30 THE BEST DAY OF THE CENTURY
30
T HE B EST D AY OF THE C ENTURY
Everything ends. Hardly ever is it so sudden. In April, the antiaircraft sirens interrupted a Pierné Orchestra concert. They had just played a couple of bars from the third movement, and alarms began to sound from afar. First came the audience’s shock, after the doughy looks of the musicians. The Allied air force had been bombing the area surrounding Paris, and orders had been to take shelter as soon as possible once the sirens went off. The conductor, guessing at the hall’s anxieties, made a final gesture with the baton and left Wolfgang Amadeus hanging. Delphin Moureau turned to the audience. Conscious there were just as many Germans as there were Frenchmen in the hall, he made a measured speech:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the alarms instill caution in us. It might perhaps be good for us to leave calmly and seek shelter. Best of luck to everyone. As the maestro Mozart said, ‘No one knows how many days are allowed him. We have to submit to the will of Providence.’ Thank you for coming.”
When he looked back to pick up the musical score for Symphony no. 31 in D Major, half of the musicians had already left with their instruments in tow. Ferdinand hurried them to the basement of the theater. Others preferred to run to a metro station or try to get home and at the very least await the bombing lottery with their wives and children. In the bowels of the theater, some musicians crossed their fingers, others listened closely to try to hear the first plane before anyone else did, and still others prayed that the explosions would miss them by a wide margin. Those who’d escaped the Luftwaffe bombing four years earlier prayed that, in order to make it out of this one, their saviors would appear from the heavens to save them.
“These people make a lot of mistakes. You mean to tell me these pilots are English?”
“They seem more like Spaniards.”
“The other day, they tried to blow up a railway junction, and they took down two buildings with people inside.”
“If they’re supposed to save us, we’ll be waiting forever.”
“But what do you want? Better these guys than the Germans.”
“It was much worse then. Or did you forget, my friends?”
In the middle of the argument, the lights went out. The light bulb gave a flicker of warning, and suddenly, the bunker descended into pitch black.
“Ferdinand?”
“Dutronc? Are you here?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Do something ...”
“Fix this power outage, man. Don’t leave us in the dark.”
“Boys, I fear this isn’t limited to the theater.”
“You don’t even have a flashlight on you.”
“I carry only a handful of almonds in my pocket. Don’t you know that?”
“They must be hard as rocks. They’re the same ones you’ve had for years.”
“When you finally eat them, you’ll have shits like a sheep.”
“Can you all be quiet, holy hell,” someone who wasn’t in the mood for jokes shouted.
They spent hours locked up, until the lights went back on, until the sirens stopped ringing, and until some time had passed since a bomb hit. By the time silence fell, there weren’t any almonds left in Ferdinand Dutronc’s pockets. It was how he calmed his nerves, hoping that Margaux and Michelle were together somewhere safe. Sometimes, some of the musicians who were sitting on the ground whistled a melody, and someone had to guess what piece it came from. It was the game they played at every bombing.
“ Music for the Royal Fireworks by Handel?”
“Handel, yes. Not the work.”
“ Water Music. The first suite.”
Once it had been guessed, everyone came together to hum it at half volume. The murmured tune brought them so much peace. In the hall, they were an orchestra. Underground, they were a heart.
A few months later, Michelle’s coworkers at the Galeries Lafayette said, with a renewed enthusiasm, that what had happened in Normandy in early June was a blow against the Germans. The proof was that Radio Paris didn’t talk about how thousands of North American soldiers had landed. Maurice Chevalier continued to sing all day—sometimes an édith Piaf song would play—they discussed the vast cultural agenda of the city, they praised the German excellence, but they were silent about what had happened on the Atlantic Coast, under lock and key.
“Do you think they’re coming to save us?” asked a salesgirl, her arms folded.
“They say they are on the BBC. And there are more Englishmen than Americans.”
“But Normandy is really far. Do you know how many hours away it is from Paris?”
“The Germans have gotten nervous, that’s for sure.”
“They hardly come by here. They don’t buy anything anymore.”
“And they’re in a grouchy mood.” Marion became serious, raised her chin, and imitated a haughty grimace. “You just have to see them in the streets.”
“They don’t show up on the steps of the opera every day.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. The Wehrmacht ... What I’m trying to say is the Wehrmacht continues to parade down Champs-élysées every noon like nothing is happening.”
“They’ll be fleeing like rabbits.”
“They’ve been saying that for a while, but they’re not moving from here now.”
“There better not be a single one of these dogs left.”
“Nathalie, woman, they’ll hear you ...”
“We thought the Allied bombings would be our salvation, but—”
“Let’s trust in them a little more, dammit. They say Dunkirk is important.”
“The boys. Watch the boys in the street. The ones who play war games. Who do they want to be? Germans? They’re the good guys to them. The ones who win.”
“Because they haven’t seen anything else during these times, jeez ...”
“You listen to English radio. What does Churchill say on there?”
The chatting at the counter lasted until the angry mustached manager told them playtime was over. He’d had enough gossip, and they shouldn’t get too hopeful. The Germans weren’t going down without a fight.
But one thing did change with the general strike in mid-August. No one saw a big difference in the day-to-day, but there was a renewed air in the city. The fear of the Germans seemed to suddenly dissipate. As if their guts had grown larger, the police officers, the postal workers, and the heartiest in the city became emboldened. Barricades, planted left, right, and center in all the most strategic locations, hindered the movement of the Germans. But the Germans’ best weapon was their ability to endure, reorganize, and counterattack cruelly. When the resistance couldn’t hold back any longer, General Leclerc’s armed troops entered Paris through Porte d’Orléans. The republican Spaniards of the “La Nueve” division entered through Porte d’Italie. Eisenhower, the hero of D-Day and H-Hour, also sent the Fourth Infantry Division of the Allied troops to the center of the city. There was a sense of victory when the Allied forces arrived at H?tel de Ville on August 25.
The bells of Clignancourt began to ring. Soon, those of Saint-Sulpice, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and Notre-Dame followed. In every church, even more joyously. The ringing of freedom moved from the neighborhood to the streets to the cul-de-sacs of every arrondissement. People knew what had happened right away. They didn’t have to turn on the radio or listen to speeches. The joy surpassed the proclamations. Citizens celebrated by shouting in the courtyards. That August, women peeked out of wide-open windows and shouted as they hadn’t for four years. They liberated themselves in a way they had maybe never done before. They went down to the street without grabbing their keys and sang and danced. On the path to the city center, as if they knew there would be a big party in H?tel-de-Ville, people hugged neighbors, acquaintances, and people they’d just met. A sincere smile was enough to merit three kisses. Eyes were the password of victory.
No one knew anything for certain, but everyone put in their two cents.
“They say they’ve surrendered at Gare Montparnasse.”
“They haven’t had time to flee.”
“It seems like they’ve arrested the German General Staff.”
“Hitler ordered all the bridges on the river to be blown up, but they didn’t make it there on time.”
Everyone had their own rumors, that was for sure.
That Friday afternoon, French flags appeared everywhere. No one could have guessed that they’d had so many stored in the backs of their closets. The streets were blanketed in three colors: the blue of sky, the white of peace, and the red of blood spilled over the four years of a nightmare that had finally ended. Children clambered up walls and gates with feline agility to untie the red and black swastikas. Out with all the standards. By the afternoon, they’d rid the squares of swastikas entirely. In the buildings where officers had set up shop, no one could be found. In the hotels they’d made their own—Crillon, Le Meurice, Rapha?l, George V—one could catch only a glimpse of Nazis in their rapid escape. The general enthusiasm didn’t take long to mix with that of the soldiers who’d liberated them. They greeted, applauded, and received them like heroes, and suddenly, the soldiers’ weariness became nuanced. Their feet, sweltering inside their boots, seemed to not burn as hot. Women climbed up on the trucks full of soldiers and celebrated. Babies held up from their bottoms by their mothers wanted to climb the tanks as if they were fair attractions. Champagne also appeared everywhere, and whoever had it in hand drank straight from the bottle. In the improvised festivity, they passed it from one person to the next. Everyone shared in the ritual of winners. No one refused anything.
Michelle and Margaux left Montmartre, and, holding hands, they went to search for Ferdinand at the theater. Their feet raced down the sloping streets. Liberty made them run. The Chatelet, however, was at the center of the action, and it was difficult for them to get there. Not even a needle could fit between place de la Madeleine and place de la Concorde. The closer they got to city hall, the more people there were. They avoided the hundreds of bags of dirt that the resistance had positioned as barricades in the last weeks. On their journey, they sang “La Marseillaise” a couple of times and shouted, “Vive la France,” at the top of their lungs. When someone said, “Vive de Gaulle,” they joined in. When they heard, “Vive la liberté,” they echoed “Vive la liberté.” Margaux arrived at the theater with a flag in hand, the contagious excitement from the street, and a latent, deep-down thought of Damien. Did he know that Paris had been liberated? Would he return to the city? Was her love very far? Was Dédé alive or dead? After so many months without any news ...
The mix of emotions vanished when she hugged her father. Mother and daughter had entered the theater through the back door, and they found him toasting with three of the Chatelet’s workers, who, sitting on the backs of their chairs, discussed the small battles the resistance had fought.
“Look who’s here,” said one.
“A surprise for you,” said another who was facing them.
Ferdinand Dutronc turned and saw radiant Michelle and Margaux before him. Smiles, hugs, and teary eyes. His wife was wearing a beige blouse with pointed lapels, and his daughter was in a blue dress with a white-moon pattern. They were the most beautiful women in Paris. The three hugged, put their heads against each other’s, and stayed like that for a bit. They cried and laughed at the same time. The father, in order to hide his shaking, passed his hand through the hair of the two women. Together, they exorcised four years of misery. They’d been living lives that didn’t seem to be theirs. And they’d made it out. As a family. For that reason, they laughed and sobbed in a circle without holding back.
“Let’s go into the street, Father. Take off your uniform. Today’s not a workday. You have to see all of it.”
“Come with us, Ferdinand,” Michelle begged, her eyes pleading in a way meant for special occasions, as if to say, “Today is a day we’ll always remember.”
They walked among the crowd. They held hands so they wouldn’t lose each other. Margaux felt happy walking between her father and mother, like she had when she went to kindergarten. Everything made them laugh. Some men took off their ties, others threw their hats in the air. Many women removed their shoes and walked with them in their hands like they were carrying hunting trophies. Someone gave Ferdinand a small American flag, and he waved it before throwing it up and catching it midair as he had seen in Sienna the one time he’d traveled to Italy. A British soldier carrying a cask had put his feet in a fountain and wouldn’t leave, claiming it was the best day of the century. In a patchy French, he tried to speak to a statue, not realizing it was made of stone. “ La meilleure journée of this century,” he repeated, the woman ignoring him. He spent a while hugging her, and he still didn’t notice the coldness of the breasts he peeked at from the corner of his eye. Everyone around him was laughing. No one wanted to pull him out of his fantasy.
“They say de Gaulle will speak from that balcony,” someone said.
They looked for a place, even a remote corner, where they could watch the general’s face. The crowd fell as silent as a morgue, listening to him. A sea of people, so quiet and attentive, waiting for words they’d prayed to hear for four years.
“Paris has been insulted. Paris has been destroyed. Paris has been martyred ... But Paris has been liberated!”
Once more, the excitement, the shouts, the party, the ruckus, the songs, the champagne, and the bottles of wine passed from hand to hand. Michelle and Ferdinand went home. Margaux, who’d run into old school friends, asked to stay. No matter what, she wanted to celebrate a little longer. It was the party of all parties. And for once, her parents didn’t know how to say no.
“Where are we going?” Margaux asked her friends.
“To look at the soldiers,” Amélie, her redheaded friend, responded. “They’re from the Fourth Infantry Division.”
“What does that mean?” asked Camille, her hair braided down her back.
“That they’re to die for.”
On a night of firsts, it was difficult for night to approach. Night didn’t arrive in Paris with its effervescence of joy. Paris had a lingering light that late-August Friday. The party, colored by the stripes, the stairs, and the tricolor flags, didn’t have to have an end. Amélie, Camille, and Margaux followed the hubbub. The more there was, the better. The friends were excited. Soldiers had broken the lines and descended from their trucks and cars, quenching their thirst at whatever café had something to drink. Victory was celebrated everywhere. Places that had been full of Germans only the week before now greeted American soldiers with flattery and glasses of wine. They waved them in and invited them to all types of liquor until it ran dry.
“Should we go in here?” Amélie had always been the most daring.
“What do you mean? There’s so much smoke,” complained Camille.
“Exactly why. The more smoke, the better.”
They hadn’t gone down even three steps before they penetrated a wall of fog that prevented them from seeing past their noses. The atmosphere was thick, the music loud, and shame had been left at home. A woman passed by, her breasts loose. The woman, who was around their mothers’ age, couldn’t stop laughing, while a soldier, a cigarette between his lips, tried to aim the smoke at her nipples.
“Are you sure we can enter?”
“Margaux, we’re already inside. Walk forward and don’t turn back.”
They acted casual, and once they were at a counter with high stools and they drank what they were given, it got hotter. None of the three had tasted anything that burned so much. When their glasses were refilled, Amélie drank, Camille hesitated, and Margaux stopped.
“You’re not going to drink that?” a soldier asked, coming up from behind them.
“Do you want it?” Margaux replied, sensing his presence from the corner of her eye.
“It’s a day of celebration.” The American, who was speaking French with a Texas accent, took the glass from Margaux and drank it in one gulp. “Vive la France.”
“Vive la France,” shouted the three friends, laughing. They found themselves surrounded by two more soldiers.
“How nice. We have the whole army for our choosing,” said Amélie, before grabbing on to the only soldier wearing a hat.
“Le jour de gloire est arrivé,” sang Camille. And without waiting a second longer, she launched herself into the arms of the soldier that looked the youngest to her.
“And you?” asked the American who’d drunk from Margaux’s cup.
“I ... I haven’t drunk as much as they have,” she responded, faced with a new situation.
She looked at him, and she thought he was polished, with the appearance of a good person. His skin had been bronzed by the sun, his cheeks weren’t carved out by hunger, and at some point, he’d found time to shave. They looked at each other without saying anything. If he hadn’t turned thirty yet, he was close. Slowly they let their eyes smile. There wasn’t enough light to see the colors of their irises, but they could read each other’s intentions. Their eyes talked on their own.
The soldier grabbed her hand with confidence.
“Come with me.”
When Margaux got down from the stool, she noticed the soldier was more than a foot taller than she was. They crossed a dark hall where all the couples kissed desperately, with a cigarette consuming itself in their hands. At the end, a heavy curtain was drawn. There was a counter holding eight cups, and a sofa that could seat four people. He fell on top of it, spreading his legs and extending his arms in wait for the girl to launch herself on top of him. Margaux closed the curtain, searching for as much privacy as possible. Once she was on top of him, she nibbled at his lips.
“Are you from Paris?”
“If I say yes ...”
“What?”
“Will you think of me as a war trophy?”
“Absolutely. I’ll think that I was lucky to meet the most beautiful Frenchwoman in the country.”
Margaux kissed him again. She put her heart into it. The glasses of wine from the party had created a fun fog. It freed them from fear and prejudice. And that polished American, who looked like he’d been plucked out of an office and not a war, excited her with his interesting personality. His shirt smelled of tobacco and gunpowder. She liked sniffing the hairs on his chest. How she loved that game. Without waiting for his permission, she unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands down his chest. Suddenly, he grasped her butt under her dress. With his fingers, he searched for the edges of her underwear and smoothed out any wrinkles he found. The more kisses there were, the more excited his fingers became. Slowly and delicately, he found what he was searching for. He woke her up carefully, and he stayed there for a moment with a cautious touch. It felt like magic for Margaux, whose eyes were closed.
“Do it slowly, Yankee,” she whispered, kissing his eyes.
“Are you scared?”
“Me?” A second and a half later, she responded, “No.”
The doubt, however, had remained on the couch. The American realized he was likely ten years older than her. He looked in her eyes to calm her nerves.
“You’re never too young or too old to make love,” said the American in a scratchy but academic French.
It wasn’t the moment to speak anymore. She unbuckled his belt like she had done it many times before, pulled down the American soldier’s zipper, and in two yanks, removed his pants. Next, she moved her skirt back, and she let the soldier shimmy her underwear down to her knees.
“Slowly, you hear?”
The response was guttural. He knew how to hold back his passion. The up-and-down movement of his hips was smooth. The battering ram knocked at her door elegantly. It didn’t try to push it down forcibly. It was necessary to persevere and enter with a welcoming permission. Margaux pushed her chin into his neck and felt how naturally she explored an unknown path. The sliding inside her felt less rough each time. With more wetness came more pleasure. With each jerk, more music. From the beginning to the end. She couldn’t say in how many places she felt it. In no time—maybe it was an instant or a whole minute—an explosion invaded her whole body. Finally, the soldier’s panting launched her into a new type of enthusiasm.
They stayed quiet, fit together like a single body, until they regained their breath at the same time. Neither was in a rush to measure their heartbeats.
“Are you okay?” he asked before pulling away.
“Very,” she breathed deeply. “Very good.”
Just as Margaux was about to explain how she had given him a gift, the American asked her a question.
“What’s your name?”
“Michelle,” she responded immediately. She said it confidently.
On her way home, a little before the sun emerged, when the party and hangover had transformed the street into a portrait of drowsy shadows, Margaux wondered why she hadn’t told him her real name. And even more so, why’d she suddenly said her mother’s. And what was his name, the soldier from the Fourth Infantry Division? It didn’t matter. Maybe it was better that way, now that it was starting to become a foggy memory.