Grandmother's house, the victorious army of the new foreigners, which we now call the army of the Liberators.
Tanks, cannons, armored cars, and trucks cross the frontier day and night. The front is moving further and further into the neighboring country.
In the opposite direction comes another procession: the prisoners of war, the conquered. Among them are many men from our own country. They are still wearing their uniforms, but they have been stripped of weapons and rank. They march, heads down, to the station, where they are sent off in trains. Where and for how long, nobody knows.
Grandmother says they are being taken very far away, to a cold, uninhabited country where they will be forced to work so hard that none of them will come back. They will all die of cold, exhaustion, hunger, and all kinds of diseases.
A month after our country has been liberated, the war is over everywhere, and the Liberators move into our country, for good, people say. So we ask Grandmother to teach us their language. She says:
"How can I teach it to you? I'm not a teacher."
We say:
"It's simple, Grandmother. All you have to do is talk to us in that language all day, and in the end we'll understand."
Soon we know enough to act as interpreters between the local inhabitants and the Liberators. We take advantage of the fact to trade in articles that the army has plenty of, like cigarettes, tobacco, and chocolate, which we exchange for what the civilians have: wine, brandy, and fruit.
Money has no value anymore; everyone barters.
Girls sleep with soldiers in exchange for silk stockings, jewelry, perfume, watches, and other articles that the soldiers have stolen in the towns along their way.
Grandmother doesn't go to market with her wheelbarrow anymore. Instead well-dressed ladies come to Grandmother's and beg her to trade a chicken or a sausage for a ring or a pair of earrings.
Ration coupons are distributed. People start lining up in front of the butcher's and baker's as early as four in the morning. The other shops stay closed because they have nothing to sell.
Everybody is short of everything.
As for Grandmother and us, we have everything we need.
Later, we have our own army and government again, but our army and our government are controlled by our Liberators. Their flag flies over all the public buildings. Their leader's picture is displayed everywhere. They teach us their songs and their dances, they show us their films in our cinemas. In the schools, the language of our Liberators is compulsory, other foreign languages are forbidden.
It is strictly forbidden to criticize or make jokes about our Liberators or our new government. On the strength of a mere denunciation, anyone at all can be thrown into prison without trial, without sentence. Men and women disappear without anyone knowing why, and their families will never hear from them again.
The frontier has been rebuilt. It is now impassable.
Our country is surrounded by barbed wire; we are completely cut off from the rest of the world.
School Reopens
In the autumn, all the children go back to school, except
us.
We say to Grandmother:
"Grandmother, we never want to go to school again." She says:
"I should hope not. I need you here. And what more could you learn at school anyway?"
"Nothing, Grandmother, absolutely nothing." Soon we receive a letter. Grandmother asks: "What does it say?"
"It says that you are responsible for us and that we must report to the school." Grandmother says:
"Burn the letter. I can't read, and you can't either. No one ever read that letter."
We burn the letter. Soon we get a second. It says that if we don't go to school, Grandmother will be punished by law. We burn that letter too. We say to Grandmother:
"Grandmother, don't forget that one of us is blind and the other deaf."
A few days later, a man turns up at our house. He says:
"I am the inspector of primary schools. You have in your house two children of compulsory school age.
Tanks, cannons, armored cars, and trucks cross the frontier day and night. The front is moving further and further into the neighboring country.
In the opposite direction comes another procession: the prisoners of war, the conquered. Among them are many men from our own country. They are still wearing their uniforms, but they have been stripped of weapons and rank. They march, heads down, to the station, where they are sent off in trains. Where and for how long, nobody knows.
Grandmother says they are being taken very far away, to a cold, uninhabited country where they will be forced to work so hard that none of them will come back. They will all die of cold, exhaustion, hunger, and all kinds of diseases.
A month after our country has been liberated, the war is over everywhere, and the Liberators move into our country, for good, people say. So we ask Grandmother to teach us their language. She says:
"How can I teach it to you? I'm not a teacher."
We say:
"It's simple, Grandmother. All you have to do is talk to us in that language all day, and in the end we'll understand."
Soon we know enough to act as interpreters between the local inhabitants and the Liberators. We take advantage of the fact to trade in articles that the army has plenty of, like cigarettes, tobacco, and chocolate, which we exchange for what the civilians have: wine, brandy, and fruit.
Money has no value anymore; everyone barters.
Girls sleep with soldiers in exchange for silk stockings, jewelry, perfume, watches, and other articles that the soldiers have stolen in the towns along their way.
Grandmother doesn't go to market with her wheelbarrow anymore. Instead well-dressed ladies come to Grandmother's and beg her to trade a chicken or a sausage for a ring or a pair of earrings.
Ration coupons are distributed. People start lining up in front of the butcher's and baker's as early as four in the morning. The other shops stay closed because they have nothing to sell.
Everybody is short of everything.
As for Grandmother and us, we have everything we need.
Later, we have our own army and government again, but our army and our government are controlled by our Liberators. Their flag flies over all the public buildings. Their leader's picture is displayed everywhere. They teach us their songs and their dances, they show us their films in our cinemas. In the schools, the language of our Liberators is compulsory, other foreign languages are forbidden.
It is strictly forbidden to criticize or make jokes about our Liberators or our new government. On the strength of a mere denunciation, anyone at all can be thrown into prison without trial, without sentence. Men and women disappear without anyone knowing why, and their families will never hear from them again.
The frontier has been rebuilt. It is now impassable.
Our country is surrounded by barbed wire; we are completely cut off from the rest of the world.
School Reopens
In the autumn, all the children go back to school, except
us.
We say to Grandmother:
"Grandmother, we never want to go to school again." She says:
"I should hope not. I need you here. And what more could you learn at school anyway?"
"Nothing, Grandmother, absolutely nothing." Soon we receive a letter. Grandmother asks: "What does it say?"
"It says that you are responsible for us and that we must report to the school." Grandmother says:
"Burn the letter. I can't read, and you can't either. No one ever read that letter."
We burn the letter. Soon we get a second. It says that if we don't go to school, Grandmother will be punished by law. We burn that letter too. We say to Grandmother:
"Grandmother, don't forget that one of us is blind and the other deaf."
A few days later, a man turns up at our house. He says:
"I am the inspector of primary schools. You have in your house two children of compulsory school age.
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