How often in this century of wars and revolutions has the world witnessed the tragic flight of people from their homelands! Each exodus has been a saga of human suffering, and none has occurred under more ghastly circumstances than the flight of the anti-fascist refugees from Spain in the early days of 1939. more than half a million fugitives made their way across the Pyrenees in the dead of winter-men, women and children struggling over the mountain passes in the dreadful cold. All the way from Barcelona the roads were massed with refugees. Some were in cars, trucks and carts. Tens of thousands trudged along on foot, carrying a pitiful handful of belongings. Many of the sick and aged died in that procession of sorrow. At night, in the freezing rain and snow, the prople slept in the streets of villages or in fields beside the highways. Again and again, as they fled toward the French border, they were strafed and bombed by fascist planes.
And in that exodus were the best and noblest people of Spain-the soldiers and poets, workers and university professors, jurists and peasants who had championed freedom and would not bow to tyranny.
One might have thought that when those brave tormented souls reached France, they would have been treated with honor and compassion. Such, alas, was not the case. The Daladier government-the same politicians who had recently come to terms with Hitler at Munich-felt little sympathy toward the anti-fascist refugees. They granted asylum to the Spainish Republicans only with reluctance aned because of public pressure. I learned what was happening at the border from horrified compatriots who came to see me in Paris. "Our people are being put in concentration camps under armed guards," they told me. "They are being treated as if they were enemies or criminals." I could hardly believe such a thing was possible. But soon I was to see those camps with my own eyes....
When I had arrived in Paris toward the end of the Civil War, my dear friends Maurice and Paula Eisenberg had insisted I stay with them. They showed me loving care-all the warmth of their gentle hearts. But no amount of solicitude could heal the anguish in me. I was overwhelmed by the disaster that had befallen my homeland. I knew of Franco's reprisals in Barcelona and other cities. I knew that thousands of men and women were being imprisoned or executed. Tyrants and brutes had turned my beloved country into a monstrous prison. I did not know at first what had happened to my brothers and their families-word reached me that fascist troops had occupied my home at San Salvador. These things were too horrible to think about, but I could not drive them from my mind. They surged up in me-I felt I would drown in them.I shut myself up in a room with all the blinds drawn and sat staring into the dark. Perhaps in the darkness I hoped to find forgetfulness, relief from the pain. But an endless panorama passed before my eyes-horrors I had witnessed in the war, scenes from my childhood, faces of dear ones, cities in ruin and weeping women and children. I remained in that room for days, unable to move. I could not bear to see or speak with anyone. I was perhaps near to madness or to death. I did not really want to live.
Finally the Eisenbergs persuaded me to see an old friend, Guarro, from Barcelona. Later he told me how shocked he was when he saw me-he hardly recognized me. He talked to me for hours. "You cannot stay any longer here in Paris," he said. "You must leave immediately." He urged that I go to a little village in the south of France near the Spanish border-in French Catalonia. Its name was Prades. "Many of the people there, you know, speak our language," he said. "You will think you are in Catalonia." I said it was no use, but he insisted. "You will be close to your countrymen in the refugee camps near there. They need your help-they need help terribly." In the end I agreed to go.
So it was that in the spring of 1939 I came to Prades. I could not have imagined at the time that I would spend the next seventeen years of my life in this little town in the Pyrenees. And in spite of the sorrow in me, I found respite in my surroundings. With its winding cobbled streets and whitewashed houses with red tiled roofs-and the acacia trees that were then in bloom-Prades might have been one of the Catalan villages I had known since childhood. The countryside seemed no less familiar to me. The lovely patterns of orchards and vineyards, the wild and craggy mountains with ancient Roman fortresses and medieval monasteries clinging to their sides-these too were a replica of parts of my homeland. Indeed, centuries before, this very region had been part of the nation of Catalonia.
I took a room at the one hotel in Prades. It was called the Grand Hotel. Its accommodations were perhaps not regal, but the view from the window of my little room was surely fit for a king. Close by, Mount Canigou rose toward the heavens. This magnificent mountain-which is celebrated in the works of our beloved Catalan Poet, Jacinto Verdaguer-had a special meaning for Catalans. Perched in solitary grandeur on one of its crests is the Abbey of St. Martin, which was built at the beginning of the eleventh century by Count Guifred. According to legend, this count's great-greatfather-the founder of the Catalan dynasty-created the flag of Catalonia, with its four stripes on a yellow background. Mortally wounded in battle, he dipped his fingers in his blood and drew them down the face of his shield, declaring, "This shall be our flag."
Shortly after arriving at Prades, I visited some of the concentration camps-there were a number nearby, at Riveslates, Vernet, Le Boulou, Septfonds, Argeles-where the Spanish refugees were confined. The scenes I witnessed might have been from Dante's Inferno. Tens of thousands of men and women and children were herded together like animals, penned in by barbed wire, housed-if one can call it that-in tents and crumbling shacks. There were no sanitation facilities or provisions for medical care. There was little water and barely enough food to keep the inmates from starvation. The camp at Argeles was typical. Here more than a hundred thousand refugees had been massed in open areas among sand dunes along the seashore. Though it was winter, they had been provided with no shelter whatsoever-many had burrowed holes in the wet sand to protect themselves from the pelting rains and bitter winds. The driftwood they gathered for fires to warm themselves was soon exhausted. Scores had perished from exposure, hunger and disease. At the time of my arrival the hospitals at Perpignan still overflowed with the sick and dying.
When I saw the frightful conditions in those camps, I knew I had but one duty. With several friends who, like me, were fortunate enough to have their freedom I immediately set about organizing aid for the refugees. My room at the Grand Hotel became our office. We began sending out letters-I myself wrote hundreds of them-to organizations and individuals in France, England, the United States and other countries, describing the tragic plight of the refugees and asking for help of any sort. The response was wonderful. Gifts of food, clothing, medical supplies and money poured into Prades. We worked without letup, day and night, carrying on the endless correspondence, loading boxes of supplies onto trucks which took them to the camps. Sometimes I accompanied the trucks to the camps to help in the distribution of the supplies. Of course there was never enough-so many were in desperate need!
I visited the camps as often as I could. Each time I dreaded going, because of the suffering I would see, and afterwards I could not sleep at night. But I knew how the inmates longed to see and talk with a fellow countryman form the outside. I started corresponding with many of the refugees-especially with those in camps too far away for me to visit regularly. I would spend hours each day writing letters and cards, seeking somehow to relieve their suffering by sending them funds and giving them a word of encouragement. My efforts, Heaven knows, were [pitifully inadequate. But how grateful those people were! And with what courage and dignity they bore their lot!
After a while I was joined in this work by Joan Alavedra, the Catalan poet, whom I had known well in Barcelona. He was a man of great energy and diversified talents. During the days of the Republic he had been an aide to president Companys, and at the end of the war he had escaped across the border with his wife and two children. He was well acquainted with the conditions at the camps-this gifted artist had himself been in one of them for weeks before managing to secure his release. Now he took a room adjoining mine at the Grand Hotel, and we became inseparable companions. He was especially concerned about my health-I was suffering from severe headaches and dizzy spells. He said I was trying to do too much. Of course that was impossible-indeed, how well off I was in comparison with those in the camps! He gave me a walking stick so that I could knock on the wall to his room in the event I needed aid during the night.
Occasionally, to supplement the funds for refugee relief, I would give benefit concerts in Paris and othere cities in France. I received numerous invitations to play in other countries, but I could not accept them. There was too much to do in Prades, and I never stayed away for more than a couple of days at a time. Moreover, quite often I found it difficult to play. I was doing so much letter writing that my hads had a tendency to tremble.
That September, less than six months after the end of the Spanish Civil War, the catastrophe occured that I had anticipated with dread-which I had warned would happen if Hitler were not stopped in Spain. Hitler invaded Poland and unleashed the Second World War.
I was besieged with letters from musicians and other friends in England and the United States urging me to leave France and to make my home in their countries. I was deeply moved by their concern for my welfare and the wonderful opportunities they proposed for the continuation of my musical work. I recall one offer from the United States for something like a quarter of a million dollars for a series of concerts! But I knew that now more than ever my place was in France. Here my career had started and the doors of the world had been opened to me; here were many of my oldest and dearest ties. How, then, could I leave this country-which was, one might say, my second home-in the hour of her travail? Even more decisive was my duty to my compatriots in the concentration camps. I continued to work with the refugees and to give occasional benefit concerts.
In the summer of 1940 the war took a disastrous turn which confronted me with a new and crucial situation. Hitler's armies suddenly turned west. In less than a month they swept through Holland and Belgium and penetrated deep into France. The Allied forces were retreating on all fronts. French resistance seemed to be falling apart, and there was talk of treachery in high places. One day, early in June, we received word that the Germans were nearing the outskirts of Paris-the fall of the French capital and the surrender of France were at hand. It was also reported that Franco was about to declare war on France at nay moment, cross the Pyrenees, and occupy French Catalonia.
Alavedra and I decided we must leave Prades-to remain, it appeared, meant falling into the hands of the Nazis or the Spanish Fascists. We were told we might be able to secure passage on a boat, the Champlain, which was due to sail for America any day from Bordeaux. But how to reach Bordeaux? The city was over two hundred miles away, and all public transportation was at a virtual standstill. Alavedra managed to find two taxi drivers who were willing to make the trip. We burned all the correspondence in our files-some of it, we feared, might compromise anti-fascist refugees and lead to their arrest of Hitler's or Franco's troops came to Prades. Then we hastily threw together a few of our belongings, and, with Alavedra's wife and children and several friends, we left in the two taxis.
In Bordeaux we found utter chaos. Thousands of people milled about the city-many of them had fled southward from the Germans and were seeking to escape the country. The streets were full of trucks, carts and cars loaded with furniture and other personal belongings. Everywhere were scenes of the wildest confusion. Rumors ran wild. Some people said that Nazi panzer divisions were approaching, others that the city would soon be bombed. Alavedra set about the task of securing passports for our group-I was too ill to be of help. He learned my old friend and colleague, Alfred Cortot, was in the city and went to see him. Cortot, he knew, had influential connections with the French authorities, and Alavedra hoped to enlist his assistance in our behalf. But cortot said there was nothing he could do. When Alavedra told him how sick I was, he simply said, "Give him my regards and tell him that I wish him well." He did not come to see me. I could not understand his conduct at the time, but before long, when Cortot became an open collaborationist with the Nazis, I was to realize with sorrow why he had acted this way toward me. It is terrible, the things that some people will do because of fear or ambition....
Somehow Alavedra managed to arrange for our passports and tickets on the Champlain. Then, when we were prpeparing to go the place where the boat was due to dock, we heard the news-German planes had bombed and sunk the Champlain!
We did not know what to do. We were all famished and exhausted. But it was impossible to find hotel rooms or any other quarters in Bordeaux-one could not even get food at the cafes. Our only course, we decided, was to return to Prades. We started back in our taxis. The return trip seemed interminable. The roads were clogged with troops and refugees. We crawled along-it took us two days to get back. The first night we slept in the taxis. Finally, around midnight on the second day, we reached Prades.
When we drove up in front of the Grand Hotel, we found that the doors were padlocked. Alavedra pounded on them. The owner of the hotel appeared in a window. When Alavedra told him why we'd had to return, the proprietor said our rooms had been taken. Alavedra asked if we couldn't have beds for the night. He told the man that I was ill.
"The Germans may arrive at any time," the proprietor said. "And what if they find I've given shelter to Casals? Everyone knows he's an enemy of the Nazis. I have my fimily to think of."
Meanwhile a man who owned a nearby tobacco shop had been awakened by the noise. He offered to put us up for the night. "You will have to forgive me," he said, "I do not have any extra beds. But at least you will have a roof over your heads."
And so we slept on the floor at his house.
People have been very generous to me over the years and given me many gifts. But I can think of none that remains more precious to me than that night's lodging in the humble home of the tobacconist.
Next day we found temporary quarters in an apartment in Prades, and shortly afterwards we managed to rent a house on the outskirts of the town. It was a small two-story house set back from the road among lovely old gardens and trees. Alavedra and his family occupied the first floor. I moved into a room under the eaves-with my cello and a somewhat antiquated piano I had acquired. The house was called Villa Colette. It was to be my home for the next decade.
With the surrender of France and the establishment of the Vichy regime under the aging Marshal Petain, our situation at Prades became increasingly precarious. Although the south of France was still unoccupied by the Nazis, fascist sympathizers and collaborationists assumed authority everywhere. Once again I sought to do what I could to help the Spanish refugees in the concentration camps-I gave benefit recitals for them in Perpignan, Marseilles and other towns. But it was constantly more difficult to help them. The plight of the refugees was even worse than before-many were compelled to work in so-called labor battalions, which were little more than a form of organized slavery. As the months went by, the atmosphere around me grew more and more strained. Some of the townspeople became openly hostile. Others, with whom I had been friendly, turned away when they passed me on the street. I knew what pressures they were under and that they feared any association with me might lead to their persecution by the fascists. But those were bitter days. At times I felt old and isolated from the world.
And, indeed, there were apparently those in the outside world who felt isolated from me-or, at least, had no idea what had happened to me. later I learned that a report was published in the United States to the effect that I'd been shipped back to Spain and was languishing in a dungeon at Montjuich, awaiting execution! Yes, things can always be worse than they actually are. I understand that my friend Maurice Eisenberg, who by then had emigrated to America, wrote a letter to The New York Times denying the rumor and saying I was still free and giving occasional benefit recitals for the refugees.
Of course not all of life was bleak. I think that perhaps it never is-even under the worst of circumstances. A few friends among the residents in Prades still came to see me surreptitiously, and their visits were heart-warming. Also, I had the companionship of Alavedra and our little circle at the Villa Colette. And there were other Catalans who were free and with whom I kept in touch. One of them was my old and dear friend, the poet Ventura Gassol-the former minister of culture in the Catalan government during the days of the Republic. On one occasion, in fact, our continuing comradeship resulted in some trouble for both of us! It seemed that as long as Gassol and I had been friends we stimulated each other so much that when we got together we often came up with some exciting idea. And one day such an idea occurred to us in Prades. A few miles from the town, at the foot of Mount Canigou, was the ancient Abbey of Saint-Michel de Cuxa-it had been founded as a Catalan monastery in the ninth century and had become an artistic and religious center in the Middle Ages. In later centuries the deserted abbey had fallen into a state of disrepair. During the time of the Spanish Republic, citizens of the Catalan town of Ripoll had sent a wonderful bell to be installed in one of its towers. What a fine idea it would be, Gassol and I agreed, if we now went to the abbey and rang that bell as a patriotic gesture to show our fellow countrymen that the spirit of Catalan patriotism was still alive! And so we went and rang the bell. It was an unforgettable moment-there, in the serenity of those old pillars and arches, and the shadowed cloister with its worn flagstones-when the rich sounds of the bell pealed forth to the surrounding mountainsides! But the Vichy authorities did not appreciate that moment as much as we did. When they learned from local residents what we'd done, there was a scandal. The newspaper in Perpignan featured an article on its front page denouncing Gassol and me as Reds, anarchists-yes, and even assassins! Actually, of course, we were none of these things. We were just a Catalan poet and a Catalan musician.
The only regular sources of news available to us in those days were Vichy propaganda organs like that newspaper in Perpignan. It was highly depressing to read them-as it was to listen to the Vichy-controlled radio broadcasts. But we had another, unofficial source of news, which never failed to sustain our spirts and buoy our hopes even in the harshest times. That was the British Broadcasting Corporation. How we savored every fragment of news on those nightly broadcasts from London! It was from the BBC that we learned in 1941 of the entry of Russia and the United States into the was against the Axisi-then we knew it was only a matter of time before the fascist forces of darkness would be crushed. It was over the BBC that we heard the inspiring news the following year of the mounting military efforts of the Allies, the devastating defeat of the Nazis at Stalingrad, and the great victory of the Anglo-American forces in North Africa. With what jubilation we learned of those victories!
Our rejoicing, however, was tempered by developments that swiftly ensued. That winter, to protect himself against the expected Allied landing on the Continent, Hitler occupied the whole of southern France. German troops were stationed in Prades. For the first time I lived among men who wore the hated swastika. From the moment Hitler had come to power in Germany I had refused to play in that country-that birthplace of Beethoven and Bach which had been so dear to me-but now the Nazis had come to me. We were virtual prisoners of the Germans.
If the situation had been difficult before, it now became almost intolerable. Both Aalavedra and I were placed under the constant surveillance of the Nazis. We were known to them as foes of fascism. Moreover, the French partisans of the Maquis who began operating in the area were joined by Spanish refugees who had escaped from the concentration camps, or secretly crossed the Pyrenees, and we were suspected of being in touch with them. Periodically the Gestapo came to search our house. I could never fathom what they expected to find. But then of course one cannot unriddle the workings of minds such as theirs. Anyway, they let me know that if ever they did find whatever they were looking for, things woud go hard with me. Both Alavedra's name and mine, I was informed by a Frenchman who posed as a friend of the Nazis, headed one of their lists of suspects for possible arrest or execution as hostages.
I constantly expected to be arrested. But perhaps the Nazis feared such an action might arouse too much clamor. They knew I had many friends in various countries. Shortly after the Nazi occupation of Prades, for example, a group of eminent musicians in the United States-including Toscanini, Ormandy and others-had petitioned the German government to let me leave France and grant me safe-conduct to Portugal. And I suppose that even in Nazi Germany there were some influential personages who still considered themselves lovers of music.
Even though I remained free-in the sense of only being under what amounted to house arrest-my existence became literally a struggle to survive. Food had been scarce enough before, but under the Nazis rationing became far more drastic. They parceled out supplies to their favorites among the population and were ready to see the rest starve. At the Villa Colette we existed for the most part on a fare of boiled turnips, beans and other greens. Milk or meat was an unheard-of luxury. When we found a potato or two, it was cause for celebration. When we fell sick, there were no medicines. Another problem, in the winter, was the cold. We had no coal and little wood. Every day I would go out and, limping along with the aid of my cane, gather sticks and branches that had fallen from the trees. I wore my overcoat indoors and out. I have always suffered from the cold, and now rheumatism began to plague me. Playing the cello became increasingly difficult for me, though I continued to practice. I felt exhausted and ill most of the time.
Then, in the summer of 1943, something happened which I think in retrospect did much to help sustain me during the remainder of the war. I began the composition of my oratorio, El Pessebre, "The Manger." No doubt there was in me at the time the need to work on some undertaking of this sort. Yet the work on the oratorio began, as such things often do, in an almost accidental way.
One day Alavedra and I learned from friends of ours that a Catalan Language and Poetry Festival was being arranged in Perpignan. Prizes were to be awarded for original writings in the Catalan tongue. Without telling me, Alavedra submitted a poem he had brought with him in a notebook when he fled across the Pyrenees from Spain. It was a long poem he had written several years before in Barcelona for his five-year-old daughter, Macia. He had, in fact, written it at her request-as a song for them to sing together on Christmas Eve beside the miniature manger they had built together.
At the Festival in Perpignan, Alavedra's poem was awarded first prize. When I heard it recited there, I was so impressed with its beauty-it was so simple and yet so profound, as is the tale of the Nativity itself-that I made up my mind to put the words of the poem to music. I did not let Alavedra know my intention. The day after the Festival, working secretly in my room, I began composing the music. The following month, on the occasion of Alavedra's saint's day in June-that of St. John-after embracing him and wishing him a happy birthday, I said I had a surprise gift for him. I led him to the piano and played the first fragment of my composition, while singing the words from his poem.. Then I told him of my plan to set the whole poem to music....
For the next two years I worked steadily on the composition. It was not always easy to maintain my schedule of work-there were distracting events and sometimes I was too hungry and weary to concentrate properly on the music. But each day, in the morning when I was freshest and after I had played my Bach at the piano, I endeavored to compose
for a certain number of hours. In spite of our privations, and the doubts and sorrows that afflicted us, the work nourished my spirit. In the midst of the savagery of way I was writing music about the Prince of Peace, and if the suffering of man was part of that tale, it also spoke of a time when man's long ordeal would be ended and happiness would be his at last.
When Christmas came, my friends and I would hold a little ceremony based on that part of the oratorio I had finished. We would gather in my room around the piano and the plowman, and the choruses of the three Wise Men and the angels. Our voices would join in that sorrowful question in the choruses of the camels and the shepherds:
How steep are the mountains
We must cross....
How long must we tgravel
Through foreign lands
Feeling so weary?
One morning I was in my room working on El Pessebre when I heard a car pull up in front of the house. I looked out of the window. Three German officers were approaching. They knocked on the front door, and I heard them ask if I was in. I was afraid my friends might try to conceal the fact that I was, and this might get them into difficulty. I called downstairs, "Send them up." As I heard the footsteps on the stair, I thought that perhaps this was the moment I had feared....
When the officers came into my room, they clicked their heels and gave the Hitler salute. Two of them were quite young and one was middle-aged-they wore immaculate uniforms and gleaming boots. They were large well-fed men, and they seemed to fill my little room. To my surprise, their manner was courteous, even respectful.
They said, "We have come to pay our respects. We are great admirers of your music-we have heard about Casals from our parents, about concerts of yours they attended. We want to know if you are comfortable and have everything you need. Perhaps you could use more coal, or perhaps more food."
I said no, that my friends and I had everything we needed. I wandered what they were driving at.
They looked around my room curiously. One of them-he was the oldest one and obviously the leader-asked, "Why do you remain in such cramped and shabby quarters? Why don't you return to Spain?"
I said, "I am against Franco and what he represents. If there were freedom in Spain, I would go. But if I went now, I would have to say what I believe. People in Spain who say what they believe are put in prison or worse."
"But surely you can't want to live in this Godforsaken town where there's not even anyone to hear your music."
"I am here because it is my choice."
Soon they got to the point. They said, "You know, you are loved in Germany. Everybody knows about your music. And we have come to extend an invitation to you from our government. You are invited to come to Germany and play for the German people."
I said, "I am afraid I cannot go."
"And why not?"
"Because I have the same attitude about going to Germany that I have about going to Spain."
There was a strained silence. They exchanged glances, and I sensed they were restraining themselves with difficulty.
Then their leader said, "You have the wrong idea about Germany. Der Fuhrer is greatly interested in the arts and in the welfare of artists. He loves music especially. If you come to Berlin, he himself will attend your performance. You will be welcomed by all the people. And we are authorized to say that a special railroad car will be placed at your disposal...."
For a moment these men seemed not menacing but ridiculous. There was something so crude-so childish-about the idea that a private railroad car might influence my decision! I said, "No, my going would not be possible under any circumstances. You see, I have been suffering from rheumatism lately, and my giving any concerts is out of question at this time."
After a while they gave up trying to persuade me.
Their leader then asked if I would give them an autographed photograph. I gathered they wanted it to show their superiors they had been there, and I complied with his request.
"And while we are here," he added, "perhaps you would do us a personal favor. Would you play some Brahms or Bach for us?" I had the strange feeling that this Nazi officer actually wanted to hear me play.
I told him that the rheumatism in my shoulder wouldn't permit my playing.
He walked to the piano, sat down and played a passage from a Bach aria. When he had finished, he said, "May we see your cello?"
I took my cello form its case and placed it on my bed.
They stared at it. "And is this the instrument on which you played in Germany?"
I said that it was.
One of them picked it up, and the others touched it. And suddenly I felt deathly ill....
Finally they left me. But when they got to their car, they didn't drive away. They sat there for several minutes, got out and started back toward the house. I stepped onto my porch to find out what they wanted. They asked me to remain standing where I was, and they took several photographs. I suppose they wanted them as additional proof of their visit. After that, they drove away.
Following the Allied landing in Normandy in the summer of 1944, the tension in Prades mounted daily. The Maquis intensified their guerrilla activities in the surrounding countryside, and the Germans retaliated furiously with harsh measures against anyone they suspected of aiding the partisans. Hardly a day passed without word of new arrests and hostages being shot. One day a young man who was engaged to the daughter of friends of mine came to see me surreptitiously. He was a member of the Vichy militia-he was only seventeen and had joined the militia to avoid being sent to Germany for forced labor. He was terribly agitated.
His militia chief, the young man told me, had informed him that any day there might be a roundup of persons in Prades. The chief had said that I was among those to be arrested. "We'll give that Casals a lesson," the chief had said, "We'll sho him what it means to be against us."
The young man had been couragious enough to speak out in my behalf. "Casals is a musician, not a politician," he told his chief. "If you harm him, people will never forget." He believed his protest had had some effect but he could not be sure. He begged me to go into hiding if possible.
I thanked him for his warning and did my best to calm him down.
Soon afterwards matters reached a climax. The Nazis-in one of their bestial reprisals-burned a nearby village and shot many of the inhabitants. A few nights later a band of Maquis stormed into Prades and attacked the Gestapo headquarters. They killed two officers and wounded a number of soldiers. Now everyone was sure the Nazis would take savage measures in Prades. Terror spread through the town. People kept off the streets. Alavedra and I expected to be arrested hourly.
And then an extraordinary thing happened-it was one of those unpredictable events that sometimes determine the fate of people. The mayor of Prades, a retired military man, went to see the German general in Perpignan who was in command of the whole area. He told the general he wished to assume personal responsibility for the raid at Prades and that he had come to surrender himself. The general was apparently impressed by his conduct. To everybody's astonishment, the mayor was not arrested-and no action whatsoever was taken against the people of Prades! A few months later, when the Germans evacuated the town, this same mayor was arrested as a collaborator and given a lengthy prison term. Such are the whims of war!
The young militiaman who had intervened in my behalf was also arrested on charges of being a collaborator after the liberation of Prades. When I learned he was to be tried, I wrote the president of the tribunal, stating that I wished to testify in his defense. I was summoned to the proceedings at Perpignan. Three other young men were being tried with him on the charge of collaboration. I sat with them on the same bench in the courtroom. How dreadful it was to know these young men were all possibly facing death! And that was the sentence three of them received-yes, three of them were shot. Only the young man for whom I testified was spared. He was sentenced to thirty years' imprisonment. He was set free after several years, and he came to see me. "I owe my life to you," he said. I told him that probably I had only settled a debt, that probably I owed my life to him.
And so two lives were saved-two lives amid tens of millions lost! How much solace was there in that thought?