“She Was About to Give Birth” — And What the Untried Soldier Left Behind
There are memories that do not age with the body.
My body is eighty-seven years old. My knees ache when the weather changes. My eyes blur when reading small print. My hands tremble when I lift a teacup. But my memories do not grow old. They remain exactly where they were—at twenty-two—intact, sharp, and merciless as a blade that has never dulled.
My name is Élise Moreau.
I was born in 1921, in a small village near Oradour-sur-Glane. For more than seventy years, I did not tell this story to anyone. Not because I forgot—but because I knew that some things, once spoken aloud, can never be taken back.
But now, the dead no longer have voices.
And if I remain silent too, what happened to us will become nothing more than lifeless numbers in history books.
The night they came, I was eight months pregnant.
I remember it clearly—not because of the weight of my belly, but because the child inside me would not stop moving, as if he sensed the unnatural stillness of that night. There was no wind outside. No dogs barking. No distant trains passing, as there usually were. The silence was too complete, too deliberate.
My husband, Luc, was asleep beside me. Before drifting off, he had placed one hand on my stomach, a habit he never abandoned. He used to say it helped him believe the baby was real. We had lost one child before, in 1942—a miscarriage during a bombing raid when the shelter shook too violently. Since then, Luc never allowed himself to trust happiness fully.
The knock came at nearly three in the morning.
It was not a polite knock.
It was metal striking wood, relentless, allowing no refusal.
Luc sprang from the bed before I could speak. The door was kicked open, and a flashlight beam cut across my face. I raised my hand instinctively to shield my belly, as if the light itself could harm my child.
German soldiers flooded the house.
They did not shout. They did not need to. Their presence alone froze the air. One of them read my name from a list, mispronouncing it but unmistakable nonetheless.
“Élise Moreau.”
Luc stepped between them and the bed. He said I was pregnant. He said I could not go anywhere. He said the child was his.
The butt of a rifle struck his head, and he collapsed onto the floor.
I did not scream.
I did not cry.
I only watched.
There are moments when fear grows so large it strips you of all ordinary reactions. You do not fight. You do not beg. You only remember—as if some part of you understands that if you survive, you will have to testify.
They dragged me upright. I staggered. One soldier glanced at my swollen belly and said something in German. Another laughed softly. No one seemed surprised.
They already knew.
Outside, a truck was waiting.
Other women were already inside. I recognized Marguerite, the blacksmith’s wife. Claire, who had been engaged the previous winter. And Sophie, only seventeen, her hair still braided like a schoolgirl’s.
All of us had been named.
That meant someone had provided a list.
This was not random.
This was not a sweep.
In a small village like ours, everyone knew who was pregnant, who was young, who had no man strong enough to protect her. We had been chosen long before the doors were broken down.
I climbed into the truck with rough assistance from a soldier. His hand on my back was not trembling. I remember that clearly—not pain, but coldness. A cold, mechanical indifference, as if I were nothing more than an object to be transported.
The engine roared to life.
For a long time, no one spoke. Only the sound of the motor and the wheels grinding against gravel. Sophie began to cry silently. Marguerite took her hand. I leaned against the side of the truck, both arms wrapped around my belly, counting every movement of my son.
I told myself: As long as he moves, he is alive.
They brought us to an old building that had once been a school before the war.
The windows were covered. The yellow lights were weak. The air smelled of dampness and sweat. They separated us—not by family, not by age, not by any logic we could understand.
A soldier studied my papers, then looked again at my belly. He said something brief. The man beside him nodded.
I was led into a separate room.
There was no bed.
Only a wooden chair and a bucket of water.
I sat there for hours—perhaps hours. Time had lost all meaning. Every time the door opened, my heart pounded so violently I feared it would frighten my unborn child.
I will not describe what happened next.
Not because I have forgotten.
But because some things do not need to be detailed to be understood.
It is enough to say this:
I was not treated as a human being.
My pregnancy did not protect me.
And no one came to stop it.
When I was finally led out of that room, I could no longer stand on my own.
An older woman caught me and whispered that I must breathe evenly, that I must hold the baby inside. “Your child must not be born here,” she said.
I gave birth three days later.
Not in a hospital.
Not with a doctor.
But on a cold floor, with other women acting as midwives because there was no one else.
My son did not cry immediately. For a moment, I thought I had lost him. Then he let out a small, fragile sound—enough to make me weep.
I named him Julien.
No one recorded that name. There was no birth certificate. No official record. But I remember it. I remember every detail of his wrinkled little face.
Julien lived for fourteen days.
Not because of bombs.
Not because of bullets.
But because my milk dried up, and there was nothing to replace it.
I wrapped him in the only dry cloth I had and handed him to the older woman. She said she would find a place to bury him.
I never learned where his grave is.
I survived.
After the war, I returned to my village. My home was gone. Luc had been killed in another raid months after my arrest. No one asked where I had been. And I did not tell.
People prefer stories of heroes.
Stories like ours do not fit parades or medals.
I remarried. I had two more children. I lived a quiet, decent life. But every year, in March, I could not sleep. I heard knocking in my dreams. I placed my hand on my stomach out of habit, even though it had been flat for decades.
Now that I am finally speaking, it is not to seek pity.
Nor to reopen hatred.
I speak because silence has lasted long enough.
Because she was pregnant.
And that did not save her.
