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Castellano
FrançaisMonth: March 2018
Des républicains dans les camps de concentration
Des républicains dans les camps de concentration. Comme il était dur d’accepter la réalité ! La France envoyait des républicains dans des camps de concentration, les traitait comme des prisonniers de guerre, les entourait de fils de fer barbelé, les surveillait rigoureusement, et tout cela sans même leur offrir de toit pour les protéger de la pluie, du vent et du froid. Avec pour seule nourriture un morceau de pain et de l’eau qui ne tardait que trop à leur parvenir. (Los Españoles de Winnipeg, J. Ferrer Mir, p.34)
Joan Abril, concentration camp of Saint Cyprien
Joan Abril, Stretching to the sea, the whole enclosure was packed with people. It would have been impossible to let another man in. All the women and children had been sent to another camp. The French guards barely gave any food to the Spanish War exiles. Those poor souls were forced to endure the weather and sleep on wet sand; the starving, feverish looks on their faces were horrifying. They suffered from intestinal disorders caused by salt water. Much has been written about the concentration camp of Saint Cyprien, and the reality of this hell was not once exaggerated: it was all true. (Los Españoles del Winnipeg, J. Ferrer Mir, p.50)
Joan Abril, Saint Cyprien 16 years later
Joan Abril, Saint Cyprien, 16 years later, I went back to the beach of Saint-Cyprien on a hot August morning. There was nothing left of the concentration camp, no trace of the horrible enclosure that surrounded it. Instead, there were large avenues lined up with elegant cottages, luxurious homes and apartments with beautiful gardens. I enjoyed watching the sea endlessly coming and going on the smooth beach. The people who now live there cannot possibly imagine that this beach was once watered by the tears of thousands of unfortunate souls. Many of those people died from disease, hunger or grief. The happy masses of swimmers do not know anything about these tragic events, nor do they know of the inhuman scenes that took place on those beaches. Only a few kilometres away, on the road to Elne, there is a space surrounded by low walls and protected by an iron door. On a section of the portal, a marble tablet recalls these events. There lie the Spanish refugees who were killed in the camp of Saint Cyprien. Among the wild grass, wooden crosses mark the location of the remains of hundreds of anonymous Spaniards. (Pp.50-51)
Joan Abril, Saint Cyprien, 16 ans plus tard.
Joan Abril, Saint Cyprien, 16 ans plus tard.
16 ans plus tard, retour à la plage de Saint-Cyprien par une chaude matinée d’août. Il ne restait rien du camp de concentration, rien pour rappeler l’horrible enceinte qui le formait. Au lieu de cela, un agencement resplendissant composé de grandes avenues bordées de chalets élégants, de maisons luxueuses et d’appartements avec de superbes jardins. J’ai pris plaisir à contempler la mer qui continue d’aller et venir sur la plage lisse. Les gens qui résident là aujourd’hui ne peuvent imaginer qu’il existait avant un morceau de plage arrosé des larmes de milliers de malheureux, dont beaucoup ont perdu la vie sous le coup de la maladie, de la faim ou du chagrin. Les joyeux groupes de baigneurs ignorent tout de ces événements tragiques et des scènes inhumaines qui se sont déroulées sur ces plages. À seulement quelques kilomètres de là, sur la route d’Elne, se trouve un espace cerclé de murs bas et protégé par une porte en fer. Sur un pan du portail, une tablette de marbre rappelle ces événements. C’est là que se trouve le cimetière des réfugiés espagnols tués dans le camp de Saint Cyprien. Parmi l’herbe sauvage, des croix en bois marquent l’emplacement des restes de centaines d’espagnols anonymes. (p.50-51)
Joan Abril – Saint Cyprien
Joan Abril – Saint Cyprien
Beyond the Pyrenees, an army of policemen were guarding the border which the refugees were crossing at a snail’s pace. All the fugitives were treated like prisoners and led by soldiers under the orders of harsh officers armed with sticks. The walkers formed a pitiful, endless procession. At dusk, the cortege went through the streets of Palau-del-Vidre, where the villagers were waiting with benevolent respect. I’m sure they saw us as thousands of souls who had been on the losing side, swept away by the storms of war. The next day, we arrived at the concentration camp of Saint Cyprien. It was surrounded by barbed wire, and a group of policemen controlled its only entrance. The Senegalese were armed with machine guns that they pointed directly at the masses. This is what troubles me most when evoking the camp ; it was a place of pain, misery and despair.
Joan Abril -Saint Cyprien
Joan Abril – Saint Cyprien , Au-delà des Pyrénées, toute une armée de gendarmes gardait la frontière que les réfugiés franchissaient au rythme d’escargots. De là, tous les fugitifs étaient traités comme des prisonniers, conduits par des soldats aux ordres d’officiers inflexibles et despotiques qui distribuaient des coups de bâton dans tous les sens. Les marcheurs formaient une triste procession qui semblait sans fin. Au crépuscule, le triste cortège traversa les rues de Palau-del-Vidre, où les habitants attendaient avec un respect bienveillant. Je suis sûr qu’ils pensaient voir des milliers de perdants balayés par la tempête de la guerre. Le lendemain, nous entrâmes dans le camp de concentration de Saint Cyprien, entouré de hauts barbelés. Un groupe de gendarmes contrôlait la seule entrée. Les Sénégalais étaient chacun armés d’une mitrailleuse qu’ils pointaient vers la masse humaine entassée dans le camp. C’est un des détails qui me cause le plus de peine pour décrire ce camp de concentration ; un camp de douleur, de misère et de désespoir.
Juan Carrasco, in Adge
Juan Carrasco “Right from the start, living conditions in the concentration camps were inhuman. In Adge, as in many other camps, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, when the first few thousands of refugees were dropped off and left to their own devices. It was only after a few days that the French army arrived with trucks filled with material. The refugees had to build the barracks themselves, and those were never enough to accommodate them all.” Juan Carrasco in his book The Odisea of the Spanish Republicanos in Francia, from Los españoles del Winnipeg, J. Ferrer Mir, pp.39-40)
Juan Carrasco, À Adge
Juan Carrasco, “Dès le départ, les conditions de vie dans les camps de concentration étaient inhumaines. À Adge comme dans de nombreux autres camps, il n’y avait rien, absolument rien, à l’arrivée des premiers milliers de réfugiés alors abandonnés aux caprices des intempéries. Ce n’est qu’après plusieurs jours que les camions de l’armée française apparurent chargés de planches avec lesquelles les réfugiés eux-mêmes durent construire des casernes. Celles-ci ne furent jamais assez nombreuses pour tous les accueillir.” (Juan Carrasco dans son livre La Odisea de los Españoles Republicanos en Francia, tiré de Los españoles del Winnipeg, J. Ferrer Mir, pp.39-40)
Salvador Morenas Mas
Salvador Morenas Mas says: I also befriended an Andalusian barber called Francisco Requena. He was always in a good mood, with a smile on his face, which contrasted with the bitterness and the sadness that could be read on most faces. To fight against the monotonous life they lived in the concentration camp, and in order to earn some money, Requena had set up a parlour just by the barracks. Every day, he would give away 20 coupons for a free shave and charge whoever didn’t have one. The free shaves were completed in four strokes, and no complaints were to be made.
Boredom and idleness were our greatest enemies. We had to use our imagination to keep them at bay.
One of the men who slept in the same barracks as me kept thinking about the girlfriend he’d left in Mataró. He decided to write to her and after a while, he received a long love letter in return.
I spent close to six months in Agde. It was a life with no purpose, no routine, no expectations, locked up with thousands of republicans and democrats like me, but my youth gave me the strength to overcome hunger, cold and pain. This was where I turned nineteen. (p.46-47)
