British propaganda. This illusion he cherished until Anton, unrecognisable after six years in Dachau, reappeared among us to dispel it. Not indeed by his words, for he never mentioned his experiences, but by the brand-marks on his arms and torso and by certain personality changes which moved to pity and horror his closest friends.
Throughout the war I myself was straightforwardly pro-Germany in a light-hearted sort of way, as one might be pro-Scotland or pro-France at a rugger match. While reading such patriotic English stories as the Biggles books I automatically transposed names in my mind, to make the British the baddies and the Germans the goodies. And this was the extent of my emotional involvement. It is rather disquieting to remember how little the war meant to an Irish family without relatives or friends in Britain. While most of the world suffered, and millions of people died, we complacently pursued our almost-normal lives. At no time were we more than mildly affected by what was known to all but shoneens as ‘the Emergency’. In most Irish minds of the period, our own mini-civil-war of the 1920s, in which some 700 died, remained The War. Eventually cigarettes were rationed, and as my father’s conscience forbade him to use the black market his temper became uncertain towards the end of each month. I can see him now, carefully saving his cigarette ends in a flat, navy-blue Player’s tin and rolling extra rations from them when threatened by nicotine starvation. It concerned me more that new books dwindled in number and became hard on the eyes when one was reading under the blankets by the light of a failingtorch. Tea, sugar, butter and clothes were rationed; bread became virtually inedible and motor cars disappeared – never to be replaced, in our case, since after the war we seemed to be even poorer than before. But most important of all, to me, was the fact that parcels could no longer come from Paris.
This restriction ended an era of acute misery. Before the war my generous French godfather had regularly sent me the current juvenile equivalent of Dior outfits and every Sunday morning I was forced into these detested garments and dragged off to Mass by my father to be exposed to the derision of the entire congregation. Those ordeals were as agonising as anything I have ever experienced. My Parisian ensembles would have been conspicuous anywhere; in Lismore I felt they made me look like a cross between a damn silly doll and a circus clown. On this one issue my mother refused to consider my point of view. Having longed for an elegant daughter to share in her own enjoyment of beautiful clothes, she had produced an uncouth little savage who only felt happy in shorts and shirts. So perhaps her insistence on making a fool of me once a week was a forgivable form of self-indulgence. Also, she may have hoped that one day I would begin to take an interest in the art of dressing, if exposed for long enough to pleasing fabrics and designs. But inevitably her determination to see me looking civilised once a week had the opposite effect. I came to hate even my normal quota of new clothes, until they had been so broken in that I was no longer aware of them – a phobia which persists to this day.
Looking back, it seems odd that my inherent unconventionality did not allow me to accept these Sunday ordeals as distasteful but unimportant . Thirty-five years ago, in an Irish provincial town, shorts were considered immoral on small girls – so in fact my everyday wear was as conspicuous as any of my Parisian excesses. Evidently, then, my aversion to the latter was based on something more than embarrassment at seeming different. Of course I loathed looking ridiculous as I slunk to our accustomed pew near the altar-rails, but I was made equally – if not more – uncomfortable by the element of artificiality introduced into my life by these pretty clothes. They and I did not belong together and though I could not then have
Throughout the war I myself was straightforwardly pro-Germany in a light-hearted sort of way, as one might be pro-Scotland or pro-France at a rugger match. While reading such patriotic English stories as the Biggles books I automatically transposed names in my mind, to make the British the baddies and the Germans the goodies. And this was the extent of my emotional involvement. It is rather disquieting to remember how little the war meant to an Irish family without relatives or friends in Britain. While most of the world suffered, and millions of people died, we complacently pursued our almost-normal lives. At no time were we more than mildly affected by what was known to all but shoneens as ‘the Emergency’. In most Irish minds of the period, our own mini-civil-war of the 1920s, in which some 700 died, remained The War. Eventually cigarettes were rationed, and as my father’s conscience forbade him to use the black market his temper became uncertain towards the end of each month. I can see him now, carefully saving his cigarette ends in a flat, navy-blue Player’s tin and rolling extra rations from them when threatened by nicotine starvation. It concerned me more that new books dwindled in number and became hard on the eyes when one was reading under the blankets by the light of a failingtorch. Tea, sugar, butter and clothes were rationed; bread became virtually inedible and motor cars disappeared – never to be replaced, in our case, since after the war we seemed to be even poorer than before. But most important of all, to me, was the fact that parcels could no longer come from Paris.
This restriction ended an era of acute misery. Before the war my generous French godfather had regularly sent me the current juvenile equivalent of Dior outfits and every Sunday morning I was forced into these detested garments and dragged off to Mass by my father to be exposed to the derision of the entire congregation. Those ordeals were as agonising as anything I have ever experienced. My Parisian ensembles would have been conspicuous anywhere; in Lismore I felt they made me look like a cross between a damn silly doll and a circus clown. On this one issue my mother refused to consider my point of view. Having longed for an elegant daughter to share in her own enjoyment of beautiful clothes, she had produced an uncouth little savage who only felt happy in shorts and shirts. So perhaps her insistence on making a fool of me once a week was a forgivable form of self-indulgence. Also, she may have hoped that one day I would begin to take an interest in the art of dressing, if exposed for long enough to pleasing fabrics and designs. But inevitably her determination to see me looking civilised once a week had the opposite effect. I came to hate even my normal quota of new clothes, until they had been so broken in that I was no longer aware of them – a phobia which persists to this day.
Looking back, it seems odd that my inherent unconventionality did not allow me to accept these Sunday ordeals as distasteful but unimportant . Thirty-five years ago, in an Irish provincial town, shorts were considered immoral on small girls – so in fact my everyday wear was as conspicuous as any of my Parisian excesses. Evidently, then, my aversion to the latter was based on something more than embarrassment at seeming different. Of course I loathed looking ridiculous as I slunk to our accustomed pew near the altar-rails, but I was made equally – if not more – uncomfortable by the element of artificiality introduced into my life by these pretty clothes. They and I did not belong together and though I could not then have
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