reason?
There was a long pause, so I looked. Father Rochet had his face in
his hands. I never heard the reply.
23rd April.
The Germans took
Paris in June 1940. I’m afraid from mow on my memory is all in pieces, some
large, some small. Many of the simple day-to-day details have been blotted out,
and not the things I’d rather forget. It has always been a curse of mine.
I have disconnected pictures in my head.
I am standing near the Gare Montparnasse. I don’t know what I’m
doing there. Thousands are queuing for the trains, desperate to get out. Gaunt,
hot faces. Hordes of people burdened with everything of value they can carry,
and children running wild. For months afterwards there were notices in the
shops from mothers listing the names of their lost boys and girls, just like
those ‘Have you seen … ?’ things in the newsagent describing missing pets. Name,
age, colour of hair and so on.
Next I am standing at the gates of a park. This must be later on. It
is deadly quiet. A pall of black smoke hangs over the city. An old gardener
tells me, ‘That’s our boys. They’ve set fire to the oil reserves. We’re on our
own now.’ The streets are empty. I remember thinking the buildings are like a
wall of scenery, where maybe there is nothing behind the façades but planks of
wood and trestles, holding up a front. Paris is hollow and if you knocked upon
its dome with a hammer you’d only hear an echo. There are two dogs trotting
down the Rue de ha Bienfaisance, sniffing at the closed doors.
I don’t remember the moment they came. But I can see those wretched
flags everywhere, on almost every building. I am standing on the Champs-Elysées
watching a parade. They did that every day with a full military band. At some
point they even landed a plane on the Place de la Concorde. They were great ones
for letting you know they were there, the Germans. Hitler turned up at some
point but I have no recollection of it whatsoever, which is gratifying.
At first they were extremely polite, which surprised everyone. And
that’s not all. I remember seeing a truck by one of the bridges, with soldiers
leaning out of the back charming the girls with jokes and chocolate. With some
success, I might add. I think it was Simone de Beauvoir who said now that they
were here there were going to be lots of little Germans running around.
What else? A curfew, the hours sometimes changing. Shots in the
night. Queuing endlessly for food. Everyone awfully hungry. Bicycles
everywhere, because special permits were required to drive (Jacques’ father got
one because he was a doctor). People heaving cases along the pavement or using
a wheelbarrow That was daily life under the Germans.
I know it doesn’t sound so bad to you, seeing the war as you must
from its outcome. But for those of us who were there, the fall of Paris, the
fall of France, was devastating. From the moment they came and soiled our
streets the mourning began. I cannot tell you how dark those times seem to me.
And all around the Germans were on holiday That’s another memory I have. I can
see lots of young soldiers larking about, taking photographs of each other in
front of the Arc de Triomphe. Some of them have an army-issue guidebook.
I think it is the frailty of time that brings people together. When
you don’t know if you will even see the year out, and you’ve lost a great deal,
you seize what happiness comes by In those days, we all held on to each other
in different ways. For Jacques and me there was a strange, satisfying
desperation about our coming together, as if we were one step ahead of
misfortune. One evening Madame Klein, trying to winkle an admission out of me,
said, ‘I expect you see rather a lot of young Fougères?’ I said I did. She
said, ‘I suspect he rather likes you.’ And I told her to stop it. She was a
terrible schemer, that woman.
But then we both got a big surprise, way beyond her suspicions and
my expectations. I became
There was a long pause, so I looked. Father Rochet had his face in
his hands. I never heard the reply.
23rd April.
The Germans took
Paris in June 1940. I’m afraid from mow on my memory is all in pieces, some
large, some small. Many of the simple day-to-day details have been blotted out,
and not the things I’d rather forget. It has always been a curse of mine.
I have disconnected pictures in my head.
I am standing near the Gare Montparnasse. I don’t know what I’m
doing there. Thousands are queuing for the trains, desperate to get out. Gaunt,
hot faces. Hordes of people burdened with everything of value they can carry,
and children running wild. For months afterwards there were notices in the
shops from mothers listing the names of their lost boys and girls, just like
those ‘Have you seen … ?’ things in the newsagent describing missing pets. Name,
age, colour of hair and so on.
Next I am standing at the gates of a park. This must be later on. It
is deadly quiet. A pall of black smoke hangs over the city. An old gardener
tells me, ‘That’s our boys. They’ve set fire to the oil reserves. We’re on our
own now.’ The streets are empty. I remember thinking the buildings are like a
wall of scenery, where maybe there is nothing behind the façades but planks of
wood and trestles, holding up a front. Paris is hollow and if you knocked upon
its dome with a hammer you’d only hear an echo. There are two dogs trotting
down the Rue de ha Bienfaisance, sniffing at the closed doors.
I don’t remember the moment they came. But I can see those wretched
flags everywhere, on almost every building. I am standing on the Champs-Elysées
watching a parade. They did that every day with a full military band. At some
point they even landed a plane on the Place de la Concorde. They were great ones
for letting you know they were there, the Germans. Hitler turned up at some
point but I have no recollection of it whatsoever, which is gratifying.
At first they were extremely polite, which surprised everyone. And
that’s not all. I remember seeing a truck by one of the bridges, with soldiers
leaning out of the back charming the girls with jokes and chocolate. With some
success, I might add. I think it was Simone de Beauvoir who said now that they
were here there were going to be lots of little Germans running around.
What else? A curfew, the hours sometimes changing. Shots in the
night. Queuing endlessly for food. Everyone awfully hungry. Bicycles
everywhere, because special permits were required to drive (Jacques’ father got
one because he was a doctor). People heaving cases along the pavement or using
a wheelbarrow That was daily life under the Germans.
I know it doesn’t sound so bad to you, seeing the war as you must
from its outcome. But for those of us who were there, the fall of Paris, the
fall of France, was devastating. From the moment they came and soiled our
streets the mourning began. I cannot tell you how dark those times seem to me.
And all around the Germans were on holiday That’s another memory I have. I can
see lots of young soldiers larking about, taking photographs of each other in
front of the Arc de Triomphe. Some of them have an army-issue guidebook.
I think it is the frailty of time that brings people together. When
you don’t know if you will even see the year out, and you’ve lost a great deal,
you seize what happiness comes by In those days, we all held on to each other
in different ways. For Jacques and me there was a strange, satisfying
desperation about our coming together, as if we were one step ahead of
misfortune. One evening Madame Klein, trying to winkle an admission out of me,
said, ‘I expect you see rather a lot of young Fougères?’ I said I did. She
said, ‘I suspect he rather likes you.’ And I told her to stop it. She was a
terrible schemer, that woman.
But then we both got a big surprise, way beyond her suspicions and
my expectations. I became
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