Letter From Paris
Paris Kiosque - September 2008 - Volume 15, Number 9
Copyright © 2008 Harriet Welty-Rochefort - Used with permission.
NORMANDY: It's a funny thing to write
« Normandy » as a dateline for a letter from Paris.
However, Normandy is where I was while writing this (I have since
returned to Paris for the famous « rentrée »,
the annual back to school ritual which in fact is an immutable
« back to real life » ceremony for the entire French
nation).
Normandy is so close to Paris that it's kind of a
giant playground for Parisians seeking some green in their lives
(Normandy is VERY green as it rains at least twice a day) and
beautiful beaches in well-known places with
well-known names like Deauville, Trouville, Houlgate,
Honfleur and Cabourg.
We set up headquarters for two weeks in a rented house not far
from the sea in Cabourg so I can now authoritatively report that a
beach vacation in Normandy is rather like a beach vacation on the
North Sea - it's nice to look at the water
but you wouldn't want to plunge into it, God
forbid. « Bracing » is the best adjective to
describe the ambience.
In spite of its so-so weather and in spite of
Deauville's having been lost to the
bling-bling set, Normandy is a lovely place of verdant
pastures, historical monuments, racehorses and races, wonderful
moules and frites, our favorite dish for the two
weeks we were there, and luscious milky cheeses, Camembert,
Pont L'Eveque, to name but two. Then
there's the Calvados, a liqueur made from apples,
and scrumptious Norman cream on a Norman apple pie. But I
digress.
The food and the beaches aren't the reason I keep
returning to Normandy. After all, there are plenty of spots in
France with excellent food and nice beaches (and better
weather !). No, when I come to Normandy, I always have one
distinct memory in the back of my mind : I think about Micheline,
a young French war bride who came to live in our little town in
Iowa and who became a fast family friend. Micheline hailed from
Le Havre, a town entirely destroyed by bombs. She used to tell
me about growing up there in a big stately house, with a
governess and a cook.
The war came and the lovely house was occupied by German
soldiers : the former genteel life fell apart. She followed her GI
husband to the States, sent for her parents, and never returned
to France to live. Micheline remained profoundly French though
and without a doubt it was she who instilled in me a curiosity and
love of France that inspired me to go there (never knowing that
just as she ended up in the States and never returned to France,
I'd end up in France and not return to live in the
States). The family opened a French restaurant in our town, a
culinary and cultural experience that changed my outlook on food
and the outside world forever.
Micheline never dwelled on the war, which, after all, was the
reason she ended up in the States and in our small town. But
through her and her gracious and uncomplaining parents, I caught
a glimpse of how war can shake up lives. It goes without saying
that I can't visit Normandy without thinking of
these dear friends who never failed to repeat how grateful they
were to the American soldiers and their sacrifice. Beyond bringing
memories of Micheline and her family, Normandy is a place of
memory for all the « boys » who lost their lives
there and whose memory is honored in almost every town.
A man named Jacques Girault, who lived through the bombing of
Caen, rescuing victims amid the rubble, knew it was important not
to forget the horror of war. When he became the mayor of Caen,
he founded a museum aptly called the « Memorial »
of Caen as a tribute to this martyr city in which almost 3000
French citizens were killed before British and Canadian troops
seized control on July 20, 1944.
In all, more than 18,000 French civilians were killed during the
fighting in Normandy and Caen, which devastated cities from Le
Havre to Lisieux.
These towns, like similarly destroyed villages and cities and
hamlets all over a Europe whose soil was scarred by war, were
re-built, but the people who lived through the terrible
moments of the bombing and the joyous moments of the
Liberation never forgot.
The primary goal of the Caen Peace Memorial is to prone universal
reconciliation, a task that seems hard to achieve but a goal
visitors will hopefully agree with and aspire to after spending time
in the museum, which now features an exhibition on September
11, 2001, in conjunction with the New York State Museum.
A journey inside the Memorial is a journey into the hell of war,
starting with a spiral ramp winding its way down into the darkness
of strife. Visitors can then literally walk through World War II
learning about the outbreak of WWII, the failure of peace, France
in the dark years, deportation and genocide, the war in the East,
total war, the end of the war, until they come to the Cold War.
Guns, tanks, soldiers' uniforms, photos of bombed
cities, concentration camps, a film on D-Day are
completed by the « D-Day Words »
exhibition, excerpts from diaries and letters from British,
American, Canadian and German soldiers to their loved ones. It is,
understandably, one of the most popular parts of the museum
because everyone can identify with the frustration, the humor,
and the bravery of these young soldiers who pen both their
doubts and their certainties.
The letters*, a few of which are reproduced below with the
permission of the Memorial, speak for themselves :
U.S. Major John C. Harrison, Headquarters VII Corps 1st Army,
wrote in a letter to his wife on June 22, 1944 :
« ....There isn't anyone in our Army who
doesn't realize the importance of giving the
German a thorough beating, but to have to do it on land that
doesn't belong to them is most trying for you
cannot possibly imagine the scenes of destruction that surround a
town or village where the Germans have made determined stands.
You can't help but wonder how many innocent
people have given their lives. It is a most depressing sight to see
passing thru these places and you wonder how it is possible that
anyone survived - yet the towns are beginning to refill
and people are beginning to make their homes as livable as
possible. I wonder what they really think of us. (...) »
On the British side, Major N. Whittaker, Second Army, HQ Defence
Company, made the following observation in his diary on July 11 :
« (...) It seems more like bloody murder every
day. We are killing French civilians here whilst
'liberating' them. It seems that in order to liberate
people you must kill about half of them and destroy their homes
and all their possessions. It's a funny way !! And
the Germans are killing our civilians in order to prevent us
'liberating' these oppressed people. And we are
killing the German civilians in order to stop them killing English
civilians with the object of preventing us liberating the French
civilians.
Talk about dog eats dog !!! (...) »
Like many of the writers of these letters who have sadly but
lucidly estimated that their chance of survival is slender, U.S.
Second Lieutenant John K. Lundberg, from the Air
Corps' 534th Bomber Squadron, 381st Bomber
Group, Heavy, on May 19, 1944, penned a message he hoped his
family would never have to open.
« Dear Mom, Pop and family
Now that I am actually here I see that the chances of my returning
to you all are quite slim, therefore I want to write this letter now
while I am yet able...
You have had many times more than your share of illness and
deaths in the family ... I am sorry to add to your grief...but at all
times realize that my thoughts are of you constantly and that I
feel that in some small way I am helping to bring this wasteful war
to a conclusion. We of the United States have something to fight
for (...) never more fully have I realized that. There is just no
other country with comparable wealth, advancement or standard
of living. The USA is worth a sacrifice... »
Someday I'd like our granddaughter to read those
letters. But since we deemed her too young to embark on a long
tour, we decided to split up. While I visited the museum, my
husband planned to take her for a drink or buy her a trinket in the
bookstore. But as they walked through the lobby, her eyes lighted
on a totally smashed-up New York City police car,
placed there as part of the September 11 exhibit.
She plied her grandfather with questions. « What is that
car ? » « What happened to it ? »
« Were policemen in it ? » « Did they
die ? » That night in a phone call to her parents she
recounted what she had seen. « There was this police car
that was all banged up and crushed. It's because
some really bad people took a plane and flew it into a building and
the building fell down on top of the car. »
And so it goes.
There's still a long journey to
« peace ».
When our six-year-old granddaughter is old
enough to understand, we'll take her back to the
Memorial for a complete history lesson. And maybe even a swim
in that cool, cool sea.
* © Droits reservés Memorial de Caen
p>
Harriet Welty Rochefort is the author of
"French Toast: An American in Paris Celebrates the Maddening Mysteries of the French and
"French Fried: The Culinary Capers of an American in Paris."
French Toast was hailed by the Los Angeles Times as "wise and devastatingly
funny". For world-famous chef Alain Ducasse, her second book French Fried
"in a lively and hilarious style ... gives an inside look at the world of
French cuisine and wine." Both books are published by St. Martin's Press.
She is currently working on her third book about the French.
Coming to Paris? Harriet gives
tailormade wine and cheese tastings to individuals as well as to university
groups. For more information, visit her webpages:
www.frenchfolio.com and
www.understandfrance.com .
If you've had some funny, startling, satisfying, or dismaying
food experiences in France you'd like to share,
you may contact Harriet directly at
harriet.welty@hwelty.com.
Editor's Note:
Dear Readers, while our writers are always
delighted to hear and to receive comments, both about their columns in the The Paris Kiosque,
as well as your experiences in Paris,
they are unable to answer requests for travel information.
Thank you for your understanding.
