Remembering The Martyred Village Of France (cont.)

A single woman survived after escaping through a window behind the altar.  She was shot five times, but somehow managed to reach a field behind the church and bury herself between rows of peas until help arrived the following day.

The men were divided into smaller groups and led to six barns throughout the town.  They were riddled with machinegun fire to their lower bodies and legs, and a percentage was still alive when the SS entered, covered the carnage with hay and firewood and set the barns ablaze.  And so on.

Five men survived; two of them still live in the area today.

After the massacre the soldiers directed their wrath to the town itself, which was burnt largely to the ground.  Armed with looted booty, the SS left the next day to join the troops in Normandy to fight the Allied invasion. 

The fog thickens as I walk among the ruins.  Time has smoothed over the rough edges of Oradour-sur-Glane.  The streets are clear of debris, and the black patches of ash have faded from the walls.  But it cannot erase one enduring question:

Why?

Nobody knows for certain.  Oradour-sur-Glane lay in the heart of Vichy France, the only self-sovereign part of France during the German occupation. 

While asserting neutrality, the Vichy regime was essentially a puppet state for the Nazis. They quickly established ruthless, racially driven policies, which were enforced by a secret police force called the Milice. The Milice's other object was to put down the French Resistance, which targeted the Vichy regime as traitors.

Many speculate that the massacre was retaliation for the kidnapping and killing of a German officer by the French Resistance, now believed to have taken place in Oradour-sur-Vayres, a town 35 miles to the south. It might have been as simple as a case of mistaken identity. The SS were acting on information given to them by the Milice.

Frenchmen were using Germans to kill Frenchmen.  Details got lost in the translation.

By now, it is nearly noon, and the streets have become dotted with other visitors.  Having explored the rest of the village, I step into the church.  Little remains, other than the confessional booth, where two boys spent their last moments, and rubble from the side and main altars.

The knave is filled with small clusters of visitors in twos, threes or fours.  They exchange pleasantries in different languages and snap photos.  A tour group of American Catholics stand to one side with two guides.  First, the French guide explains the story in English.  Then, the tour group leader, a priest, leads them in prayer as they bow their heads and recite 'Our Father'.

I leave the tourists in the church and step into the adjacent courtyard.  A couple stands near the center trying to make sense of a map.  They speak with the familiar twang of a Midwest American accent and look around confused.

I ask if they need help with anything.

“Oh you’re American,” she said casually.  “Do you know where the bakery is? The one where they found the bodies in the oven?”

I look at her with incredulous eyes and gesture in the right direction.

As I slip away, heading towards the exit gate, I again try to make sense of something that is senseless. There is an old, rusted sign posted against a stonewall on the outskirts of the village. The sign's message is in English and French. It has stood there for a long time and will certainly be there for a long time to come.

Souviens toi.

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