In 1934, André Trocmé moved with his wife, Magda, and their four young children to Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, a mostly Protestant village on a high plateau in Southern France, to serve as its pastor. He would become famous for leading the villagers and farmers of his parish in hiding Jews, ultimately saving over three thousand from the Holocaust. These excerpts from The Memoirs of André Trocmé (Plough, Sept. 2025) open in 1940, as France, and the world, once again sink into war.

I couldn’t predict the future, but I knew it would be dreadful. I had my family to protect and my parish to guide. I had to stick to my beliefs, and I feared my own weakness. One way or another, I had to bear witness, but I didn’t yet know how.

Later, I tried to explain to the “purists” that we do not decide to be nonviolent or truthful in advance as if we had an outline, a moral blueprint to follow automatically. Events appear almost always as a series of little, unexpected problems we must solve one at a time. We choose between two alternatives, one of which, in the final analysis, appears closer than the other to the laws of Jesus Christ. In that moment, one is sure of nothing. If the choice is the right one, if it does not conceal a hidden interest, it will open onto new possibilities and new opportunities for service. It will also present new problems and demand new options. That’s how I would describe our often hesitant march, step by step, through the darkness of the Second World War.

In 1938, when my co-pastor Édouard Theis and I founded our independent secondary school based on the practice of nonviolence, we had already made our choice. Now we had to continue. But it wasn’t as simple as that.

In October 1940, Philippe Pétain announced his policy of collaboration with Hitler. The majority of French people, guided by a blind confidence in Pétain, the World War I hero of Verdun, had followed the new state leader, the Maréchal. In Le Chambon, just about everyone sided with Pétain. Families hung his picture in their living rooms. Everyone praised the authoritative regime inaugurated by Pétain, a strongman who could deal peer-to-peer with Hitler and Mussolini and bring back France’s lost honor.

The first serious problem arose from inside the school: the question of saluting the flag. Once in power, Pétain adopted the exterior trappings of fascism. His portrait had the place of honor in the classroom. He ordered that every morning before classes public and private school principals hoist the colors on a flagpole erected in the courtyard. The students, lined up at attention like soldiers in units, saluted the flag while raising their right arm in the typical fascist manner.

Our history teacher, Pastor Henri Braemer, a traditional old-style patriot, heartily approved. It was an order; we had to obey. Furthermore, it gave France “a soul,” and France “needed one.” After discussing this matter, Theis and I said no to saluting the flag.

Braemer insisted. The confrontation was difficult. Darcissac, the director of the public school, whose courtyard was only separated from the church by the road going down toward the bridge, found the solution. “I’ll put the flagpole from my school in the courtyard,” he said. “Forming a half-circle on the inside of the courtyard, my students will salute the flag. The students from your school can form the other half of the circle in the street. That way there will be only one ceremony.”

“All those who wish to salute the flag may do so,” declared Theis.

For a few weeks, Braemer, with a small group of our students, saluted the public school’s flag from the street. Then – we’re in France after all – his zeal petered out, as did that of the public school students. Saluting the flag became a weekly ceremony. Then the custom died out, and the state was unable to impose any sanctions.

Thanks to little acts of civil disobedience like this one, more comical than dramatic, the Pétain regime soon lost control. Failures like these allowed other forms of conscientious objection to develop in Le Chambon. Those who didn’t dare resist openly refused nonetheless to denounce fellow citizens. In this way, the spirit of resistance gradually nourished in our school spread to the entire parish.

On August 1, 1941, the parish openly said no for the first time. The week before, the town hall gave us an order from the government: “August 1 is a national holiday. Clergymen will have the bells of their churches rung at full peal for fifteen minutes starting at noon.”

I showed the order to Amélie, our tiny concierge, who worked in our home from time to time. “It goes without saying,” I told her, “that you will do nothing of the sort, even if someone tries to make you do so.” Amélie understood completely.

On August 2, I encountered Amélie in the village. The bells of the Catholic church had rung resoundingly, while those of our church had remained silent.

“Well, Amélie, did everything go well yesterday? No incidents?”

“Fine, Mr. Trocmé. No problems.”

“No visitors?”

“Oh, yes, two women from the villas in the hills. You know, women who were all made-up.”

“And?”

“They came looking for me. ‘You’re not ringing the bells, Amélie? Today is a national holiday.’”

“‘The pastor didn’t tell me to,’ I told them.”

“Well, given your pastor, that’s no surprise. Hurry up, Amélie. It’s already noon. It’s an order from the Maréchal.”

Amélie recounted these events with a sly, little smile.

“And how did you respond?” I asked her.

“I told them, ‘The bells don’t belong to the Maréchal, they belong to God. We ring them for God; otherwise not.’”

“Bravo! And what happened?”

“They ordered me to open the door for them so that they could ring the bells since I wouldn’t do it. I defended my church! I told them I would not open the door and they had no right to enter without the pastor’s permission. I stood firmly in front of the door. Wait, I’ll show you.” Amélie stationed herself squarely in front of me as she had before the two women, her short arms courageously spread wide apart to defend her church.

“How did everything end, Amélie?” Once again, she smiled mischievously.

“Oh, as you know, yesterday at noon, it was raining buckets. I was sheltered under the beam of the heavy door. They were in the courtyard. Soon they were drenched and left.”

Nothing had happened, Amélie had told me, since the bells had not rung. Her courageous resistance was nothing to her, hardly worth mentioning. If, like pulling teeth, I hadn’t drawn it out of her, I never would have known this story, so worthy of the Huguenots of old, who were unable to recant because they didn’t know how.

Many Jews began to arrive in Le Chambon. The first ones to come were French, very fine people, very rich, forced out of their businesses, their factories, their jobs. It didn’t take long for competition between rich refugees and the poor village population to create a painful tension. Le Chambon was not alone in this regard. The Vichy press denounced the Jews, blaming them for the black market. Public opinion, always stupid, turned the Jews into the scapegoats needed to explain the suffering people endured.

Nonetheless, Le Chambon was “at peace” on its mountain, while sinister rumors came to us from the Midi. Tens of thousands of foreigners, penned up in camps, were living in frighteningly dirty, destitute conditions. Although we were in the South, the Gestapo already had inspectors organizing deportations of political suspects to Germany. Families were separated without pity. A Protestant group, the Cimade, led by Madeleine Barot, had succeeded in placing a few courageous social workers in the camps. Likewise, the French Red Cross and the American Quakers were trying hard to get help into the camps in the form of food and clothing. All this, while we in Le Chambon had everything we needed and were living in peace.

I convened the group of church elders. I proposed that they send me as “an ambassador” to an internment camp to distribute food and other forms of help the parish would donate.

Édouard Theis agreed, and they consented to appoint me, but they asked me to investigate the camps first. I left for Marseille, on the first leg of my trip, to meet with a Quaker delegation from the American Friends Service Committee, including Burns Chalmers, who advised me not to go to the camps. “We already have several organizations there, and this could be awkward,” he said. “You tell me that you come from a mountain village that still enjoys some degree of safety. Let me explain our problem. Together with the doctors and the French officials who direct the camps, we try to deliver medical certificates to the largest possible number of adults, declaring them unfit for work (at this time, deportation meant forced labor). If we don’t succeed in saving the father, we try for the mother. If the parents are deported, we take charge of the children. We then get permission for the internees declared unfit for work to reside outside the camps. It is very difficult to find a French village willing to run the risk of receiving such compromised adults, adolescents, or children. Do you wish to be this community?”

The unexpected task was there before me. “But these children must be lodged, fed, and instructed,” I said. “Who will take care of all that?”

“Find the houses and the instructors,” Chalmers replied. “The Quakers and the Fellowship of Reconciliation will support you financially.”

Back in Le Chambon, the church elders were relieved to know that their pastor was staying put. I called on my cousin, Daniel Trocmé, a school teacher, to open the first children’s home.

Without knowing it, I had signed my beloved Daniel Trocmé’s death warrant.

At the end of 1941, seven houses for refugees were functioning at full capacity in Le Chambon. Like a rolling snowball, refugees and those taking care of them arrived, increasing the workforce at our school and attendance at Sunday worship. At weekly Bible studies, participants doubled in number and younger people joined. Never had the parish lived a more intense spiritual life. Even more importantly, the prayer that rose from these groups was fervent, practical, and tangible. It was here, and not elsewhere, that we received from God answers to the complex problems of sheltering and hiding Jews. This is where we devised our nonviolent resistance. Nonviolence is not a theory superimposed on reality; it’s an itinerary that we explore day after day in communal prayer and in obedience to the directives of the Holy Spirit.

In 1942 the police network began to tighten around Le Chambon.

At the beginning of the summer, the prefect of the Haute-Loire region, Mr. Bach, sent me a letter: “You will have an official visit from Vichy’s Youth Minister, Mr. Lamirand. I know you are eager to make this a memorable visit.”

Theis and I were devastated. For two years, we had done our best to keep our youth free of government influence. Vichy had immediately tried to regroup all youth into the blue-shirted Compagnons de France, with their fascist salute of the flag, their bugles, parades, social activities, workcamps, and cult of homeland.

In Le Chambon, we taught pacifism and were opposed to all totalitarian systems. We had decided to oppose Lamirand’s visit when, from “on high,” we were made to understand that the decision was out of our hands. There would be a banquet in the Joubert camp, an official procession down to the sports field in Le Chambon, then a welcome in the church followed by a prayer service. “It will be magnificent,” I was told, “Besides, Lamirand is a good guy, you’ll see.”

The so-called banquet turned into a very simple meal served from the meager rations granted us by official supply regulations. I was seated next to the minister. “It’s better like this,” the “good guy” Lamirand said to me with a laugh. “It’s more in line with the Maréchal’s spirit, more patriotic.” His laugh sounded forced because, despite rationing, he was accustomed to official spreads.

He then went to the church, where the pastors awaited him. Since Theis and I had refused to preach before the authorities, Marcel Jeannet, a Swiss pastor, spoke. He did well, was brief, and recalled the position of the church: obedience to the state, but on the condition that the state not coerce the church into infringing on the law of God.

As we left the service, a dozen of the older students at our school approached Lamirand and read him a document. Here are the contents of that document to the best of my recollection:

Dear Minister Lamirand,

We have learned about the scenes of horror that took place three weeks ago in Paris.* French police, on the orders of the occupying powers, arrested all the city’s Jewish families in their homes and confined them in the Winter Bicycle Stadium. Fathers were snatched from their families and deported to Germany, children brusquely taken from their mothers, who met the same fate as their husbands. We know from experience that the decrees of the occupying powers are quickly imposed in non-occupied France by the French head of state, who claims they are his own spontaneous decisions, and we fear that these measures inflicted on the Jews of Paris may soon be applied in the Southern Zone.

We want you to know that there are several Jews among us. But we don’t distinguish between Jews and non-Jews. That would be contrary to the teachings of the Gospels. If our comrades, whose only fault is their birth into a different religion, receive a deportation order or are required to list their religion in a census, we will encourage them to disobey these orders, and we will do our best to hide them.

Mr. Lamirand turned pale and responded: “These questions are none of my business. Address them to the prefect.” He got back to his car as fast as he could.

The prefect was furious. He knew very well who had inspired this text and turned to me: “Pastor, this day was supposed to be a day of national harmony. You are sowing division!”

“There can be no question of national harmony when our brothers are threatened with deportation.”

“Indeed, I have already received such orders, and I will carry them out. The foreign Jews who live in the Haute-Loire are not your brothers. They belong neither to your church nor to your country. Furthermore, they are not being deported.”

“What’s going on then?”

“My information comes directly from the Maréchal himself, and the Maréchal doesn’t lie. The Führer is an intelligent man. Just as the English have created a Zionist home in Palestine, he has ordered the resettlement of all European Jews in Poland. There they will have land and houses. They will lead the life that best suits them, and they will cease to contaminate the West. In a few days, my staff will come and identify the Jews living in Le Chambon.”

“We don’t know what a Jew is. We only know men.”

He returned to his car.

There you have it! No one knew in 1942 exactly what would happen to the Jews who were deported. We learned about Auschwitz, Dachau, and Maidanek only after the liberation. What we did know was that it was wrong to turn over a brother who had entrusted himself to us. No one in Le Chambon in 1942 would agree to do that.

How many Jews were in Le Chambon in the summer of 1942? Not that many, perhaps a hundred, or 150 at the most. We knew them all. Several farms sheltered many of them. The others were divided between the village and the seven refugee houses. We had two in our home. Mr. Colin came to us one morning with a warm letter of recommendation from a good friend, so we took him into our home and treated him like a brother.

His real name was Cohn. He came from Berlin and was a cabinetmaker. In our house, he became a handyman. We certainly had no need for his services, but to occupy his time and give him a sense of purpose, we asked him to make furniture for us. Our children liked him and joked around with him. Mr. Colin worked in the huge attic of the old presbytery, where he also fixed up a hiding place in case the police came to search the house.

To get a ration card in his name at the mayor’s office, I had to falsify his foreign-national card. With very light scratching, Cohn became Colin. Mr. Vérilhac, the mayor’s secretary, groaned audibly when given such suspicious papers. At first, he even refused to serve us. “Come back when you have other papers to show me,” he declared in a loud voice to the frightened supplicants in his office. The presence of a denouncer among those in earshot would have sufficed to get the suspect deported. Admonished by the pastor, Mr. Vérilhac changed his attitude. He learned to look the other way when necessary. He was even grateful to receive false papers that allowed him to tell the Vichy police on inspection tour: “Nothing to report,” meaning “no Jews in the township.”

Two weeks after Lamirand’s visit, the first bolt out of the blue interrupted our euphoria. One Saturday evening, automobiles followed by police cars surrounded by motorcycles appeared in the market square. Policemen got out, stationed themselves everywhere in the village, and set up headquarters at the mayor’s office.

I was soon called to the mayor’s office, where I found myself in the presence of a senior civil servant, police chief for the department. There was none of the politeness that had characterized Lamirand’s visit. The chief was brutally direct:

Pastor, we know in detail about the illegal activities you’ve been involved in. Several Jews – whose names I know – are hiding in this town. I have an order to take them to headquarters for a police check (he lied; it concerned deportation). Everything must take place in orderly fashion. You will give me the list of these people and their addresses, and you will advise them wisely, so they don’t try to escape.

“I don’t know the names of these people,” I replied to the police chief (I did not, in fact, know their real names), “but even if I had the list you request, I wouldn’t give it to you. These people came to the Protestants of the area seeking refuge and protection. I am their pastor, which means I am their shepherd. The shepherd’s role is not to denounce the sheep confided to his care.”

“Pastor,” replied the chief, whose tone became hostile, “what I told you is not advice but an order. If you oppose the authorities, you are the one who will be arrested and deported. I will hold you responsible for all unacceptable resistance to the laws of your country. Furthermore, the Jews are not members of your flock. They are foreigners, suspicious types, and black-market peddlers. You are not responsible for their well-being. If you refuse to give me the list, at least give me a note in your handwriting advising them to submit voluntarily to the head count to which they are subject.”

“I refuse to give them advice that endangers their safety.”

“OK, it’s settled. I will give you until noon tomorrow, Sunday, to make up your mind. If you disobey the orders, you will be arrested, along with your accomplices. Furthermore,” (he let out a menacing laugh), “your resistance is futile. You have no idea of the means at our disposal: motorcycles, cars, radios. We know where those you protect are hiding!”

When I returned home, I sent for the scouts: “Go quickly and warn so-and-so, on such-and-such farm, that they have to flee tonight.”

This warning set into motion a kind of “battle plan” we had put in place soon after Lamirand’s visit. It called for dispersing the Jews “into nature,” some going into Ardèche, the neighboring department, and the others hiding in the woods.

That same evening, I had a visit from a trembling Mr. Grand, the deputy mayor, to whom the mayor had left all the difficult tasks. He begged me to capitulate. “It’s my own safety and my family’s that’s at stake; I am threatened with arrest tomorrow at noon,” he pleaded. “I am too,” I responded, “but sometimes we have to say no to injustice.”

The next morning was one of the “great days” in Le Chambon during the war. Emotion and curiosity had brought out a huge crowd. The church was packed. Many people were unable to get in. Theis and I, convinced that we were going to be arrested at noon, read a declaration from the pulpit urging our listeners to obey the law of God rather than men. Our aim was to hide those who had come to our church seeking refuge. We must exercise in their favor “the right of sanctuary” established in the Hebrew Bible for innocent people being persecuted.

When we left the church, emotions were high. The congregation said farewell to us. But nothing happened.

Nothing happened because during services something had happened at the mayor’s office. Summoned in haste, the municipal council, of which our evangelist, Miss Verdeil, was a member, had met. They were surrounded by policemen with machine guns in hand. At the command of the police chief, the council signed an “appeal” to the Jewish refugees, entreating them in no uncertain terms, to keep the peace, to report to the mayor’s office that same afternoon and submit obediently to the scheduled head count.

A rather funny census! Two or three buses were already stationed on the main square to take the Jews away.

Luckily, none of the Jews summoned by the municipal council showed up at the mayor’s office. Then, toward the end of the afternoon, the police ran wild.

First, they searched the village houses, demanding everyone’s identity papers, opening cupboards, going down into basements, going up into attics, and knocking on walls to see if they rang hollow. They were often polite, sometimes rude – but they found no one.

The next day, the police searched the farms in the surrounding areas. This second day didn’t produce any results either. The villagers related the adventure of a lieutenant, dressed in a brand-new uniform, who, in searching around a farm, stepped on rotten boards covering a manure pit. A very foul-smelling rescue followed. The farmers washed his things and comforted him with coffee. The adventure had turned from tragedy to comedy, and the anxiety of the first day was replaced by an ironic and friendly welcome. “Come on in,” the farmers said. “Have a drink with us! Sit down. Jews? What would Jews be doing in these parts?”

Everything went well, except for Mr. Stekler. He was a nervous Austrian lawyer, chased from his country by the racial laws. Convinced that he didn’t have enough Jewish ancestry to merit deportation, Stekler stayed at home, where the police nabbed him. Two empty buses were stationed in the main square. In one of them, looking pitiful, was Stekler. A menacing policeman prevented anyone from going near him. Very few people knew the timid Stekler, but several people of good will, seeing him so overwhelmed, approached, hoping to give him a small package. Our son Jean-Pierre was the first, bringing him the chocolate he had gotten with his ration card. The policeman, at first unyielding, finally agreed to pass on the object. “We can bring things to Mr. Stekler,” echoed within the presbytery. Young people took care of spreading the news to the entire village. Soon there was a parade, a demonstration, around the bus. Disconcerted by such obvious signs of affection, the police soon let their weakened opposition turn into complicity. Pyramids of objects – woolen clothing, shoes, food – piled up on the bench next to Stekler who, with weak handshakes and tearful eyes, thanked his friends and benefactors.

On Monday evening, the bus took Stekler, alone, to his destiny. The village was ashamed of letting him leave. But two days later – oh, what a triumph – Stekler reappeared, free as a bird, smiling and struggling to carry all the packages that had been given to him. At the prefecture, they had determined that according to Vichy law Stekler was not “Jewish enough” to be deported.

Thus ended “the great round-up” in Le Chambon during the summer of 1942. Or rather, not quite. The police remained in the village for three weeks. In the morning, you could hear motorcycles backfiring. They were going to “surprise” a nest of Jews tired of living like woodsmen. It was in vain. The farms on the plateau had dogs that barked even at distant sounds. For centuries in this wooded country where silence reigns, people have known what was going on. The “nest” was always empty when the police arrived. Furthermore, the police were influenced by public opinion and no longer believed in their mission.

About that time, Étienne Grand, son of the deputy mayor of Le Chambon and today an architect, had a strange encounter. He was leaning back against a tree, reading, when a policeman passed by. From a distance, Étienne heard: “Psst, psst.” He continued reading.

“Yo, over here,” the policeman called, a bit louder.

Étienne raised his eyes. The policeman performed a strange pantomime: with a gesture, he signaled to Étienne to “buzz off.” Étienne had no idea what the man meant. Uncomfortable, the policeman came closer: “Go away,” he said. “I didn’t see you.”

Étienne inquired, “You didn’t see me? What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

“I’m looking for Jews,” he replied. “If you don’t take off, I’ll have to arrest you.”

“But I’m not Jewish,” exclaimed Étienne, and then he realized that because of his facial features, the worthy police officer had assumed that he was a Jew.

“Oh! You’re not Jewish,” cried out the relieved cop. “So much the better, because I don’t like the work they make us do.”

The “conversion” of the police succeeded so well that in the months after the Germans occupied the Southern Zone, a mysterious voice on the telephone would issue warnings: “Beware tomorrow morning.”

That was all it took for us to put our well-developed plan, “Disappearance of the Jews,” into action.

The tragedy – the first real tragedy in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon – struck the Maison des Roches, the home set up at the Hôtel des Roches. Mr. Pantet, who ran the house, had begged me to replace him “for health reasons.” In fact, Pantet was afraid, because trouble was brewing in Le Chambon. My cousin Daniel Trocmé accepted this difficult position at a time when the forays of the Milice (French paramilitaries) and the Gestapo were increasing.

One morning, Suzanne Heim, a student living in the Grillons, another boarding house for refugees that Daniel oversaw, came to the presbytery distraught, crying out: “The Gestapo have surrounded the Maison des Roches. They are arresting everyone!”

Magda was always courageous – I still wince when I think of the risk she took. She decided to ride her bike to the Maison des Roches.

Here I yield my pen to Magda because on that day I was out of town.

[Magda writes] Suzanne told me that Daniel had been arrested by the Gestapo that morning at the Grillons and then taken to the Maison des Roches. The children had told him: “They’re coming to arrest you; go out the back door and run into the woods!”

“I can’t do that,” he responded. “I’m responsible for the Grillons and the Maison des Roches!”

What was I to do? The Maison des Roches was over a mile from town. I took my bike and, once I got there, somehow managed to get into the kitchen. The Germans must have mistaken me for one of the household staff. I tried to enter the dining room, but a hoarse, German voice ordered me not to come any farther.

The students were seated, lined up against the wall. Daniel Trocmé was with them. Against the other wall, the Gestapo soldiers stood holding their machine guns. I think there were five of them. I sat down in the kitchen. One by one the students passed through on their way to be interrogated in the next room. What sadness! Some came back distraught; they had perhaps been beaten. While passing, they whispered hastily, “Here’s my mother’s address,” or “Here’s my fiancée’s address,” or “There’s a gold watch in my night table,” or “Send the money that’s in my room to my home.” It was heartbreaking.

I approached Daniel, who said to me, “Go quickly to the Hôtel du Lignon and let the German officers there know what’s going on. Tell them that the Gestapo is here. Try to save us by reminding the officers that, a few weeks ago, one of my students saved a German soldier who was drowning in the Lignon River.”

I left the house. That wasn’t difficult, but how would I re-enter later?

Fortunately, I speak German. When I got to the Hôtel du Lignon, I had a hard time reaching the officer I sought – the one who had been there the longest.

I was afraid I would deal with an officer who had just arrived and knew nothing about the rescue. The sentinels and officers were surprised but intrigued by my bizarre request and my insistence. Finally, they led me into an office with two officers. One was young, the other much older.

“How long have you been in Le Chambon,” I asked them.

“That’s none of your business,” one responded.

“Then I can’t ask you anything!”

Surprised, they told me when they had come here. “Then you know about the soldier who was drowning in the Lignon River and was saved by a student from the Maison des Roches?”

“Yes, of course!”

Then I asked for their help: “Gestapo soldiers are arresting the students in the Maison des Roches. Come, speak to them, tell them the story of the rescue. They are holding innocent people! Save them!”

“What the Gestapo does is none of our business.”

“You are officers. You should know what honor is. I am a woman, and I ask you only to tell them the truth, to confirm that what I say is true!”

“Go ahead, then. We’ll follow you.

When we arrived at the Maison des Roches, I was not readmitted. The two German officers went inside. I then said that I was Daniel Trocmé’s cousin, and I needed to talk to him. I thought it wiser to say I was Daniel Trocmé’s cousin than Pastor André Trocmé’s wife. They told me to come back in two hours.

At noon, the oldest of my sons, Jean-Pierre, who was only thirteen, wanted to accompany me to the Maison des Roches. There was nothing I could do to dissuade him. He came along on his bike “to protect me.”

The German soldier screamed, “Schweinejude! Schweinejude!” Daniel Trocmé said to me, “Only the Spanish student who saved the German soldier and is not Jewish was released. Tell my parents that I’m leaving. Don’t worry. You know I love to travel!”

The prisoners got into the trucks, and the trucks left. Jean-Pierre was green with rage and on the verge of tears. He clenched his fists. “When I get older,” he said, “I will get my revenge!”

“You know what your father says about pardon and reconciliation,” I told him.

“Yes,” he said, “but what I have just seen is too horrible.”

[André resumes] Only three of these young men returned from the camps. Daniel never had the chance to explain himself. He was verjudet (considered Jewish) by the Gestapo because of his strange name, his knowledge of German, and his insistence on defending the residents of the Maison des Roches. In the spring of 1944, we received the news: “The inmate Daniel Trocmé died on April 4, 1944, at two o’clock in the morning in the concentration camp in Majdanek, Poland.”

*On July 16 and 17, 1942, in Paris roughly 9,000 French policemen arrested over 13,000 Jews (men, women, and children), most of whom were held in the Vélodrome d’Hiver, an indoor bicycle arena. Of these persons, 12,884 were eventually deported.