The War. Part I: Roger

A lot of people don’t realize is that France was divided into two zones in the first half of World War II. That changed at the time of the American invasion of North Africa in November of 1942, when the Germans panicked and occupied the south of France as well, including Avignon. From 1940-42, the “free zone” was governed by the collaborationist regime of Vichy, the head of which was the World War I hero, Maréchal Petain. My mother for many years could recite the song French children had to sing in homeroom, “Maréchal, nous voila!” extolling him as the leader who “saved” France in the “Great War,” and whose rapid capitulation in 1940 was justified by at least Paris being spared the kind of bombing that leveled Warsaw.

By the time the occupation of the south was upon them, an interesting shift began to occur in my mother’s family.  Her older brother, Roger, a college student at the start of the war, gradually became the psychological and moral center of the household. He was blessed with extraordinary intellect, charisma, and a dry but equally sly sense of humor. Although he was already battling kidney disease, he was a young Catholic idealist, and energized by the battle for the soul of Europe so fundamentally threatened by Nazism. 

Everyone looked up to Roger, even my grandfather. Apart from worrying about the health of his tubercular wife (he had lost his brother Regis to the disease years before) it was all he and his brother Jean could do to keep the store going by finding material for shirts to make and sell, the finest of which were reserved for those with whom he could barter for enough food to feed his family in the face of the inadequate rations parceled out to occupied Europe. He might have toyed with resisting, but  many family heads were forced to walk a section of the tracks around Avignon at night to catch saboteurs. Had any trains been blown up on his route, their family would have been shot. (I could have sworn my mother told me that this happened to my grandfather, but no one else in my family can confirm it; still it was a constant fear one's family would bear the brunt of any action against the Germans.)  My grandfather knew that his son engaged in resistance activities, and certainly admired him for it. But the most he could do to help was look the other way when Roger used the top floor above to store for clandestine meetings. If my grandfather ever knew the Mottets across the street were hiding Jews (they were – the Hallensteins) he would never have denounced them, but neither would he have ever considered hiding Jews himself. That was a bridge too far. Roger was, by all accounts, singularly self-assured and deeply kind. My Aunt Francoise, whose self-published memoirs are indispensable to this account, tells of being taken by him up to the beautiful park (Le Rocher des Doms) above Avignon so he could study as she played.  On a bench, a Wehrmacht soldier sat next to him, and proceeded to engage in small talk. My uncle, who was always willing to practice his German, spoke to him at length, discovering that he was a former farmer who was reminded, seeing the little Francoise, of the young daughter he left back in Bavaria. He pulled out a picture and waxed rhapsodically about his child, as Roger listened attentively.

On the walk home, Francoise, all of 6 or 7, was truly livid. The men in the green uniforms were devils to be spit upon. How could her brother have spoken to him? “He was just homesick,” said Roger. “Homesick for his little girl.” He explained patiently that there were always good people amongst bad, and vice versa. (Years later I wondered if he hadn’t been trying to wrangle intelligence from the soldier, but I was assured that his refusal to dehumanize any individual—even the enemy—would have absolutely been his sole motivation.) I bring up this story because I saw the same trait so many times in later years from my mother. She ended up teaching in a fairly tough high school in the 70s. There were some angry kids with behavioral issues – mostly poor kids, usually African-American. All I ever heard her say about a difficult student was “that one has a bit of a chip on his shoulder.” Never once was did I hear even an obliquely reference to race, never once did she see the “attitude” with which she was confronted as anything more than a defense mechanism by someone who’d learned it as a survival tool. And when we kids – who went to the same high school – saw things in simpler terms, she always explained how essential empathy was as a human value, to always, always, try to imagine the experience of others.

These “problem kids” almost always came around. They may not have excelled in her class, but they invariably told her she was the nicest teacher they ever had.  She always saw the person, never the stereotype, and my siblings and I have always striven to emulate her.

Roger’s kidney disease did exempt him from “service” in la Force Ouvrière, the battalions of conscripted labor sent to work in Germany. This dispensation allowed him the freedom to secretly distribute copies of the underground newspaper, Témoignage Chrétien (Christian Witness), and on one unfortunate train trip  copies were found in his unmarked luggage. He denied the bag was his, but was still arrested, After several days in jail, he was only saved by the intervention of his future father-in-law, Pierre Ferran, a powerful judge in the mountain city of Rodez.  Roger conducted his work even more discreetly afterwards, often staying with the family of his fiancé, Annie, in the village of Arsac.

One such letter survived and has become part of the family canon. When my mother first showed it to me in the 70s, my jaw dropped, as I first took quite seriously the notion that she’d once had such an extraordinary suitor as the one invented by Roger. (The giveaway was the breathless and ornate style, one that I have tried to honor in the following translation.)

"La Chapelle Graillouse, 5 August 43 

My dearest sister,

First, I ask you to summon all the composure you can muster, for what follows must be considered with the coolest of heads and steadiest of nerves. I won’t minimize the gravity of the news: your entire future is at stake.

The Grand Duke Alexander has asked for your hand in marriage. The letter addressed to me with this proposal arrived last night at St. Nectaire--where the Duke has prolonged his stay despite his previously stated intention to return to South America on August 1st. I have not yet spoken of this to Mother, judging it best not to unnecessarily expose her frail constitution to such dramatic possibilities. There will be time enough to acclimate her if your answer is positive: otherwise it will be better if all this remains between us. 

I will first share some of the significant passages of his letter; though discretion dictates that I abjure recounting some parts of it. His Highness felt compelled to confess (I might add with a charming if slightly delirious lyricism) certain so-called “sins” of his youth, the details of which might prove indelicate for the ears of a well-brought-up young lady. I think we should, in any event, overlook these transgressions, some of which might even be exaggerated for effect. (It goes without saying that a man such as the Grand Duke should be granted every forbearance.)

What follows is a faithful transcription of the letter’s main passages, with a few parenthetical remarks in brackets I believe are the prerogative of an older brother to interject. I will leave it to you to “hear” it with the the peculiar cadences of a singular Hispano-Russian accent with which he would have expressed himself if his sentiments had been conveyed in person.

"Very dear friend, it is time I reveal to you the spark of the flames that have thawed my frozen heart with so such matter [‘so such matter’ is an slightly odd phrase of unclear meaning he uses often, perhaps literally translated from one of his many maternal tongues.] The source of my joy and anguish is none other than the little bird of the tundra [his pet name for you, my dear].  I lead now but an embalmed existence, awaiting her sun behind my shuttered solitude. [I suspect he may have spent too much time alone in one of his capacious haciendas de las pampas.] Life without Her [his capitalization!] is just a hellish dream from which I hope to soon awake, blinded by the brilliant glory of the morning dew on her quivering brow!

Give me to drink, dear friend! Quench my parched lips with the light of her beauty! As the new Grand Duchess, there will servants to attend to her every whim and caprice, stables of the finest Arabian horses, tables laden with every delicacy imaginable... For her will be the jewels that once belonged to Catherine Alexandrovich, whose untimely death I need not remind you granted to me considerable wealth in perpetuity. [Perhaps we shall have a solicitor carefully look over the will—just a thought.]

You know, my friend of the bosom, there is nothing, no so such matter [again, that peculiar expression] of villainy that I would not undertake to satisfy the flame of my passion! [One hopes he confused “effort” with “villainy.”] I'm a fearsome man when this heartsickness comes upon me like a demonic fog [I think a reference to the "aura" he claims to perceive before his epileptic crises] but I know your bewitching sister can tame the demons that possess me! You see, it's not a man I urge you to make “el más feliz de hombres,” it is a soul you must save from hell!” [Did I mention he a tad prone to hyberbole?] 

His Highness continues in this vein for sixteen and a half pages—in an unusually large cursive with slightly Cyrillic flourishes. I cannot to do his prose justice by summarizing it, but I probably should add something about his acknowledgement of the difference in your social classes. It’s nothing that should really surprise anyone familiar with the conditioning inherent in a certain kind of royal education, but it would be well to prepare you for a sensibility that is rather foreign to our egalitarian French ideals: "By marrying a proletarian girl I will not dishonor my blood because my blood makes pure everything it touches!” [He means “commoner” of course, his use of “proletarian” reflects a fascination with the scandalous radical leanings of his father, the late Grand Duke, rumored to be the patron of Trotsky himself during his exile in Mexico. His Highness considers himself above politics, of course, I call him “His Highmindedness” – which might be considered insolence in any but a future brother-in-law.]

And now, I must advise you on a course of action. After much consideration, I think it would be the height of folly to decline his proposal. You will not likely encounter another opportunity to escape from the petit-bourgeois world whose suffocating choke-hold you have so often lamented. His Highness is offering you a life of unimaginable luxury—transatlantic crossings in grand ocean liners, international casinos where great sums are lost and won in the bat of an eyelash, so many royal receptions that the wardrobe fittings alone will border on the tedious. Admittedly, he has perhaps what one might term a strong personality, but how much lighter will be the burden of his excesses to bear than if you found yourself tied for life to some coin-scraping shopkeeper? (I believe Montesquieu said: “What is vice in a tenant farmer is mere eccentricity from the owner of palatial estates.” And if he didn’t, he should have.)

That you will look back and wonder if you made the right decision is inevitable – such is the nature of marriage. Of one thing I am sure:  any regret you may feel if you choose the life of a Grand Duchess will pale in comparison to the regret you will feel if you do not. 

But of course, the decision is yours, lucky ‘little bird of the tundra.’ I look forward to conveying your answer as soon as possible.

Tenderly,

Your Brother”

Apart from its brilliant wit, this letter speaks to me of the great love Roger had for my mother, manifested in a desire to make her laugh, to remind her that someone close to her knew that she was just a teenager still, with hope and fantasies that no war could extinguish.

MCO 2015