My little one, I’m going to go for a walk and think about you. I’m too wrought up to write. Perhaps during the evening I’ll begin a narrative letter, that I’ll continue tomorrow — and that will partly reproduce my diary. Finally, you should know that I’ve had just one postcard from the Kos. sisters, saying that they almost left for Bordeaux but in fact have remained at Laigle, where all is calm once more. I’ve had a shoal of letters from Bost, the last dated 28 June: he’d been evacuated to Avignon, then to Carpentras — and was still very tired. I think he’ll be sent back to his family very shortly. Bienenfeld’s still in Quimper, I think. That’s everything about people.
My little one, I’ve really undergone the most complete and varied test of my love for you. There’s enough to satisfy a heart. You suddenly seem so close that it brings tears to my eyes, just as, when I was leaving Paris on that fateful 10 June, I felt as though I were being wrenched away for the last time from yourself in the flesh. Between the two, I’ve thought of you almost always as yourself, separated from me — but also as the essential, undefined condition of my own life. But when I climbed into M. Bienenfeld’s car, I lost the sweetness of our love — all concrete, and tender, and full, as it is in your presence (I pictured you in summer clothes, walking down the street and smiling at me in the distance) — and it’s only now that I’m recovering it. My love. I’ll recover you — concretely — on a street corner, with your face, your smiles, your little body and your determined step. I love you, my sweet little one.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Thursday 11 July [1940]
My love
I’ve already written you two letters in the course of today, but I’m afraid they may not arrive — because I fear I may have forgotten ‘9th Company’ in the address — which would be stupid. Perhaps you’ll get them all the same, though, if you warn the Mails Orderly. I’ve no real idea what a prisoner-of-war camp is like. Paris-Soir carried a lengthy description of the one at Pithiviers, but it still didn’t tell one all that much. It was stated in the article that visits are allowed, so as soon as I had your address I promptly had a moment of hope — but then I called in at the Gare de l’Est and there are no trains. So I’ll have to wait for you. Perhaps you’ll be able to write in a regular fashion now — that would change my life so much. At any rate, it’s already changed entirely by virtue of the fact that I’ve had that little note. Since this morning I haven’t stopped turning the envelope in my fingers. It’s strange and looks almost pathetic — with its pencilled writing, and the postmark, and the big stamp of the Paris military command. When I found it this morning, for a long while I remained unable to believe my eyes — and I still look at this little scrap of torn paper with a somewhat fearful amazement. I’d so like some details, my love — and for a genuine correspondence to be possible!
I’ll now embark on a detailed account of my own life. I’ll start with my return to Paris, because everything before that already seems very ancient — so although I’ll be returning to it, I’ll leave that for later — I’ll start with what’s most alive. Well, I arrived back on 29 June in the evening. I’d left La Pouèze like a whirlwind, as soon as I’d thought — foolishly, in fact — that perhaps you were already there in Paris and waiting for me. I spent two days on the journey — it was very interesting, and I’ll tell you all about it shortly — and was worn out, though also overcome by emotion, when I arrived at Rue Vavin. The good lady raised her arms to the sky when she saw me, and handed me a letter from you — dated 9 June — in which you seemed to be hale and hearty. I sobbed my heart out, of course, when I received it, both because of the letter itself and also because of my intense disappointment, for there was no note saying you were in Paris and I felt horribly lost and lonely. I had a good cry in my hotel room, then went out — since I wanted to go to the post office to ring your parents, and to call on the Bosts — but on the way I met my father sitting outside at the Daumesnil. He offered me a beer and a ham sandwich, which I really did need. I then left him and walked to St Germain-des-Prés, where I saw that the Flore was closed — which wrung my heart. But the Deux Magots was open, and I telephoned from there — to no avail, in fact — then went up to see my mother, who burst into tears at the sight of me. I had dinner there, but was chucked out promptly at 9.30, with an admonition to hurry home. Now I’ve grown quite accustomed to it, but that first evening it made a strange impression on me when — at a quarter to ten — I heard the loudspeaker giving a first warning, and again at 10 its imperious voice (curfew’s at 11 now, in fact, which leaves a greater margin). That evening I was low as could be: feverish, exhausted, and separated from you for Heaven knows how long. Luckily I found a detective story of sorts, which filled my mind till sleep came.
I woke up much less downcast. The weather was mild, and Paris — which the evening before had seemed like a vague, gloomy ‘somewhere on the planet’ — had recovered its individuality. I bought Le Matin, the sole survivor along with Paris Soir of the former newspapers (the choice is a happy one I find, don’t you agree?272). I sat down at the Dome and rediscovered my place near the front, my coffee, and my ‘Swiss pastries’ with raisins, just as they’d been a month before. I began writing in a big notebook that I’d just bought, and at about 10 set off across Paris. I called on your mother (hoping for news of you), but she wasn’t in; on C. Audry; on Sorokine — but saw only her mother. I tried in vain to ring Taverny. Passy was utterly empty. In a sense, that emptiness, that fine weather and that despair in my heart recalled the month of September — but there were countless differences in the situation and my way of feeling it. I returned towards the Latin Quarter, noting with satisfaction a great abundance of fruit, and of food shops generally, in the streets of Paris. Arriving in the Latin Quarter, I first installed myself at the Mahieu, then went to read at the Dôme — where I stayed until 6. The dominating theme of people’s conversations on the Métro, in cafes, on doorsteps, was — and has remained to this day — ‘Do you have any news?’ The washroom ladies at the Dome, and at the Trois Mous-quetaires too, asked after you, my love. All the women everywhere were complaining about not knowing anything. And the big question, the all-consuming question, was: ‘Will they keep the prisoners-of-war, or won’t they?’ For the Armistice terms are clear regarding those in Germany, who have to remain there till the end of the War; but regarding those in France, everything’s vague — so every kind of hypothesis was rife. I myself oscillated daily between one indication and another, my days serene or desolate depending on whether I thought I’d see you within a month or only when peace was signed. I can assure you it was astonishing: morning, noon and night that same litany everywhere — It’s hard, being without news.’ In the popular neighbourhoods, this was mingled with another refrain: If people had only known, they’d have stayed — they’d never have left!’
At about 6 I felt like talking to someone, so I called in at Avenue d’Orléans to see whether Zebuth had come back.273 She’d been at La Pouèze with me and had been really kind and nice, telling me to come and see her as soon as I arrived — so I did. I found her in her confectionery shop, which she’d just reopened. She’d just arrived, having had an excellent journey (in the company of ‘someone completely different’ whom I’d met at La Pouèze, and who’s very nice), leaving in the morning with petrol and reaching Paris without mishap. We chatted a bit, she lent me a few books, then I went and had dinner with my parents. When I got back home to Rue Vavin, I found Sorokine — who’d been waiting for me for almost three hours, and whom I had to keep there for the night. I was rather pleased to see her again. She’d tried to join me by bicycle, but had started out too late and been caught by the Germans, who put her in a lorry with her bicycle and sent her home again. She was so happy to meet up with me, and described to me in such terms her sorrows during the previous two weeks, that I was really moved. Only she at once annoyed me and appeared clinging by deciding to move in with me for a few days, and by declaring in a peremptor
y tone of voice that I was going to be happy and forget all my troubles, now that I’d found her again. She slept in my room, which - combined with my overwrought state — meant that I barely closed my eyes.
The next day, more from a frantic need for activity than from hope, I decided to go to Taverny for some news of Bost. I was afraid he’d remained in Beaune and been taken prisoner too. Actually, I didn’t really believe it — but I wanted to go to Taverny and find out. I also had some vague idea that he’d been discharged and sent home to recuperate. The project appealed to me because I had to do it on foot and it was a real expedition. The day began with a little drama, because Sorokine demanded to go with me. She wanted to take me sitting on the luggage-rack of her bicycle. But she also wanted to go and warn her mother, so she first took me to Pte de St Cloud — whereas I wanted to leave on the other side of Paris, by the Pte de la Chapelle. This little trip was tiring, and also persuasive — the bicycle was impracticable. Then she declared that she’d go with me on foot, and began pawing the ground — yet she was already complaining of a pain in her back. Into the bargain, while I was pushing her bicycle a parcel of provisions I was carrying slipped from my hands and something broke. That drove me really mad — I was trembling with rage. You’d laugh at me when I’m like that — which often happens to me with Sorokine (just with her) and is a sign of the nervous state I’m in at present: a nervousness I don’t feel when I’m alone, but which emerges as soon as she irritates me. I break things, I tremble, my voice becomes toneless — and once I almost slapped her. This time it wasn’t so violent — but sharp enough, even so, to scare her. Keeping mum, she merely accompanied me by Métro to the Pte de la Chapelle. As we’d left at 6 in the morning, it was despite everything still only 8 when I found myself confronted by the huge, arrow-straight, grey avenue leading towards Saint-Denis.
My love, I’m tired of writing. I’ll go on tomorrow. In my other letters I explained to you at length the state of my heart, but basically you know that. All the same, do put in a claim if you can — I think 9th Company was left off the address. Starting to write to you again seemed strange at first, but now it has become natural to me once more and every day I’ll write you a long letter. For the first time in ages I’ve had a moment of true, full happiness today: life’s beginning to be rebuilt, we’ll be reunited, and I’m as sure of you as of myself. We’ll be happy. We’ll work. We’ll think. We’ll talk. All that’s needed is a little patience.
My dear little one, how close you are to me, how living you are, how I love you! — you who are the necessary and the superfluous to me (the perfect synthesis of the universal and the particular, towards which the unhappy consciousness aspires according to Hegel and Monsieur Wahl). My love, I’ll see your dear expressions once more. I’ll kiss you. I’ll hold your arm. Come back to me quickly.
Your charming Beaver
[Paris]
Friday 12 July [1940] My sweet little one
How pleasing I find it to be able to write to you once more! It’s 9.30 in the morning, today there’s no school, I’m totally free. I’ve just had my breakfast at the Dome. The weather’s grey and even rather chilly. I started reading your L’Imaginaire — I’ve just reread the whole section on ‘The Certain’, and will shortly be tackling The Probable’. There were tears of affection in my eyes when I encountered the drawing of the little man running,— I’ve become quite weepy again since yesterday, with a little blur of emotion continually rimming my eyelids. My little one, I no longer think of anything but your little living silhouette that I’m going to see again. How I long to know what’s going on in your little head! How I hope it’s not too gloomy!
Speaking of L’ Imagmaire, have you heard that it was a big success in both Paris and the provinces? That the students were fighting over it?
I’ll tell you how I’ve been living, starting from where I left off yesterday. This is my fourth letter, not counting the postcard. I hope you’ve had them all, even though I forgot to put 9th Company on the first two. I can’t wait to get a letter from you, telling me that you’ve had mine. Then contact will truly have been restored. And after that you’ll come, my love.
So, on 1 July — which was a Monday — I found myself at 8 in the morning at the Porte de la Chapelle. I wanted to go to Taverny. There was a group of refugees waiting for lorries at the Métro exit, and lots of others on bicycles or walking, laden with baggage, starting up the broad avenue. I strode off, not thinking much about anything. At that time I’d had no news at all of the Kos. sisters, Bost or you — and my life was extremely unsettled. So I was happy to have to provide some motivated physical effort. I crossed St Denis and Épinay, then followed the banks of the Seine. I don’t know the outer suburbs at all well, so was interested in seeing them. Moreover, they had a kind of historic character, since that was the way the Germans had come a few days earlier, it was the way the tide of refugees from the Nord had flowed, and it was still full of refugees returning. All along the way, you continually heard the same refrain: ‘500 km. on foot, 300 km. by bicycle, so exhausted . . . we’ve come from Montauban, we’ve come from Toulouse . . . oh! if we’d only known, we’d never have left.’ People would recognize each other and pause on their way. A cyclist dismounted in front of a group of pedestrians laden with parcels: ‘Hey! your mother has been back three days already,’ etc. etc. The mails were not yet functioning at all, and even from Paris to the outer suburbs people felt miles away from one another — totally separated. Other people were asking for news of the house towards which they were making their way: ‘Nothing has been damaged, eh?’ and so on.
I walked a long way — especially since I stupidly veered off towards Argenteuil, which meant I made a 4-km. loop. That was where I encountered garden suburbs. It was a fine day, I ate petits-beurre as I walked, and I stopped for quarter of an hour in a bistro to drink lemonade and write a note to Bost. A woman was talking about her husband, who was in captivity but she didn’t know where, while two others were entreating some fellow to sell them some potatoes — but he was refusing stubbornly (they were in terribly short supply 10 days ago). I continued on my way, following the line of the railway. There were gardens full of gooseberry bushes — separated by meadows, and by wheatfields sprinkled with poppies — and a blazing sun. The odd thing was that gardens and countryside alike were alive and blooming, but the houses were dead. Every now and again, on the door of one of these sleeping villas, you could read a notice saying: ‘House inhabited’ — or, more often, “Bewohnf.
I arrived at the Vaucelles station, which couldn’t have been deader. What with all those cafès now closed, it seemed strange to recall that rainy day when I’d been there with Bost and it had all been swarming with people. I passed by the Pastor’s house.274 Its windows were wide open and on the gate hung the sign: ‘Bewohnt.’ (Bost has since written and told me how the Pastor, in some extremely heroic letters, had expressed his determination not to leave, whereas the Pastoress was simply dying to go and join her children at Laval.) I didn’t dare go in right away, but walked on to a cafè to wash and tidy up a bit, then wrote up my diary for an hour (which I’m partly copying out here for you) while finishing off my petits-beurre. After that, pretty intimidated by the idea of confronting the Pastoress, I nevertheless bravely proceeded to the house. Alas!, my poor, dear little husband, you’re going to be disappointed if you were licking your lips over the idea of that interview, since neither the Pastoress nor the Pastor were there: they’d left for Paris to see one of their daughters, and I found only an old housekeeper. At least I found out that Bost was not yet back. I set off again along a wide, tarred road bathed in sunlight, proud of myself because I’d done 25 km. in one go, in indifferent shoes, and was still setting off again cheerfully. All the same, I was hot and kept a weather eye open for cars. Two zoomed rudely straight past me, but the third — a little old crock with an open roof — stopped. The fellow eagerly told me to get in, because after doing 700 km. on a motorbike he’d ‘understood’ and wa
s only too happy to give someone a helping hand. Yet one more person who told me: ‘Oh, if I’d only known!’ He’d evacuated himself and his wife on the bike, and had returned from Montauban in the same way. The poor woman, who had a crooked spine, had been shaken about terribly. As for him: ‘I can tell you, Madame — since you’re getting on in years — that down there round my privates, I’m in the most frightful pain!’ It seems that in those departments that hadn’t been occupied, the prefects were at that time forbidding people to leave their department (on the pretext of famine in Paris). On the one hand, people were being advised to return home, while on the other gendarmes were posted on the borders between departments. People waited till night fell and the gendarmes left, then passed through all the same. He took me back all along the Seine. We passed by the île de la Grande Jatte — which struck me as incredibly poetic, since it had always been a legendary place for me that I’d never imagined materially existing somewhere. There were people boating and bathing, so that it had a strange holiday atmosphere. Moreover the season, people’s nonchalance, and the low value of time — all that gives the days a gratuitous air, rather charming but rather disturbing. Near a bridge, when the car came to a halt near a German lorry, a solid object struck me: a bar of chocolate thrown me by a German soldier. I alighted at the Neuilly bridge, where I made the painful discovery that I was completely stiff. I took the Métro, called in at the Dome to write up my diary, then returned to the hotel in Rue Vavin to sleep a bit. It was precisely then that I found an old letter from Bost — sent from Avignon — which wholly reassured me about his fate. I slept for a while, but at 6 Sorokine arrived in floods of tears because her mother had turned her out. First of all, as you’ll recall, she’d spent the previous night at my place, and then she’d told her mother she wanted to stay with me for a few days. Whereupon her mother — delighted, since she’s penniless — declared that this was perfect and I could simply keep her. The daughter said, between sobs, that she’d never again set foot in her mother’s house. As for me, I explained that I couldn’t maintain her — but we ended up with a compromise. I promised her 500 F. a month for three months, which is enough for her to live on in Paris or at La Pouèze, and she’ll go back to her mother’s in October. To offset this, I decided to live at my grandmother’s, for part of the time to eat there, and to have almost all my dinners at my parents’ place. In that way, I scarcely spend more than 20 F. a day on myself. Besides, I can tell you right away (you’ll see by and by) that money doesn’t bother me. We’ll get our June salaries for sure towards the end of this month, and the July ones probably a bit later — we’ll even have money left over. I had 1,000 F. in hand when I returned to Paris, since I hadn’t spent anything at That Lady’s, and if it takes me 1,000 to get through the month that will be the absolute maximum. I wondered anxiously if you’d actually received that money order. I think you must have, but I was very worried, since you’d certainly have found it useful to have a bit of cash on you. My God! how I’d like a real letter with some real news!