‘My mother is in there!’
‘Get away from here!’
‘How many casualties?’
‘One-hundred-and-thirty-six.’
‘A car bomb?’
‘A Peugeot set to explode during a peak shopping period …’
‘Please, make sure my mother is safe and sound.’
The worker took down my mother’s name and went to check with the ambulance drivers to see if she was on the list of casualties. The few minutes that I had to wait for the ‘verdict’ dragged on forever. So, my mother’s life depended on chance, on a name on a list. The entire war is the very image of this tragedy: a vile lottery. After this episode, how could I not live in fear? And how could I bear a grudge against those who, terrorized by these infernal machines, refuse to return to this country?
‘She isn’t on the list.’
The rescue worker’s response was like a deliverance.
‘Thank you God, thank you!’
I headed home, at a slow pace.
On the steps of my family home stood my mother, her hands on her hips:
‘Where were you, you thoughtless fool?’ she yelled indignantly. ‘You scared me to death.’
The Schoolteacher
I feel compelled to visit my old elementary school. I walk into the classroom as I would a cathedral. I sit down in my seat, the third row next to the window. I open the desk – my name is still there, carved into the wood. I fold my hands and look straight ahead. I hear the teacher calling on me:
‘Go to the board!’
I slap my hand to my chest.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you!’
I grudgingly stand up.
‘Go on, “Cazeneuve”.’
I have borne this nickname for quite some time. My classmates call me this because I got a good grade on the commentary of a text by Jean Cazeneuve about television.
I step up onto the platform, my hands behind my back. I am weak at the knees.
‘Please recite Prévert’s “Histoire du cheval” (“Tale of the Horse”).’
I swallow, take a deep breath like a swimmer getting ready to dive and begin the declamation:
Braves gens écoutez ma complainte
Écoutez l’histoire de ma vie
(Good people hear my lament
Hear the story of my life)
A shell explodes. The windows shake. I stop.
‘Go on,’ the teacher says. ‘Don’t let it intimidate you.’
Et comme il y avait la guerre
la guerre qui continuait
la vie devenait chère
les vivres diminuaient
(And as there was the war
the war that carried on
life was becoming dear
provisions were growing scarce)
The bombing intensifies. The teacher is worried, I can tell. My classmates fidget on their benches. Their whispers travel to where I am standing. I raise my voice to make myself heard.
Maintenant la guerre est finie
et le vieux général
est mort est mort dans son lit
mort de sa belle mort
mais moi je suis …
(Now the war is over
and the old general has died
died in his sleep
died a peaceful death
but I am …)
A shell has just landed on the roof of the school. The blast of the explosion nearly knocks me over. But I am experienced. A supervisor is running through the halls yelling: ‘To the shelters!’ The bell rings before the end of the hour. The teacher picks up his briefcase.
‘I’ll call on you another time,’ he says, getting up.
‘Please, sir, let me finish.’
I have reached the end of my poem. I do not want to start all over again.
Mais moi je suis vivant et c’est le principal
bonsoir
bonne nuit
bon appétit mon général.
(But I am alive and that is what matters above all
good evening
good night
sleep tight General.)
* * *
I found my teacher in Paris where he had gone into exile. He still teaches French, but he has removed ‘Histoire du cheval’ from his syllabus. It must bring back painful memories. He invited me for a drink at his place. I avoided talking about school. He played Jacques Brel and Barbara for me. He served me some red wine. And then, unable to resist any longer, he went and got a stack of papers out of a drawer.
‘Read these, Cazeneuve.’
I smiled – he remembered. I took the papers and leafed through them.
‘These are essays …’
‘Yes. I brought a few with me.’
‘What’s so special about them?’
‘Read them!’
I picked one out at random. Subject: ‘What does it mean to like to take risks?’
Along the path to my house there is a sniper. Every day, after school, I go out on the balcony and thumb my nose at him. That is what it means to like to take risks.
I picked out another paper. ‘A Serge Lama song, entitled “Souvenirs, attention danger” (“Memories, beware of danger”). What does this title mean to you?’
We found my father in the trunk of a car. I was there. He had not had anything stolen. He had been killed because of his religion. I cannot think about this memory any more. Otherwise there will be danger.
My teacher took his head in his hands. I pulled another from the stack: ‘Describe your house.’
My house was pretty. It had a view of the Mediterranean. One day, the militia from both camps came and they occupied my house. Not at the same time – they took turns. In my room, some of them wrote slogans praising their leader. In the living room, the others ripped up his portrait and spit on it.
I continued: ‘What is the verse that you appreciate most, and why?’
‘A verse by Elia Abu-Madi:
‘Pays des étoiles, je suis là.
Regarde bien: ne me reconnais-tu pas?’
(Land of stars, I am here.
Look closely – don’t you recognize me?)
I am moved by this poem because we have become strangers in our own country.
Subject: ‘You borrow a time machine. Imagine what you would do.’
If I had a time machine, I would go back to the time of Creation. I would go ask God: Why?
I put the stack of papers back in its place.
‘They were twelve- and thirteen-year-olds,’ my teacher said. Normally, at that age, kids dream.’
Epilogue
On the white tablecloth, next to a large basket filled with tomatoes, cucumbers and lettuce, the waiter has set out the mezze: there is mtabal garnished with parsley and cumin, tabouli, stuffed grape leaves, a dish of hummus, a plate of falafel … All the members of my family are seated around the table, including Uncle Michel and Aunt Malaké. Uncle Michel clears his throat and offers a word of welcome, lifting his glass of arrack to ‘the one who came back.’ Tears come to my eyes. To exorcize the war, I fled. But in fleeing I nearly forgot my family, all those who are gathered around this table, dipping their bread into the same dish as I.
‘If Big Bertha comes back will you leave again?’ my uncle asks.
I protest: ‘You know very well that I didn’t leave until the end of the war. I wasn’t afraid of your Big Bertha.’
‘True. But would you have the strength to relive what you experienced?’
I think for a moment, then reply. ‘What I experienced I relive every day, in spite of myself – one doesn’t come through a war unscathed.’
‘Why come back when most of your friends are leaving, disappointed?’ Aunt Malaké asks.
‘Disappointed by what?’
‘By the economic crisis, the scars of the war, the chaos …’
‘Aunt Malaké, I am among those who believe that it is our duty to assume our destiny in the country where we were born.’
I pour myself some arrack. Uncle Michel launches into an endless speech – his wartime memories, like an old veteran. In his remarks, there is no room for blood, suffering or casualties. He speaks of the dull roar of the cannonade, the courage of the population which, early in the morning, rebuilt what the shells had destroyed the previous day, his lack of concern in the face of hails of bullets, his donkey, the long card games played by candlelight …
‘Tell me, Uncle Michel, you wouldn’t be in love with Big Bertha, would you?’
Uncle Michel jumps. He turns towards me and winks:
‘You want to know the truth? Big Bertha is a bitch!’
ISBN 10: 1-84659-009-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-84659-009-2
eISBN: 978-1-84659-192-1
First published as L’école de la guerre by Editions Balland, Paris, 1999 copyright © Editions Balland, 1999 Translation © Laurie Wilson, 2006 This edition published 2006 by Telegram Books
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