Three horrifying choices German soldiers forced pregnant women to make immediately upon arrival.

 

 

My name is Madeleine Fournet. Мой возраст не indicated and I have something to say bye it’s not too late before my voice is silent forever. I saw pregnant women forced to choose between three doors. Three numbered doors lined up hardly at the end of the cold damp corridor, lit only by one a light bulb flickering like a dying thing heart.

 No signs, no explanations, just three gray ones metal doors. each of which hid her fate. Everyone is cruel, everyone designed to destroy not only our bodies, but also our souls. German the soldiers didn’t give us time to reflection. They didn’t give us time to prayer. They just pointed at doors and with chilling coldness ordered: “Choose now.

” And we, young, scared, with children, stirring inside us, were forced decide what form of suffering will become ours. I chose door number two and For years I carried the weight of this choice, like a stone in the chest, crushing everyone sigh, every night’s dream, every moment silence.

 Today, sitting in front of this camera with trembling hands and a trembling voice, I I’ll tell you what happened behind that door. Not because I want to relive this horror, but because those women who didn’t come back, they deserve to be remembered. They deserve to be something more than forgotten numbers in dusty archives.

 And because the world must know what war chooses as victims are not only soldiers. She chooses mothers, she chooses babies, she chooses the unborn life and mercilessly destroys her. It was October. I was an indefinite number of years, and I lived in Asya Anver, a small village in the mountains in the southeast of France, hidden between rocky cliffs and pine forests.

It was an isolated place, forgotten a world where the seasons changed slowly, and people lived on very meager means: potatoes, goat milk, paint shared between neighbors. Before war, this isolation was a blessing. After the German invasion of France, she turned into a trap. My husband Etinfurney was taken away in April of that year for forced labor at the plant ammunition production in Germany.

 I I remember the day they came for him. He I was chopping wood in the yard, covered in sweat. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Seeing soldiers coming up the slope hill, he threw the ax and looked at me with that look that said everything without words. Don’t resist, don’t fight, survive. He was taken away at that very moment.

 Him They didn’t let me say goodbye properly. His just pushed into a truck with others men from the village. And I stood there. A cold wind blew across my face. And I I watched the dust rise from the road, when the truck disappeared into the mountains. In that night, alone in a stone house, which belonged to my parents, it was my first time I felt real fear.

 Not fear death, and the fear of life without a goal, without hope, with nothing but emptiness. 2 months later I found out that I was pregnant. This was not planned. It was an accident or perhaps a miracle, in depending on how you look at it look. Etienne and I spent our last night together, wrapped in thick blanket, shivering from the cold and despair, trying to preserve the memory of warm each other before the war will separate us forever.

 When I realized that I didn’t get my period when I felt morning sickness and болезненность в груди, я сразу поняла, я cried that morning. I cried because was alone. I cried because I didn’t I knew Litien was alive. I cried because the birth of a child in the midst of this war seemed the most cruel and selfish decision that can only be made.

But I also cried with relief because that for the first time since your loved ones gone, I now have something for which worth living, something beyond me itself, something that was still pulsating life in a world that stank of death. I defended this pregnancy with everything I had I was there.

 I hid my belly under baggy coats and thick shawls. I I avoided leaving the house during the day. I’m little I ate to save food, but I kept an eye on so that my baby gets everything necessary. At night, alone in the dark, I put her hands on her stomach and whispered promises to this invisible life: “I will protect you. No matter what happens, I will protect you.

” B that October morning the sky was heavy and low, covered with gray clouds, which seemed to press the earth. Dula cold and bitterly windy, blowing the last leaves from the trees and scattering them on the ground like ashes. I was in the kitchen, sifting flour into cracked ceramic bowl, trying to bake bread from what little you have left.

 My hands were not shaking because of the cold, but from hunger. I didn’t eat normally several days. But inside of me is my son moved, kicking me in the ribs, as if fighting for space and it made me smile even through fear. Exactly then I heard a sound, deep, distant rumble from the dirt road rising into mountain, the sound of military trucks. Mine my heart began to pound.

 I threw the bowl on table Flour scattered over the worn the wooden half ran to the window. Three green trucks drove slowly along road. Their wheels crushed stones and raised dust. German soldiers. There were a lot. I hid a bag of flour under sink. The food was contraband and if if I were caught with her, I would was immediately arrested.

 I put on mine biggest coat, brown woolen one that belonged to me father, and tried to hide her six month belly. But when I heard the knock of boots on the front door, I realized that it’s no use. I opened the door before with which he broke it. They stood in my garden three soldiers. One of them, the tallest, with empty blue eyes and thin scar on his right eyebrow, pointed straight at me and said in broken French in a strong accent: “Pregnant women, come here.

” I tried to ask why. I tried to say it was nothing didn’t, but before I could to say anything, he grabbed me by the hand and pulled with force. I screamed. I tried resist, but another soldier grabbed me by the other hand, and together they they dragged me to the truck, parked on the street. Inside already other women and men were sitting, hugging on cold metal semi.

 Their eyes were wide open horror. I recognized some of them immediately. Elin Roucel, who worked in the bakery since a kind smile that illuminated any room. Zhanna Bamon – school a teacher who taught children to read, even when there were no books. Claire Delaney, nurse who cared for the sick free, because I knew that neither who has no money.

 All young, all pregnant, some later terms than me, with huge bellies, barely held together by torn dresses, others in the early stages, still trying to hide. But they were all there, everyone is trapped, everyone is doomed to something that we did not yet understand, but already felt in the air. Something terrible something irreversible. I sat down next to Elin.

She was shaking violently. Her teeth were chattering hands clenched, stomach. As if he could protect the child with the power of flame. I whispered to her: “Everything will be fine.” But my voice sounded weak, without conviction, because I didn’t believe, and she too. The truck started moving. We spent hours climbing the mountain, following narrow, dangerous dirt roads, which swayed strongly on each turn.

 Some women vomited others cried quietly. I just held on by the stomach and felt like my son kicks as if he also knew that something terrible is about to happen. When we finally stopped, it was before complex surrounded by barbed wire wire and watchtowers. This It was not a concentration camp, like Auschwitz or Daho. It was smaller, more isolated, hidden between mountains shrouded in fog.

 Later I I learned that this place was called Yuzhny Vertor camp, experimental camp created specifically for studying pregnant women captured in this area. His existence was erased from official records after war. The Germans burned the documents They destroyed the evidence, but I was there. I I saw what they did and never did it I won’t forget.

 If you’re listening to this now, wherever you are, at home, on work, on the way home, stop at moment. Take a breath, look around and understand that the world around you was built on the homes of people who have never had the opportunity to tell my history. This is not just a story, it’s certificate. It’s blood, sweat and tears превращённые в слово.

 If something touched you when you heard this, leave a sign, a comment, a word to these women were not forgotten so that they the names were not lost in silence. Us dragged out of the truck amid screams. Soldier pushed us, pulled our hands and showered us us with insults in German, using words we didn’t understand but whose hatred was completely obvious.

 My right foot hit metal side of the truck and the beginning bleed But it seems no one was affairs. We were lined up in front of the German officer with a briefcase. He walked slowly along the row, stopping before each female, with clinical attention examining our bellies and something writing on paper.

 When he reached me, he stopped. He looked at my stomach then on the face. He lifted my head fingertips, forcing me look into his eyes. His eyes were Caries, cold and emotionless. He scribbled something on the briefcases and moved on. After that we were taken away into a long, dark barracks divided into compartments with wooden boards.

 The beds are not there was only straw on the floor, wet and smelling musty. It was cold piercing cold that penetrates in the bone and never goes away. There was a smell unbearable, a mixture of urine, sweat and accumulated despair. I sat down in the corner. I pulled her knees to her chest and felt my son again moved.

 I whispered to him almost like prayer: “Hold on, please hold on.” The first night in this barracks was the most long in my life. I didn’t sleep. Nobody none of us slept much. We were lying on damp straw, shivering from the cold and fear, listening to sounds outside. the clatter of boots, shouts of orders in German, sometimes muffled screams from others buildings. Elin was lying next to me.

 To her was 26 years old. She was a month old pregnancy. Her face was swollen, her hands too. She suffered from fluid retention, but no one cared here. She whispered to me in the darkness: “Madeleine, how Do you think we’ll be allowed to give birth?” I don’t I answered because I didn’t know. But deep inside a cold voice was already whispering the truth. He didn’t bring us here for this reason.

for us to live. He brought us here to observe, experiment, check how far you can carry the body pregnant woman before it will endure. The next morning, before At dawn the barracks doors swung open. Three soldiers entered and shouted numbers in German. At first I didn’t understand anything then I saw that they were reading the numbers.

numbers sewn on our clothes, assigned to us the day before. I was under number 83, Elin 81, Zhanna 79. They They called six numbers, including mine. Us taken outside to the frosty rain in adjacent gray concrete building. Inside narrow corridor without windows. Hanging from the ceiling one flickering light bulb, and at the end corridor three gray metal doors with numbers 1, 2 and 3. Nothing else.

No signs, no explanation. A German officer stood in front of the door, tall, about forty, with round glasses and a expressionless expression. He looked at us in turn, then said slowly in French, like as if addressing children. You choose door. Each of you has only one door. You won’t be able to go back.

 You don’t you can change your mind. Choose now. U my heart sank. I stared at doors. They all looked the same. Metallic, cold, identical. But I knew the chilling trail confidence that behind each of them something else is hiding, something terrible. Helen was called first. She stepped forward, trembling, covering with her hands your huge belly.

 The officer pointed to three doors and repeated: “Choose.” She looked at the doors, seemed to kiss eternity. Then she whispered: “Barely I can hear.” First. The officer nodded. Two the soldiers stepped forward and opened the door number one and pushed Helen inside. The door slammed behind her. After that I I didn’t hear anything. No screams, no noise.

Only silence. Thick, heavy silence, which pressed on my shoulders like a stone. Zhanna was called next. She chose door number three. Same process, same silence. Then it was my turn. The officer looked at me and said: “Number 83. Take your pick.” I looked at doors, my legs were shaking. My son moved inside me, as if feeling my fear. I thought about Ethier.

 about our last moments together, about everyone the promises I made to myself and whispered the second. The officer shook head. The soldiers opened the door two, and I was pushed inside. Behind the door turned out to be a small room, about 3 at 10 m. Without window, cold concrete floor, jump in the corner, and in the middle wooden chair. That’s it.

 door closed behind me, and I heard the bolt turned. I stood still trying to understand what it means that they They’re going to do it to me. Several nothing happened for minutes. Then, Slowly I began to feel something. First a slight warmth, then more and more intense и сильнее.

 The floor began to heat up under my feet, walls too. Temperature gradually increased inexorably. It wasn’t fire it was something controlled calculated. The room was heating up outside. I immediately understood that he wanted see how long a pregnant woman is can withstand extreme heat before than to faint. my heart started pounding.

 I took off my coat, then jacket, then vest. But the heat continued grow. The skin began to burn, lips cracked, mouth dry as paper. Inside my womb my son is desperate moved, as if looking for a way out, an escape. I screamed, knocked on the door, begged let me out, but no one came. Not I know how much time I spent there. Maybe an hour, maybe less.

 But every second seemed like an eternity. B at some point my legs gave way, and I collapsed on the hot floor. I felt my skin cover blisters on concrete. I screamed in pain, but I have no strength left. I thought that I’ll die there, in this hot metal box with my son, everything still alive inside me.

 Then suddenly the door opened. Fresh air flowed into the room air. Two soldiers grabbed me by the hands and pulled out of the room. I could barely breathe. My skin was red, covered Valdyri. My clothes were see through soaked. Then they threw me into the corridor, like a sack of potatoes. The officer stood over me, taking notes on the tablet.

 He even didn’t look at me. For him I was just a number, an experiment, the result that was needed fix. Later I found out that was hidden behind two other doors. For door number one, which Elin chose, there was a room identical to mine. But instead of heat she was exposed extreme cold. The walls were covered with ice.

 Temperature dropped below zero. Elin, on the seventh month of pregnancy and already weakened задержкой жидкости прожила недолго. She lost consciousness in less than 30 minutes. When they pulled her out, she was without consciousness. Her child died inside her. She lived a few more days before than died from a systemic infection.

 For door number three, which Zhanna chose, there was something else. neither heat nor cold, but a gas, an odorless gas that slowly spread throughout the room, affecting on the respiratory system. Zhanna started cough, then choke, and then cough up blood. When they pulled her out, she was still alive, but her child was dead.

3 days later she gave birth to a stillborn child. A week later she died. Her the lungs were destroyed. I don’t know why I survived. Perhaps because I was younger, maybe because my body was stronger, or perhaps just serendipity. But I survived and my son too, at least for some time. The following days were shrouded in a fog of pain and fear.

 me they took me back to the barracks, where I was lying on straw, unable to move. Mine my skin was covered in burns, my lips were torn and bleeding. I have almost no there are voices left from screams, but inside me my son kept moving. Everyone the push was a promise, a reason hold on, reason not to give up.

 Others women looked at me with confusion pity and horror. They knew that what happened to me, can happen to them. Some were taken to the next day, others every other day. Every morning soldiers came, shouted numbers and took away women who had never returned or returned broken, exhausted, half dead. Claire de Leny, a nurse, was taken through a week after me.

 She was in fifth month of pregnancy. When she came back, she didn’t speak anymore. Her eyes were empty, hands constantly trembled. I asked her what he was doing with her did, but she didn’t answer. She’s just shook her head again and again, as if trying to get something out of my head. 3 days later she had a miscarriage.

 child appeared in the middle of the night silently. Claire I held him in my arms for hours, rocking him to sleep lifeless body, humming the lullaby I taught her own mother. Then she carefully put it in the corner of the barracks and lay down nearby. She never woke up again. I don’t I know whether she died of grief or from infection, but I know that she herself chose to leave.

 She couldn’t care less hold on. There was little food. Once a day for us gave a bowl of transparent, almost colorless soup with a few pieces potatoes floating on the surface. Neither bread, no meat, nothing that could give us strength. Pregnant women, especially in the later stages, they started lose weight.

 Their bellies shrank and faces became haggard. Hands of steel look like branches. Some have fallen out зубы, у других развились быстро spreading skin infections. A the soldiers were constantly watching us. They took notes, measured our bellies, checked heartbeat. They treated us like animals in a laboratory, like with objects to study, not as with people.

 One evening, lying in the dark, I heard a weak voice from next door coupe. It was a young woman who I’ve never seen it before. Her name was Margarita. She was in her fourth month pregnancy. She was captured in the village near Grenoble. She whispered to me: “Madeleine, what do you think we will we ever get out of here?” I don’t knew what to answer.

 I wanted lie to her, say yes, that everything will be it’s good that the war will end soon and we Let’s go back home. But I couldn’t because that she didn’t believe it herself. That’s why I simply told her: “We will try, we we will fight.” While we are still breathing, we we will fight. She didn’t answer, but I I heard her quiet crying in the dark.

 Gone weeks, my belly was growing. My son became stronger, more active. Everyone the push reminded me why I should survive. But my body was weakening, my legs swollen, hands trembled. me constantly I felt dizzy. One morning when I tried to get up to take his portion of soup, his legs gave way. I collapsed to the floor, unable to get up.

An elderly woman, a widow named Simone, helped me sit up. She’s sad looked at me and said: “You have There’s not much time left, baby. Yours the body is giving out.” I knew it, I felt it this, but refused to accept it because accepting it meant giving up, and giving up meant condemning his son. Then, one December morning, when outside the window snow began to fall, I felt something else: dull pain in the lower back, severe pressure in the abdomen.

 I immediately I understood what this meant. Labor has begun. I was in the second month of pregnancy. My the baby was about to come too early, much earlier. I screamed about help, but no one came. Soldiers it didn’t matter. For them, childbirth is in the barracks were just another statistic number.

 Simon and two other women gathered around me. They tried help as best they could, but they had no equipment, no clean scissors, no sterile wipes, no hot water, nothing, just their hands and their courage. The birth lasted all day. The pain is unbearable. Каждая схватка разрывала меня изнутри. I I screamed, I cried, I begged for it stopped, but did not stop.

 Simon held my hand and whispered prayers. Another woman supported me back, and slowly, inexorably, my son began to emerge. When he finally born at Twilight when the sun village behind the mountains, and the barracks plunged into gray twilight, he did not cry. He was so small, so fragile. His skin she was blue, her eyes were closed.

 For one for a terrible moment I thought that he dead But then Simone picked him up turned her over and gently patted her on the back. And suddenly a quiet cry escaped his lips: “Weak, fragile, but alive! My son was alive I held him in my arms, trembling, exhausted, half-conscious. I looked at him, at this tiny a creature that survived it all.

 I cried. I cried with relief. I cried in pain. I cried because I knew that the fight was just beginning. I called him Lyusin because he meant light. And that’s exactly what he was for me in this ode. Small, fragile, a flickering light that refused go out. The days after his birth were the hardest in my life.

 Lucien was so small that it fit on my hands. He almost never cried. U he lacked strength. I didn’t have milk. My body is weakened months of malnutrition and torture, almost didn’t produce anything. Simon and others women tried to help. They shared with his meager portion of soup, giving me potato scraps for a little refresh yourself.

 But this happened not enough. Lucien was losing weight. His skin became translucent, lips turned blue. I knew he was dying, and nothing happened could do it. One evening when I pressed him to her chest, trying to warm him him with his own, a woman came up to me. I’m her I didn’t know. She was older, about forty, with gray hair and deeply sad eyes.

 She handed me a small a folded piece of cloth. There was a small piece of dry bread and a few pieces of raw potatoes. She whispered: “Chew this and then give it to her.” fingers.” That’s all I can do. I thanked her with tears in my eyes. She shook her head and walked away. I’m more I’ve never seen her.

 I don’t know what’s wrong with her happened. But thanks to her, Lucien survived that night and the next and the night after her. The soldiers didn’t care Lucien. To them he was just another figure, another result experiment. They didn’t give us no medical help, no care, nothing. But they continued watch us, take notes, measure, register.

 Once upon a time in An officer entered the barracks and pointed at me. He ordered me to follow him with Lucyne. My heart sank. I thought that we will be separated or worse, but I have there was no choice. I took Lucien in my arms and followed the officer outside. He led me to a building that I had never I haven’t seen it before.

 Inside there was a room with metal table. And on the tray were medical instruments are lined up. There stood a German doctor in a white coat. He looked at me, then at Lucien and said coldly: “Put the child on table.” I hugged Lucien tightly. I refused. Two soldiers grabbed me by the hands and pulled out his son. I screamed and resisted, but they were too strong.

 They put Lucien on metal table. He cried weakly. The doctor examined him. as if he was some object. He measured it head, chest, limbs. He listened his heartbeat. He took notes then looked at the officer and said something said in German. The officer nodded. Then they returned Lucier to me. I didn’t understand why, but didn’t ask any questions.

 I took her son and left as quickly as possible. Months passed. The winter of 1943 changed spring 1944 year. The news of the war began spread. Even in the camp there are allies advanced, the Germans retreated. Nadezhda, a feeling that I almost forgot began return. But together with Nadezhda fear has come.

 We knew that if the Germans lose the war, they will destroy everything proof that they are here done. And we were these evidence. One June morning we heard explosions in the distance, then выстрелы, затем крики. Soldiers in panic scattered in all directions. Doors the barracks opened and the officer shouted: “Raus! Raus! Go away, go away! We we ran out trembling, not knowing what awaited us.

But instead of lining us up execution row, he pushed us towards the exit from the camp. He kicked us out, he abandoned us us. Perhaps because he has more there was no time to kill us. Perhaps because he thought we were going to die. B in any case, we walked for several days without food, no water.

 Some women fell on the side of the road and never got up again. Others disappeared into the night, but I continued go. Lucien pressed himself against me because what I promised. I promised to protect him. I I will keep this promise to the last sigh. Finally we reached the village, liberated by French troops. The soldiers found us, gave us water, food, blankets We were free.

 After months Hell we were finally free, but freedom had a bitter aftertaste because that so many women couldn’t do it experience. Elin, Zhanna, Claire, Margarita. All these women who had to choose between three doors. All these women who have never had real choice. I returned to Yanvercorp with Lucin. My parents’ house was still standing, albeit partially destroyed.

 I slow him down restored. Lucien has grown up. He became strong, smart, kind. He never did really found out what happened in those the first few months. I’ve never told him how I could, how explain to the child that he experienced something with than no one should ever collide. Otten never returned. I received a letter informing me that he died at the production plant ammunition in Germany.

 Explosion- accident. Or maybe not an accident at all. I’ve never I’ll find out. I cried for him, I cried for him and continued to live because it was everything I could do. For years I was silent. I didn’t tell anyone about it what happened in this camp. Neither Lucy neither neighbors nor authorities, because no one didn’t want to listen.

 After the war people wanted to forget. They wanted recover, move on. He doesn’t wanted to hear about the torture of pregnant women in secret camps. It was too much gloomy, too disturbing, too really. But in 2004, when I was already very old and felt like life slowly fading away, I decided to speak. I contacted a historian who worked over the forgotten camps of World War II war.

 He came to my house with camera, and I told him everything: every detail, every pain, every name. He cried as he listened. He told me that no one knew about this existence camps. Vertor Syug that he was erased from archives that the Germans burned all the documents before running away that I was probably one of the last survivors.

 He asked me why did I wait so long. I just She replied that no one wanted to listen. But now he is beginning to realize it. 6 years later, in 2010, I died in my sleep. Lucien was next to me, holding my hand, and I left this life knowing that I had kept my promise. I protected him. I gave him life.

 A life that was sorely missed many others. But before I leave left this story, these words, this testimony so that the world will know, so that the names of Elin, Jeanne, Claire, Margarita and everyone else is not forgotten so that no one could say, “I didn’t know.” Because now you know and with this With knowledge comes responsibility.

Remember, never let this happen happened again. Today, listening to these words, I want you to ask yourself one Just one question. If you were there in front of these three doors, which one would you chosen? Door number one, where the cold is slowly freezes you while you the heart won’t stop beating.

 Door number two, where the heat burns you alive, where the skin swells and suffocates where the child is burns inside you. Or door number three, where invisible gas destroys your lungs, leaving you suffocating while your child dies silently in your womb Which door would you choose? And first of all, how would you live with this choice for the rest of my life because these are the true legacies of war.

 This is not only the dead, these are not only ruins, these are survivors. Those who bear the burden of choice which they had to do. Those who wakes up every night in a cold sweat, wondering if they could do differently. Those who live with feeling of guilt for having survived, while while others died. I died in 2010, but part of me died long ago before that.

 Part of me died in that the corridor in front of these three doors. Part of me died in that hot fire room when I felt it burning my skin and how my son fights inside me. A part of me died every time when I looked at Lucien and remembered of all the mothers who never got their chance a chance to hold your children in your arms.

 But another part of me survived. The one who refused to give up. The one who continued to breathe, fight, protect. The one who said: “No, you have me there won’t be. You won’t have it.” This part remained alive until my last sigh. And now she lives in these words, in this testimony, in you. So I ask you what you will do with this story.

 Just go further, you will live your life as as if nothing had happened. Or will you remember if you talk about Helen, Jeanne, Claire, Margarita, will you say you name them out loud so they don’t disappeared into silence because it all they have left are names, stories, memories kept by strangers who never knew them, but who can honor their memory by refusing forget.

 The war doesn’t end when the guns fall silent. It all ends when the last survivor dies. And even after that continues through stories, which we choose to tell or hush up. I chose to tell, and now it’s your turn to choose. Will you you listen, will you remember or turn away, as many have done others, because oblivion is also choice, sometimes it is the cruelest of all.

This is the story you just heard. Not fiction. This is not a script invented to cause emotions. This is the real life of Madeleine Fournet and thousands of other women whose names were erased whose body was used in as subjects of experiments, whose children were sacrificed in the name monstrous ideology.

 Listening to these words perhaps you felt something. An oath in my chest, a lump in my throat, growing, smoldering anger. This Fine. It’s human. This proof that you are not indifferent to the suffering of others. And this is the feeling we need support. Madeleine waited decades before speaking, 61 years of silence under the weight of these three doors, under the weight of his unbearable choice, under the weight of those women who never are back.

 She didn’t speak from for reasons of convenience, she did not say for the sake of glory. She said because knew if she didn’t tell, no one would will say. 6 years after this testimony she passed away, leaving behind details we will never know, faces we will never see names we will never hear. But she left us the main truth. Cruel, painful, unbearable the truth.

 The truth that can never be forget. This documentary exists for one simple reason. To honor the memory of these women, Elin Roucel, Jeanne Bamont, Claire Dioni, Margarita and everyone else whose names lost in the ashes of history. Each of they deserved to live. Each of them deserved to see her grow up child. Each of them deserved grow old in peace, surrounded by those who she loved.

 But the war took away from them this chance. And today everything that comes from them what remains is our memory, our ability to pronounce their names, tell their story, don’t let them suffering become a mere footnote in a dusty history book. If this the story touched you if there’s something inside you broke down when you listened to the story Madeleine, then do something.

 Not let this moment pass indifference. Subscribe to this channel, so that these testimonies continue exist so that others are forgotten stories were told. To collective memory has not turned into collective amnesia, turn on notifications so you don’t miss anything one new documentary film, because every view, every repost, every comment is an act resistance to oblivion.

 This is the way say: “I remember, I bear witness. I I refuse to let it go away. And first of all leave a comment. Tell me where you’re listening to this from documentary film. Tell me what you are felt. Tell me if you knew this history until today. Share your thoughts, emotions, questions, because every comment is proof that these women they did not suffer in vain.

 Every written your word is a stone laid on an invisible monument to their memory. Each your testimony is a way to renew their life after death. Never underestimate the power of a simple word. B a world that quickly forgets yours words are of utmost importance. Madeleine said something profound before death.

 Forgetting is also a choice sometimes he is the cruelest of them all. So today do the opposite choice. Select remember, select speak, choose to leave. Because for now we tell their stories, they don’t truly dead. While we are saying their names, they continue to exist. As long as we refuse to turn away, their sacrifice retains meaning.

 And maybe it’s the only justice we have we can still offer them. promise that they will never be forgotten. Thank you that you listened to the end. Thank you for you had the courage to look him in the face this dark chapter of our history. Thank you. Thank you for being here now to share this testimony with us.

 If you want to support this memory preservation work, subscribe to the channel, share this video before just tell those around him about him, because stories like history Madeleine, we must not remain in the shadows. Oh they need to be told, shared and pass on from generation to generation, so that humanity will never again could say: “We didn’t know.

” Now you you know, and with this knowledge comes responsibility. Responsibility never don’t forget.