57.

May 8th again.

A grey day. There has been a storm during the night; the wind rattled the shutters and old window panes and plane and poplar twigs strew the square. The Mayor again brings out his piece of paper and, as his hands shake, he rests the sheet on his growing belly and reads out his speech. It is moving nevertheless. No one sings the Marseillaise this time but it is piped through two speakers and we stand to attention. I feel a bit of a fraud. Mme J. is more confused than ever, sings, then falters and listens. She grumbles to anyone who attends to her, after the 2 minutes silence, that the young have no connection with the past. Quite whom she means by the young is unclear. There were certainly folk in their 20s and 30s still perusing the stalls, pointing and chatting during the ceremony. Someone agrees and says that litter is a big problem now. Somehow they have made that connection. They are going on a trip to Austria soon, where it is cleaner than clean, they say. Taxes are high and there are heavy fines for littering, but that is worthwhile, they add. I say, you should see England; this is unsoiled here, in comparison. A few tutt and move on. They are rarely interested in England and my comment only confirms their apathy.

Back in the hamlet for the afternoon it is muggy and warm. I ask Emile, when his rotovator is quiet, whether he used to attend the ceremony. ‘ Pfftt’ he answers. I wait, sure of elaboration. ‘What’s the point? Same thing each time; Mayor just a bit more pissed.’

‘That`s surely the point, though, Emile, the same reminder each year for the victory in Europe’.
‘I`ll tell you what does change and depressed me each time I went: the number of faces which disappeared. Too much like an empty mirror. I was only a thought during the war but I don’t want to be the only one left here who remembers my father describing a squad of German soldiers marching across the square.’

This must be the longest statement I have heard from Emile and I am impressed with the imagery.

I tell him that I had talked with Mr. Benoit, who told me that he had joined the resistance when he was 17 years old and hid in the forests above, taking drops from the allies.

‘I`ll tell you about him another time, Emile hints, ‘ but I have to go look at the cattle now’.

I feel pleased with this conversation and sit on the roof, listening to the afternoon sounds: mowers, tractors, birds, dogs, children. Only 12 houses and all this life.