I was in two minds about posting this review. It’s a grim subject, and maybe readers would rather hear about escapist books. But I was in the mood to read about courage and resilience, and this book almost fell into my hands when I was re-shelving after the marathon effort to reconstruct my lost TBR file. Reading it has certainly put our current troubles into perspective.
I heard about A Train in Winter from Marg at The Intrepid Reader, and I was lucky enough to win her giveaway at the time. In her review, Marg said that she had been reading a lot about the experiences of people during WW2, and that this book was something different because it was about a group of women in the French Resistance who were sent to Auschwitz. It must have been a groundbreaking book when it was first published in 2011; Moorehead has since followed it up with what is now called latern专业破解版安卓最新版, comprising A Train in Winter (2011); Village of Secrets: Defying the Nazis in Vichy France (2014); A Bold and Dangerous Family: The Remarkable Story of an Italian Mother, Her Two Sons, and Their Fight Against Fascism (2017); and A House in the Mountains: The Women Who Liberated Italy from Fascism (2023).
(Although the theme of the quartet is obviously the role of women in the resistance movements, I’d like to read this last one because one of our neighbours and proprietor of a local trattoria was a 15-year-old partisan in WW2 Italy, a man who transcended the brutality of his adolescence to become one of the best-loved people in our community. I’d like to know more about the role of the Italian partisans).
Caroline Moorehead (b.1944) is the daughter of the Australian author Alan Moorehead. On the TBR, I have Thornton McCamish’s 2016 biography of this remarkable man, Our Man Elsewhere: In Search of Alan Moorehead. Many Australian readers of my generation will have read Alan Moorehead’s Darwin and the Beagle at school, but what he is most famous for is his work as a war correspondent, described at Wikipedia as having the great virtue of widening the local story to include its global implications. This is a skill that his daughter Caroline also shows in A Train in Winter….
She sets the scene with a preface about the small number of women who made it back home after the war and how she was able to discover their story. Only a very few were still alive by the time she came to interview them in 2008. Charlotte Delbo, one of the few to document her experiences, had written a play about it in the 1960s, but she had died of cancer in 1985. One of the saddest aspects of this book comes at the end, when we learn that France did not want know about what these survivors of Auschwitz had to say. Like many Jewish survivors of the Holocaust, they had retained the will to live despite the horror, because of the need to bear witness. But France’s determination to ‘move on’ after the war denied them a voice.
Mado, captured and deported when she was 22, was haunted by the ghosts of the women who died.
‘The life we wanted to find again, when we used to say, “if I return” was to have been large, majestic, full of colour. Isn’t it our fault that the life we resumed proved so tasteless, shabby, trivial, thieving, that our hopes were mutilated, our best intentions destroyed? ‘ Her husband, she said, was sensitive, thoughtful, and wanted her to forget, and she did not want to hurt his feelings. But all she could think was that to forget would be an act of betrayal. (p.317)
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What all the women found almost hardest was how to find the words to describe what they had been through. Having imagined telling their families exactly what it had been like, they now fell silent. Often, as it turned out, the families did not really want to hear: the stories were too unbearable to listen to. ‘It wasn’t food we wanted,’ Cécile would say. ‘It was talk. But no one wanted to listen’. When she returned to work for her former employer, a Jew who had survived the Parisian round-ups, he made it clear he wanted to hear nothing about the camps. Strangers asked questions, then quickly changed the subject and began to recount their own hardships of the war. At a village fête, soon after her return, Hélène Bolleau talked a little about the camps. A farmer interrupted. ‘It can’t be true. If it was, you wouldn’t have survived.’ She cried for three days; then she stopped talking. (p.308)
Decades later there was someone who did want to hear. Moorehead was able to talk with Betty Langlais aged 95, Céecile Charua aged 93, Madeleine Dissoubray aged 91, and Poupette Alizon, aged 83, because she was just a teenager when she boarded that train to unimaginable horror. Three survivors were too frail to interview, but she met their children, some who were babes in arms at the time of their mothers’ capture and others who were old enough to know that their mothers had disappeared and for a very long time no one knew where they were.
It was not only the women who found life so hard in 1945. Their children were confused and upset. This applied both to those whose mothers returned and those who only had a letter or a final parting to remember them by. Many grew up torn between a desire not to be overwhelmed by their mothers’ stories, yet at the same time needing not to forget the memories so crucial to their identities.
[…]
Some grandparents and surviving husbands found it easier not to tell children where their mothers had gone. Jaunay and his sisters waited, day after day, for news of their mother, Germaine, who had been part of a passeur network in and around Amboise*, all of them denounced and arrested in the summer of 1942 and not one of whom returned. Their father said nothing. Germaine’s name was never mentioned. The weeks, then the months, passed. Finally Jaunay’s sister went to friends and found out the truth. But his father refused to speak about their mother and never referred to her again. All his life, Jaunay lived with the pale memory of a woman who had loved him, and at the age of 80 he still found it impossible to talk of her without crying. (p.311, *The passeur network guided Jews, downed allied airmen and resisters across the demarcation line.)
The first part of the book charts the extraordinary courage, resourcefulness and initiative of French women in the Resistance. They worked undetected for a long time because it didn’t occur to the Germans that women could be involved. They distributed anti-Nazi leaflets, they printed subversive newspapers, they hid resisters and they escorted Jews across the demarcation line to (unoccupied) Vichy France and beyond. They carried weapons and coded messages, and above all they conveyed the sentiment that accepting the Occupation was morally wrong.
It was when the Resistance moved into a violent phase, killing German officers and derailing trains, that the Germans intensified surveillance. Resistance activity meant that more soldiers had to be diverted from the front to suppress it, and their initial strategy was to take and execute hostages who had nothing to do with it. But instead of discouraging resistance, this had the effect of increasing hostility, and so they devised a policy called nacht und nebel (night and fog):
…sending enemies of the Reich into ‘night and fog beyond the frontier…totally isolated from the outside world’…[…] … these ‘disappeared’ people would have no rights and receive no letters; nothing at all would be known about them, neither their whereabouts nor whether they were even still alive. Such uncertainty, it was argued, would serve to terrorise and deter their families and comrades from further activities. In France, the new measure began with Schutzhaft, protective custody, which meant arbitrary arrest and detention without charge or trial; the detainee would be handed over to the Gestapo before being ‘disappeared’ in the east. (p.111)
Fatefully, they set up a methodical surveillance system and eventually rounded up 230 of these courageous women. Without telling them anything about their destination, and consistent with their treatment of Jewish deportees, they inflicted a nightmare journey on them, to Auschwitz in Poland. As the title of the book conveys, it was winter, and the conditions were bitter, but not as bitter as the way they were treated. I have read a fair bit of Holocaust literature, and I am always ashamed that I find it so hard, when nothing about the experience of reading it is as ghastly as the actual experience of living it. But Part II of A Train in Winter is very difficult to read. At one stage I poured myself a restorative brandy because I was so overwhelmed by it.
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PS, the next day: I would like to thank all the readers who have ‘liked’ this post. I was, as I said in the first paragraph, ambivalent about posting it, and your ‘likes’ are a welcome affirmation that I made the right decision.
Author: Caroline Moorehead
Title: A Train in Winter
Publisher: Harper Perennial (Harper Collins), 2011
ISBN: 9780061650710, pbk., 374 pages (317 pages of text, the rest is Appendices, an Index and Author notes.
Source: personal library: won in a giveaway from The Intrepid Reader, thanks, Marg!
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