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5 Imprisonment at Fresnes and Romainville JUNE 15, 1944–AUGUST 15, 1944 It was mid-afternoon when we came into Paris, along the Avenue du Maine, down the Boulevard du Montparnasse, up the Boulevard des Invalides and across the Pont Alexandre. This was my ‘‘quartier.’’ The sight of those familiar streets made my heart beat faster and I felt almost certain that I would see one of my friends or neighbors but was disappointed . None of the Germans were familiar with Paris so I was obliged to direct them to the well-known Gestapo Headquarters, rue des Saussaies .1 It was like directing my own funeral! We got down at the arcade entrance, crossed the court and went up the stairs. There was a great deal of activity: men, women, German and French, in civilian clothes and in uniform. We were led into the office of a Gestapo official, evidently the one who was to handle our case. This seemed to be the first he had heard of us—a fact that both surprised and heartened me. He was a man of distinguished bearing, 35 to 40 years of age, dressed in civilian clothes, tall, slender, blond, blue-eyed and wore a small mustache. I know now his name to be Geinser.2 His attitude was one of polite active interest, like that of a life-insurance salesman. He spoke good French and could express himself in English but with difficulty. After having asked us to sit down, he started going through the contents of my handbag which had again reappeared. He asked me several informal questions regarding the objects he came across, but that was all. The interview was a short one, and we were dismissed. We had to wait a few minutes downstairs, herded into a kind of waiting -room beside the main entrance, where there were fifty or sixty other prisoners, men and women, some who had just been arrested, others who 1. The Reich Security Police had a number of offices in Paris, including this one at 11, rue des Saussaies. 2. Later in her memoir Virginia refers to Geinser as Genser. No record of a Geinser or Genser at rue des Saussaies has been located. had spent the greater part of the day being questioned. A ‘‘voiture cellulaire ,’’ or prison car, backed up to the door. ‘‘Prison du Cherche-Midi’’ shouted the Italian guard. One by one, as names were called, men began to file out the door, and to disappear into the car without windows. After it had driven off, another backed into its place. ‘‘Prison de Fresnes,’’ he shouted again; more names, and this time, Al’s was called, and mine.3 We climbed in. There was a narrow passage down the center of the car, onto which opened the doors of tiny cells. There was just room for one person in each cell, but they forced us in by two’s. Even then, there weren’t enough cells and those left were allowed to stand in the passage. I was one of these. A guard with a machine-gun seated himself next to the driver, while another blocked the rear entrance. As we pulled out, I could see, over the shoulder of the rear end guard, a large open car following us. It contained four armed police, ready to oppose any attempt by members of the Underground to liberate us. How people stared in at us as we drove along! It was with an intense feeling of frustration and envy that I stared back. I had never seen the prison of Fresnes, but I knew that it was somewhere in the southern outskirts of Paris. After riding for approximately twenty minutes, we passed through the prison gates and into a large courtyard. Here the car stopped and we were ordered to get out and to line up. The prisoners were of all ages. I recall one particularly: a very elderly white-haired, bearded gentleman dressed in black; he was wobbly on his slender legs and only kept standing by the aid of his cane which he grasped on one hand, his old carpet bag in the other; he looked neither to the right nor to the left, but held his proud head high and steady; in his buttonhole glowed the Rosette of the Légion d’Honneur.4 3. Fresnes Prison, the largest prison in France, was constructed between 1895 and 1898. During World War II it was...

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