Suite Francaise Part 25

"Will you come and say goodbye to me, Herr Lieutenant Herr Lieutenant? I'm going out, but I'll be back at six o'clock."

The three young men stood up and clicked their heels. In the past, she had found this display of courtesy by the soldiers of the Reich old-fas.h.i.+oned and rather affected. Now, she thought how much she would miss this light jingling of spurs, the kiss on the hand, the admiration these soldiers showed her almost in spite of themselves, soldiers who were without family, without female companions.h.i.+p (except for the lowest type of woman). There was in their respect for her a hint of tender melancholy: it was as if, thanks to her, they could recapture some remnant of their former lives where kindness, a good education, politeness towards women had far more value than getting drunk or taking an enemy position. There was grat.i.tude and nostalgia in their att.i.tude towards her; she could sense it and was touched by it. She waited for it to be eight o'clock in a state of deep anxiety. What would she say to him? How would they part? There was between them an entire world of confused, unexpressed thoughts, like a precious crystal so fragile that a single word could shatter it. He felt it too, no doubt, for he spent only a brief moment alone with her. He took off his hat (perhaps his last civilian gesture, thought Lucile, feeling tender and sad), took her hands in his. Before kissing them, he pressed his cheek against hers, softly and urgently both at the same time. Was he claiming her as his own? Attempting to brand her with his seal, so she wouldn't forget?

"Adieu," he said, "this is goodbye. I'll never forget you, never."

She stood silent. He looked at her and saw her eyes full of tears. He turned away.

"I'm going to give you the address of one of my uncles," he said after a moment. "He's a von Falk like me, my father's brother. He's had a brilliant military career and he's in Paris working for . . ." He gave a very long German name. "Until the end of the war, he will be the Commandant in greater Paris, a kind of viceroy, actually, and he depends on my uncle to help make decisions. I've told him about you and asked that he help you as much as he can, if you ever find yourself in difficulty; we're at war, G.o.d alone knows what might happen to all of us . . ."

"You're very kind, Bruno," she said quietly.

At this moment she wasn't ashamed of loving him, because her physical desire had gone and all she felt towards him now was pity and a profound, almost maternal tenderness. She forced herself to smile. "Like the Chinese mother who sent her son off to war telling him to be careful 'because war has its dangers,' I'm asking you, if you have any feelings for me, to be as careful as possible with your life."

"Because it is precious to you?" he asked nervously.

"Yes. Because it is precious to me."

Slowly, they shook hands. She walked him out to the front steps. An orderly was waiting for him, holding the reins of his horse. It was late, but no one even considered going to bed. Everyone wanted to see the Germans leave. In these final hours, a kind of melancholy and human warmth bound them all together: the conquered and the conquerors. Big Erwald with the strong thighs who held his drink so well and was so funny and robust; short, nimble, cheerful w.i.l.l.y, who had learned some French songs (they said he was a real comedian in civilian life), poor Johann who had lost his whole family in an air raid, "except for my mother-in-law," he said sadly, "because I've never had much luck . . ." All of them were about to be attacked, shot at, in danger of dying. How many of them would be buried on the Russian steppes? No matter how quickly, how successfully the war with Germany might finish, how many poor people would never see the blessed end, the new beginning? It was a wonderful night: clear, moonlit, without even a breath of wind. It was the time of year for cutting the branches of the lime trees. The time when men and boys climb up into the beautiful, leafy trees and strip them bare while, down below, women and girls pick flowers from the sweet-smelling branches at their feet-flowers that will spend all summer drying in country lofts and, in winter, will make herbal tea. A delicious, intoxicating perfume filled the air. How wonderful everything was, how peaceful. Children played and chased one another about; they climbed up on to the steps of the old stone cross and watched the road.

"Can you see them?" their mothers asked.

"Not yet."

It had been decided that the regiment would a.s.semble in front of the chateau and then parade through the village. From the shadow of doorways came the sound of kisses and whispered goodbyes . . . some more tender than others. The soldiers were in heavy helmets and field dress, gas masks hanging from their necks. The awaited drum roll came and the men appeared, marching in rows of eight. With a final goodbye, a last blown kiss, the latecomers hurried to take their pre-a.s.signed place: the place where destiny would find them. There was still the odd burst of laughter, a joke exchanged between the soldiers and the crowd, but soon everyone fell silent. The General had arrived. He rode his horse past the troops, gave a brief salute to the soldiers and to the French, then left. Behind him followed the officers, then the grey car carrying the Commandant, with its motorcycle outriders. Then came the artillery, the cannons on their rolling platforms, the machine-guns, the anti-aircraft guns pointing at the sky, and all the small but deadly weapons they'd watched go by during manoeuvres. They had become accustomed to them, had looked at them indifferently, without being afraid. But now the sight of it all made them shudder. The truck, full to bursting with big loaves of black bread, freshly baked and sweet-smelling, the Red Cross vans, with no pa.s.sengers-for now . . . the field kitchen, b.u.mping along at the end of the procession like a saucepan tied to a dog's tail. The men began singing, a grave, slow song that drifted away into the night. Soon the road was empty. All that remained of the German regiment was a little cloud of dust.

Appendices

APPENDIX I.

Irene Nemirovsky's handwritten notes on the situation in France and her plans for Suite Francaise, Suite Francaise, taken from her notebooks taken from her notebooks

My G.o.d! what is this country doing to me? Since it is rejecting me, let us consider it coldly, let us watch as it loses its honour and its life. And the other countries? What are they to me? Empires are dying. Nothing matters. Whether you look at it from a mystical or a personal point of view, it's just the same. Let us keep a cool head. Let us harden our heart. Let us wait.

21 June.*1 Conversation with Pied-de-Marmite. France is going to join hands with Germany. Soon they will be calling up people here but "only the young ones." This was said no doubt out of consideration towards Michel. One army is crossing Russia, the other is coming from Africa. Suez has been taken. j.a.pan with its formidable fleet is fighting America. England is begging for mercy. Conversation with Pied-de-Marmite. France is going to join hands with Germany. Soon they will be calling up people here but "only the young ones." This was said no doubt out of consideration towards Michel. One army is crossing Russia, the other is coming from Africa. Suez has been taken. j.a.pan with its formidable fleet is fighting America. England is begging for mercy.

25 June. Unbelievable heat. The garden is decked out with the colours of June-azure, pale-green and pink. I lost my pen. There are still many other worries such as the threat of a concentration camp, the status of Jews etc. Sunday was unforgettable. The thunderbolt about Russia*2 hit our friends after their "mad night" down by the lake. And in order to [?] with them, everyone got drunk. Will I write about it one day? hit our friends after their "mad night" down by the lake. And in order to [?] with them, everyone got drunk. Will I write about it one day?

28 June. They're leaving. They were depressed for twenty-four hours, now they're cheerful, especially when they're together. The little dear one sadly said, "The happy times are over." They're sending their packages home. They're overexcited, that's obvious. Admirably disciplined and, I think, no rebellion in their hearts. I swear here and now never again to take out my bitterness, no matter how justifiable, on a group of people, whatever their race, religion, convictions, prejudices, errors. I feel sorry for these poor children. But I cannot forgive certain individuals, those who reject me, those who coldly abandon us, those who are prepared to stab you in the back. Those people . . . if I could just get my hands on them . . . When will it all end? The troops that were here last summer said "Christmas," then July. Now end '41.

There's been talk here about de-occupying France except for the no-go area and the coasts. Carefully rereading the Journal Officiel Journal Officiel*3 has thrown me back to feeling the way I did a few days ago, has thrown me back to feeling the way I did a few days ago,

To lift such a heavy weight Sisyphus, you will need all your courage. Sisyphus, you will need all your courage. I do not lack the courage to complete the task I do not lack the courage to complete the task But the end is far and time is short. But the end is far and time is short.

The Wine of Solitude by Irene Nemirovsky for Irene Nemirovsky

30 June 1941. Stress the Michauds. People who always pay the price and the only ones who are truly n.o.ble. Odd that the majority of the ma.s.ses, the detestable ma.s.ses, are made up of these courageous types. The majority doesn't get better because of them nor do they [the courageous types] get worse.

Which scenes deserve to be pa.s.sed on for posterity?

1Waiting in queues at dawn. 1Waiting in queues at dawn. 2The arrival of the Germans. 2The arrival of the Germans. 3The killings and shooting of hostages much less than the profound indifference of the people. 3The killings and shooting of hostages much less than the profound indifference of the people. 4If I want to create something striking, it is not misery I will show but the prosperity that contrasts with it. 4If I want to create something striking, it is not misery I will show but the prosperity that contrasts with it. 5When Hubert escapes from the prison where the poor wretches have been taken, instead of describing the death of the hostages, it's the party at the Opera House I must show, and then simply people sticking posters up on the walls: so and so was shot at dawn. The same after the war and without dwelling on Corbin. Yes! It must be done by showing contrasts: one word for misery, ten for egotism, cowardice, closing ranks, crime. Won't it be wonderful! But it's true that it's this very atmosphere I'm breathing. It is easy to imagine it: the obsession with food. 5When Hubert escapes from the prison where the poor wretches have been taken, instead of describing the death of the hostages, it's the party at the Opera House I must show, and then simply people sticking posters up on the walls: so and so was shot at dawn. The same after the war and without dwelling on Corbin. Yes! It must be done by showing contrasts: one word for misery, ten for egotism, cowardice, closing ranks, crime. Won't it be wonderful! But it's true that it's this very atmosphere I'm breathing. It is easy to imagine it: the obsession with food. 6Think also about the Ma.s.s on Rue de la Source, early morning while it's still completely dark. Contrasts! Yes, there's something to that, something that can be very powerful and very new. Why have I used it so little in 6Think also about the Ma.s.s on Rue de la Source, early morning while it's still completely dark. Contrasts! Yes, there's something to that, something that can be very powerful and very new. Why have I used it so little in Dolce Dolce? Yet, rather than dwelling on Madeleine-for example, perhaps the whole MadeleineLucile chapter can be left out, reduced to a few lines of explanation, which can go into the Mme AngellierLucile chapter. On the other hand, describe in minute detail the preparations for the German celebration. It is perhaps an impression of ironic contrast, to receive the force of the contrast. The reader has only to see and hear an impression of ironic contrast, to receive the force of the contrast. The reader has only to see and hear.*4

Characters in order of appearance (as far as I can remember): The Pericands-the Cortes-the Michauds-the landowners-Lucile-the louts?-the farmers etc.-the Germans-the aristocrats.

Good, need to include in the beginning: Hubert, Corte, Jules Blanc, but that would destroy my unified tone for Dolce Dolce. Definitely I think I have to leave Dolce Dolce as is and on the other hand reintroduce all the characters from as is and on the other hand reintroduce all the characters from Storm, Storm, but in such a way that they have a momentous affect on Lucile, Jean-Marie and the others (and France). but in such a way that they have a momentous affect on Lucile, Jean-Marie and the others (and France).

I think that (for practical reasons) Dolce Dolce should be short. In fact, in comparison with the eighty pages of should be short. In fact, in comparison with the eighty pages of Storm, Dolce Storm, Dolce will probably have about sixty or so, no more. will probably have about sixty or so, no more. Captivity, Captivity, on the other hand, should make a hundred. Let's say then: on the other hand, should make a hundred. Let's say then:

STORM.

80 pages DOLCE.

60 CAPTIVITY.

100 The two others

50

390,*5 let's say 400 pages, multiplied by four. Lord! That makes 1,600 typed pages! let's say 400 pages, multiplied by four. Lord! That makes 1,600 typed pages! Well, well, if I live in it! Well, well, if I live in it!*6 In the end, if the people who have promised to come arrive on 14 July, then that will have certain consequences, including at least one, maybe two sections less. In the end, if the people who have promised to come arrive on 14 July, then that will have certain consequences, including at least one, maybe two sections less.

In fact, it's like music when you sometimes hear the whole orchestra, sometimes just the violin. At least it should be like that. Combine [two words in Russian] and individual emotions. What interests me here is the history of the world.

Beware: forget the reworking of characters. Obviously, the time-span is short. The first three parts, in any case, will only cover a period of three years. As for the last two, well that's G.o.d's secret and what I wouldn't give to know it. But because of the intensity, the gravity of the experiences, the people to whom things happen must change (. . .) My idea is for it to unravel like a film, but at times the temptation is great, and I've given in with brief descriptions or in the episode that follows the meeting at the school by giving my own point of view. Should I mercilessly pursue this?

Think about as well: the famous "impersonality" of Flaubert and his kind lies only in the greater fact with which they express their feelings-dramatising them, embodying them in living form, instead of stating them directly the famous "impersonality" of Flaubert and his kind lies only in the greater fact with which they express their feelings-dramatising them, embodying them in living form, instead of stating them directly?

Such*7 . . . there are other times when no one must know what Lucile feels in her heart, rather show her through other people's eyes. . . . there are other times when no one must know what Lucile feels in her heart, rather show her through other people's eyes.

1942.

The French grew tired of the Republic as if she were an old wife. For them, the dictators.h.i.+p was a brief affair, adultery. But they intended to cheat on their wife, not to kill her. Now they realise she's dead, their Republic, their freedom. They're mourning her.

For years, everything done in France within a certain social cla.s.s has had only one motive: fear. This social cla.s.s caused the war, the defeat and the current peace. The Frenchmen of this caste hate no one; they feel neither jealousy nor disappointed ambition, nor any real desire for revenge. They're scared. Who will harm them the least (not in the future, not in the abstract, but right now and in the form of kicks in the a.r.s.e or slaps in the face)? The Germans? The English? The Russians? The Germans won but the beating has been forgotten and the Germans can protect them. That's why they're "for the Germans." At school, the weakest student would rather be bullied than be free; the tyrant bullies him but won't allow anyone else to steal his marbles, beat him up. If he runs away from the bully, he is alone, abandoned in the free-for-all.

There is a huge gulf between this caste, which is the caste of our current leaders, and the rest of the nation. The rest of the French, because they own less, are less afraid. If cowardice stops stifling the positive feelings in our souls (patriotism, love of freedom etc.), then they can rise up. Of course, many people have recently built fortunes, but they are fortunes in depreciated currency that are impossible to transform into concrete goods, land, jewellery, gold etc. Our butcher, who won five hundred thousand francs in a currency whose exchange rate abroad he knows (exactly zero), cares less about money than a Pericand, a Corbin*8 cares about their property, their banks etc. More and more, the world is becoming divided into the haves and the have nots. The first don't want to give anything up and the second want to take everything. Who will win out? cares about their property, their banks etc. More and more, the world is becoming divided into the haves and the have nots. The first don't want to give anything up and the second want to take everything. Who will win out?

The most hated men in France in 1942: Philippe Henriot*9 and Pierre Laval. The first as the Tiger, the second as the Hyena: around Henriot you can smell fresh blood, and around Laval the stench of rotting flesh. and Pierre Laval. The first as the Tiger, the second as the Hyena: around Henriot you can smell fresh blood, and around Laval the stench of rotting flesh.

Mers-el-Kebir

painful stupor

Syria

indifference

Madagascar

even greater indifference