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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
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.
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)
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)
Alejandro Dávila, Communal Roots
Communal Roots – Alejandro Dávila
We all went through the same hardships… We were born from our parents’ political exile, to which we need to add local misadventures – in our case, argentinian military dictatorships…
Agnes América Winnipeg
Ah… I remember Agnes América Winnipeg’s mother… She showed up on the quay in Trompeloup with no husband but two small children, and nearly 9 months pregnant… Neruda would not grant her a visa… so she threatened to jump into the sea and started walking towards it… They had to hold her back, and the poet… he gave her a visa… Her husband had managed to get on board as well… The girl was born a week later, hence the names… Agnes, in honour of the captain’s wife… Everybody has their story…
Ester Vila, my father’s family
Ester Vila, my father’s family are originally from Spain, they arrived on the Winnipeg.
José Balmes, painter
José Balmes, painter, remembers : “The whole bay was illuminated; no one moved before dawn. It was the 4th of September, yet the sun gave it an air of spring. On shore, hands and faces were demonstrating their friendship and bidding us welcome.
It took us a while to recall the meaning of a hug. (…) The train swiftly took us to Santiago and, whenever we slowed down to pass through the stations, strangers would give us roses and carnations. In the evening, thousands of men and women were waiting at the Estación Mapocho to welcome us with songs and banners. Later, this land would become mine too, for the rest of my life.”
