Bob was going to be in Paris for four or five days before going to Zurich for a week to see his girl, and since he had not yet taken a room, I put him in one of my two extra beds, thereby lowering the price of the room to $1.30 per person per day. We settled our plans immediately: as soon as he returned from Zurich, we would start for Denmark in the car I was in the process of obtaining, a Peugeot 403. We would stop in Holland, where he knew some people who, he said, would be glad to put us up. After Denmark, we would go wherever we felt like going.
When Bob had hung up his clothes, we decided that since the night was, if not exactly young, at least no more than middle-aged, we would go up to Pigalle and have a drink and look around and listen to the raucous cries of the multitudes of importunate prostitutes.
Even now, Pigalle enjoys great notoriety all over the world. Just after the war, it was known to American soldiers as Pig-Alley, where any and all pleasures, of the flesh, of the taste, and of the eye, could be had for a nominal fee. For the man who was weary of active sex, there were the exhibitions, private showings, by from one to five people, of every conceivable sexual diversion. For the less affluent, there were the movies, the "skin fliks," or a tour through one of the brothels that had windows or glass doors in certain rooms, affording the curious visitor a few vicarious thrills.
Although the law has put a stop to some of the more extreme activities in Pigalle, a great deal still goes on, some within, some beyond the law. And the girls, though theoretically prohibited from flaunting their wares on the sidewalks, manage to advertise effectively. Bob and I wandered around, fascinated by the innumerable propositions, threats, cajoleries, and tales of family woe.
"Hey, boy," said a dirty, wizened old man, "you wan' see feelthy pictures?"
"I take my own," said Bob.
As we walked out of a small side street onto one of the broad avenues, we noticed a large, noisy crowd gathered around a cafe. The people were all swarthy, and most of them sported black mustaches.
"Algerians," I said. "I think we'd better steer clear."
"Wait a minute," said Bob. "Maybe there'll be some action."
Suddenly we heard the braying eee-yaaww siren of a police wagon, and a black truck careened around the corner and screeched to a stop. Policemen poured out of the back of the truck, swinging their lead-weighted capes into the crowd, pushing the people away with the muzzles of their submachine guns.
When the crowd had moved away, one man stood alone by a table. He was a tall man, dark-skinned and very erect. A policeman motioned to him to put up his hands. Slowly, with a deliberateness that was more mockery than obedience, he raised his hands. The policeman lifted the man's jacket and went quickly over his body checking for weapons. The man began to drop his hands.
"Keep them there!" snapped the cop.
"Ah, ta gueule," said the man, more bored than angry.
The words were not out of his mouth before a cop kicked him from behind. He sprawled forward on the street. Two policemen grabbed his arms and dragged him toward the truck while the others kept the crowd at bay with their guns. They threw the man into the truck, and all the policemen piled in after him. The driver started the engine. A policeman slammed the tailgate, sat down, slid the bolt on his machine gun, and pointed it at the crowd as the truck jumped to a start and sped away, its siren screaming a warning to everyone on the street.
Feeling that he had had enough "action" for the time being, Bob left Paris for Zurich on July 13, purposely avoiding the holocaust that he knew Bastille Day would produce. He was not alone. For days before the 14th, the highways leading out of Paris were jammed, the trains full, and airplane reservations almost impossible to obtain.
The French run from Paris on the anniversary of the French Revolution the way Americans run from the city on Labor Day. But they are not running to something, to a quiet weekend in the country or a gay party in the Loire valley, as much as they are running away—from the madhouse that Paris becomes on Bastille Day.
All day the city was alive with noise. Before, during, and after the parade up the Champs Elysees, people threw firecrackers and cherry bombs, exploded rockets, smashed glasses, and sang in the streets. I had dined with some friends, and after dinner we went to the He de la Cite to watch the fireworks display over the Seine. Launching stations had been set up on both sides of the river, and blue and red and yellow rockets arched over the water and exploded above Notre Dame. When the display was over, five of us climbed into an open car and began the drive up the Champs to Fouquet's, the venerable cafe where we were going to have a Bastille Day drink.
Evidently, everyone else in Paris had the same idea. The jam started on the lower end of the Rue de Rivoli and extended all the way up to the Arc de Triomphe. We were caught in the middle of it, and could go neither forward nor back nor to either side.
I was sitting up on top of the back seat when someone screamed "Look out!" I ducked as a cherry bomb flew by my head and exploded on the hood of the car next to us. "Encore un!" said a girl sitting with me, and I looked helplessly at the red ball as it came straight down toward the open car. The driver hit it away with his hat, screaming, "Salaud! Oh! la vache. Salaud!" The bomb exploded beside the car and seared the paint. The two boys who stood on the sidewalk throwing the bombs roared with laughter. The driver started to get out of the car, but just then the traffic began to move and he sat back in his seat.
Twenty minutes later we reached the bottom of the Champs Elysees, having traveled some three hundred yards. People were standing on the tops of cars, screaming at one another. Girls were perched prettily on the hoods, smiling at everyone. Then, as a gesture of anger and frustration, one man blew his horn. It was a short beep, and not very loud, but that was unimportant. The law had been broken, someone had set the precedent, and suddenly, almost on cue, everyone blew his horn, until the skein of traffic was snarling and barking and whining at itself in an orgy of futile French passion.
It took us an hour and three-quarters to get to Fouquet's. A time-distance comparison later indicated that we might have made it in less time had we rolled eggs up the Rue de Rivoli with our noses.
When we left Fouquet's, I decided not to brave the traffic on the Champs Elysees again. I convinced the girl who was with me, Carol Harper, whom I had known slightly in college, that we could make better time on the subway, and we threaded our way through the crowds on the street to the nearest Metro station.
By midnight, most of the stations are empty. The clochards have been poked and awakened and sent on their way, and the ticket puncher slumps in her booth and either dozes or stares dreamily at the black mouth of the tunnel. Every twenty or thirty minutes, a train grinds and shrieks and bangs out of the blackness to a stop, opens one, maybe two, of its sliding doors, and disgorges a few people who shuffle down the platform and climb the stairs one by one, pulling on the railing with each step. When the train has gone, the ticket puncher is alone again, with no one to talk to except the seductive blond girls who grin down from the bra ads and whisper their message of love.
Carol and I got off at the Avenue Kleber station, and I took her arm as we started up the stairs. We turned right at the landing which joins the stairways from either side of the tracks into one bank of twenty steps leading to the street level. Suddenly Carol stopped. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, and she pointed at the third stair. There, nestled against the wall, was a red metal can with rounded edges. I had never seen anything like it.
Carol finally managed to speak. ''What is it?" she said.
"It's probably a bomb," I said, only half joking. "We'd better get past it. Come on." I nudged her forward.
"No!" she said, yanking her arm away. "I bet it is a bomb. I—"
Before she could finish the sentence, the swinging doors at the top of the stairs flew open and five policemen rushed down toward us. Their submachine guns bounced wildly on their hips. Carol grabbed my shoulders and backed against the wall, shielding herself from the object.
&n
bsp; The policemen gathered around the can. Four of them pointed their guns at it, and the fifth, the youngest-looking, stood a few steps above it, an arm half raised in uncertain defense. For a moment they said nothing, but stood crouched at the ready with the muzzles of their guns focused on the can.
"Plastique?” said one.
"You think?" said another.
"How do you know?" said a third.
"Je ne sais pas, moi," said the first. "I was just asking."
"And you, what do you think?" said a fourth cop to the young one.
"I don't like it," he said, moving up another step.
"I didn't ask if you liked it. It's all the same to me if you like it or don't. But what do you think it is?"
There was no reply.
The fourth policeman started to speak again, then decided against it. He leaned toward the can with one finger outstretched. I started to edge up the stairs.
"No!" snapped Carol. "Don't move any closer." She held my shoulders tighter. I felt my hands go clammy, and sweat ran into my eyes. I thought of diving for the lower staircase and the protection of the corner, but the finger was already too close to the can. We should have run immediately we saw it, but it was a little late to think of that now.
When the finger was no more than half an inch away from the can, the policeman stopped. He turned his head and smiled nervously at the barrel of a machine gun pointed at his hand. Then, very gently, he touched the object. He jerked his finger away and put it to his tongue.
"What does it taste like?"
"Strawberry or raspberry?" said the young one, with a choked laugh.
"It is," said the policeman momentously, "painted metal."
"Bravo. But what in the name of God is it?"
"How should I know?"
"You tasted it."
"So what does that prove?"
"Then why did you taste it?"
"Why not?"
"Now listen ..."
Slowly, I maneuvered Carol and myself down around the corner.
"Now what?" she said when we had the corner between us and the can.
"We'd better go down to the bottom."
"Why?"
"If it is a bomb, and if it does go off, the ricochets would get us here."
"We'll have to stay down there all night?"
"No. They'll do something about it soon. Even if they don't, we can take the subway to the next stop."
"You're sure, are you?" she said. "Maybe they've stopped running."
"Look, if you'd gone up with me in the first place, we'd be out of here and home having a drink."
"Oh, shut up!"
"Ta gueule."
"What does that mean?"
"Never mind."
"You know, sometimes you—"
"Ssshh! They're deciding." I knelt down and peeked around the corner. The policemen were arguing.
"Well, somebody has to do it," said the one who had tasted the metal.
"Then do it," said one of the others.
"I already touched it," he said. "It's up to someone else."
"Why don't you defuse it?"
"Defuse it, mon cull It probably doesn't even have a fuse."
"Then why hasn't it gone off?"
"Maybe it isn't a bomb."
"So pick it up and carry it, then."
"You pick it up," said the first policeman. "I outrank you."
They fell silent. Then, as if the thought occurred to all of them at once, the four who were pointing their guns at the can looked at the youngest, who still had his arms raised.
The one who spoke, spoke very softly. "C'est a toi, mon petit," he said. "It's up to you."
The young man looked horrified. "Moi! Pourquoi moi?"
"Because you are the youngest," said the policeman, with the gentleness of an understanding parent.
The young man looked from one pair of eyes to the next, but he found no encouragement. He walked slowly down the steps and stood over the object. Desperately, he turned around and tried to speak, but all he could utter was a strangled "Mais . . ." He bent down and cupped his hands. Gingerly, he lifted the can and held it at arm's length, turning his head to the side. The four other policemen raised their guns, and the troop started up the stairs.
Carol and I waited for the explosion. We heard a door slam, an engine start, and a truck drive away. Then, almost as an afterthought, the loud eee-yaw, eee-yaw of the siren began, and the sound echoed down into the station with an eerie hollowness.
2
The day before Bob returned from Zurich, I picked up my car. Among the "optional extras" on French cars are such frivolities as an ignition key, an ignition lock, and a side mirror, so I spent hours having these devices installed, trying the while to determine how the French keep their cars from being stolen. I finally concluded that they don't care.
The weather was still fine, and I decided to give Peugeot her maiden voyage on a one-day trip to the beaches at Normandy.
To my generation, World War II is a strange and distant phenomenon. Our families were in the war, and some of us lost an uncle or cousin or even a father. But at the age of three or four or five, one's interest is almost exclusively in oneself, and the loss was not staggering. We didn't comprehend it. We cried only because Mother was crying. We had a sense only that something was wrong. When Mother put it right by smiling bravely, everything was okay. Daddy was a stranger. When he came home and made Mother happy, we were probably jealous because he was taking her attention away from us. When he left and made her cry, we probably hated him for hurting her. Not the most sympathetic of characters to a three-year-old.
All our familiarity with the war has come from books and movies. We can't look on it as truly horrible, because all the movies made it romantic. All sergeants either looked like John Wayne or were killed before the picture ended. Some Americans died, sure, but they died performing such acts of bravery that they must have died happy. All nurses were beautiful, and as ghastly as Guadalcanal was, there was always a nurse to be found somewhere. She would be trying to forget, and thus she would be cold and brave and silent. But she could be won, just like everything else.
To us, the war is not real. And so, as I drove north from Paris, I tried to forget John Wayne and to concentrate on what facts I actually knew about the invasion of June 6, 1944. I remembered Cornelius Ryan's The Longest Day, the descriptions of the men riding across the channel, the needless and absurd drownings and crashes and bunglings, the heavy losses in the first wave. Still, the losses meant nothing to me. They were statistics. Five thousand killed here, five thousand there, but five thousand whats? Five thousand names, none of which affected me in the slightest.
The cemetery sits high on the cliffs. The graves are arranged in neat rows, crosses and stars of David three or four feet apart. All the monuments are the same—clean, white stones—and the inscriptions are uniformly simple—name (when known), rank, dates of birth and death. It is a military cemetery, and as such it is orderly and beautifully kept.
I first began to realize what I was seeing as I walked between the rows of graves and noticed the dates of death. It was not like a regular cemetery; there were no people here from 1904, 1915, 1935. There were no old men. There were no women. "June 6, 1944; June 6, 1944; June 6, 1944; June 7, 1944; July 25, 1944; June 6, 1944; June 6, 1944; June 8, 1944; July 3, 1944; June 6, 1944." It didn't seem possible that all these lives could have stopped at once, that one day could have extinguished so many plans and hopes. The war began to mean something more than statistics.
But it was not until I stood on the edge of the cliff that I felt any connection between the crosses in the cemetery and the war itself. The sky was gray, and a brisk wind blew off the channel, as it had blown seventeen years before. Two landing barges lay on the beach, rusted and partly covered by sand. German obstacles stuck out of the choppy water, grotesque bits of twisted steel that could sink a small boat or impale a man. On the 6th of June, 1944, the men who lay not ten yards behind me ha
d crouched in their boats not a hundred yards in front of me and tried to put the thought of death from their minds. They were seasick and homesick and frightsick, but they could not believe that they were going to die. It might be the other guy, might be the lieutenant or the sergeant or even a buddy, but never oneself. They landed in front of me and fought below me and died, many of them, where I stood, and now they lay behind me. It was all there, the whole story from start to finish.
For the first time in my life, I, only a year or two away from being a war baby, understood that a war—a real, honest-to-God war—had taken place. . . .
Bob returned from Zurich on July 18, starry-eyed and not looking forward to being away from his young lady. We spent one last sodden evening on the town, and at eight o'clock the following morning set out for Amsterdam.
The route from Paris to Amsterdam crosses a large part of Belgium, and the scenery is nothing short of dingy. Dark, characterless red brick houses line the road through every small town. The road was clear and we made good time, but the unending drabness depressed us. Even though the day was lovely, we felt as though it were raining.
We spent the night in Brussels, and we were somewhat revived by the brightly lit squares and the crowds of lively people that clustered around the cafes. After dinner we wandered through the streets until we came to a noisy cabaret, where we passed the rest of the evening watching an absurd striptease performed by a woman who began her act dressed as a witch and ended it by writhing on the floor, naked except for the cache-sexe, the token covering demanded by law.
In Holland we stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Jan Roijan in a summer house in Noordwijk aan Zee, a small resort town outside Amsterdam. Bob had written ahead, and the Roi-jans, friends of his family, had replied that they would be glad to put us up for as long as we could stay.
Since the weather turned poor the day we arrived, sending a chill wind off the North Sea and clouding the sun for five days, we didn't swim. During the day, we rode horseback and walked among the remains of the German bunkers that line the beach.