Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The minibus was parked at the south side of the river and I was the first to arrive.
As it was a Sunday, the bakery was closed, but I had brought some day-old pastries along with me.
‘Perfect way to ingratiate yourself,’ he said, picking a madeleine out for himself.
‘My dad always brought some nice pastries when we’d go for a day out,’ I said, suddenly stricken with a pang of homesickness that caused my eyes to water. ‘Sorry, gosh, I’ve only been gone a fortnight!’
Geoff gave me a handkerchief and I did my best not to ask whether it had been used or not.
‘We all get lonely, sometimes,’ he said.
‘Do you ever miss home? The UK, I mean?’
‘Oh, you know, I get back now and again. There’s just my mum left now. She’s in a home in Bristol.’
I nodded. There was a sad sort of finality to it. It was the natural way of things, but it didn’t chase the empty feeling away. Thankfully, people began to arrive in threes and fours and before I knew it, the minibus was almost full and Geoff started the engine.
We drove east out of Compiègne on the N31.
It felt strange leaving the city and seeing the outskirts for the first time.
Rue de Paris had become my entire world since I arrived; so much so that I had almost forgotten that there was an entire country to be explored.
Within minutes, we were driving into the Compiègne Forest. It was beautiful, so peaceful and verdant.
Passing by the massive Alsace Lorraine Monument – a huge sculpture depicting a sword cutting down the Imperial Eagle of Germany – it became clear to me why so many war historians held this place in such high regard.
We parked in a small car park and walked along a wooded path to an extraordinary clearing.
In front of us lay railway tracks leading to the centre of the memorial.
To one side there was a statue of Marshal Foch and ahead, between a tank and a gun, stood the museum; a nondescript low white building with flags fluttering in the breeze.
Although the area itself was green and lush and smelled of sap, there was a sense of something solemn that had taken place.
Even though I was, as yet, incognisant of what had happened in this place, I could sense the gravity of it.
We entered the small building and Geoff explained that this was the Armistice Museum.
He purchased our tickets and went into full tour-guide mode.
Despite myself, I was hooked on his every word.
He looked the part, too, in his mustard corduroy trousers and V-neck jumper.
‘Now listen up, everyone! This is a replica of the railway carriage used by Marshal Foch and his officers, who included the English First Lord of the Admiralty, Sir Rosslyn Wemyss, and the French Chief of Staff, General Weygand. It was here that they met with the Germans to sign the armistice to end the horror that was the First World War – The Great War. It was signed on November 11th at 5.10am.’
‘And who was Marshal Foch?’ I asked.
‘Basically, he was the Commander-in-chief of the Allied Armies. The head honcho. He was revered as a great military theorist and fought the Germans back into their own territory. He did predict, however, that the armistice was not a permanent peace and that after twenty years, war could break out once again. He was right; twenty years and sixty-five days later, the Second World War began.’
It was chilling, not like history lessons at school, where books containing old photos of dead generals did little to convey the realities of war.
There was a lot of First World War memorabilia in that room, with yellowing newspaper articles, photocopies, old cameras showing pictures from the various fronts, flags, objects made from shells, old hypnotic film footage that flickered and eerily reminded me of the ghostly baker.
For such a small museum, the atmosphere was extraordinary. The simplicity of the display and the objects was so affecting, drawing visitors into those past events.
‘What about the Second World War?’ a woman with a Spanish accent asked. I remembered then what Nicole’s mother had said about Madame Moreau’s father living under ‘the regime’ during that war, so my ears pricked up.
‘I’m coming to that just now, Madame,’ Geoff replied.
He really came into his own when talking about the past – you could tell it was his passion and I felt really lucky to have this knowledgeable guide all to myself.
‘Right, so this space covers the events of 1940, which were a very different story for the French. The Battle of France was lost; the enemy was in Paris, and France was about to be cut in half. A request for an armistice was made, and here in the forest, at what was called the Glade of the Armistice, the French and German delegations met on June 21st 1940. Talks were conducted in the very railway carriage that had been the scene of Germany’s defeat.
Then the armistice was agreed – a deliberate and highly effective means of humiliating the French.
’ He paused to let the significance of the site sink in.
‘During the German occupation of France, from 1940 to 1944, the site was cleared and the carriage taken to Berlin. Later, as the war went badly for Germany, it was moved to the forest of Thuringe and destroyed by fire in April 1945.
‘Now, this wasn’t the end of the story for the forest clearing known as the Glade of the Armistice,’ he said, and I absently wondered if he could get his own documentary series on TV.
He was so good at presenting complex information.
‘On September 1st 1944, Compiègne was liberated. In November, General Marie-Pierre Koenig, the best known Free French leader after General de Gaulle, led a military parade in the Glade watched by crowds that included British, American and Polish officials.’
‘Wow, so this place really played a pivotal role in France’s history,’ I said.
‘As I keep telling you, Edith, you haphazardly picked one of the most important locations in all of Europe! And that’s why I’m kept very busy with tourists who want to come here and see it for themselves.
In fact, on November 11th 1950, a replica railway carriage was officially opened containing the objects that you see today. ’
We spent some time walking around and quietly absorbing the exhibit.
I could hear American accents as well as British and Italian.
I was a bit embarrassed at how clueless I was about the whole thing; what the war really meant for the French, who shared their border with the enemy.
I thanked Geoff for being such an engaging tour guide and promised that there would be plenty of eclairs in it for him.
We all got back onto the bus for our next stop on the historical tour. I sat directly behind the driver’s seat so I could have the best view.
‘Maybe I should get a car,’ I said, leaning forwards so Geoff could hear me. ‘It’s nice to get out into the countryside.’
‘Well, you don’t really need a car to get around. I used to cycle when I first arrived. It’s much more cycle-friendly weather than back home in Britain, and you can bring them on the trains, too.’
‘Gosh, I haven’t cycled in years,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I’d remember how!’
‘It’s easy – just like riding a bike,’ Geoff winked.
‘You’ve really got to work on your material, Geoff.’ I laughed, comfortable in his company.
As we travelled along the main road, Geoff pulled the minibus over to what appeared to be a forest path. We walked along until we reached a gravestone. Everyone gathered around and once the chatter had died down, I looked at him questioningly.
‘This marks the spot of the last train from Compiègne to Buchenwald on August 17th 1944, carrying 1,250 men to the death camp.’
The silence was visceral. It was one thing to read about these things, but to actually stand on the ground where such unthinkable crimes against humanity had occurred was truly humbling.
‘What? You mean, trains left from here for the concentration camps in Germany?’ I couldn’t believe the words I was saying. German occupation, Nazis, the Holocaust, these were things that were a million miles away from my life.
‘In fact there was an internment camp here that held many Jews and French Resistance soldiers. They detained them here and eventually shipped them off to the labour camps where most of them perished.’
I felt numb with shock. This place seemed so peaceful; it was impossible to imagine such traumatic events had taken place here. The stark realisation affected me deeply and I asked him how he could bear coming here, time after time.
‘People need to remember, Edith, otherwise their deaths and the thousands of people who sacrificed their lives trying to protect them will have been for nothing.’
His words were so powerful. Remembrance was the best way to honour people. As the other members of our tour began making their way back to the minibus, I hung back for a bit.
‘My mother always loved France,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m living her dream or my own.’
He paused for a while, then took out a pack of cigarettes. I had never smoked in my life, but for some reason it seemed like the right thing to do in this instance. I coughed and wheezed as he lit it for me and I tried, unsuccessfully, to inhale. He lit his own and slowly gathered his thoughts.
‘She’s no longer with us, is she?’
No,’ I replied, glad that I didn’t have to explain.
‘Tell you what, why don’t I show you some place that both you and your mother would have really loved?
’ he said, patting my arm. He reminded me a bit of my own father and that wasn’t just the seventies sideburns.
He had a no-nonsense attitude that made him easy to be around. ‘It’s not far,’ he assured me.