Two Stories from the War

In America when we hear stories of the War, and by that I mean World War II, we hear stories of our brave young men going off to a strange country to fight against tyranny, or we might hear of Jewish families that escaped from Europe to start their lives in a place where they would not be persecuted.

But in France, when you hear stories of the War, it’s very personal. You hear stories of how the people lived through atrocities that were happening right in your home and all around you. I’ve heard stories from Sir’s family – some are just impressions, like his grandmother finding her twin girls scraping the banana peel from the garbage with their teeth in order to get some taste of what was rationed just for the baby, or coming out of the house in a panic because the twins were up on the stone wall shouting at the German soldiers marching by, and she was afraid one of the soldiers would turn and shoot her girls.

But two specific stories stand out to me from Sir’s family.

One story comes from his great uncle on his father’s side. His name was Pierre and he was a French politician. He had an acquaintance who just adored him, always wanted to hang out with him, thought he was funny and brilliant. Pierre didn’t think as much of his acquaintance friend, but was still friendly towards him. Eventually when the French government ceded to the Germans, Pierre was sent, along with many other public figures, to a work concentration camp where many died as a result of the conditions.   During the years that followed, his friend never forgot about him, and it was towards the end of the war when the camps started to be more leniently held, that he managed to get a Red Cross truck that had access to the camps, as well as had places for people to hide underneath the benches so they could escape. He went to the camps with the truck and asked the prisoners everywhere if they knew who Pierre X—— was. No one knew, and the driver of the truck started to get nervous and insist they had to leave. His friend persisted until finally someone said, « I think he might be around those rows of barracks over there. » There they found Pierre, a skeleton of his former self, sitting vacantly against the side of the barrack.  In haste, they made him choose 4 other people to save along with himself because that’s all they had room for in the truck.  It was an impossible choice.

He chose four that he thought could help rebuild the French government and together they escaped. For two years he didn’t speak a word, and in a cruel irony later married a hard woman who was very stingy with how much food she put on his plate, so that he would sit in front of each meal in reverence.

Another story is from Sir’s grandmother’s family. His great uncle was a captain in the navy and when the French government fell to the Germans, he took a couple of days off to go to his parents and decide whether or not he was going to go awol to avoid fighting for something he didn’t believe in, or whether he was going to do his « duty » to his country and fight regardless of his personal feelings. It was too early in the war for there to be a French resistance. He made up his mind that he needed to do his duty regardless of whether or not he sympathized with the Allies. He was sent to captain a boat in the bay of Casablanca, in Morocco. He brought his wife and son with him and found them a place to stay in the city of Casablanca. It was there, sitting on the roof of their home, that his wife and son saw the fated battle of something like 200 Allied ships against the French 20. His wife and son watched as his ship was hit, and knew that as the captain of the boat he would go down with it.

Later after the war, his widow was dining with French officers who had a German chaplain in their midst. They were disrespectful to him, disregarding his cloth and seeing only a German. He got up to leave because of their insults but everyone remained seated, not giving the respect that was due to a man of the cloth. She stood up and spoke for the first time in the assembly, saying, « My husband would have been made an Admiral had he not been killed in the War. So, as the wife of an Admiral, I command you to stand up and show respect to this chaplain. »  In silence they stood up.

She wore black almost all of her life.

These are two stories of many. But in our small concerns in life (my kids are driving me nuts, there’s no more cheddar at the supermarket, I need to lose some weight, someone needs help and I don’t feel like going over, I’m not getting enough comments or tweets …) we forgot how blessedly lucky we are to live in a time of peace and prosperity in our homes.

Comments

I love to hear from you, friends. You can comment using the box below or your Facebook profile. But FB doesn't notify me of new comments, so if the post is more than a week old and you want to make sure I see your comment, it's better to use the comment box. Merci!