“It was a beautiful spring day which promised in April 1 44. I was 18 years ago for 6 months. Full of vigor, I participated in field work in the farm operated by my parents Surgeat, common Gabillou, without overlooking the underground struggle waged against the Nazi invaders and their supporters. In our quiet little village, far from any town, the spirit of the people was calm, but there still spoke softly and with great discretion in this struggle, and in particular acts of sabotage carried out in the T errassonnais and its surroundings in a Hercules, who was said to lead a group of guerrillas trained in forest Correze. The hope of liberation from the occupiers grew.

However, around 9 o’clock in the morning, it was no question when we heard like cannon shots to St. Orse. That warning, a signal that things are happening grave nearby. Then quickly the news is coming: What are the Germans! Soldiers excited and strength had engaged in atrocities in Rosas. Jean Bousquet we knew, had been arrested, tortured and shot, and burned his farm. The threat is at our doors and our fears are great, both for our people to our surroundings. And among our neighbors there are some who deserve special attention. This is a German family consisting of husband Welder and an employee in their service. In 1940 they purchased a farm near us, not thinking while they had fled Nazism, could come and disturb this quiet corner of the Perigord. However, in November 1942, when France was fully occupied, the Welder husband did, for safety, move to Switzerland both their son, Ernest and Henry. A relatively quiet year passed but this morning, the danger suddenly appears at their door and anxious, they immediately make us share their fears, apparently trying to find a hiding place. My parents and I are doing our best to reassure them and offer them to lead to a temporary shelter.

So I accompanied them in the woods, away from the village, where there were two dry stone huts that called for “pepper”, ie small Bories. They confided to me while their money and jewelry, all wrapped in a pouch and a sizeable volume. After having settled in these shelters, telling them to wait until our return, I hid the bag without checking its contents, in a well depends on the property, located about 300 meters from our house. Decommissioned and almost filled, covered with branches, it provided a perfect hiding place against any non-informed.

And what would happen happened. Around 15 hours, I was with our team of oxen to plow a field as we near the main road leading from the 67 station at Thenon Brouchaud when armada of soldiers greenish-gray with side-cars, trucks, and other armored vehicles, stormed to a hundred meters from where I am. Within minutes the formation of at least one hundred men is deployed on five or six hundred yards and two soldiers thrust towards me. From a commanding tone they interrupt me to show my “papir” which of course I had on me. He challenged me that makes me understand that he must make a “Kontrolle” at home. And so I’m with “manu militari” a pistol pointed at my back, until our house, a distance of nearly one kilometer from the field where I worked.

Happened to me with this escort disturbing, I showed them my identity card, in perfect order. But whoever looks seem to take a serious doubt. He turns and returns, appeals to that which appears to be his supervisor and I intend to return several times the word “klasse” in their mouth. Mine is indeed that of 45, which puts me off of Appeals for the moment the S. TO, but I did not care that I’m wearing blue trousers horizon of military origin, dating from the last war that can make me suspicious. The lack of tissue that is dressed like they could at the time. Seeming to finally recognize my good faith and speaking to my parents who attended, very worried at the scene, they claim their eggs.
My mother is quick to run into the barn. She found some, adds two or three others and is quick to give him who has requested too happy if that would satisfy him. This is apparently the case and the band left the scene without worry more, but while making clear gestures with the arms, gestures punctuated by exclamations significant “terrorist, ta-ta-ta …” .

I just had to join my team, well trained, who had wisely waited. But during that memorable day I had to be even witness the behavior of those soldiers who terrorize the population. A six hundred meters from our house, at a place called Lefcures, a site overlooking the top of the hill, lived alone Felicie Sarlat, because of her widowhood. Having no doubt, as we heard the explosions to St. Orse and perhaps driven by a dark premonition, she had begun to descend to us to know what was happening. But when she saw the German troops deployed in battle formation on the road, she turned back at a run. A guttural voice ordered him to stop. Since it does not meet the “Halt!” repeated launched by the soldiers and ran harder, I then saw one of them throw themselves flat on the ground, aim and shoot the fugitive. She had happily disappeared behind a thick hedge. Several men then threw themselves to the pursuit and joined.

The details of this “catch” then escape me but the lady was escorted her home. After the soldiers left she told us she had been interrogated without complacency and his house ransacked from cellar to attic. Everything has been diverted, drained, broken. In their quest for clues, the soldiers put his hand on a tin can filled with seeds … raves! This has puzzled a good time. The fineness of the seed made them believe, apparently it, it was powder hunting! But one of the soldiers, most competent, saw what it was and the matter ended there. Ms. Sarlat, despite the terror she felt, however, have felt lucky. It was the same for me because it was enough that the company learns that a family “foreign” lived here and that I had helped out, for my account and that of my family probably be good. Nor had he fortunately no informers in our midst, even though I had seen accompanying spouses Welder in the woods.

As to the latter, they réintégrèrent their house and recovered well from the column Brehmer left the area after the atrocities that we know and waited, not without some anguish, the release of the Dordogne. Many years later I saw Mr. Weld in the Nice region. He had not forgotten the help of solidarity that had been made and we spoke with emotion these dramatic moments.

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