What German soldiers did to pregnant Black prisoners on the day of delivery

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I told myself that it would pass, that I will survive until giving birth and then maybe I could return to Martinique with my baby. But one day, everything changed. It was a September morning. I was at the market in buying potatoes. I felt a hand suddenly land on my shoulder. I turned around. He was a German soldier, tall, blond, cold blue eyes.

He told me looked, then he looked at my stomach. He said something in German that I didn’t understand, but the tone was clear. It wasn’t a question, it was an order. He grabbed me by the arm. I tried to free myself. He has squeezed tighter. I was in pain. The people around us have hijacked the look. Nobody said anything.

Nobody didn’t move. He dragged me to a military truck parked on the street corner. There were already other women inside, five or six, all speakers. Some were crying, others remained silent. His face frozen with fear. The soldier pushed me into the truck. The door closed behind me. He was doing dark.

It smelled of sweat, urine, fear. A woman next to me whispered to me. Where is he taking us? I don’t have not answered. I didn’t know. But at deep inside me, I felt that something something terrible awaited us. The truck drove for hours. We We were pressed against each other others. My stomach hurt. The baby was moving.

I put my hand on it, trying to reassure him, to reassure myself. Through the slots of the truck I saw unknown landscapes pass by, fields, forests, villages destroyed. Then finally, the truck stopped, the door opened. The daylight blinded me for a moment. A soldier shouted raos raos come out, go out. We went down one by one, awkwardly because of our bellies.

I looked around me. We were in front of a large building surrounded by barbelet. There were ford towers, armed soldiers, dogs. The air was cold, the sky was gray. And suddenly I understood, it wasn’t a hospital, it was not a refuge, it was a prison, a place where he brought us for a reason precise, a reason that I didn’t understand not yet but that I was going to discover very quickly.

We were brought into the building. A long and dark corridor of doors on each side, a smell of disinfectant mixed with something older, darker. The smell of death perhaps. We were taken into a large room where a woman in uniform was waiting for us. She had a hard face, lips fine, eyes that showed no emotion.

She looked at us one by one slowly as if assessing us. When his gaze fell on me, he stopped. She uttered the eyebrows. She said something German to another soldier. He shook his head. Then she approached me. She held out her hand and touched my face. His fingers were cold. She turned my head on one side then the other as if I was an object.

She touched my hair, she looked at my hands, then she placed her hand on my stomach. I have wanted to push her away, to scream, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed by fear. She said something. I heard a word that I will never forget. Micheling, Métis, she was talking about my baby. She spoke of what I was.

And in this word there is had all the contempt, all the hatred, all the violence he reserved for people like me. I was separated from the others women. I was taken to another room, smaller, colder. There had a metal table in the center, medical instruments on a tray, a lamp hanging from the ceiling and a man in a white coat waiting for me.

He doesn’t didn’t look me in the eye. She told me just motioned for me to lie down on the table. I obeyed because I didn’t know not what else to do. The table was frozen. I felt the cold pass through my dress, penetrate my skin. The man got approached. He put his hands on my belly. cold, methodical. He pressed, felt, measured.

Then he took a long instrument, metallic, cold and he introduced it in me. I can’t describe the pain. It wasn’t just physical. It was a deeper pain, a pain that touched something me who I didn’t even know I could be injured. I closed my eyes, I gritted my teeth, I tried not to scream. But the tears flowed on their own.

The man spoke. He dictated notes to a nurse who was standing nearby, numbers. medical terms, words that I didn’t understand but I understood the tone. I was a case, a problem, something to solve. When he finished, he told me to get dressed again. He didn’t explain anything to me. He simply left. The nurse looked at me with confusion of pity and disgust.

She waited for me a cloth for me to dry off. Then she took me out. I was taken back to a long, narrow barracks with wooden bunks lined up on each side. There were other women there, all pregnant. Some me looked with curiosity, others looked away. One more woman elderly with gray hair and eyes tired approached me. She told me said in French “You’re new here.

” I nodded. She looked at my face, my skin, my hair and she has whispered: “My God, you are black, they They’re going to put you through hell!” This woman’s name was Marguerite. She was there for 4 months already. She explained to me whispering that this place was a sorting center, a place where Germans brought pregnant women to decide the fate of their baby.

She told me they had an obsession, a crazy idea to create a pure breed, perfect and that everything that does not did not correspond to their vision was eliminated. Women like us, pregnant and prisoners, we were only incubators for them. Our babies were evaluated before they were even born. Some were considered acceptable and placed with German families.

Others simply disappeared. Marguerite didn’t dare tell me what was happening to them, but I saw the fear in his eyes. And when she looked at my skin, my face, she added in a voice trembling “For you, it will be worse. It hates black people. He thinks you are less than human. Your baby, little no matter what it looks like, they won’t will never let live.

” These words are remained engraved in my mind. They don’t will never let live. My child, the only piece of Thomas that remained to me, they went to take it from me, they went kill him and there was nothing I can do. I placed my hands on my stomach. I have felt the baby move, a little push, then another, as if telling me that he was there, that he wanted to live.

And I whispered to him quietly. I I will protect you. I don’t know how, but I will protect. But deep inside I knew that it was a lie. How to protect a child when you yourself are a prisoner ? How to fight men armed, against an entire system designed to destroy. The following days have was a descent into a nightmare from which I couldn’t wake up.

Each morning, a guard came and shouted names. The one whose names were called had to get up and follow her. Some came back for a few hours later, pale, trembling, the eyes red. Others did not return from everything. No one asked questions, no one dared. We lived in a constant fear, never knowing if our name would be next, not knowing never what awaited us behind these closed doors.

My name was called three days later my arrival. My heart stopped. I looked Marguerite. She shook my hand quickly, discreetly. I got myself up, my legs were trembling. I have followed the guard into the corridor then on the stairs that went down to the basement. The air grew colder each step.

The smell of disinfectant was so strong that it burned my nostrils. We arrived in front of a metal door. She opened it. Inside there were two men white coat and a German officer in uniform. They looked at me entering like we look at an animal we getting ready to dissect. One of the men motioned for me to undress. I hesitated.

The officer has shouted something in German. The tone left no doubt. It was a order. So I undressed slowly, shamefully in front of these three men who stared at me without the slightest embarrassment. Naked, vulnerable, seven months pregnant. I stood there, trembling with cold and fear. One of the men approached with a ribbon master.

He measured my head, my skull, the distance between my eyes, the width of my nose, the length of my arms, my legs. He took notes, he dictated figures. The other man examined my stomach, pressed on it, listened with a stethoscope. He spoke to each other in German, were talking like I was a problem mathematics to be solved.

Then the officer approached. He looked straight at me in the eyes for the first time. His eyes were blue, icy, empty of all humanity. He said in French with a heavy accent : “What anti-African are you?” I have replied in a weak voice, “Martinique.” He smiled a scornful smile. French then, but not really French. He gestured towards my stomach and father, “I hesitated.

” Then I said, “My husband, he was French, he is dead to war.” Officer Harit, a laugh cold, cruel. A Frenchman who sleeps with a negress. He deserved to die. These words hit me like a blow point. I felt my tears coming, but I kept them. I don’t I will not give this pleasure. The officer has gestured to the two men. They got me grabbed me by the arms and forced me to lie down on the metal table.

I have tried to resist, but they were stronger. They tied my wrists with straps, then my ankles. I was immobilized, unable to move, exposed, humiliated. One of the men took an instrument that I had never seen, long with a sort of pincer at the end. He placed himself between my legs. I have understood what he was going to do.

I screamed “No, please no!” But no one listened. He introduced the instrument in me. The pain was unsustainable. I screamed. I felt something tearing inside. I felt blood flowing. The baby moved frantically in my stomach as if he sensed danger. The man has removed the instrument. He was covered with blood. He put it on the tray.

He has said something to the officer. The officer nodded. Then he leaned over to me and said, “Your baby is a michling, a bastard, half white, half black. It will not be used to nothing. When he is born, we will decide what to do with it. But you, after delivery, you will be sterilized. We we can’t leave women like you continue to defile the race.

He said it calmly, as if he talked about the weather, as if my life, that of my child was worthless. They untied me. They told me to get dressed again. I could barely move. My body whole was trembling. There was blood between my legs. The guard took me back to the barracks. The other women saw me arrive. They saw the blood, they saw my face and they knew.

Marguerite told me helped me lie down on my bunk. She brought a wet cloth and gently cleaned. She didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. We knew all that we were in the hands of monsters. That night I didn’t slept. I stared at the wooden ceiling rotten hut. I listened to the muffled cries of the other women. I have felt my baby move inside me and I thought of Thomas.

I wondered if he knew where he was what was happening to me. I wondered if he forgave me to have been so naive, so stupid to come to France. I wondered if he would forgive me for not being able to save our child. And for the first time For months I have prayed. I prayed the God of my childhood. the one my mother invoked every Sunday at the Fort de France church.

I prayed for a miracle, so that something, anything, save my baby. The weeks passed. My stomach continued to grow. The movements of baby was getting stronger, more frequent. Sometimes I felt these little feet or these little dots push against my skin. It was painful, but it was also the only something that gave me hope.

He was alive, he was fighting, he wanted to be born. And I, despite everything, despite the fear, despite the certainty that everything would end badly, I wanted to meet him. I wanted to see his face, hold his little hand, even if it was only for a moment. The exams continued. Twice a week they took me in this cursed room.

Every time, it was the same humiliation, the same pain, the same cold words and clinics. They measured, that’s my belly. They listened to the baby’s heart. They took notes, they discussed between them as if I didn’t exist. And each time the officer was there, looking with this cold contempt, remembering that my baby would not live long time, that I was a mistake of the nature, a stain to be erased.

One day while I was lying on this table, I heard one of the doctors say to the officer: “The fetus develops normally, but being given the racial characteristics of the sea, it will be necessary to carry out a complete assessment at birth. If the child presents traits that are too negroids, he will be eliminated immediately.

If it looks more like to the father, we can consider other options. I closed my eyes. I tried not to listen, but these words echoed in my head. Too much negroid eliminated immediately. My own child would be judged on color of his skin, on the shape of his nose, on the texture of his hair and according to this arbitrary judgment and monstrous, he would live or he would die.

Back to barracks, I told Marguerite what I had heard. She looked at me with infinite sadness. Adelaide, she told me gently. He you need to get ready. You need to accept that you may not be able to never see your baby. He doesn’t let us nothing. They take everything from us. I have shook his head. No, I refuse. I refuses to accept this.

But even in saying these words, I knew she had reason. What could I do? I was prisoner. I was alone. I was black in a world that hated me for that. I had no power, no resource, no hope. There was other women in the barracks who had already given birth. Some spoke in low voices about what had happened past.

A woman named Sophie told that her baby had been taken from her arm a few seconds after the birth. She hadn’t even seen him. She had just heard a scream and then silence. Another woman, Louise, said that she had seen her stillborn baby, but she was sure he was alive before let’s not take it. She thought we had killed him.

A third woman spoke no more at all. She remained sitting on her bunk, her eyes empty, cradling a piece of fabric as if it was his child. She had lost the reason. I refused to become like her. I refused to lose reason. I repeated to myself every day that I had to stay strong. that I had to survive, that I had to be there for my baby, even though I didn’t know how.

I was talking to my stomach. I sang softly songs that my mother told me sang when I was little. Of Creole songs that spoke of sea, sun, freedom. I said my baby heard my voice, that he would recognize me when he was born, that he would know that I loved him. The 9th month has arrived. My body was exhausted, my legs swelled so much that I could barely walk.

My back was hurting permanence. But the worst was the wait. Waiting for that moment when everything would change, where I would lose control, where he would take my child. Every night I woke up sweating, terrified that the contractions start because I knew that from that the work would begin, it would be beginning of the end.

It happened one morning in December. It was freezing cold. Snow fell outside. I woke up with a dull pain in the lower part of the belly. At first I thought it was just a usual cramp, but the pain came back stronger, more regular. Got it. The work had started. I called Marguerite. Helen came immediately.

She posed his hand on my stomach and felt the contraction. His eyes filled with tears. It’s time. did she whispered. She went to look for the guardian. A few minutes later, two guards entered. They grabbed me by the arms and forced me to get up. The contractions became more and more painful. I could barely walk.

They dragged me out of the barracks in the bitter cold bare feet in the snow. I felt my frozen feet, but the pain of contractions were so intense that I felt almost nothing else. They took me to the main building, then down in this basement room that I knew too well. When they opened the door, I saw the scene that awaited me.

The metal table in the center, the white lights blinding, medical instruments lined up on a tray and three men, two doctors and the officer I hated it with all my soul. He waiting for me as if I were one appointment planned in advance. The The guards threw me on the table. I was too weak to resist. They tied my legs with straps, then my arms.

I was immobilized, exposed to their mercy. The contractions intensified, the pain was unbearable. I had the impression that my body was tearing itself apart from the inside. I was screaming, I couldn’t stop prevent. But no one comforted, no one held me hand. The doctors were talking among themselves, consulted their notes, prepared their instruments.

One of them got placed between my legs and began to examine. His hands were cold, brutal. He said something in German. The other doctor nodded. head. Then they waited. They were waiting for my body to do it work, the baby comes down, everything be ready for their intervention. Hours have passed or perhaps minutes, I didn’t know anymore.

Time no longer existed, there was only pain. Again and again, waves of stronger and stronger which overwhelmed me completely. I was sweating, I I was shaking, I felt my body empty with all his energy. At one point, I thought I was going to die. I believed that my heart was going to stop, that I I won’t make it to the end.

and a part of me wishing to die just to escape this suffering so as not to having to experience what was to come. Then suddenly I felt pressure immense, a feeling of tearing and I heard one of the doctors say “The baby is coming, get ready.” I pushed with all my strength. I pushed again and again, screaming each time, feeling my body tearing apart.

And then, after what seemed like an eternity, I felt something coming out of me. I heard a scream. My baby’s cry, weak but alive. My heart went arrested. It was him, my child. He was there, he was alive. I tried to turn your head, to see him. “My baby,” I whispered. Please let me see my baby.

But one of the doctors told me held the head in place. Rest Quiet, he ordered coldly. The other doctor took the baby in his hands. I couldn’t see anything, just his back. He took him to a corner of the room. I heard the baby crying. This little fragile cry which meant that he lived, that he was breathing. I tried to release straps.

Give it to me did I shouted. It’s my baby. Give it to me. But no one listened to me. The officer approached the doctor who was holding the baby. They spoke in low voices. I don’t didn’t understand what he was saying, but I saw their look, their expression. The officer took the baby in his hands. He examined it.

He looked at his face, her skin, her hair. Then he said something in German. The doctor nodded. The officer turned towards me. His face was impassive. He said in French, “It’s a boy.” A boy? I had a son, the son of Thomas, our child. Then the officer added: “But his skin is too dark, his features are too negroid, it can’t be integrated, it will be eliminated.

” These words echoed in my head like a clap of thunder. “Eliminated! My baby, my son, they went to kill. I screamed. I screamed at the top of my lungs. No, no, you can’t do that. It’s my child. Give it back to me. I shot the straps until they hurt my wrists. I tried to get up, to free, to run towards him, but I was tied up, helpless.

The officer looked at me with the same cold contempt. You have no rights here. This child should never have been born. He gestured to the doctor. The doctor has wrapped my baby in a cloth. My son was crying. I heard her crying and this cry, this desperate little cry was there the most heartbreaking thing I have ever heard.

They left the room, They took my baby away. I saw them go through the door, I saw the door open close and suddenly silence. A absolute, crushing, unbearable silence. My son was no longer there. I hadn’t even held it in my arm. I hadn’t seen his face. I hadn’t touched her little hands. He took it from me for a few seconds after his birth and now he was heading towards certain death.

I I stayed lying on this table bloody, broken, emptied. The tears flowed down my face. I couldn’t no more screaming. I no longer had a voice. I had nothing left. One of the doctors approached. He said, “We will now proceed to sterilization as expected. I barely heard, I was already dead inside. That he do what he wanted.

nothing more didn’t matter. My baby was dead, my son was dead and a part of me died with it him. They started the procedure. I don’t remember exactly what that they did. I just remember the pain again and again. A pain physical that mixed with pain emotional. A pain so intense that I thought I was going crazy.

At one point, I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was back to the barracks, lying on my berth. Marguerite was next to me. She was crying, she was holding my hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. The following days are blurry in my memory. I didn’t eat, I didn’t didn’t speak. I remained lying down, eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling my empty body, my flat stomach, my arms who had never held my child.

I could hear the other women around me. Some whispered, others were crying. A woman gave birth to two days after me. I heard these cries, then the cry of her baby, then the silence and I knew. The same thing was to him arrival. We had all been through there. We were all mothers ghosts, women who had been stolen motherhood, life, the future.

A morning, a guard came in and shouted names. My name was among them. You leave, transfer. I got up slowly. My body was still weak, still painful. We have taken out of the barracks. There was a truck waiting. We were one ten women. All had the same empty look, same hollow face through suffering. We went up in the truck. Nobody spoke.

He there was nothing to say. The truck rolled for hours. Through the fantes, I saw the landscape parade, snowy fields, dark forests, villages destroyed. I was wondering where he took us. Towards another camp, towards death. I didn’t care, I was already dead. When the truck stopped, we were in front of a huge complex.

Barbed wire everywhere, guai towers, rows of barracks as far as the eye can see, thousands of women in striped uniforms who walked like ghosts. Ravensbruck, I heard this name whispered by one of the prisoners, the women’s camp, hell reserved for those who did not deserve therefore no living according to the Nazis. We took us down, they took us undressed, our heads were shaved, we gave us dirty uniforms and holes.

We have a number tattooed on us the arm. I became number 68 who is left Baumont. I was no longer a person. I was a number in a machine dead. I was assigned to a barracks. I was given a job. I had to sew military uniforms twelve hours per day. My fingers were bleeding on the needles, my eyes burned under dim light, but I was sewing again and again because the one who not working fast enough was killed.

Months turned into years. 1942, 1943, 1944 time no longer had any meaning. There is no had only survival. Find a song of bread, avoid blows, don’t fall sick, breathe one more day. I have saw women dying of hunger, illness, despair. I saw executions. I saw some bodies piled up like garbage. And every night I dreamed of my son.

I saw him in my arms. I felt it heat. I saw his little face. But when I woke up, there was nothing. Just the void, just this pain that doesn’t never left. In April 1945, some thing has changed. We heard strange noises in the distance, explosions, shots. The guards were pretty nervous, agitated.

They shouted more loudly, strikingly. We knew something was happening was happening, but we didn’t dare hope. Hoping was dangerous. Then one morning, we woke up and guards were no longer there. The towers of Ga were empty, the gates of the camp were open. We went out slowly, carefully, like animals who fear a trap.

Outside there had soldiers, but not soldiers Germans, Soviet soldiers. They looked at us with eyes horrified. Some were crying. A young soldier approached me. She handed me a piece of bread. I have tried to take it, but my hands were shaking so much that I left him fall. She picked it up and carried it to my mouth.

And I cried for first time in years. I have cried in front of someone. We were free. Free. But what is the freedom for someone who has lost everything ? What is freedom when your soul remained prisoner, even if your body is no longer? The days following were chaotic. The Soviets set up hospitals campaign.

They try to heal us, to feed us. But many women die anyway. Their body was too weakened. They had survived if a long time, but at the time of liberation, she no longer had the strength to continue. I survived, I don’t know how. Perhaps out of sheer stubbornness. Maybe because part of me still wanted to know what was happened to my son.

The Red Cross is arrival. They started recording our names, trying to reconnect with our families. I gave my name. Adélaï Baumont, born in Martinique, married to Thomas Morau, who died in 1940. A son born in December, taken by the Germans. They wrote everything down. They have said they did research, but I saw in their eyes that they didn’t believe I could find my child.

There were too many missing, too many children stolen, too many deaths. I have waited a few weeks in a camp refugees, then I decided to return in Martinique. I had nothing left in France, just nightmare memories. I wanted find my mother, my family, warmth of the sun, the smell of the sea. I wanted to try to rebuild something thing, even though I knew I wouldn’t be never the same again.

The return journey was long. I was thin, sick, broken, but I was alive. When the boat arrived at Fort de France, I saw my mother on the platform. She was waiting for me, she was crying. When she saw me get off the boat, she ran towards me. She hugged me and for the first time in years, I felt safe. My mother took me home.

She told me cared for, she fed me, she listened to me when I wanted to speak and she respected my silence when I could not not. Little by little, my body healed but my mind never. Every night I dreamed of this basement room. I dreamed of my baby’s cry. I woke up in sweat, in tears, screaming his name, even though I didn’t tell him never given a name.

How to name a child we never held? How name a ghost? I tried to rebuild a life. I found a work as a seamstress. I tried to smile, talk to people, do pretending to be normal, but I don’t wasn’t. I never will be. The people sometimes asked me why I had no children. I replied that I couldn’t, which was true. He had sterilized me.

He had stolen from me no only my son, but also all possibility of being a mother one day. This injury was perhaps the most deep. Knowing that I will carry always this emptiness in me, that I never could not fill this gap. During for years I wrote letters to the Red Cross, in the military archives, to research organizations missing people.

I was sending letters in France, Germany, Poland, wherever I thought there could be a trace of my son. I described the circumstances of his birth, the sorting center, the officer, the doctors. I gave all the information that I remembered, but the answers were always the same. We are sorry, we have no find no trace.

The files have been destroyed. There have been so many case. Some letters suggested to me to abandon my search. He is likely that the child is dead. He it’s better to mourn and continue your life. But how do we mourn someone we don’t have never buried? How do we give up hope when it’s the only thing that keeps you alive? In 1953, I am married. His name was Joseph.

He was kind, patient. He had lost his first woman during the war. We Were two broken souls trying to rebuild together. I don’t have him never talked about my son. I couldn’t not. The pain was too great, too much intimate. We tried to have children, but of course it was impossible. Joseph never blamed me.

He said that the two of us were enough and we lived a simple life, quiet, filled with little joys daily. But deep inside me, there always had this emptiness, this lack, this unanswered question. Where is my son? Did he die a few hours after his birth? Did he suffer? Where is he somewhere in the living world without know who I am? The decades have past the 60s 70s.

Joseph died in 1986. Cancer. He left slowly surrounded by love and I found myself alone again. Old, tired, but always haunted by this past which does not never left. I started to think that I had to speak, that I had to testify before it is too late. There were so many documentaries, books, testimonies about the war.

But no one talked about what was happened to black women in the camps. No one was talking about these mixed race babies that they had killed. Nobody spoke of this specific racial hatred which had targeted us. In 1991, a young historian came to see me. Her name was Claire. She was doing research on colonial women French during the Second War worldwide.

She had found my name in archives. She wanted interview me. At first I refused. How to tell all this? How put words to this pain? But Claire was gentle, respectful. She came back several times. She told me that my story was important, that it had to be recorded, that the everyone needed to know. So finally, I accepted. We sat in my living room.

Claire installed a tape recorder and I started talking. For the first times in fifty years, I have told everything. Capture, sorting center, humiliating examinations, childbirth, cry of my baby, the officer who said that it would be eliminated, sterilization, Ravensbruck, everything. I cried in telling.

Claire was crying too, but I didn’t stop. I told until the end because I knew that if I stopped, I could never start again. When I finished, Claire hugged me and in her arms, she thanked me. She told me that my testimony would be archived, that it would serve history, that thanks to me, people know this that happened to women like me. And for the first time I felt something released within me.

This was not a relief. It was not not peace, but it was a recognition. My story existed, my son existed. Somewhere in the archives, in history, there would be a trace of him. Today, in this month of January 1992, I am an old woman. My body is worn out, my hands tremble, my eyesight is failing, but my mind flashes.

I remember of everything. I remember the face of Thomas. I remember the weight of my belly when I was pregnant. I remember my son’s cry and I remember the promise I made to him made that day lying on this cold table. I promised him that I would tell his story story, that I will testify, that I let the world know this what they did to us.

My son, wherever whether you are dead or alive, know that I loved you. Know that every day of my life, I thought of you. Know that you don’t have not been forgotten. And to all those who listen to this story, I tell you this: do not let these crimes be erased. Don’t let hate racial, genderism, dehumanization come back.

Because what happened to me, what happened to my son can happen again if we don’t stay vigilant. History repeats itself when we refuses to look her in the face. So look, listen, remember, that’s all I ask. Ade Baumont died on November 23, 199 in Fort de France, Martinique. She had 75 years old. His testimony recorded in January 1912 remains one of the few documented stories of a black woman from the colonies French women having survived the policies Nazi eugenics.

Between and the Nazi regime forcibly sterilized about four hundred thousand people deemed racially inferior. Among them, hundreds of Afro-Germans, mixed race and people from the colonies. Thousands of babies born in camps and sorting centers were killed or disappeared without a trace. The son of Adélaï was never found.

Sound story like that of thousands other black and mixed race women is remained invisible for decades. This testimony exists so that these voids are not forgotten, so that their suffering is recognized, so that humanity remembers what it is capable in his most hours dark. If you looked up to the end, comment from which city or which country you look at us and subscribe so you don’t miss the next testimonies.

These stories deserve to be heard. They deserve to be preserved. Together we keep the memory alive of those who can no longer speak. Mr.

Nguyễn Huy

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What German soldiers did to pregnant Black prisoners on the day of delivery

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