No Place to Lay One's Head

by Francoise Frenkel

  And so convoys arrived with no prior warning, bringing demobilised and injured French soldiers, as well as occupying troops, to Vichy.

  When a train did stop, allowing the possibility of securing a place, there was a general crush to get on! In just a few minutes, every compartment, the corridors and even the roofs of the carriages would be invaded. Veritable clusters of humans would hang from the running-boards … People climbed through the windows. Those who hadn’t been able to find a place were forced to wait anew, for hours, days even. They would return to where they had been camping out and resume their games of cards. ‘Oh well,’ they’d say, philosophically, ‘we’ve waited six weeks, we’ll wait another day or two.’

  Everybody was worn out, apathetic.

  I received kindly letters from my old professor, urging me to return to Avignon.

  One day, flanked by my two suitcases, it was my turn to take up position on the platform. One case served as a seat, on the other I set out my provisions and a book.

  I will never forget the train coming into the station and the journey that followed. The convoy comprised about fifteen wagons: at the head of the train, five passenger cars, then ten open goods wagons, their floors strewn with straw.

  The refugees rushed forwards, as usual, and it was a matter of seeing who, be it the weakest or the strongest, would prevail in that struggle.

  The train was already packed when the doors of the waiting room opened: the wounded, carried on stretchers, on chairs, or supporting each other, moved onto the platform.

  The stationmaster shouted: ‘Make some space for the wounded!’

  Every able-bodied man stood and got off. The injured were settled in compartments, stretched out on the banquettes or seated. Some of them, those more seriously injured, were laid out on the straw of the goods wagons, where they were more comfortable.

  Nurses announced that there were still a few places available for the elderly and for women and children. There was one for me. Those still able to climb in improvised, settling wherever they could. We were cramped, but happy.

  At last the train set off. If the truth be told, it was only moving at a walking pace. At the next station, a new crush of passengers! This time, all the corridors were stormed. Some soldiers had perched atop the luggage racks. Protestations rang out: ‘Make room for passengers, not luggage! Leave it at the next station!’

  We found ourselves queuing up at the door of the left luggage office at some small, unknown station. Whoever had bags left them there with a request to send them on after us – but not without some apprehension: their future seemed rather uncertain …

  The convoy stopped continuously for mysterious reasons that nobody even tried to divine. We took advantage of the stops to stretch our legs, after begging those who were not getting up to save our places.

  Notwithstanding the slowness of the journey and our discomfort, time did not seem to drag.

  Looking out the windows, soldiers spoke of the land to which they were returning.

  One said, anxiously: ‘I wonder how have they managed back home? There weren’t enough hands even before we left!’

  ‘It seems they’re making do regardless,’ replied another. ‘As long as it’s a good harvest.’

  ‘It looks as if it’s been dry through these parts,’ objected a third.

  He gestured broadly to the vast open spaces before him.

  ‘Yes,’ sighed the first, dreamily, ‘they seem to be making do.’

  He pulled a photograph out of his pocket.

  ‘Look, this is my eldest. He’s already a man, and no layabout, not in the field nor at the dinner table! This here’s my missus, she’s nearing fifty, though you wouldn’t know it!’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t know it,’ replied the other.

  And he, in turn, showed a photo of his Louise. Quite a looker, they thought, but were careful not to overdo it. She was his betrothed, and it wouldn’t do to joke about it. That was sacred territory …

  One soldier pulled out a bag wrapped in newsprint. He wanted to give it to his wife. Presents chosen hastily, a quarter of an hour before running for the train, were passed from hand to hand.

  Among them, a small doll brought back by a beardless recruit for his six-year-old sister.

  ‘I thought I’d buy it in Vichy, because it looked like a twin for my little sister.’

  Everybody laughed.

  Nobody spoke of war, nor of the future.

  The joking around, the storytelling, the coarse language that once upon a time would have rung out in third-class carriages had disappeared.

  Nor was there any talk of ominous days.

  But the weight of those days could be felt in the rough-hewn hearts of those soldiers, in the decency of their remarks, in their looks that followed fields and meadows to the slow rhythm of the train.

  We’d often cross paths with other convoys; then there’d be conversations, an exchange of news and even some extraordinarily fortunate encounters.

  Nuns, Red Cross nurses and country folk would come to distribute provisions, drinks and newspapers, along with words of encouragement.

  The train would slowly resume its journey. Soldiers would open their kitbags and pull out bread and cheese, handing around their flasks of wine. They drank without allowing their lips to touch the bottle.

  There was a sense of solidarity among all the passengers as they faced their uncertain futures. Everybody got along, agreed with one another, shared their supplies, breathed as one. I received a hearty hunk of cheese with a slice of brown bread.

  My neighbour, almost a child, a young blond lad who had been wounded, offered me a piece of chocolate. During the night, his bent leg was giving him so much pain that he stretched it over my knees in his sleep, and I sat without moving so as not to wake him.

  I can no longer recall if the journey lasted eighteen or twenty-four hours. Once we arrived in Avignon, we all had to spend the night on the waiting-room benches: the town was so overcrowded that the police responsible for maintaining public order did not allow us to leave the station before daybreak. Only the injured were taken to the hospitals.

  The following day, I went to meet my dear professor in the peaceful public gardens. I found him sitting in the sun, as if I had left only the day before. He greeted me with his customary solicitude and complimented me on how well I looked, teasing me about my odyssey to Vichy.

  I was forced to recount every eventful moment.

  As I told my story, I grew acutely aware that the journey, while ultimately pointless, had not been without merit. I had lived among the French locals, and witnessed their persistent cheerfulness and sense of perspective even in the face of misfortune.

  I was a little sorry about my suitcases, which had not yet reappeared, despite the resumption of trains. Three weeks later, however, after much meandering, they were faithfully reunited with me in Avignon, just as they had been in Vichy. But in what a state! Lids dented, straps torn off, padlocks rusted. True war wounded! Inside, my clothes were covered in mildew. But nothing, not a single thing, was missing.

  This time, the clerk at the left luggage office was ready with an apt remark:

  ‘Hundreds of trunks have gone missing,’ he said, ‘you’re in luck!’

  Had not the clerk at the Gare du Nord made much the same comment upon the arrival of my trunk in Paris? Yet now that trunk, which had so miraculously survived, had been confiscated by the Germans in Paris on grounds of race. I had just discovered as much upon my return to Avignon on a postcard received from the storage repository.

  V

  Avignon

  August–November 1940

  How the atmosphere of a town can change in a few weeks!

  When I had left Avignon in June, peaceful Provence still exuded its charm. The elderly dozed in sweet bliss in the public garden among children playing around the ornamental lakes. At mealtimes, the tempting smell of dishes heavily flavoured with garlic would waft from restaurants. Beautiful girls promenade
d in the afternoons, playful and in love. Boys would smile at them and toss their gallantries about. Everywhere, peaceful people. Life in the town continued its calm, trouble-free existence, a world away from the war.

  Now the benches were occupied by soldiers, some with bandaged legs and arms. The wounded sat at the windows and on the balconies of several hotels that had been turned into hospitals, getting some fresh air. German officers and soldiers strutted through the streets. You could hear the metallic chatter of typewriters from hotel windows. The so-called ‘economic commission’ was creating unrest in that quiet city of the Middle Ages.

  In June, the market had been spilling over with slabs of butter, mounds of fruit, the most diverse array of cheeses, and beautiful fresh meat on the butchers’ blocks.

  Now, there was no butter to be found, nor any cheese. The good humour and chitter-chatter of housewives had vanished.

  The ‘system of queuing’ had been instituted outside shops and at the market. A morose silence reigned, interrupted from time to time by quarrelling and arguments.

  Demobilised French soldiers from all branches of the military waited for trains that would take them back to their homes. Every day there were departures. Those from occupied parts of the country received instructions indicating which convoys they were to take in alphabetical order. Those from the ‘forbidden zones’ had no choice but to give up any hope of return. They were assigned temporary places to stay. Instructions were posted at the town hall and in the newspapers, and broadcast on the radio.

  Demoralised and at a loose end, they lingered on café terraces, on benches, in the bright sunshine in front of the Palais des Papes. They detested talking about the war. They knew nothing of events in which they had participated!

  When asked further, they replied: ‘It seems the war is over. We were told to leave and we left, and we haven’t arrived anywhere. There you have it! It’s all a bit odd, but what do you want us to say? You’ve got your newspapers, all you’ve got to do is read them.’ And then one of them, gesturing in the direction of the radio, said: ‘There you go! He knows more about it than we do and he’s much more of a talker! Ah! The bastards! It’d be good to make them shut up! They’ve put us in a right mess!’

  One day, very early, I went to sit in the public garden to take in the cool morning air. A woman came and sat next to me. In her hands she held a missal and her rosary. She greeted me with a few words, as was the custom in this part of the world; then, soon enough, she started to tell me her story.

  She had come from Château-Renard to see her son who was receiving treatment in the hospital, in the ‘shell shock’ ward. He had suffered nervous shock following the bombardments. He recognised his mother, but did not seem to be himself: he was talking about the bombs, the blood, the friends he had seen collapsing next to him, not making much sense, and was clearly reliving the dramatic events of the past. She was allowed to visit him for two hours, morning and evening. So, just as you would with a small child, she would speak to him about home, about his brothers and sisters, about his school friends, the farm animals, thus trying to rekindle his interest in all the things it seemed his mind had erased.

  I saw this mother on two more occasions. She told me about the improvements she thought she could notice.

  One morning, I ran into her guiding a young soldier in hospital garb by the arm. She was glowing …

  They passed by; I would never see them again.

  At that time, the police in Avignon started, in turn, to ‘organise’ the refugees. We were all summoned to the town hall and once again, we had to line up, this time under a scorching sun.

  Turning our papers this way and that, the gendarmes of this tranquil city consulted each other; they seemed so uncomfortable one felt sorry for them. They examined circulars and regulations, haphazardly issuing information, orders and instructions.

  One of them, after examining my passport, asked me in an interrogating tone:

  ‘An ally? You are an ally, aren’t you? Yes, that’s obvious enough, isn’t it? Ah! Yes, the Polish! Now they’re what you call strapping fellows. They fought hard! Yes, that’s all right, then!’

  Of course, I agreed with everything he said and … my residence permit was vigorously stamped with the seal of the municipality.

  Those were the days!

  This time, my stay in Avignon was to last from August to the end of November.

  I went often to the municipal library; I was curious about the life and works of Frédéric Mistral. Seated next to me, my professor was studying the same author in the original Provençal text, delighted to be able to read it fluently. The library contained the most complete collection of documents relating to the history of Avignon.

  In the afternoons, I would go to sit on the banks of the Rhône and spend hours watching the strong current of the river. It dragged along the most varied of objects, even trees it appeared to have uprooted in its enthusiasm. Sometimes, you could see a tree tossed about like a wisp of straw in its swirling eddies, sometimes you saw it drawn up to its full height, innumerable drops of water hanging from its leaves, glittering like diamonds in the sun.

  As autumn approached, the Rhône started to rise before one’s very eyes. It covered the embankments, submerging plants and small trees, and spread commandingly outwards, climbing all the way up the pylons of bridges.

  The weather in Avignon grew ever colder. At night, the wind beat furiously against windows and shutters, rattling houses and shaking trees with titanic force.

  It violently attacked anybody who was out and about.

  I experienced the true force of the mistral wind one day when it blew me a good stretch down the road and threw me against a tree, which was shaking from top to bottom.

  My dear professor, such a calm fellow, had also fallen victim to the wind, and announced that he was simply going to flee the mistral and head for Nice, his favourite winter escape.

  There was nothing to keep me in Avignon. There was no news from my relatives, not a single sign of life. I was pining and anxious, and it made me long for a change of scene.

  A safe-conduct pass was required in order to travel to Nice. The visa office had been set up in a gracious little palace, the former residence of a cardinal. Its courtyard was shaded by plane trees. A fountain murmured at its centre. As I waited, I admired the windows and doors, decorated with the most beautiful wrought iron designs.

  When it came my turn to appear before the gendarme responsible, I almost regretted having to leave my spot.

  ‘Are you a foreigner?’ asked the gendarme in a strong local accent. And he added, ‘No visas to Nice for foreigners, my dear lady. Nothing to be done!’

  That afternoon, my professor, accompanied by his godson, Monsieur Olive, found me on the terrace of our usual café.

  I told him of my disappointment that morning and exclaimed, half seriously, half jesting:

  ‘Where to find a Frenchman for a marriage of convenience so I can be free of these eternal trials and tribulations!’

  ‘The problem is, France is harbouring too many foreigners,’ remarked Monsieur Olive, sententiously.

  We spoke of other matters.

  The following day, at around five o’clock, we found ourselves back on the terrace of the same café. Monsieur Olive appeared, beaming. He was gesturing to us from afar and, nearing us, he whispered:

  ‘I have it, I have it … the future! He’ll be here in a moment.’

  He swiftly offered us explanations and advice:

  ‘You, Madame, you’ll sit off to one side a little, so as not to get involved in the initial discussion. We’ll take a seat inside.’

  In half-finished sentences, he told us he had discovered a fellow who was prepared to ‘go through with it’ and whom he had told to come at a quarter past five.

  ‘And here he is, what do you know!’ he cried.

  Then, hurrying to the door:

  ‘Over here, my dear friend, over here!’

  We saw a little o
ld man of about seventy scurry over, neat and tidy, leaning on a cane and doffing his straw hat. Monsieur Olive took care of the introductions.

  ‘Monsieur Devitrolles, retired shopkeeper, currently resident in the old people’s home in town – my godfather.’

  From my corner, I was able to witness the conversation as a mute spectator.

  ‘Well then, Monsieur Devitrolles,’ started Monsieur Olive, ‘as I’ve explained to you, you’re going to marry a lady who needs your good name. You’ll receive a certain sum, allowing you to improve your everyday fare at the old people’s home. And on top of that, you’ll get a fine suit, a black hat and a tie to wear to the town hall. But immediately after the wedding, your wife will leave … you’ve understood, that’s all settled?’

  ‘Understood,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘but I have to see her, this lady.’ (He pronounced the word ‘see’ with the twang of the Provençal accent.)

  ‘Of course you’ll see her,’ replied Monsieur Olive, ‘but this lady, a foreigner, she’s going to leave the very evening of the wedding.’

  ‘A foreigner?’ enquired Monsieur Devitrolles, interested. ‘She’s not from the Auvergne, though, is she, this foreigner? It’s just that I’m not at all fond of people from the Auvergne.’

  ‘No, she’s not from the Auvergne, not at all, but it hardly matters, for in any event she’s leaving again. You understand?’

  ‘She’s in quite a hurry, this lady, my wife,’ observed Monsieur Devitrolles.

  ‘Yes, she’s in a hurry … she’s leaving for America!’

  ‘Oh là, là, là, là, she’s not pulling any punches. The Americas! That’s a long way away.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a long way away,’ answered the tireless Monsieur Olive, ‘but she’s leaving, and there you’ll be, right back to your old ways. All right, then?’