frenzy, a fit, a frenzy without malice.
With a certain plebeian power, but with repulsive banality, she presented a savage Chamberlain and a decent Hitler, translating themes from Radio Stuttgart into cartoon images.
Madame Soutreux cannot possibly have grasped our surprise and distaste. It seemed as if she wanted to explain and comment on Madame Lerouchon’s words. Hers was a different tone of voice, a sugary little tone. She was speaking with pursed lips. And her words were much less operatic, without apparent passion. She also defended Hitler and Germany, but with the appearance of impartiality and by means of those historical abstractions that are at the disposal of everyone who reads the newspapers.
“Germany was deprived of all its colonies,” she said, “it was forced to prepare its revenge. Germany needs to expand in proportion to its population. You must not listen to only one version, you must see both sides … You must understand that the Germans are organizers …”
After a week of worry and insomnia, we found respite, a refuge, in a French household. The words we were hearing there seemed hallucinatory. But for the moment, I’m not looking for any explanations, I’m scrupulously recounting, in its natural order, reality.While these two women were speaking, I was remembering that military tribunals in Paris had sentenced “defeatists” to months or years in prison, some of whom had expressed nothing but innocent doubt. I attended one of those hearings. Poor buggers were judged severely, along vague lines, for having asserted in a bar that trainloads of wounded were heading toward Paris. I also heard Pastor Roser condemned to five years in prison for asserting that war was irreconcilable with the Gospel. But these two women were testifying to their devotion to Germany in a tone that had nothing confidential about it, concealing nothing, as if it were the expression of some orthodox truth.
That is when two German soldiers appeared in the courtyard. Armed, for sure, but alone, neither fearing nor threatening anyone, in some way like hikers. They seemed to me more frightening than those who had machine-gunned us the day before at Ouzouer. At Ouzouer we were caught up in the risks, the hazards of war. We were in the violence and noise of war, in the uncertainty that someone who does not fear death too much can overcome. But these two isolated soldiers were an entire army, covering the entire battleground; we were all prisoners of these two soldiers. Yesterday’s could have killed us, these could humiliate us.
They only wanted to refill their canteens with water from the well. But Madame Soutreux wouldn’t hear of it. She went down to the cellar and brought them a bottle of wine. She engaged them in cordial conversation. She spoke German so fluently that I couldn’t make out a single word of what she said.
The two Germans leaned over the Aufresnes’ baby, and one of them took her in his arms. Since then I have always seen German soldiers act like born nursemaids in front of children, showing the liveliest tenderness. I’m certainly not claiming that this tenderness is faked. Even less do I believe that it runs all that deep. And I’m sure they’re mixing in a portion of either unconscious histrionics or concerted decision. This is how the Germans give proof of their advanced civilization. The kindness of these two toward the baby wasn’t fully exempt from some intent toward propaganda and display. The soldier who had taken the infant in his arms set it down, saying toher, “You see … your Boches , * your barbarians.” This, it goes without saying, was directed toward us and not Madame Soutreux, who stood with them and seemed to gloat over the benevolence of her helmeted guests.
I’ll add that I never saw a German, before taking an infant in his arms, trouble himself to find out whether this was agreeable or not to the parents. You’d think the infant belonged to them by right of
With a certain plebeian power, but with repulsive banality, she presented a savage Chamberlain and a decent Hitler, translating themes from Radio Stuttgart into cartoon images.
Madame Soutreux cannot possibly have grasped our surprise and distaste. It seemed as if she wanted to explain and comment on Madame Lerouchon’s words. Hers was a different tone of voice, a sugary little tone. She was speaking with pursed lips. And her words were much less operatic, without apparent passion. She also defended Hitler and Germany, but with the appearance of impartiality and by means of those historical abstractions that are at the disposal of everyone who reads the newspapers.
“Germany was deprived of all its colonies,” she said, “it was forced to prepare its revenge. Germany needs to expand in proportion to its population. You must not listen to only one version, you must see both sides … You must understand that the Germans are organizers …”
After a week of worry and insomnia, we found respite, a refuge, in a French household. The words we were hearing there seemed hallucinatory. But for the moment, I’m not looking for any explanations, I’m scrupulously recounting, in its natural order, reality.While these two women were speaking, I was remembering that military tribunals in Paris had sentenced “defeatists” to months or years in prison, some of whom had expressed nothing but innocent doubt. I attended one of those hearings. Poor buggers were judged severely, along vague lines, for having asserted in a bar that trainloads of wounded were heading toward Paris. I also heard Pastor Roser condemned to five years in prison for asserting that war was irreconcilable with the Gospel. But these two women were testifying to their devotion to Germany in a tone that had nothing confidential about it, concealing nothing, as if it were the expression of some orthodox truth.
That is when two German soldiers appeared in the courtyard. Armed, for sure, but alone, neither fearing nor threatening anyone, in some way like hikers. They seemed to me more frightening than those who had machine-gunned us the day before at Ouzouer. At Ouzouer we were caught up in the risks, the hazards of war. We were in the violence and noise of war, in the uncertainty that someone who does not fear death too much can overcome. But these two isolated soldiers were an entire army, covering the entire battleground; we were all prisoners of these two soldiers. Yesterday’s could have killed us, these could humiliate us.
They only wanted to refill their canteens with water from the well. But Madame Soutreux wouldn’t hear of it. She went down to the cellar and brought them a bottle of wine. She engaged them in cordial conversation. She spoke German so fluently that I couldn’t make out a single word of what she said.
The two Germans leaned over the Aufresnes’ baby, and one of them took her in his arms. Since then I have always seen German soldiers act like born nursemaids in front of children, showing the liveliest tenderness. I’m certainly not claiming that this tenderness is faked. Even less do I believe that it runs all that deep. And I’m sure they’re mixing in a portion of either unconscious histrionics or concerted decision. This is how the Germans give proof of their advanced civilization. The kindness of these two toward the baby wasn’t fully exempt from some intent toward propaganda and display. The soldier who had taken the infant in his arms set it down, saying toher, “You see … your Boches , * your barbarians.” This, it goes without saying, was directed toward us and not Madame Soutreux, who stood with them and seemed to gloat over the benevolence of her helmeted guests.
I’ll add that I never saw a German, before taking an infant in his arms, trouble himself to find out whether this was agreeable or not to the parents. You’d think the infant belonged to them by right of
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