Twin Sisters
"I was born a twin," Francine Mercier told Babette Chappelle, who was lying in the hard wooden bunk beside her.
The two women were incarcerated at Ravensbrück, a Nazi concentration camp in northern Germany, roughly fifty miles north of Berlin and built exclusively for women. Francine had been sent there as a political prisoner after being arrested with members of a resistance group and her bunkmate because she was a prostitute.
"We aren't identical," she continued. "In fact, we look nothing at all alike. Cecile is beautiful, with long, naturally curly blond hair, dazzling blue eyes and a flawless complexion. She favored our mother in appearance, whereas I took after our father."
The familiar specter of envy haunted Francine when she thought about her attractive sister. Although she had never let the feeling prevent her from having a healthy, loving relationship with her sibling, occasionally she could not help wondering why she had been shortchanged at birth.
"You never talk about your family," she said, not wanting to seem self-centered by speaking only about herself.
"I don't have any," the other woman explained. "My mother, who never married, died in childbirth when I was only three. I was raised in an orphanage."
"My mother is gone, too. She had tuberculosis and passed away when my sister and I were ten, leaving my father to take on the role of both parents."
In addition to being mother and father to his twin daughters, Louis Mercier, who as a young man fought and was decorated for bravery in the Great War, was a history professor at the University of Paris.
"You were lucky to have him. I don't even know who my father was."
"Every night when Cecile and I went to bed, he would tuck us in and read to us from his French history books."
"History? That must have bored you to sleep," Babette declared sarcastically.
"Actually, it was my favorite time of the day. I may be lacking in feminine beauty, but thankfully I was blessed with a superior brain. Whatever my father read to us, I soaked up like a sponge. I was particularly interested in politics and philosophy. I soon came to idolize Montesquieu, Voltaire and Rousseau."
"Your father raised a little revolutionary, I see. It's no wonder you wound up here at Ravensbrück. Did the Nazis condemn you as a communist?"
"No. I was working with a resistance group."
"And where is your father now?"
"He's dead," Francine replied, wiping the tears from her large, doe-like brown eyes, her only attractive feature. "When the Germans entered Paris in June, he was so distraught at facing what he obviously thought of as his old enemy, that he hanged himself."
"Is that when you joined the resistance?"
"Yes. I vowed I would do all I could, even die, if necessary, to see France free again."
"And what about your sister? Does she share your patriotic zeal?"
"Hardly! All Cecile wants is to marry a man who can provide her with the finer things in life. The last I heard from her she was working as a seamstress in one of the big fashion houses."
"Does she know where you are?"
"No. I had planned on going to Paris to try to find her, but I was arrested. I hope once the war is over, we'll be reunited. We may not have much in common, but she's all the family I have left."
Babette offered no further comment. Neither woman held out much hope for the future. Life expectancy in a Nazi concentration camp was minimal, at best.
* * *
"I was born a twin," Cecile Mercier told Jürgen Von Essen, the Nazi officer lying in bed with her.
"I find it hard to believe there are two who look like you," the wealthy Prussian aristocratic said.
"There aren't. We aren't identical twins. Just the opposite, in fact. My sister has long, straight, mousy brown hair, a plain face and a plump figure. False modesty aside, Mother Nature gave me the good looks."
"Your poor sister."
"Don't feel too bad. Francine got the brains. While I was struggling to add two plus two, she was mastering algebra and geometry."
"I'd say you got the better deal. What man in his right mind wants a woman with brains?" the German laughed.
Although she would never admit it to her lover or to anyone else, the young woman sometimes wished she were as smart as her sister. With a good education, she would not have to look for a man to support her; she would be able to make her own way in the world.
"Our father was a professor at the University of Paris. He used to read history books to us at bedtime instead of fairy tales, and Francine hung on his every word."
"And I bet, unlike your sister, you hated those stories."
"Not at all," Cecile said, running the manicured fingertips of her hand through her lustrous blond curls. "I quite enjoyed them. I used to close my eyes and imagine I was living during the time of the Ancien Régime. I wanted nothing more than to walk the halls of Versailles in a fancy gown and elaborate powdered wig."
"Tell me, did you see yourself as a courtesan like Madame de Pompadour and Madame du Barry? Or did you prefer the statelier role of queen?"
"I wouldn't mind being a queen—except not Marie Antoinette," she said with a shudder at the idea of having to face the guillotine.
"God forbid!" Jürgen exclaimed. "It would be a crime to have that beautiful head removed from that exquisite body."
As the overweight, aging Nazi officer leaned over and took Cecile in his arms, she closed her eyes and pretended to be Madame de Montespan awaiting the embrace of Louis XIV.
* * *
Survival.
From the moment she entered Ravensbrück, Francine became engaged in a constant battle for survival. Upon arrival at the camp, her head was shaved to prevent the spread of lice. She was then issued a uniform and a winkel, a red triangular patch, identifying her as a political prisoner. (Babette Chappelle, as a prostitute, wore a black triangle, indicating her classification as an asocial.) Being gentiles, the two women were destined to become part of the camp's slave labor force. Had they been Jewish, they would more than likely have been transported to Auschwitz. Not all the Jewish women were sent away, however. In fact, they amounted to roughly fifteen percent of Ravensbrück's population. The remainder was made up of Polish, Germans, Austrians, Russians, Ukrainians, French, Romani and Jehovah's Witnesses.
Babette, like Francine, was French. Sharing a common nationality, the two women quickly became friends. Had it not been for the war, though, the respectable daughter of a university professor would not have befriended a common prostitute. But life as she had known it before the Nazi invasion was a thing of the past. Her secure, comfortable existence as the pampered child of a devoted parent was as much a part of history as Robespierre, Napoleon and Joan of Arc.
Ever the pragmatist, Francine tried not to dwell on the life she had planned for herself before the war. Like her father, she would have attended the University of Paris and studied either history or philosophy. Eventually, she might even have become a professor herself although she would have been just as happy teaching young children in a small school. Sadly, her dreams of an academic life came to an end when the Germans invaded France. Seeing Adolf Hitler walk along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées not only drove Louis Mercier to take his own life, but it also destroyed whatever chance of happiness his daughter once had. Instead, her existence became a constant fight for survival.
At four in the morning, the guards entered the barracks and woke the internees. Francine and Babette scrambled to use the latrine before lining up for morning headcount. For once in her life, Francine was thankful she did not have her sister's pretty face and shapely form. It was better to go unnoticed, to blend in with the other prisoners than to stand out. Once everyone was accounted for, the women were fed.
"This bread tastes horrible!" Babette said under her breath.
Francine grimaced at the bitterness of what passed for coffee but ate every morsel of the food that was given to them.
"Eat it anyway," she advised. "You'll need your strength."
"Why? Sometimes I wonder if I even want to survive."
"You mustn't talk like that! Where there's life there's hope."
"That's easy for you to say. You have something to live for: your sister."
Francine was not given the opportunity to reply. The female guards, who felt no compassion for the women in their care, herded the prisoners like cattle out to the compound where they were divided into groups according to their work assignments. Babette was put on a construction crew, helping to build and maintain the local roads. Francine, on the other hand, was spared the heavy labor. Instead, she was "employed" by Siemens Electric Company where she made electrical components for the V-1 and V-2 rockets.
The daily regiment was grueling with harsh punishment given for even minor infractions of the rules. Babette, who did not have her friend's self-control and sense of self-preservation, had often been subjected to solitary confinement in one of the dark and airless prison cells of the "bunker." The typical punishment for acts of sabotage or resistance, such confinement was often accompanied by beatings or other forms of torture including whippings. Francine, who followed the rules without complaint, had never been punished. It was not the threat of being sent to solitary or even of being whipped that kept her in line. Rather, she had heard whispered tales of women subjected to medical experiments by Nazi doctors, and had no desire to share their horrific fate.
Thus, life became a monotonous albeit dangerous routine: wake up, eat, work, eat, sleep. In order to survive, Francine followed a simple code: keep your eyes down and your mouth shut.
Surely the war will eventually come to an end, but even if I'm fortunate enough to survive, she wondered as she prepared for bed at the end of another day, what kind of world will I find out there once the camp is closed?
In February 1945, whatever hope Francine harbored for a return to normalcy vanished. During that time, a gas chamber was constructed on the grounds of Ravensbrück. The Nazis wasted no time in putting it to use. In the following month, more than two thousand people were put to death.
Survival became even more difficult.
* * *
Survival.
Many people were forced to commit reprehensible acts in order to survive. Some were driven to steal, others to kill. Those who would not compromise their values often starved.
Thank God, I'm not one of them, Cecile thought as she stretched lazily across the satin sheets in the German officer's luxurious Paris apartment.
Unlike many French women tormented by the privations of war, the beautiful Cecile enjoyed an easy life, one much more comfortable than the one she had led before the German invasion, in fact. Jürgen Von Essen treated his paramour well. Because of his generosity, she now wore the expensive dresses she was once paid to sew.
As the former seamstress got up from bed and put on a pair of silk stockings, she marveled at how closely her lifestyle mirrored that of her childhood dreams. Like the royal mistresses of France's seventeenth- and eighteenth-century monarchs, she dined on the best foods, drank the finest wines and enjoyed the top entertainment the Paris of Vichy France had to offer. The fact that these lavish pleasures were purchased by what some people would consider immoral behavior on her part did not bother Cecile in the least.
I don't see how it's any different than what my life would be like if I had married a rich businessman, she reasoned as she applied her makeup in front of the vanity. A piece of paper and meaningless vows spoken in a church wouldn't make me a better person. I don't love Jürgen, and I'm sure he doesn't love me. Hell! He's got a wife and four kids back home in Germany. We're just two consenting adults enjoying a mutually beneficial relationship during the occupation. At least I'm honest about it. No one can fault me for deceitfulness.
It was not the sexual nature of the couple's association that provoked anger in Cecile's former friends and neighbors. It was not a matter of what she was doing but of who she was doing it with. A mere three decades earlier, French soldiers—like the late Louis Mercier, who had been severely wounded and nearly died at Verdun—had battled the Germans during the Great War. Now some of the daughters of these brave men were sleeping with the enemy.
"Collaborator!" more than one person cursed in hushed tones when Cecile passed by.
It was a word that conveyed more hatred to them than putain (whore) or any of its synonyms.
Unfortunately, the beautiful Mercier twin mistook the sudden ill will of those who knew her as nothing more than jealousy. They had always envied her looks; hadn't they?
When she exited Jürgen's apartment building, she hailed a taxi. She was only going to the cinema a few blocks away but preferred being driven there to walking. That way, she avoided the insults and hate-filled, glaring looks of those who condemned her.
A half a mile from the German officer's lodgings, Cecile witnessed through the taxi window a group of men, women and children, wearing the yellow Star of David patches that identified them as Jews, being rounded up by the French police. She was not upset by the disturbing event. Even had she been aware that those people would be sent to Drancy concentration camp and then forwarded to Auschwitz, she would not have mourned their fate.
"Telle est la vie," (such is life) was her oft-spoken response to the current state of affairs in Paris. Francine is the revolutionary. Let my smarter twin protest the injustice of the world. For now, I'm content being the pretty, empty-headed sister.
From time to time, though, she could not help wondering what had become of her twin. The last Cecile had heard, her sister was eager to help a resistance group in Bordeaux. For all she knew, Francine might now be working with the Allies—if she was still alive.
"Please God," she said a silent prayer as the taxi pulled up in front of the cinema, "look after my sister. Unlike me, she can't look after herself."
* * *
Liberation.
Although still confined to Ravensbrück, in March 1945 Francine's thoughts of survival turned to the hope for liberation. News arrived at the camp that the Allied forces were winning the war and closing in on the Germans. When the order was given to evacuate the prisoners in the camp, her heart filled with joy, unaware that the Nazis intended the evacuation to be nothing more than a death march.
Guarded by SS personnel, those women who were able to walk formed long columns and headed in a northwesterly direction.
"Come on, Babette," she urged her friend. "Get up and get moving."
Suffering from malnourishment and poor health, the prostitute put up token resistance that her friend easily overcame.
"We're finally getting out of here!"
"I can't make it."
"Yes, you can. Here, I'll help you."
The two women trudged on for hours with nothing to eat except scanty rations given to them by the Red Cross. Eventually, some of the weaker women fell by the wayside. In many cases, rather than shoot them or force them to continue walking, the Nazis simply left them there to die.
Put one foot in front of the other, an exhausted Francine told herself. Left, right, left, right, left ....
"I ... can't ...," Babette groaned before falling to her knees.
"Get up," her friend pleaded.
The prostitute collapsed on the ground.
"Please. No more."
Francine knelt beside her friend, offering to help her.
"Go, before the guards see you," the sick woman urged.
"I won't leave you behind."
"Don't worry about me. Save yourself."
A young SS officer yanked Francine's arm, pulling her to her feet.
"The war will soon be over, and you must look for your sister," Babette cried. "And ...."
Babette's final words were silenced by the gun of an angry guard who feared for his own safety should the Allies win the war.
Mention of her twin reminded Francine of her happy childhood and gave her the will to go on. Her well-honed instinct for survival kicked in. She wiped her friend's blood off her face and continued to walk.
Left, right, left, right ....
The Nazis, for all their boastful claims to belong to a superior race, needed to rest as much as their prisoners did. When the darkness of night made seeing the road ahead difficult, they ordered the women to stop. The guards divided the hours up into shifts, allowing some to sleep while others kept watch.
Here is my chance for freedom, Francine thought.
She realized the danger of attempting escape. If caught, she would no doubt be shot on sight. Still, she had no idea what the Nazis had in store for her. Quite possibly, the evacuees were to be sent to Auschwitz or another extermination camp.
What are my options? she wondered, grimly contemplating what path to follow. I could die by the side of the road like poor Babette, be gassed in an oven or—God forbid!—wind up on some Nazi doctor's table, the victim of an insidious experiment.
In the end, the choice was a simple one. When the guard was distracted by a Russian woman who had woken from a nightmare, Francine quietly slipped away into the dark. Despite her exhaustion, she walked more than ten miles and found safe haven with a kind German farmer who hated the Nazis.
* * *
Liberation.
It was a cause for great celebration to most Parisians. French forces, resistance fighters and American soldiers paraded with liberated citizens down the Champs-Élysées.
Cecile Mercier was not one of the laughing young women who kissed their uniformed countrymen and American GIs. With her life turned upside down once Jürgen Von Essen was recalled to Berlin, she had no reason to celebrate. She had no home, no job, no money. She was only able to survive by selling her dresses and the other expensive gifts her German lover had given her.
In the wake of liberation, many loyal French citizens who bore a grudge toward collaborators sought revenge. There followed a period of épuration sauvage, or wild purge, during which suspected Nazi collaborators were executed and those who had made money on the Black Market were condemned as war profiteers.
Cecile was among those accused of collaboration horizontale: having sexual relations with the Nazis. In front of a cheering, mocking crowd, she was forced to endure having her cherished blond curls shaved from her head. Considering there was talk of tarring and feathering or branding such women with a swastika, losing her hair was mild punishment by comparison. Nevertheless, to a woman who believed her only God-given gift was beauty, being bald, even temporarily, was unbearable.
Covering her shaven head with a kerchief, she wandered off during the night, leaving the unforgiving people of Paris behind.
* * *
It was in the historic city of Reims—where on May 7, 1945, General Eisenhower and the Allies received the unconditional surrender of the German Wehrmacht—a lone woman wearing a shawl over her head walked past the Porte de Mars, the ancient Roman triumphal arch.
The war had been over for months, and for many of those who had survived, it was time to bury their dead and rebuild their lives. Cecile Mercier, the woman hiding her mark of shame beneath a tattered shawl, was not one of them. Since fleeing Paris, she had lost the will to live.
A fit of coughing overcame her, and she winced from the pain in her chest. Red flecks of blood stained the handkerchief she used to cover her mouth.
I must have tuberculosis just like my mother did, she thought.
The prospect of death neither frightened nor saddened her. She was past caring what happened to her.
The ailing woman tucked the blood-spotted cloth into her pocket and took a step forward. Another woman emerged from the middle arch of the Porte de Mars. In the light of the full moon, Cecile could see her clearly. The stranger's hair—much like her own, which had started to grow back—was worn much shorter than the current fashion.
A fellow collaborator, she assumed.
"Cecile."
Hearing her name, the once-beautiful Mercier twin stopped and stared.
"Yes?" she replied. "Do I know you?"
"I have been searching for you for months."
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"I'm not surprised you don't recognize me. I've lost a great deal of weight since we last saw each other."
The young woman had the same cadaverous appearance as many concentration camp survivors. It was not just malnutrition that changed her appearance. She, too, had little time left to live.
"I was born a twin," she said, her dark, haunted eyes filling with tears.
"Francine?"
"Yes."
As Cecile studied the face of her sister, she was surprised to see how much her sibling now resembled her. The hardships they both endured since the carefree days when they listened to Louis Mercier's bedtime tales of French history had taken their toll on both of them.
"You're sick," Cecile said, noting the other woman's pallor.
"I'm going to die," her twin replied.
"Me, too."
It had been years since they had last seen each other, but no questions were asked. Neither sister wanted to bring up days in the recent past that were better off forgotten. When words fail, a simple gesture of love often suffices. As though on cue, each sister stepped forward, arms open wide. When the two dying women embraced, Mother Nature corrected the inequality she had created at their birth.
A few moments later, in the city of Reims, France, a lone woman walked away from the Roman triumphal arch. By the time she spotted the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Reims, where the early kings of France were once crowned, the sun had come up. She lowered the tattered shawl, freeing her long blond curls, and basked in the feel of the morning sun on her face. United in the same strong, healthy body with a perfect balance of beauty and intelligence, Cecile/Francine Mercier looked forward to a new life in the postwar world.
Unlike the Mercier sisters, neither Salem nor his twin was blessed with a brain!
