They called it the épuration sauvage—the wild purge—because it was spontaneous and unofficial. But it was savage too. In the weeks and months following the D-Day landings on June 6, 1944, Allied forces and the French Resistance swept across France, liberating towns and villages. The moment was one of collective euphoria, relief, and hope. But soon, the punishments began.
The targets of this purge were among the most vulnerable members of society: women. Accused of “horizontal collaboration”—sleeping with the enemy—they were brutalized by vigilantes who took justice into their own hands. These women were publicly humiliated, their heads shaved, their bodies stripped, tar smeared on their skin. They were paraded through streets, taunted, kicked, beaten, spat on, and sometimes even killed.
One photograph from this period shows a woman standing in a village, two men gripping her wrists as a third holds a strand of her blonde hair, ready to cut it off. The women who were punished were almost always the victims of violence, while the perpetrators were typically men acting without any legal authority or mandate. Though some of these men were genuine members of the Resistance, others had their own ties to collaboration and were eager to cleanse themselves before they too became targets. An estimated 6,000 people lost their lives during the épuration sauvage, but the cruelty of this movement was particularly focused on women accused of consorting with German soldiers.
When I began researching a novel set in France during World War II, I expected to uncover the atrocities committed under Nazi occupation. Instead, I was shocked to learn that for thousands of women, the Liberation meant the beginning of an entirely new nightmare. At least 20,000 women are known to have had their heads shaved during the purge, a number that historian Anthony Beevor suggests may be much higher.
The mistreatment of women in the aftermath of World War II is part of a broader, enduring pattern of sexism and repression that stretches back long before D-Day and continues into today, echoing in the #MeToo movement. A cycle unfolds: a traumatic event occurs, women are blamed, they are savagely attacked, and then their assault is forgotten. Despite the passage of over 70 years, the épuration sauvage—and its brutal treatment of women—has often been overlooked. As I delved deeper into the stories of these women, I found myself haunted by their experiences, driving me to tell their stories. The result is my novel The Lost Vintage, which features a character accused of collaboration.
Some of the women had, indeed, slept with German soldiers. Some were prostitutes. But many were raped. Others were framed for personal revenge or falsely accused. Some had only brief encounters with the enemy, like the case of a wreath maker in Toulouse. One day, while working at her window, a German soldier walked up and struck up a conversation with her. He never entered her home. Yet, after the Liberation, a mob came for her, stripping her, shaving her head, and dragging her through the town while her teenage daughter watched, powerless.
The majority of the women who were punished were single—unmarried, widowed, or married to men who were prisoners of war. For single mothers, sleeping with a German soldier was sometimes the only way to feed their starving children.
This violence against women wasn’t limited to France. Other occupied nations, including Belgium, Italy, the Netherlands, and Norway, witnessed similar acts of retribution, though on a smaller scale. Historians also estimate that hundreds of thousands of women were used as sexual slaves by the Japanese military. In 1993, Japan’s chief cabinet secretary apologized for the “coercive atmosphere” that led to the exploitation of these “comfort women,” but the issue remains contentious. Many of the survivors died as a result of their trauma, while others hid their pain for the rest of their lives.
It is crucial to recognize the stories of these women as part of a larger history of gender inequality. With little means of defense—no courts, no legal protections—the women who were shorn became public scapegoats, targets of a humiliated nation eager to rid itself of the shame of defeat and collaboration.
It is time to ask why these women were made to pay the price for the sins of men. It is time to acknowledge that these women, too, were victims of sexual assault and harassment. We must bring their stories out of the shadows, share them, and strive to break the cycle of violence and injustice that continues today. What happened to them matters.
