A Calvary... 1941-1944 Rene Lefebvre

Part 2

We conclude, in this issue, the account of the final days of Archbishop Lefebvre's father who was a German prisoner of war. The moving story of this great patriot's death was written by men who shared those last hours with him and who, after the war, wrote to Michel Lefebvre so that the family would be aware of what their father endured.

AS A GENERAL RULE, the Military Chaplain visited us every fortnight or three weeks and gave us Communion. He came more often if we asked but not as often at Berlin as at Hamburg, where we could not go to Mass. The orders were explicit and we could not leave our cells under any pretext. Even during bombardments, if the door was shattered to fragments, we had to stay where we were under pain of immediate death. We were not able to approach one another and one had to act with prudence and the cunning of a Indian to take an interest in one another although we saw each other during our daily walk. In our cells, without work, we had not the right to read or write unless it was to write to the president of the tribunal, so our days passed in reflection or in prayers as we had been allowed to keep our rosaries.

In spite of the monotony of this life of a recluse, I was conscious of the fact that Monsieur Lefebvre had kept in excellent spirits, when at the end of thirteen months (June 16, 1943) my group, of which Monsieur Lefebvre was one, was transferred into the hands of the civil prison administration. By a miracle we were saved from the firing squad but, alas, it was only to a slow and more cruel death for the majority of this in the prison at Sonnenburg.

The Prison

We stayed together about ten days on subsistence at the prison cell of Vieux Moabit at Berlin; we were well-treated there. After this a convoy of a hundred convicted men of all nationalities was assembled and each man held with handcuffs by a warder, filed in front of a hostile crowd in the streets of Berlin to the station where we were put on a train, armored carriages, divided into cells. We were four and five to a cell meant for only one man. We were jammed together one against the other; I had the good fortune to be with Monsieur Lefebvre. The journey was difficult. We had received two thin sandwiches at 8:00 in the morning and we had been tossed about without air until 10:00 at night when we arrived at Sonnenberg, where we had 200 grams of bread and a mess tin of tea. We were put in quarantine for a fortnight, in a loft enclosed in wire netting. We slept on the straw with a blanket; we were allowed 300 grams of bread a day, cabbage soup at midday and clear soup at night. We could not wash and we were covered with vermin. At the end of this lapse of time we had to undress quickly and we were shorn from head to foot, then passed to the shower and dressed in the famous striped clothes. We were then encosed, one or two in a cell according to circumstances. the life of a convict had started.

The district where we were was cold, marshy and damp. The summer sun was only a little damp to us, our cells faced north and we received no benefit from the rays. The food was frankly insufficient. We had about 350 grams of mouldy and stinking bread, cabbage or turnip soup without fat at midday, always fairly thick in the evening, clear soup made from corn, like that given to birds, or soup with whey, vaguely sweetened. Twice a week we had a cold meal in the evening made up of a little square of margarine, a small piece of strong cheese, and a piece of sausage.

We were awakened at 6 o'clock. We made shoes from straw and were not allowed to leave the cells except for exercise, but Monsieur Lefebvre worked in the cellar with about a dozen comrades among whom were the Belgian commander Trats of Anvers, Marcel Prot of Dunkirk, Monsieur Guillon of Brussels (witness of his marriage), the Count of Alcantara.

The cell in which he worked, picking out straw from the hay for making shoes, was very damp and airless. It could be that inadequate food and the lack of its wholesomeness were the cause of boils which he could never get rid of, the treatment was almost non-existant—ointment applied grudgingly on the sores. The paper bandages were very limited. The nurse was a dense brute and it did no good to go to see him because he greeted the sick with blows; his assistant, a young German of about twenty years old, condemned to forced labor for murder, was worthy of his boss and must have been the cause of the deaths of some of our poor fellow prisoners. Monsieur Lefebvre often received attention because of the boils on his arms and legs but I do not know how he was treated by our tormentors. My life in the cell prevented me from knowing exactly what was happening in the prison but in my opinion he was not more privileged than we were and he had to undergo the cruelty and irritations like the rest of us.

I remember that at Christmas 1943 we assisted at Mass and we received Holy Communion, but to my knowledge it was the only time.

One day when I was on promenade, without being able to say which month, I saw Monsieur Lefebvre, helped by a friend, go into the infirmary. He gave me a little wave of the hand and looked at me with a painful glance. I learned that three days after going in, he died of congestion of the lungs. I know that Commander Trats, Count Alcantara and Guillon—all three died in Germany—were present at his death. I really cannot tell you more.

Extract from the Letter of Monsieur Pierard

I knew Monsieur René Lefebvre very well at the prison of Sonnenberg where we became friends very quickly. I had been transferred to this prison on May 20, 1943. A month after my arrival I found myself in the east wing, second detachment, where Monsieur Lefebvre was and some days afterwards I was in touch with him.

We were able, from time to time, to exchange a few words during the walk when the soldiers were not watching us and thanks to the complicity of a trusty Belgian, we exchanged notes in which we gave our impressions. Monsieur Lefebvre shared his cell with two Frenchmen; I was in solitary confinement.

One of his companions was always looking for a quarrel with him. As the cell was dirty and in disorder, the guard, instead of punishing the one responsible (it was, of course, the unpleasant companion) dealt severely with Monsieur Lefebvre because he was the oldest and made him go down to the cellar—that was in August 1943. I occupied the next cell, a guard having accused me of sabotage and political propaganda.

The cells were very cold and damp, the plaster was coming off the walls where water ran down continually. The floor, with uneven stones, served as a shelter to all the animal life. A narrow window, protected by strong bars and through which a feeble light filtered, was situated on a level with the ground forming the garden, so we were below ground by about two meters. For furniture a poor iron bed whose rusty springs pierced the mattress which was in a disgusting state, a thin cover of cotton, a little table, sometimes a wooden stool, a little cupboard for the mess tin and spoon—our only utensils—and a chamber pot called "kubel."

The peephole in the door was often lifted up, above all at night; we noticed it because the guard switched on the light. At any other time we were deprived of the light and were obliged, in winter particularly, to eat and clean in darkness.

By means of knocking on the wall, I was in contact with my neighbor and by climbing onto the table we managed to hold a conversation through the little opening of the window.

On November 10, 1943, I was sent to the workshop to work with the straw, where Monsieur Lefebvre had been working for a month. This workshop, formed from three cells joined together, measured six meters by two meters. A permanent smell of dampness pervaded the atmosphere. It was very cold and damp because the straw which was being prepared for the prisoners who were making shoes had to be constantly dampened.

There was always a dozen of us occupied with this work; the straw cut our fingers and because of the humidity, the skin came away in shreds. Each morning we had a piece of black bread of between 250 and 300 grams, which at the end, was reduced to half that amount, with half a litre of brown water called "coffee" at midday, one litre of cabbage or turnip soup in the evening.

We were compelled to complete an output which the workmaster controlled but we always managed to sabotage the work.

Nearly every month (more often about every two months) we were given a piece of soap (a mixture of pumice stone and carbonate of soda) which quickly melted.

During the eighteen months I was at Sonnenberg, I was aware of six sessions when there were showers, two minutes each time. Under the shouts and blows of the bludgeon, we undressed quickly in the freezing corridor of the cellar. We were pushed a dozen at a time into a room which was filthy, the shower did not work properly, the water was often cold, and always under the shouts and blows, we dressed in the corridor without being able to dry ourselves. How many cases of pleuresy and pneumonia must have been the result of these sessions which we would have wished to avoid!

From July 1943 until his death, Monsieur Lefebvre suffered greatly from boils. The greater part of the time he was sent without attention to the infirmary where the "vampire" reigned, the head nurse who kicked the sick, slapped them and hit them with keys. When the nurse was in a good mood—which rarely happened—he applied a sort of ointment on the boils with paper dressings and bandages, which had already been used many times, and were extremely dirty. Very often I tended my friend with make-shift aids; I burst the blisters and cleaned them with a little oil which I had from a Norwegian trusty. During his last weeks. Monsieur Lefebvre was afflicted with eleven boils on his shoulder and right arm and a big abscess on his back.

He was next to me at work and told me about his family life, his travels, and gave me details of his factory. He never ceased to evoke the memory of his wife, told me a lot about each one of his children, of his plans for the future. He had decided that each year he would provide a meal for all the survivors from our cellar.

Very pious, he prayed a lot; with the help of a cord, he hid under his shirt a missal and the Imitation of Christ which he was able to keep by a miracle. After the soup of midday he recited the De Profundis for the comrades whom each day we learned had died.

His Death

One morning at the end of February 1944, he had a kind of seizure which paralyzed his right side and speech. The guard did not want to be involved and replied to our repeated calls with, "On, on, work!" We laid the sick man on the straw mattress, because he was shaking, and we were able to carry him into his cell after work finished at 6:30 p.m. The next morning, on leaving for work at 6:30 a.m., and in the evening of Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, I was able, thanks to the Norwegian trusty, to say a few words to him and to shake his hand. He was no longer eating anything. On Saturday morning, he had a fainting spell while trying to take out his chamber pot which he had dropped. The guard beat him black and blue and tried to make him pick up the pieces of the pot and clean up, but the sick man fainted again and it was the Norwegian who did the cleaning up. On Sunday morning, during the walk, I saw him for the last time, making his way to the Infirmary. The trusty was supporting him and was carrying his blanket and mess tin. We exchanged a few brief words when he passed near me. The next day my dear companion died . . .

He always kept excellent spirits and had an unshakeable faith in our victory. Alas, he did not live to see it. He left to the Marquis and me his two prayer books, a rosary and some medals. These objects were taken from us some weeks later during a search.

An Extract from The Free North, 14 June 1945

To learn of the death of a hero is, unfortunately, a common thing today. Nazi barbarity has respected neither old age nor infancy.

Today it is the memory of Monsieur René Lefebvre that we have the sad duty to recall.

In 1914-1918 Monsieur Lefebvre was one of those courageous Frenchmen who risked their lives to facilitate the crossing of the front to the agents of the secret army. He was one of the chief assistants of Leonie Vanhoutte.

It is not surprising, then, that after 1940, he was again in the breach, to take charge of the crossing of the demarcation line to allied soldiers who escaped from Germany. But the Gestapo was watching. And one sad day in April 1941 the Nazis came to arrest him at his home to lead him to their lair. The hard life of the Hitler prisons did not get the better of his spirits, and it was thinking of his country that he died in March, 1944 at Sonnenberg in his 66th year.

It is to commemorate the death of this courageous citizen, who was also a great philanthropist, that a Solemn Requiem will take place on Monday, May 18th, at 10 o'clock in the Church of Notre Dame des Anges.

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May his magnificent example leave a lively impression on his family, and may they draw from it all the lessons that are to be found in it.

May it prove to others that France has still true Frenchmen, and may it give them faith in their beautiful country.