Don't put any more on!" — The terrifying ritual of a French prisoner's first night in the camp…

Don't put any more on!" — The terrifying ritual of a French prisoner's first night in the camp…

He called us by a number, never by our name. But on the first night, we didn't even have a number yet. We were nothing but fresh meat. My name is Éléonore Vassel, I am 84 years old and I am going to tell what history books have never printed, what official documentaries have cut from edits, what surviving witnesses have learned to bury in silence in order to succeed in living after the war because there was an unofficial, undocumented, but systematized ritual practiced in several French prisoner camps under command. German.

A ritual that broke women before they could even think of resisting. They called it an evaluation, but they weren't evaluating us as workers. They were evaluating us like cattle. When I arrived at the camp in May, I had . Three days earlier, I was in my father's bakery in Baumont sur Sart, in the interior of France, wrapping still-warm loaves of bread for customers.

I was wearing a light blue dress that my mother had sewn. My hair was tied back with a white ribbon. On the day of the deportation, it was 6 a.m. The sky was grey and heavy. I heard the trucks before I saw them, the arm of the diesel engine resonating in the narrow streets, then the boots of dozens hitting the cobblestones like hammers.

My mother was in the kitchen. My father was still asleep. I had just woken up when the door was smashed in. They didn't even knock. They simply walked in. three German soldiers. One of them was carrying a list, another pointed at me and said only one word: Raus. They wouldn't let me take anything , change my clothes, or kiss my mother.

She tried to approach and one of the soldiers pushed her against the wall with the butt of his rifle. My father came running up and was punched in the stomach. He fell to his knees, trying to breathe. I was dragged outside, literally dragged. My bare feet were scraping the ground. I felt the skin on my heels burning.

I saw my mother screaming on the doorstep, my father still on the ground, and I knew I would never see that house again. The truck was already full of women. I recognized some of them. Madame Colette, the schoolteacher. Margaot, who worked at the grocery store. Simone, my childhood neighbor. Others were unknown to me, but all with the same expression.

Wide eyes, rapid breathing, trembling hands. No one was speaking. She was either crying softly or staring into space. There were 47 of us women in that truck, most of us young, between 16 and 25 years old. A few older ones, but very few. I will understand why later. The journey lasted almost two days. We stopped three times.

We were not given food, only water. Once, we relieved ourselves right there in the corner of the truck. The humiliation began before we arrived. When the truck stopped for the last time, it was night. I heard the creaking of the iron gates. I heard voices in German, short, sharp orders. I smelled it.