Rumors

Friday, September 29, the shells and rain were still falling on Etobon. Almost surely, the bombardment had two purposes: to continue the punishment of the Etobonais and to keep them from finding out what happened a few kilometers away in Chenebier. Rumors began to circulate, though, from German soldiers and neighbors. Jules Perret's journal continues:

"The shells are still hammering the soil of Etobon.  Two boches, a big blond and a dark one, stopped, seeing Suzette and Aline in front of the house:

“'Can you tell us where our comrade is buried, the one who was killed in this village on the 13^th?'

“'Nobody knows.  Women don’t get mixed up in these things.'

“'You think so?  There are female terrorists here, too.'

“'Talk to the men.'

The blond boche snickered. 

“"Men?  There aren’t any.'

“'Pretty much.  They took them to the trenches.'

“'They shot them yesterday at Chenebier.  Go see for yourselves!'

"Suzette shrugged her shoulders at this despicable lie.  After a few more questions, the women concluded that these two were Karl Lade, the prisoner taken on the 13^th, and one of those taken prisoner at my sister’s house, called Schott.

"This whole thing perplexes us.  We also heard that these boches have threatened to burn the village unless the body of Officer X was handed over.  Panic has begun to set in.  Some are leaving.  We thought about going to Chenebier, to Aline’s parents’, but the major in charge of the infirmary said, 'Why leave?  You won’t find anything,' and we calmed down.

"On my way from Remillet’s cellar to my house, I found two little boches, who were eighteen years old at the most.  For a little milk – what the colt didn’t want – they put two hundred-franc notes on the table.  'Soldiers clean, correct …'  I’m ready to take anything from the Germans that they could use against us in the war, but money is something else.  But they wouldn’t take it back.  And they gave me 100 more francs for a room.

"Three others were walking around my wagon, trying to take off a wheel.  I intervened.  Then I fed a little iron to my forge.  The one who took it from me had a Bible in his pocket.  He said to me, 'Protestant!'  But he still would have stolen part of my wagon.

"At Chenebier, the German captain is haranguing the villagers.  He told them Germany was in flames, that his mother and wife had been killed by a bomb, but that the people of Chenebier had nothing to fear if they behaved and didn’t act like those people of Etobon, all of them terrorists.  He added, “Despite that, I saved the village from complete destruction.”  I wonder what that meant.

"Ambulances pass by with the wounded."

Witnesses

The Germans brazenly committed the massacre in the middle of the village and allowed neighbors to watch from their windows. Several provided eyewitness reports. This report was later made by Philippe Kuntz, a tinsmith from nearby Buc. Although part of the initial roundup, he was spared and later returned to his home. His account follows.

September, 27, I went to the town hall with all of the men of Etobon.  I hadn’t taken part in the digging work of the previous days.  As soon as I went in, I was recognized by one of the accusing prisoners who named me as one of the former interpreters of the camp.  I was lined up among the suspects.  A junior officer of the Cossacks said, “That’s enough.”  There were 17 of us suspects.  Before leaving for Chenebier, the officer of the Cossacks had me say in French,  “You’re going to work on the fortifications at Héricourt.  It will only take two or three days.”  We left at the head of the detachment.

In the meeting room at Chenebier, the suspects were taken to one side.  A little later, two escaped prisoners appeared, re-equipped and armed.  I think they had come from Belfort with the Gestapo:  a lieutenant, an adjutant, a corporal and a soldier, all wearing the insignia (S.D.) on their sleeves.  The captain of the Cossacks was with them.  We were ordered to stand up, uncover our heads, and be silent.  Some of the men had their hands in their pockets, and were slapped for it by the lieutenant.  The ex-prisoners from Belfort went through our ranks and pointed out the men they pretended to recognize. 

As each designation was made, the officer took down the name and birth date of the victim.  They paid no attention to the age or the family situation … Just then, the lieutenant took me aside and said, “Why are you in the resistance?  Tell me the truth.”  “ I was brought in by force.  They forced me to present myself at the Etobon cemetery, September 9, or be shot.”  He asked if I knew some of the men and if I could name the leaders of the Etobon group.  I said I didn’t know any of the village men, because I was taken immediately to guard the prisoners.

The most persistent of the former prisoners (Karl Lade, no doubt) then called our comrade Georges Surleau into a smaller room and made him submit to interrogation, from which he emerged severely beaten.  Three others followed, whose names I don’t know, submitted to the same torture.  That’s when the other men, considered civilian prisoners, were led out, to be taken to Belfort.  (Of which seven would be shot ten days later at Banvillars.)

The lieutenant spoke a few words to the forty remaining men:  “You have made war against our soldiers.  You have killed some.  You’ve starved the prisoners.  You all deserve to die.  You will be shot.”

Immediately after, the adjutant made the first group of 10 to leave, and I heard the shots.

I was part of the second 10.  As I was leaving, the prisoner pointed to me and said, “this one was good to us.  He shouldn’t be shot.”  The officer pulled me aside and crossed out my name on his list.  I stayed in the meeting room until the executions were over.  The officers were also there.  They did not take part in the massacre.  

After the last shots were fired, the adjutant came back and saluted, saying, “Mission accomplished!” 

The lieutenant shook his hand.

They gave me a written order to present myself to Belfort to join the Todt organization.  They took me in a truck to the Commandant at Belfort.  There, I succeeded in sneaking away and got back to Buc in the evening.

Those Who Died

The list of those who died in the autumn of 1944 is very long. Most were murdered by machine gun fire in Chenebier. Others died fighting the Germans or in concentration camps. Brothers, fathers and sons died together, leaving whole families to grieve.

Here are the names of those Etobonais who died for France (forty shot, two dead in combat, seven by deportation):

Goux, Gilbert, 17 years old, student at the high school

Perret, Charles, 24 years old, and his brother:

Perret, Fernand, 19 years old, died in deportation

Perret, Jean, 20 years old, and his brother:

Perret, Georges, 17 years old

Perret, Pierre, 35 years old, father of 2 children

Perret, Jacques, 33 years old, father of 1 child

Perret, René, 28 years old and his brothers:

Perret, Maurice, 20 years old and

Perret, Paul, 18 years old

Bauer, Maurice, 20 years old

Goux, Fernand, 41 years old, father of 4 children and his two adoptive sons:

Schoenenberger, André 28 years old and

Boulay, Robert, 22 years old

Beaumont, Aimé, 21 years old

Nardin, Charles, 29 years old

Croissant, Jean, 22 years old and his brother:

Croissant, Roger, 19 years old

Pernon, Pierre, 20 years old, died returning from deportation

Nardin, Jean, 17 Years old, and his brothers:

Nardin, Pierre, 20 years old and

Nardin, Raymond, died in deportation

Goux, Julien, 20 years old

Goux, Jean, 20 years old

Goux, Robert, 35 years old

Surleau, Georges, 42 years old, and his adoptive son:

Large, André, 18 years old

Nardin, Marcel, 42 years old

Nardin, Charles, dit Suzette, 52 years old, mayor of Etobon

Mignerey, René, 44 years old, father of 2 children

Nardin, Albert, 40 years old

Pochard, Alfred, 58 years old, and his son:

Pochard, Samuel, 28 years old

Lamboley, Raymond, 25 years old

Demange, Louis, 44 years old, father of 5 children

Grasset, André, 20 years old

Prosper, Pierre, 32 years old

Goux, Pierre, 23 years old

Guémann, Paul, 43 years old, and his brother:

Guémann, Christ, 40 years old

Vuillequez, Pierre, 35 years old

Voisin, Raymond, 25 years old

Tournier, Jules, 44 years old, killed in combat

Quintin, Edgar, 18 years old, and his brother:

Quintin, René, 20 years old, both died in deportation

Cristen, Jacques, died in deportation

Nardin, Alfred, died of the consequences of his deportation

[Editor's note: Gustave Bouteiller's name is included on the plaque in Chenebier, but is not on this list from Jules Perret's journal, nor is he on the list provided by Charles Perret in Etobon 1943-1944]

Swarms of Shells

Monday, October 9

Anniversary of two marriages:  ours and Jean’s. 

For a long time, I’ve been hiding all the horseshoe nails.  But the boches have been stealing them from other places and bringing their horses to me.  But because I don’t clinch the nails, the shoes fall off right away.

Suzette has received a picture of her and René, taken two weeks ago, that they’d sent to Audincourt to be developed, which made her cry.  It’s the final farewell.  Poor children!

Did Jean hear London radio when it recounted the massacre of Etobon?  We’ve told him nothing.  It’s soon enough for him to find out when he comes back.  When I see the two boches who have been forced on us, who eat at our table, revolt cries out within me.  And for all that, despite the cruelties they have inflicted on us, I don’t want to kill them, these two:  Karl, whose eyes fill with tears when I tell him our sorrows; the other, Willy, is just a kid.

Tuesday, October 10

I climbed up into the church attic, where the tiles are stored, so that I can fix the roof of the parsonage, which was pierced by a shell.  They had stored munitions and explosives there.  Along with Jacques, I had come to take them and hide them somewhere else, but we had found nothing.  Today, sticking my arms down into spaces under the arches, I find enough to blow up the whole village.  What should I do?  Nothing, evidently, with these boches everywhere.  And, if we blow up something, they’ll blow up something.

They’ve brought back some soldiers from the front, muddy, dead on their feet, drained.  One of them, who could hardly hold himself up, leaned against one of our doors.  He was rubbing the four hairs on his chin.  I said, “Here’s one with a goatee.”  He understood.  “Yes.  A little beard.”  “Where did you learn French?”  “Me, traveled a lot, Italy, Spain, France.”  “What’s your job?”  “To play the accordion at dances.”  “Well, it’s time to play.”  “Ah!  Soon be finished dancing.  It’s the Americans who are making the music.”  “What do you say about the war?”  “Not good.  For you, soon finished.  For us, all the way to the end, everything.”  “Everything, to the bitter end?  OK, my friend, you’ve said something that makes me happy.  Come in, and we’ll give you something warm to drink …”  Did I react wrongly?  This Willy Imbet told us that he had come out of a true hell and that during his fifteen months in Russia he hadn’t suffered so much.  You understand when he tells about the sound of hundreds of “screamers” that come down on the front.

A battery of four guns passes through the village, a walking forest.  The soldiers have branches on them all the way to their helmets.  Will they at least put them back?  Shells are arriving in swarms, tearing up fields and orchards.  One on the reservoir.  One a direct hit on Fritz’s house.

More echoes of the massacre.  No one saw Jacques at Chenebier.  Two people say they saw him getting into a car.  But he wasn’t seen at Belfort.  Could he have escaped on the way?  But we would have seen him by now.  And then his pants that were found in that awful room …

Willy Imbet just heard that a bomb fell on the trench that he left this morning.  Of the five that were found, three were dead, two wounded.  Between Sunday and yesterday, they’ve had 110 dead in this area.

I Dreamt of Jacques ...

The continued presence of their childrens' murderers caused unceasing pain to the Etobonais. Jules Perret identifies the guilty ones and their units even as he is forced to put up with them.

Monday, October 30

The chief of the Cossacks came to my house about some business of transporting wood in the forest. It was Blum, the ignoble and cruel captain who brutalized our children before handing them over to their executioners, who were taken from his own unit; this Blum is easy to identify because he’s missing the fingers on one hand.  I can’t walk from my bed to the living room, so Mama and Suzette received him.  A little while later, Suzette started crying, screaming, even, to me, “Papa!  We’ve endured everything!  When he saw some coffee on the table, this thug wanted us to give him a cup.  While he was drinking it, I saw his hand.  It had no fingers.  It was that monster!”  She was so enraged she couldn’t say more.  If she had had a gun, I think she would have killed him. 

The boche Ernst, who’s been staying here, has left.  Without a goodbye!  He can go to hell.  These last few days he spent his time looking for X’s grave.  Karl Lade must have told him that he was killed in a potato field, so that’s where he was looking.  If he only knew that I had hidden a picture of X in a hole in the wall!  Before he left, perhaps with the idea of pulling something out of me, he became revoltingly obsequious.  Monsieur Jules this, Monsieur Jules that:  “Rest yourself … would you like a cushion for your back? Etc., etc.”  The other boche, Henri, also exasperates me with his servility.

On all these abominable idiots, I note as many details as possible so that they can be found and punished:  this Ernst, like Vonalt, is from Regiment 406-75A.  Dr. Rauch is from Ambulance 622-44A.  The Cossacks, with their Blum, their lieutenant Kamerer, their adjutant Kartch and other crooks, are from the 15-201F.

As we await the rout, all the boches are extraordinarily active.  They do the impossible so that everything works as they wish, ceaselessly repairing their rolling stock, shaky, crumbling.  And things work, more or less.

I just had an interesting conversation with one of these boches, little, old, vain, always freshly shaved, holding his little head high, with his hair combed over his receding hairline.  He explained to me that Hitler is a good man, perfect, above all humane; that France was stupid for getting upset over such little details as Danzig, Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland; that the armistice of 1940 was a masterpiece of generosity, after which the Germans had the right and the duty to shoot French people by the hundreds for being so ungrateful as not to submit.  Oh!  These French!  What horrors they perpetrated while they occupied Germany!  And the good little boche told me of a revolting beastliness:  In Dusseldorf, in 1920, the youth gave a party, during which an actor talked of those awful Poles. “You know what the French did?  They interrupted the play, and put the one who had spoken against the Poles in prison for 2 weeks.  As for the others, they yelled at them!  Yelled at them!”  In the fact of such cruelty, the orator lost his breath, yells in his turn against the resistance, these terrorists, these thugs, these assassins, then, at the end of his eloquence, stretches out on the sofa, near the stove, and goes to sleep.  What an incredible imbecile!

Last night, I dreamt of Jacques.  I saw him, I embraced him, I asked him if it was true.  He said yes, but it was unimportant and a good thing.  I said to him:  Son, come back often and see us ...