Monsieur le Commandant (8 page)

The bombs dropped by your Luftwaffe on 8 June, Monsieur le Commandant, spared my home but cruelly ravaged the heart of my city.

All that was left of the beautiful buildings that had surrounded the market square was a pile of smoking ruins. The old Hôtel du Grand Cerf, dating back to Francis I and where Victor Hugo had dined, had gone up in flames from the incendiary bombs. Happily, the town hall, the silk factory and the glassworks had not been touched. Many people, on the morning of the attack, had fled to seek refuge in the neighbouring farms and villages; the rest had cowered in their cellars. There were casualties, whose sorry remains were exhibited in the market square. And some twenty soldiers had died in the fighting at the École Militaire and on their retreat down the former Avenue de la République (now Avenue du Maréchal Pétain), home to the Hôtel de Paris, the headquarters of your Kreiskommandantur. What was left of the French regiment managed to cross the Seine before blowing up the bridge, under fire from your incoming troops.

The first meeting of the Town Council took place on 24 June 1940, a few days after my return to Andigny. In the absence of Mayor Duplessis, who was still in the army, the occupying authorities appointed his secretary, Monsieur Métailié (who would later be so kind as to house me until I was restored to my home), to be his temporary replacement. On 10 July, in the course of a special meeting, eleven new members, including me, were inducted into the new Town Council (the ‘Provisional Commission for Communal Administration’). One of
our first decisions, adopted unanimously, was, at Monsieur Métailié’s suggestion, to reduce to two the number of municipal police officers – who are paid exclusively by the commune, which was already under great strain – assigned to ensure law and order and compliance with the curfew, in collaboration with the Feldgendarmes. Moreover, as a member of the Provisional Commission, I wholeheartedly advocated the timely and effective implementation within our canton of measures with respect to Jewish businesses – the former Sub-Prefect Pierval having called us to order in November concerning the Galeries du Vexin furniture shop, whose owner lives in Lyons-la-Forêt and had failed to put up a sign indicating ‘Jewish-owned’ in his shop window.

Through my new duties at the town hall and my contact with my fellow citizens and the nearby farmers whom I have known since childhood, I was able to determine that the local population, while still reeling from a rout whose causes, both deep-rooted and immediate, it but poorly understood, was maintaining its dignity. With the exception of the workers who had lost their jobs, the populace resigned themselves with a certain patience to the privations and rigours of the coming months, and valiantly returned to work. The people of Andigny, whose patriotism had emerged revitalised by the ordeal, showed themselves to have faith in the Occupier. However, while they accepted the fait accompli, they nevertheless regretted that one provision of the armistice prevented them from hearing the voice of the French government, to which they remained faithfully devoted and whose declarations they endorsed. Political activity, including that of the trade unions, had come to a standstill.
Le Journal d’Andigny
, which is run by our friend Madame de Feuquerolles, soon resumed publication, continuing to vigorously promote nationalist ideas. Over the course of those months spent restoring order, I noted with satisfaction that the German military authorities generally worked
hard to support the French administration, fully recognising the utility of its efforts and the necessity of its involvement, which were in the interests of Germany itself.

In early August, I wrote a letter to Maréchal Pétain in Vichy, having the honour of knowing him personally in our capacities as fellow members of the Academy. I assured him of my deepest respect and unswerving support, and asked that my house be restored to me. I pointed out that I had long been among those who had dearly sought his return to government to save France from the abyss into which we had seen it sinking. And, in offering the services of my pen, I made a number of suggestions, including that of establishing a single party.

I also wrote: ‘The rebirth of France through work cannot be effected without the institution of a new social order based on trust and cooperation between owners and workers.
This new social order must overthrow the old way of doing things
– the policy of deal-making with Masonic, capitalist and international elements that has brought us to our current pass. The falling birth rate has compelled us to defend our territory with an unacceptably high ratio of North Africans, colonials and foreigners.
The French family must be restored to its place of honour
. The tide of materialism that overwhelmed France, the spirit of pleasure-seeking and ease are the deep-seated causes of our weakness and our surrender. We must return to the worship and practice of the ideal summarised in these few words:
God, Homeland, Family, Work
. The education of our young people must be reformed.’

I included with the letter a freshly printed copy of
La Grappe mystique
, dedicated to our Leader.

A week later, I received, care of Monsieur Métailié, a handwritten response
from Maréchal Pétain himself
. He thanked me for sending my book (which he looked forward to reading as soon as his labours at the bedside of our defeated and ailing Motherland allowed), and assured
me that he had taken the necessary steps for the use of my home to be restored to me: the Secretary of the Academy would send a request on the Maréchal’s behalf to the commander of the occupying forces. And he added:

Of course, I was hardly alone among my fellow academicians in proclaiming fervent support for the Maréchal. Not long afterwards, Claudel composed his splendid
Ode to Pétain
:

As soon as I regained possession of Villa Némésis – which Dr Hild, who had been living there, returned graciously and in impeccable condition – I telephoned Rue Richer to invite my family to spend a few days in Andigny. I missed my daughter-in-law. Olivier answered
the phone. He sounded awkward, and said that he wanted to talk to me face to face first. Ilse and Hermione could come later in the summer – that could wait. So my son arrived alone, by train. He insisted on talking to me in my office, beyond earshot of the servants. I offered him a chair, and listened to what he had to say, or rather to request.

He began by mentioning the law of 22 July: had I heard of it? I had, and had thought of it myself, but I pretended not to understand why Olivier should want to discuss it with me. As you may be aware, one of the new laws enacted in the summer of 1940, laying the foundations for a complete overhaul of the naturalisation procedures in force since 1927, stipulated that French citizenship could be revoked by decree upon the recommendation of a commission whose membership and functions were to be determined by the Minister of Justice. Olivier was visibly worried about Ilse, whose naturalisation in 1935 would inevitably be reconsidered, one day or another, by the aforesaid review commission.

I raised my eyebrow and asked, ‘Do you know of any reason why your wife’s French citizenship might not be confirmed?’

My son looked flustered. ‘No, but …’

I was playing with Olivier as a cat plays with a mouse: one takes one’s revenge where one can.

‘Well then,’ I said. He said nothing. I went on. ‘The law does not specify particular causes for revocation, other than if citizenship has been acquired “for opportunistic reasons” or to rectify past errors. Is there any chance that the commission will learn something about your wife that could prove to be a problem?’

Olivier reddened and mumbled. I felt sorry for him. I had, in fact, already given the matter some serious thought. I knew what had to be done to protect Ilse from the anti-Jewish regulations that I was convinced would soon enter into force, and with a new severity that in any case I approved of in principle. I rose, approached my son, and placed my hand on his shoulder.

‘You know that I’m on good terms with the Prefect of Police, Langeron. He and I are in the same social circle; he reads my books. I will call him and request an interview, which he will grant me. He is a cultured, courteous and conscientious civil servant, and will certainly know how to avoid having your wife’s file re-opened. Even if my efforts are unnecessary, since as you say, there is
no problem
.’

Impervious to irony, Olivier raised a radiant face to me and clasped my hand with gratitude.

‘That’s wonderful, Father! It will be such a comfort to me, when I …’ He hesitated.

‘When you?’ I echoed.

He kept my hand in his and, staring me in the eye, said in an exalted tone: ‘When I go away. It’s all decided, you see. I’m leaving with a friend. We have a connection. We’ll go first to Spain, and then by boat to London!’

So the idiot was planning to join de Gaulle! I asked him frostily if he, too, was determined to be condemned to death. To see himself stripped of the citizenship that he hoped to preserve for his wife, a foreigner. And he, a Frenchman! I trembled with indignation and fury. I ended up shouting that, just as the Maréchal had said, England would have its neck wrung like a chicken! Olivier responded by calling me a fascist. Enough was enough. I bellowed that if he betrayed his Homeland, as well as the wife and daughter whom he was abandoning like a coward, then he was no longer my son. I cursed him. Olivier slammed the door to my office on his way out and found his own way back to the station, without even visiting the cemetery to pay his respects at the tomb of she who had given him life.

That was two years ago. I haven’t seen him since. The next day, I merely called to ask Ilse to tell him who was no longer my son that I would keep my promise to arrange a meeting with the official we had spoken about.

The Prefect, Roger Langeron, is a dignified man, who has all my respect and good will, and I was sorry to see him arrested (on the basis of a misunderstanding) and replaced. Certainly, the only failing of which one might accuse that humanist is that of having been somewhat half-hearted in his application of the firm measures required by the situation, and called for in dealing with the Jewish leper.

The elite functionary, who at that time had been running the capital’s police force for six years and had completely overhauled its functions and methods, adapting them to the changing and growing needs of an ever-evolving Paris – it was he who created the post of officer of the peace, the mobile superintendency and the flying squad of the Judicial Police – received me in his office one morning in September 1940. Behind him, the entire wall was covered by a map of the capital, on which each building was drawn in perspective. We could see the Seine from his window. I explained to Monsieur Langeron that my daughter-in-law, born in 1913 to a respectable, middle-class Berlin family, the Wolffsohns, had married my son in 1934 and assumed French citizenship the following year, pursuant to the 1927 law. And although there was certainly no reason to be, I was concerned – most vaguely, to be sure – by the idea that her file might be subject to review.

Monsieur Langeron’s intelligent eyes sparkled behind his delicate glasses, above which sat thick, coal-black eyebrows that almost looked as if they had been drawn with a paintbrush, and a smooth crown, while beneath a straight, equally dark moustache, his thin lips broke into an amiable smile. It suddenly occurred to me that the Prefect rather resembled the actor Groucho Marx, and how amusing it would be if he turned out to be Jewish.

‘My dear Monsieur Husson,’ he exclaimed with open arms. ‘Do you know how many people might be subject to this review?’

I confessed my ignorance.

‘About nine hundred thousand! And have you any idea how long it will take the Commission, with its meagre staff, to look into every case?’

The Prefect smiled at me, then sighed.

‘Four, five years, I would say …’
6
Pulling a sheet of paper from a folder lying on his desk, he pointed out certain lines.

‘You see, we shall proceed by year, in an order whose logic defies me. The Commission, God knows why, decided to start with 1936, the year of the Popular Front. The years 1939 and 1940 will be next, then 1937 and 1938, followed by 1927 up to 1935, the year that concerns you. So your daughter-in-law’s case won’t come up until … 1945, perhaps?’

Bringing the tips of his long, spatulate fingers together, Monsieur Langeron leaned forward.

‘Madame Husson wouldn’t have anything to hide from us, by any chance? Concerning her religion? I ask because the Commission’s main task will be to denaturalise Jews.’

I feigned indignation.

‘You know my views, Monsieur le Préfet. You certainly won’t find any Yids in my family.’

His face grew sullen at these words. He dryly shut the folder.

‘So much the better for you, Monsieur Husson. Because the situation is hardly going to improve for the Israelites. Nonetheless, for the sake of a writer of your stature, and that of your daughter-in-law, who is no doubt a most respectable individual, I am prepared to make her file disappear … if that is what you wish.’ He gave me a probing look. Monsieur Langeron waited, observing me with some interest.