jewellery, some family mementos, all packed into a little case on the mantelpiece where everyone could see it.
In the next room, Bernard spent his last but one night under his family’s roof. These final hours of his leave were so painful to his mother that she sometimes thought: ‘I’d really prefer it if he never came home. It would be better for me if he weren’t brought to me only to be taken away again so soon.’ And this time, in addition to her usual suffering there was something else: another source of gnawing, surprising pain. Her boy had indeed become a stranger. She didn’t know who he was any more. She began to wonder if really and truly the end of the war (even if her son came through it alive), if the end of the war would really put a stop to all her worries.
‘He used to be such an easy child,’ sighed Madame Jacquelain.
She combed her thinning grey hair before going to bed. She settled their old cat Moumoute for the night in the basket theycarefully carried down to the basement when the air raid sirens sounded. She washed and lay down next to her husband. He was still awake. She could hear him sighing in the darkness, the muted, painful groans he made when his stomach cramps gave him trouble. She got up to make him some herbal tea with his drops. He drank it slowly; his long, yellowish moustache hung down into the cup; he sucked one end of it, looking pensive.
‘It’s the hot chocolate that’s made you feel ill,’ said Madame Jacquelain.
He gestured that it wasn’t, thought for a moment, then suddenly cried out:
‘It is really unbelievable that this child is extorting five thousand francs from me for a gambling debt, that he tells me in the most insolent manner that he’s made up his mind and won’t be continuing his studies after the war, that he speaks to me without any affection, with no respect …’
‘Papa!’
‘With no respect, I’m telling you! The moment I open my mouth to express my opinion on the course of events – opinions that, my God, are just as valid as his and that I find, moreover, in a slightly different form in my newspaper, written by the best journalists – this … this little brat contradicts me and only just stops himself from ordering me to keep quiet! It really is unbelievable to have to put up with that from my own son and to have to stop myself from slapping him …’
‘Papa, I’m begging you, you’re getting yourself all upset!’
‘… Slapping him; just because he’s twenty-two and is fighting in the war. In everything he says, in everything he does, he implies: “What? If it weren’t for me …? You’d be in a terrible state if it weren’t for me!” Yes, of course he’s doing a fantastic job, it’s war, I forgive him everything, but if he comes back with that sense of insubordination, of self-pride, what will become of us?’
‘It will pass.’
‘No, no, it won’t pass.’
He gloomily shook his head. He seemed to be contemplating some terrifying vision, as if he were watching monstrous, shadowy shapes from the future rising before him; he could only make out a few sketchy features; he described them in his naïve way; the rest remained hidden from him, or only appeared for a split second. He was feeling his way, trying to understand, shrinking back:
‘He’s holding a grudge against us, that’s what it is, he’s holding a grudge against us. He told me that …’
‘What? What did he tell you?’
‘Oh, silly things, jokes, but things that revealed a terrifying state of mind. He dared to say that the soldiers didn’t give a damn about Alsace-Lorraine or getting our land back!’
Madame Jacquelain let out a wounded cry:
‘Papa! He didn’t really say that!’
‘Yes, he did. And that we, the civilians, had gradually got used to the idea of war, that we pretended to be suffering but that we weren’t really, that only they, they knew what true suffering was, and that now, all they ever thought about was one thing
In the next room, Bernard spent his last but one night under his family’s roof. These final hours of his leave were so painful to his mother that she sometimes thought: ‘I’d really prefer it if he never came home. It would be better for me if he weren’t brought to me only to be taken away again so soon.’ And this time, in addition to her usual suffering there was something else: another source of gnawing, surprising pain. Her boy had indeed become a stranger. She didn’t know who he was any more. She began to wonder if really and truly the end of the war (even if her son came through it alive), if the end of the war would really put a stop to all her worries.
‘He used to be such an easy child,’ sighed Madame Jacquelain.
She combed her thinning grey hair before going to bed. She settled their old cat Moumoute for the night in the basket theycarefully carried down to the basement when the air raid sirens sounded. She washed and lay down next to her husband. He was still awake. She could hear him sighing in the darkness, the muted, painful groans he made when his stomach cramps gave him trouble. She got up to make him some herbal tea with his drops. He drank it slowly; his long, yellowish moustache hung down into the cup; he sucked one end of it, looking pensive.
‘It’s the hot chocolate that’s made you feel ill,’ said Madame Jacquelain.
He gestured that it wasn’t, thought for a moment, then suddenly cried out:
‘It is really unbelievable that this child is extorting five thousand francs from me for a gambling debt, that he tells me in the most insolent manner that he’s made up his mind and won’t be continuing his studies after the war, that he speaks to me without any affection, with no respect …’
‘Papa!’
‘With no respect, I’m telling you! The moment I open my mouth to express my opinion on the course of events – opinions that, my God, are just as valid as his and that I find, moreover, in a slightly different form in my newspaper, written by the best journalists – this … this little brat contradicts me and only just stops himself from ordering me to keep quiet! It really is unbelievable to have to put up with that from my own son and to have to stop myself from slapping him …’
‘Papa, I’m begging you, you’re getting yourself all upset!’
‘… Slapping him; just because he’s twenty-two and is fighting in the war. In everything he says, in everything he does, he implies: “What? If it weren’t for me …? You’d be in a terrible state if it weren’t for me!” Yes, of course he’s doing a fantastic job, it’s war, I forgive him everything, but if he comes back with that sense of insubordination, of self-pride, what will become of us?’
‘It will pass.’
‘No, no, it won’t pass.’
He gloomily shook his head. He seemed to be contemplating some terrifying vision, as if he were watching monstrous, shadowy shapes from the future rising before him; he could only make out a few sketchy features; he described them in his naïve way; the rest remained hidden from him, or only appeared for a split second. He was feeling his way, trying to understand, shrinking back:
‘He’s holding a grudge against us, that’s what it is, he’s holding a grudge against us. He told me that …’
‘What? What did he tell you?’
‘Oh, silly things, jokes, but things that revealed a terrifying state of mind. He dared to say that the soldiers didn’t give a damn about Alsace-Lorraine or getting our land back!’
Madame Jacquelain let out a wounded cry:
‘Papa! He didn’t really say that!’
‘Yes, he did. And that we, the civilians, had gradually got used to the idea of war, that we pretended to be suffering but that we weren’t really, that only they, they knew what true suffering was, and that now, all they ever thought about was one thing
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