Revolution Baby (22 page)

I also spent Easter vacation at Lena's. One evening, looking very distraught, she told me that Saint-Maur-des-Fossés had been bombed! I immediately wondered whether the school had been hit and whether we'd have a long vacation. Imagine, what a thing to think . . . Naturally I soon realized that there might be people I knew among the wounded or the dead . . . but nearly all the students had left town for the vacation, and the teachers . . . Of course I'd be sad if any of the teachers had been killed . . . But if the school had been hit during the bombing raid and we had a nice long break, that wouldn't be bad at all!

Except there are the things you imagine and there's reality. The school wasn't even remotely hit, and we went back to class on Tuesday morning as if nothing had happened. In the days that followed, we heard on the BBC that the bombing in Saint-Maur was an error which the Allies “sorely regretted” . . . As the town is on a bend of the Marne, they mistook it for Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, which is on a bend of the Seine, and where there is a major rail network.

 

One of my new friends in Saint-Maur was the Parakeet. We couldn't figure out whether he was super smart or slightly touched in the head. My theory was that he was always ready to play the idiot to make others laugh, but that he was actually quite a bit smarter than most of the students. But sometimes, I swear, he really got into it, his role as an idiot. Most of the boys really liked him because he made them laugh. At school he could be the best and sometimes the worst of dunces. And even then it was hard to come to a consensus about what it was that made him go from top to bottom of the class.

One day the Parakeet and I were trying to solve a particularly thorny math problem (he really was the best at math); he stopped working all of a sudden, raised his eyes to the heavens and said, “Do you realize, Roger, this is “April 4th, April 4th, 1944”. The fourth day of the fourth month, in the year 1944. We have to celebrate!”

We decided to leave our homework and do something really special. The only thing we could think of was to go and jump in the river, but the water was still icy. “We have to stay four minutes in the water, naturally!” shouted the Parakeet. Four minutes in the water on April 4th, it's not all that easy. But my companion felt that we had no choice if we wanted our gesture to have any significance at all. So we started counting, both of us, screaming louder and louder to give ourselves courage, up to 240. When we came out of the water we were all wound up. We rolled in the grass like animals to dry off, and then we put on our clothes as quick as we could, over our bodies covered in grass and sand. Then we jumped up and down to get warm, before collapsing exhausted on the ground.

“What a great idea that was! Can you imagine, Roger, we might not have thought of it, we might not have realized the date, or come up with such a good idea for a celebration.”

“Yeah, that would've been a waste.”

“A real waste, pal, a real wasteful waste wasted wastefully!”

We watched silently as the sun set.

“It would have been even better to go into the water just as the sun was disappearing below the horizon,” said the Parakeet.

“Nothing is perfect. But you know what? We should do something special again together on May 5th, 1955.”

“Yeah . . . but what? We may not even be in touch anymore . . . ”

“Well, we can plan to meet all the same. We can decide on a place, a date . . . But we know that already, duh. And this time, we can make it at sunset.”

I could tell that in his head the Parakeet was thinking as fast as I was, trying to find THE good idea.

“I know!” said my friend with a shout. “The Eiffel Tower! On top of the Eiffel Tower, May 5th, 1955, at sunset. In eleven years, one month, and one day.”

Nothing wrong with that. It was perfect. We looked at each other: our pact was sealed.

 

I didn't go to the meeting. On May 5th, 1955, I was in Moscow, a student at the University, and it wouldn't have been possible to ask for permission to go on such a “futile” trip to France. I never found out whether the Parakeet had gone up the Eiffel Tower or not. But if I had been in Paris that day, I would have shown up, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

 

June 7, 1944. First class that morning: French. Monsieur Noiret was already seated when we came in, which was not like him. He looked at us with a smile, then adopted a solemn expression.

“I can see, from your excitement, that you are already aware of the events that occurred during the night. I think it would be a good idea to devote some of the class to discussing them together.”

We were all for it. As a rule, the adults preferred to tell us as little as possible, under the pretext that war wasn't good for children. But Monsieur Noiret knew that we weren't children anymore. And that we weren't quite adults, either.

“Right. The things that are happening at the moment are so important that they eclipse what you're learning at school—even literature, up to a point. For the time being, anyway . . . The Americans and their allies have finally decided to get seriously involved in the war. Something we've all been expecting for a long time. I think that this is a historical moment, that in a way this represents the beginning of the end for the Germans. I'm telling you this, something you already know, to emphasize the fact that there are soldiers from a number of different countries who, with their tanks and their weapons, landed in Normandy during the night. What is my point? It is that I was once your age, even though that might be difficult for you to imagine. And I know what idealism is, the desire to do something important, something heroic for one's country, that can fill the souls of young people like you. So to conclude . . . ”

He broke off and looked around the classroom, pausing at length to stare at certain faces.

“To conclude, I want you to know that I believe we will be liberated soon. But also that anything you might do or not do will not change by one minute or one second the moment when that liberation comes. So I implore you, don't do anything stupid! Concentrate on your studies, and let the grown-ups get on with the war.”

And he looked at us with his big gray eyes. I felt my cheeks burning . . . and my ears too. I lowered my head somewhat. Because he had not missed the mark, Monsieur Noiret, on the contrary. And I think I was not the only boy who knew he was on the money. I saw other lowered heads in front of me. It was true that I had given it some thought, and that we had spoken about it together, at night during the bombing, sitting up on the roof of our boarding house. That we had dreamed about it . . . I had even come up with a fairly precise plan. All I had to do was find a German officer and go up behind him without him noticing, grab his weapon, kill him, and then go off hunting for more German soldiers. It seemed normal to want to be a part of the liberation of France, to do my bit.

I wonder how many lives Monsieur Noiret saved that day.

Summer had arrived, vacation time, and I was delighted to go back to Paris where I hoped to be when the city was liberated. I had grasped Monsieur Noiret's point, and I had no intention of getting involved in anything, but I would have a front row seat for the show. Or at least, that's what I wanted.

No sooner did I reach my mother's place than she informed me that I would be going back to spend the summer with the Brisson family in Champagne. This was too much, she was going too far. It seemed to me that someday she would have to start taking my opinion into account regarding decisions that concerned me. But Lena was adamant.

“You are going, everything has been arranged.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You won't refuse. This is not a suggestion, it's an order. You are going.”

The argument went on late into the night. Two days later I was on the train to Épernay. Then another train as far as Mézy-Moulins. Where Albert was waiting for me with his horse and cart.

Back with the Brissons, I picked up my old habits from the previous summer. I saw Suzanne again, and she gave me some smiles that at least looked encouraging. But when I suggested going to the cinema, she gave me a funny look and told me she couldn't. Then she stood there before me, looking at me with her eyes wide open. So I ventured, “Well, maybe some other time?”, less because I believed it than to fill the silence. She shrugged and walked away without answering. I had to resign myself that as far as this vacation was concerned, there would be no languorous kisses in the movie theater. Nor would it be Suzanne who helped me understand something about women.

 

Albert decided that I was big enough now to go with him to visit the villagers who wanted their pigs transformed into ham. Under the Occupation it was illegal to slaughter, sell, or eat one's own pigs, because they were meant for the German occupier. But who was about to go and inform on Albert or the people who hired him? As I had some experience in slaughtering rabbits, I was neither too impressed nor disgusted by all the blood. It was just the animal's cries as its throat was being cut that upset me. What I liked best of all were the delicious cutlets we brought home, which Yvonne made into a veritable feast.

Down at the bottom of the village some Germans were posted to keep watch over the locks. The war had been going on long enough for their French to be rather good. I made friends with a certain Dieter, and played dice with him (our local Germans made excellent partners for games, because in general they had nothing to do). He also taught me how to go fishing with hand grenades—there were a great many fish in the river, so when I got the feeling I hadn't done a bloody thing all day, I would ask Dieter to go fishing with me and I took a few fish home to the Brissons. Dieter also became my swimming instructor.

I was in the middle of a meal, sitting in the Brissons' dining room, when I heard on the radio that there was an uprising in Paris. The police, sensing that the liberation was imminent, had begun firing on the Germans. People from the opposition, both communists and Gaullists, had joined in. Germans were being killed and arrested. Paris was seeing to its own liberation. We spent the day and part of the night listening to the news on the BBC.

Champagne was still occupied. But given the increasingly palpable tension that reigned, we could see that it was only a question of time. The German soldiers were leaving their cabins less and less frequently, which deprived me of my games of dice and fishing expeditions with Dieter.

One night I woke up with a start. There was shouting, banging, the sound of footsteps. I could hear cries of “
Schnell, schnell,
” and other orders I couldn't understand. I rushed over to the window to look out. German soldiers seemed to be arriving from every side all at the same time, requisitioning everything in their path that might be useful: horses, bicycles, even donkeys. They went on shouting, pouring through the village all night long, then they disappeared shortly before dawn.

In the morning it was dead silent in Mont-Saint-Père. It was as if a hurricane had blown through there. The soldiers hadn't hurt anyone, all they'd wanted was to find vehicles or animals so they could get out of there. Albert looked around glumly then turned to Yvonne and said, “I'll bet that's the last time any German soldiers go through here.” And he was right.

 

A few days later we could hear the American tanks just on the other side of the Marne. I wondered if they were going to forget us, because even though they were right nearby there was no indication they would be coming our way.

At around noon, the forest at the top of the hill seemed to come alive. We saw people coming out of the woods from all sides, again and again. Among them there were some people I recognized, whom I had seen the previous summer but hadn't seen again since coming back to Champagne. So they'd been hiding in the woods, with the partisans! The group headed toward the locks, toward the Germans' hut. They were all armed with rifles. It was war, of course, but still, I wished they could have spared those Germans we used to talk to, the ones I went fishing with, and who had never hurt anyone around here. I got the impression that behind me the entire village was waiting, transfixed.

Suddenly the Germans came out of their hut, with their hands in the air, shouting, “
Hitler, kaput!
” And all hell broke loose. Some of the partisans slowed their pace when they heard this anti-Hitler cry, others, on the contrary, got all excited, as if it were an affront. They kept walking, even more determined. The leader of the group went up to one of the Germans. He began by kicking him, a first time, and then again. The German didn't budge. A woman behind me called out, “Don't kill them!” And another added, “Don't hurt them!” The young partisan hesitated. Other voices were raised, all begging for mercy. The boy gave a last kick, harder than the previous ones, then he walked away, disgusted. Then the partisans made the Germans go up into the village. When they reached the main street, I went up to Dieter. It made me feel bad to see him there, so close to me, humiliated, with his hands on his head. He gave me a big smile. To which I replied with a timid one.

“You know why we still here?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Because we not stupid. We are intelligent.” And he laughed a bit before he went on, “One day we must receive call by the telephone. One day, is sure. Telephone to say go to front, go find German army and continue war. And our sergeant, is sure, when order comes, he obey. So in secret we cut telephone wire . . . and Sergeant waits call. And waits. And waits. But never the telephone rings.”

And there he gave a hearty laugh. Like a pupil who has played a nasty trick on his teacher.

I was still standing next to Dieter, laughing with him, when I heard a rumbling sound in the distance. Getting louder. With the other boys, I ran to the top of the hill. And we could see a dozen American tanks heading toward the village. We came back down, screaming, “The Americans are coming! The Americans are here!” We were euphoric. All the anxiety and tension we had felt for days now, even weeks, exploded in shouts of joy and chanting, we were jumping up and down, hugging, dancing. And I understood that this was it, that we at last we had been liberated! A first American tank appeared in the distance at the entrance to the village. The partisans shoved the Germans from the lock in the direction of the tank, which must have been going five kilometers an hour not to crush the crowds of people in the street. The American officer to whom the Germans were handed over did not even take the time to look at them. He couldn't care less about this handful of Jerries
,
who didn't look particularly dangerous.