there first, then came the small trucks, then the tanks – we should take off across the ditches and into that wood. The man had been in the French Army during World War I and knew the ropes.
My poor Mother… I was stupid and determined that I would not be afraid of anything. I started to make a bouquet from field flowers by the side of the road, bleu, blanc et rouge, the colours of the French flag. She almost fainted, asked whether I wanted to get both of us killed on the spot, but I felt like Jeanne d’Arc. And you know what happened to her.
But luck was still with us, because down the road there was a small French Army lorry which had stalled and we managed to have them give the three of us a lift. They had been in the Champagne area and since one of the common events in the army at that time was, if the enemy is close and you are the officers travelling in a car while the soldiers are in lorries, the officers made a U-turn in their car and left the troops behind.
Most soldiers were quite aware of France being lost, but the ones in this particular lorry decided not to take it lying down. They raided the wine stores in the area, dumped their weapons and filled the lorry with good wine. They drank a lot and sang and my Mother and I stayed with them as long as was absolutely necessary and in the next village, we got off.
Read the fourth part of Elly Sherman’s story, War years: Troyes, reunions, and other events
Comment on the story here.
