The Secret Corridor

There was a corridor in the basement of the former Lille textile factory which did not appear in any official German document during the occupation. The soldiers of the Wehrmacht knew where it was located but never mentioned its location in reports or correspondence. It was a secret whispered between guard tours, transmitted only in low voices between the officers who had a need to know, and recorded in personal notebooks which would be burned before the German withdrawal in 1944.

The corridor led to a reinforced steel door painted industrial gray without external identification. Just a number scribbled in white chalk that someone tried to delete several times but which always reappeared: 47. The reality inside was so brutal that many women who entered prayed to die before dawn, because death seemed more merciful than surviving another night in this place.

The Arrest of Marguerite de l’Orme

Marguerite de l’Orme was 24 years old when she first came down those wet concrete steps on an icy dawn in March 1943. She was a volunteer nurse for the Red Cross, the daughter of a respected pharmacist in Roubaix, and had passed the last 18 months treating civilians injured in improvised hospitals in the region.

Marguerite was not a member of the Resistance; she did not carry weapons, did not know how to make bombs, or sabotage railroad tracks. Her only crime, if one could call it that, had been to treat an injured young man who was bleeding on the sidewalk in front of the municipal market, without asking which side of the war he found himself on. The boy was a messenger for the Resistance.

Three days later, the Gestapo knocked on the door of the De l’Orme family home at 4:30 in the morning with that methodical violence which had no need for a cry to terrorize. Just the sound of boots climbing the wooden stairs and lantern light cutting through the darkness of the rooms. Marguerite was taken without the right to say farewell, without time to take a coat or put on appropriate shoes. They put her in the back of a military truck covered with a tarpaulin with six other women she had never seen before. All wore the same look of annoyance mixed with fear—those who did not yet understand what was happening to them, but already sensed that something terrible awaited at the end of this journey.

The Factory Basement

The journey took less than 20 minutes but seemed like an eternity. Every bump on the road knocked bodies against cold metal walls; each sudden braking tore muffled sighs from the women who tried to hold back where they could. When the truck finally stopped and the tarpaulin was pulled up, Marguerite saw for the first time the dilapidated façade of the old Roussel & Fils textile factory, a red brick building blackened by soot and the acid rain of the war years, with broken windows that looked like empty eyes watching the arrival of new victims.

The factory had been decommissioned in 1940, just after the German occupation began, when the owner had fled to England, taking with him the plans of the machines and leaving behind only rusty iron structures and empty halls where more than 200 workers once toiled. But the Germans had found a utility for this forgotten space. They had transformed the ground floor into a supply storage room, the first floor into temporary accommodation for passing troops, and the basement—this damp, cold basement which once sheltered boilers and industrial dye vats—into something that would never be mentioned in official occupancy records.

There, in this labyrinth of narrow corridors lit by dim bulbs which flashed constantly, they had created a space where the rules of war did not apply, where the Geneva Convention was only a distant memory, and where French women disappeared for days, weeks, or forever.

The Smell of Room 47

Marguerite smelled the odor even before going down the stairs. It was a nauseating mixture of mold, cheap disinfectants, accumulated sweat, and something metallic that she recognized immediately as dried blood—that specific smell that sticks to walls and floors when there is no adequate ventilation or real cleaning effort.

A German soldier in a stained uniform pushed her in the back, making her trip on the first step. She had to hold on to the rusty railing so as not to fall face-down on the concrete. Behind her, the other women went down in silence, just the sound of footsteps echoing in this tunnel. Marguerite realized that none of them were crying. None begged, because everyone had already understood that down here, supplications had no value.

When they arrived at the main corridor of the basement, Marguerite saw the doors for the first time. There were seven in total, distributed irregularly along a passage which extended approximately 40 meters. Each was made of heavy metal with small barred windows at eye level and reinforced locks on the exterior. Some were open, revealing tiny cells with iron bunks and improvised buckets for toilets. Others remained locked, but from inside came muffled sounds—moans, murmurs, and incomplete French prayers.

And then Marguerite saw the back door, the last one in the corridor. It stood out from all others, not by its size or color, but by the absolute silence that emanated from its interior and by the number scribbled in white chalk: 47.

(Note: If you are listening to this story now, it may be difficult to imagine that places like this really existed, hidden in the forgotten corners of occupied Europe. But Room 47 was real. Stories like these must be told, even if it hurts to hear them, because forgetting is the second death of those who suffered.)

The Selection

A middle-aged German officer with metal-framed glasses and a clipboard under his arm emerged from a side room and walked calmly to the group of prisoners. He did not shout, did not threaten; he simply observed each of them with the professional coldness of one who evaluates livestock or laboratory equipment. Marguerite felt his gaze wander over her face, down her neck, assessing her physical structure. Then he made an annotation on the board with a fountain pen too expensive to be in the hands of someone working in a filthy basement.

The officer designated three women, including Marguerite, and said something in German to the guards. Marguerite was not fluent in German, but recognized a word that would be repeated many times in the following days: Versuche (Experiments).

The three selected women were separated from the group and taken to a small room to the left of Room 47. There was a metal table, medical instruments arranged with surgical precision on an enameled tray, and a strong chemical smell that watered the eyes. Marguerite, who was a nurse and knew the medical environment well, realized immediately that this was not a common care station. There was no first aid equipment, no adhesive tape, no clean bandages—none of the basic care given to patients. instead, there were glass syringes lined up, flasks with strange liquids, labels handwritten in German with terminology she didn’t completely understand, and a notebook open to a page full of numbers and tables.

The Experiment

A military doctor, wearing a white coat stained with something that looked like iodine, entered the room without greeting anyone. He simply washed his hands in a dirty sink and started to prepare an injection. It was at this moment that Marguerite understood she was not there to be questioned about the Resistance. She was not there to sign confessions or denounce companions she didn’t even know. She was there because her young, healthy body was useful in another way: as a human guinea pig for testing that no civilized government would allow. As disposable material for medical research that would later be buried with the evidence and corpses.

The doctor approached her with the syringe. Marguerite tried to step back, but two soldiers grabbed her by the arms with brutal force, immobilizing her completely. She felt the needle penetrate the skin of her forearm, felt the cold liquid enter her vein, then a wave of vertigo which made her stagger. Her legs became sedated, her vision blurred. The last thing she saw before fainting was the doctor noting something in the notebook with the same indifference as one recording the temperature of a chemical solution.

Simone and the Reality of the Basement

Marguerite woke up on a narrow iron bunk, covered only with a thin blanket which smelled of mold and the sweat of other people. Her head throbbed with a dull pain which spread from the nape of her neck to her eyes, and her mouth was so dry that her tongue seemed stuck to her palate. She tried to get up, but her body did not respond correctly; her muscles were weak and trembling, as if she had gone days without eating.

“Don’t try to get up quickly. What he injects into us leaves the body limp for hours. Wait until you can feel your toes again.”

Marguerite looked at the woman who spoke. She was older, perhaps in her forties, with graying hair tied in a loose bun. Marguerite saw recent bite marks on the woman’s arms—small purple spots that almost formed a line along the vein.

“How long have I been unconscious?” asked Marguerite, her voice hoarse and weak.

The woman smiled sadly. “I don’t know. Down here, we lose the concept of time. It may have been a few hours. It may have been a whole day. They don’t let us see natural light, and guard tours change without a pattern. Everything is done to disorient you.”

The woman introduced herself as Simone Archambault, a literature professor from Toulouse, arrested three weeks earlier for hiding books banned by the Germans in the library of the school where she taught. Simone explained with the resigned calm of someone who has already gone through all stages of despair that the basement was used mainly for two objectives: medical experiments and violent interrogations.

According to her, the German doctors tested experimental vaccines against typhus and dysentery—diseases that ravaged the troops on the Eastern Front—and used the French prisoners as guinea pigs because they considered their lives disposable. “He injects us with things and then observes the reactions. He notes everything: fever, vomiting, convulsions. Some women become delirious for days. Others don’t seem to feel anything. So they increase the dose and start again.”

Marguerite felt a chill travel down her spine. But then she asked about the silent door at the end of the corridor. “And Room 47?”

Simone looked away, and for the first time, Marguerite saw authentic fear in her eyes. “Room 47 is different. These are not only medical experiments. It’s there they take the women who resist or are considered ‘problematic.’ What goes on in there, no one really talks about. Those who return do not want to remember, and many do not return.”

The Routine of Cruelty

The following days became a brutal and dehumanizing routine. Marguerite was woken at irregular hours—sometimes at what seemed to be dawn, sometimes in the middle of the night. Always in the same way: two soldiers opened the cell, read names, and the designated women were led to the procedure rooms.

Marguerite received at least seven different injections during the first two weeks, each causing variable side effects: intense fevers, uncontrollable shaking, violent vomiting. But there were methods even more cruel. She learned from other prisoners that some doctors tested forced sterilization techniques, injecting chemicals directly into the uterus of young women.

She heard horrors about other prisoners:

Colette, a girl of only ten years old, underwent a procedure that made her scream for three days before being carried away on a stretcher.

Geneviève Laurent, a 29-year-old piano teacher from Arras, was used to test experimental stimulants for soldiers. She went days without sleep until her heart went into fatal arrhythmia.

Thérèse Bonet, a midwife, was subjected to hypothermia experiments.

Isabelle Rousseau, a young textile worker, was deliberately infected with typhus.

Hélène Moreau, a seamstress, was injected with “Compound B7” until she went blind and died of starvation.

Marguerite, thanks to her training, tried to help. She cleaned wounds, calmed fevers with dirty water, and tried to prevent infections, but helplessness ate away at her.

Inside Room 47

Then came the call for the room. Marguerite was taken there one night in April. An officer she had never seen before appeared and pointed at her. Inside Room 47, there were no medical instruments. Just a heavy wooden table with leather straps, bloodstains on the floor, and three German soldiers with predatory eyes.

What happened in the hours following inside Room 47 was something Marguerite could never fully describe. Even decades later, she only remembered fragments: being forced to undress, the leather straps tightening until they cut off circulation, screaming until her voice gave out, and realizing that no one would come to help because screams were just background noise down here. It was the deep humiliation of having her body used as a disposable object.

When she was thrown back into the cell, she could no longer walk. Simone helped her clean the blood from her legs. Marguerite spent three days unable to eat, her body aching as if she had been beaten.

The Death of Véronique and the Escape Plan

In June 1943, new prisoners arrived from Roubaix. Among them was Véronique Petit, the 16-year-old daughter of a baker Marguerite knew. seeing Véronique there, terrified, woke a protective fury in Marguerite. However, there was little she could do. Véronique was selected for experiments immediately. Over the weeks, she returned weaker and weaker, until one morning she simply did not wake up.

Véronique’s death broke something inside Marguerite. She realized that passive survival was a death sentence. She began to observe the guards’ patterns. She shared her observations with Simone, and together they developed a suicidal plan: Escape.

They waited for a night when an Allied bombing hit a railway station in Lille (L’île), drawing away half the garrison. Simone staged a seizure to distract the remaining guard. When he entered, other prisoners attacked him with a metal pipe. Marguerite took his keys. Fourteen women made it into the corridor. They crept up the stairs, hearts pounding.

They reached the supply depot and were meters from a side door when a German officer emerged from a restroom. He shouted the alarm. Soldiers appeared instantly. Some women were beaten down; others surrendered. Marguerite looked at the door, but seeing Simone being beaten, she could not abandon her.

The Punishment

This time, they were not returned to their cells. All 14 women were locked in Room 47.

It was collective punishment. Twenty square meters, no water, no food, no toilet, no ventilation. The summer heat turned the room into a human oven. Panic set in. Oxygen ran low. By the second night, hallucinations began. By the third day, an older woman died; the others had to live with the decomposing corpse and the stench of human waste.

Marguerite and Simone held hands, two women on the verge of death. By the fifth day, when the door finally opened, three women were dead, nine were critically weak, and only Marguerite and Simone could stand, though barely.

Liberation

In the days that followed, the atmosphere changed. The guards were nervous. Rumors of the Allied advance spread. In August 1944, on a dull, foggy morning, the doors opened abruptly. An officer shouted, “Go away, disappear!”

Instead of execution, they were pushed toward the exit. The Germans were fleeing and discarding their prisoners. Marguerite and the survivors stumbled out into the blinding sunlight of Lille. They were free, but broken.

Marguerite staggered through the streets, skeletal, bald, and covered in sores. It took her three days to reach a relative’s house. When she finally returned to her parents in Roubaix, her mother froze, unable to recognize the broken shadow on her doorstep.

The Aftermath and the Legacy

Marguerite tried to resume a normal life but was haunted by panic attacks and nightmares of Room 47. She never married or had children, her body and spirit too damaged by the experiments. But she did one thing to ensure history would not be erased: she wrote.

She filled notebooks with everything she remembered—names, dates, descriptions of the doctors. Simone Archambault did the same in Marseille. They corresponded for years, compiling the most complete document of the atrocities. However, post-war France wanted to move on, so Marguerite buried her journals in a metal box under an apple tree, instructing that it be opened only after her death.

Marguerite died in her sleep in 1998 at the age of 79. Her niece found the box. The documents were authenticated by historians and confirmed by an elderly Simone.

In 2001, the story of Room 47 was finally made public. Of the 28 women identified in the testimonies, only six survived the war. The factory was demolished in 2003, but a commemorative plaque now stands on the site.

Room 47 existed. The women who suffered there existed. Their story reminds us that human dignity is fragile and that the courage to bear witness is sometimes the only possible act of resistance.