They stared at each other across a railway platform in Geneva, as they had a decade earlier in profoundly different circumstances. The brief interlude ended with the arrival of a train. When it departed, with him missing his left leg, along with a frail-looking elderly woman, she froze, immersed in an explosion of memories.
14 Years Earlier
Fear gripped her body as the sound of jackboots became louder and louder. Marching through the Porte de Clignancourt, word spread quickly that they were on the way.
”Maman, they’re here, but how is it possible?” Mathilde screamed as she began to cry.
That evening, lying alone in her dark bedroom, worrying about her brother Pierre in the French army, Mathilde’s thoughts turned to what she could do to throw the invaders out.
The summer months were terrifying and spine-stiffening as she thought often about Pierre.
The presence of soldiers and the changes forced on her city were humiliating and painful. Berlin time became theirs! Street signs and directions appeared in German, and a significant amount of agricultural produce was reserved for the occupier.
That autumn, back at Lycée Auguste Renoir, Mathilde was pleased to be with her friends in a setting that she had liked. But things had fundamentally changed for her, leaving only the patina of an engaging past.
In the weeks that followed, she discussed with two close girlfriends, Béatrice and Pauline, what they might do to undermine the German presence. ”We need to do our part,” she told them.
The girls agreed to write anti-German messages on the sides of buildings using chalk taken from school. Always mindful to look about to make sure soldiers or the French police did not see them.
Béatrice and Pauline joined Mathilde late one August afternoon in her dimly lit kitchen to talk about what they had done during the previous school year and ramping up activities for the next one, feeling that simple messages were not enough.
They all giggled when Pauline reminded them about the first time writing messages on the side of an old warehouse. The chalk broke frequently, wouldn’t adhere easily, and then, suddenly, they saw a soldier. Panic gripped them as they fled; their shoes felt so heavy, clacking on the pavement.
Mathilde was unaware that her father was in the next room and could hear them.
When her friends left, he angrily told her, ”This is a dangerous game you and your classmates are playing. You risk being arrested and worse, tortured. You also put your family in danger of retribution.”
Listening to her father, she twirled a curl in her hair, which she did whenever she was anxious.
”I admire your desire to throw the Boches out, but we must be careful, especially as there are many people who would denounce you if they saw what you girls were up to. I forbid you to do that anymore.”
Mathilde knew she had to obey her father and, at the start of the new school year, told Pauline and Béatrice, ”We must stop.”
All of 1942 was the drudgery of carrying on. It was like living in a bubble; you could see through it, but you were surrounded.
Her anger came to a boiling point whenever she walked by German cafés, cinemas or bookstores. She promised herself, I’ll never accept the German way.
Before sunrise on a frigid Saturday morning early in January 1943, Mathilde was on the way to her aunt’s to help with laundry. Thinking she heard the cry of a child in an alley, she went to investigate. Realising it was just the wind howling, she turned around to continue her journey, but slipped on ice, hitting the ground hard.
With no one around, Mathilde was concerned as the pain in her right ankle worsened. She desperately looked, without success, for a way to get up on her feet.
Soon afterwards, she heard the sound of boots and immediately thought about the June day when that noise marked the beginning of the city’s nightmare.
The young German soldier asked in French if she was alright and if she needed assistance. Shivering, her first instinct was to say no, but it was apparent she needed help.
Bending to help her up, a copy of Les Misérables fell from his coat pocket.
”You do speak French!”
”Yes, it’s my mother’s language. German was my father’s.”
Mathilde appreciated his strong arms aiding her to stand, but soon realised she was unable to put any real weight on her right foot. After a few steps, they both understood she couldn’t walk, and he picked her up. Mathilde started to object, but with the pain abating somewhat, said nothing.
The soldier carried her to Avenue de Saint-Ouen and flagged down a car. Opening the door of the black Citroën, he ordered the shocked driver to take Mathilde home. Telling him to make sure she arrived safely, or the Wehrmacht would deal with him.
When the doctor left, her parents were pleased that Mathilde was not seriously injured, having suffered a severe ankle sprain and some bruising to her hand. They were surprised by their daughter’s explanation, with her father quickly adding, “They’re still the enemy.”
The warmth, late that Spring, propelled Mathilde to take a long walk, the day after her seventeenth birthday.
Setting out without a planned route, her meandering took her by La Brasserie Wepler, a popular restaurant and often a rendezvous point for artists and writers. A little later, she purposely stayed on the opposite side of the street to avoid the crowd of people while walking by Le Moulin Rouge, disdainfully acknowledging it had become a regular stop for Wehrmacht officers.
Feeling like a short break, she went into Le Jardin des Arènes de Montmartre to rest for a moment.
Sitting on a bench and taking in the flowers, she noticed a German soldier nearby reading a book. Normally, she would ignore his presence, except that there was something familiar about him. Furtively glancing, she remembered. He was the one who helped me after my fall in early January.
She wasn’t sure what to do. Recalling her father’s admonition about the enemy, but struggling with a desire to do the appropriate thing, Mathilde thought, he speaks French, I should thank him.
He didn’t notice her approaching, and it was his turn to be surprised when she said, ”You are the soldier who helped me after my fall. I want to thank you.”
As he looked up, she noticed deeply set blue eyes on a serene face.
”I was pleased, mademoiselle, you needed help and I happened to come along. I don’t wish to delay you, but if you would like, please sit for a moment.”
Slowly lowering herself on the far end of the bench, she felt uneasiness quickly set in.
”As you can see, this time I’m reading a book in German, but honestly, it’s quite boring and I’d like to talk with someone who is not a soldier. I never learned your name. I’m Otto and I’m originally from Metz.”
”My name is Mathilde.”
Sensing she was uncomfortable, he said, ”Because of conscription, I was forced to join the Wehrmacht in 1942, when I was twenty-one, but only did so because I realised my mother would probably be sent to a camp if I refused. I was against German aggression.”
This information thoroughly surprised Mathilde, who not long after said, ”I must be going home now.”
As she stood, Otto said, In these warm months, I come here on Saturday afternoons and read. I like the beauty of this setting, and it takes me away from the army. If you happen to be in the area again, I would be very pleased to talk with you.
”Have a nice walk home, Mathilde!”
Without saying goodbye, Mathilde walked briskly, feeling dazed about what had happened. She repeatedly asked herself, Why did I talk with him? Yet, a small part of her was puzzled; he was just like other people.
The next few weeks saw the end of the school year looming and Mathilde knew it would be another summer staying in Paris. No holidays as the family was just scraping by financially, and Pierre was still in Germany.
Her mother had said, ”We can’t take a vacation while our Pierre is a prisoner. What if he came home as was happening with some French soldiers through exchanges under Service du travail obligatoire and we were not here to greet him?”
The encounter with Otto gnawed at Mathilde. From time to time, she replayed their brief conversation. Did he really join the army only because he felt pressured? What is he doing in France?
The growing sense of oppression felt by Parisians, and overhearing a conversation in the metro one afternoon, further troubled her.
An older man, in business attire, told his seatmate, ”Apparently the Germans like French women, whom they see as warmer and more sensual than their counterparts in the homeland, and flock to the brothels the army has set up.”
The younger man, who was constantly looking around, but not lowering his voice, added, ”The German government, which promotes the importance of family, obviously doesn’t care.” Smirking, he added, ”I guess at one level they recognise that occupation is an unnatural world.”
In hopes of sorting out some things in her mind, Mathilde decided a little more than a month later to return to the park. Dressed in her usual bland wartime clothes and having put up her long dark hair, she saw him, just as he had said, on the same bench early Saturday afternoon.
Otto smiled as Mathilde again sat a fair distance from him.
”I’m glad you are here. I hope you are comfortable.”
”I am a little anxious, but I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”
”Yes, please do. I am not being a soldier right now, and you can freely say or ask anything you like.”
”You told me your mother was French.”
”Yes, from Metz. She married my father, a German, against the wishes of her parents, who then disowned her. He died when I was ten, and life was difficult for us. My father was in a Gregorian chant choir and after his death, my mother and I regularly went to church to listen to them. It was a connection my mother maintained to keep his memory alive for both of us. She loves reading and encouraged me to do the same. It was one of the pleasures we shared, and we regularly went to the library for books. When I was younger, she often asked me to give her a summary of what I had read. I mentioned last time, I only joined the Wehrmacht to protect her.”
”What are you doing in Paris?”
”Fighting on the Eastern Front, I was wounded and sent to Paris to assist in my recovery. I recently took a test to see if I was healthy enough to return to battle. I know that to return is to die, so I put blood in my urine sample. After the failed test, I think I have a chance to stay here. My captain noticed one day that I was reading a book by Nietzsche and he enjoys discussing philosophy with me. I had been studying it at university and am hopeful he will keep me from returning to the war in Russia.”
”A girl who lived in a building close to ours is about the same age as I am. She wasn’t a friend, but we would occasionally speak when we met. I once saw her pick up and comfort a child who was about seven or eight who had fallen in the street. But in May last year, she and her family were forced to wear yellow stars, and in mid-July, she was taken with her parents to the Vel d’Hiv with the assistance of French police, and I never saw her again. Why did the Germans do that?”
”The Führer hates Jews and wants to kill them. It’s an example of the misery and chaos he has created for many.
”The people knew he wanted to be a dictator, and many accepted it, believing he would take away their pain and make Germans proud. People get swept up and then can’t say no. Delirium is not a recipe for success.”
”Why do you put French women in brothels for your soldiers?”
”I do not use brothels, but many soldiers feel the need to be with a woman, so the army has organised them. I think they fear soldiers will drink more alcohol and create other problems if the women are not available for them.”
”Parisians are more and more frustrated with the occupation. You eat what you want, and we starve. We pay for you to oppress us. It’s a new kind of slavery.”
”I am only one person and do not want to be here. I know it’s wrong, but I have no power to change it. I don’t hate your country, but I can’t escape what has been created. We can know each other in ways that groups never can. If only we could avoid what countries force us to do.”
During their conversations, Mathilde often asked questions about Germany, but was reserved when answering about herself and her family and when she did, it was usually with a yes or a no.
Otto’s answers again surprised Mathilde; she better understood that things were often more complicated than they might appear.
A few people looked at them as they walked by, and one woman’s face showed total disgust at what she saw. Their conversation lasted about twenty minutes, with Mathilde ending it, saying, ”I must go. I want to think about what you told me today.”
Over the summer, they occasionally met in the park. There was no schedule. Otto was always there on Saturday, except if it was raining, and Mathilde went depending on her ability to take the time and how she felt regarding their get-togethers.
In mid-August, Pierre came home through an exchange. He was physically exhausted and psychologically stressed. After hearing about how he was treated, Mathilde seriously thought about never returning to Le Jardin des Arènes de Montmartre.
After spending time with Pierre, it was a month after he arrived before she felt like going back to the park. The thing Mathilde liked about her conversations with Otto was that she thought he considered her an equal. She was no longer a child and didn’t want to be treated as one.
As she walked to meet Otto, the on-again, off-again rays of the sun breaking through the clouds engendered a thought about the behaviour of those whose belief systems left no room outside of right or wrong. Her mother railed more than once about Boche babies and how disgusting it was to even talk about them.
By the end of October, it was becoming too cold to read outside, but neither of them suggested getting together elsewhere. Saying good-bye, there was a hint of regret in their voices, but they did not embrace.
There was an implicit understanding they would connect in the park early next Spring, depending on the circumstances, but no words were spoken.
Arriving home, she asked her father if he thought all Germans were evil, especially their soldiers. Smiling, he said, ”Many people in Germany opposed Hitler, but he became a dictator and won’t give up. He doesn’t care about the number of people who are injured or killed. I’m sure many of their citizens now wish they hadn’t supported him.
”Why do you ask this question, my dear?”
”Remember the soldier who helped me in January? He seemed like a good person.”
”Of course, there would be many soldiers who wish they were not caught up in the war, but they too are stuck, especially if they are against it. Desertion means death for them.”
Christmas was a happier one with Pierre back, and on New Year’s Day, Mathilde’s father proposed a toast to a free France, adding, ”I have a feeling the new year will see it happen.”
Walking to Le Jardin des Arènes de Montmartre on a beautiful day in early April, Mathilde felt a mixture of emotions. Only the day before, her father told her freedom was in the air. ”I believe it will soon be time for us to act. It’s still dangerous, but the wind is in our sails.”
Seeing Otto before he noticed her, she observed a leaner and more muscular version.
His first thought was that she now looked like a young woman, both in appearance and in how she carried herself.
Almost as if by rote, Mathilde sat at the end of the bench and they immediately chatted about the nearly six months without seeing one another.
Otto told her that many in the army were worried, as North Africa had fallen to the Americans and the British, and that Italy was almost lost.
Mathilde wondered if France was attacked by the allies what would happen to the soldiers in Paris.
He answered that he thought Germany was in real trouble as the Russians were advancing in the East; ”but I don’t know if or when we would retreat from Paris.”
At their next and last meeting in early June, Otto told her he was disgusted as his platoon was now guarding Gestapo headquarters.
Staring at each other on the bench, Otto slid closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder. They both felt the urge to come closer, but Mathilde recoiled slightly, saying, ”We can’t have what we want. A priest or a nun doesn’t because they take vows, and we currently commit to our countries.”
On August 25th, Mathilde’s father took her to participate in the liberation of Paris. It was a euphoric scene as the Germans had surrendered earlier in the day. They were near the now former Gestapo headquarters when a man told her father, “Just yesterday, a group of resistance fighters attacked the building and killed or wounded almost all of the German soldiers guarding it.”
Mathilde immediately thought of Otto and anxiously wondered if he was alive or dead.
Later in the day, she and her father saw a woman whose hair had been shaved off and many in the crowd were mocking her. Suddenly, the woman who had seen Mathilde on the bench in the park speaking with Otto, pointed to her and screamed, “There’s another one. I saw her in Le Jardin des Arènes de Montmartre with a German. She’s a collaborator!”
With the crowd already in a frenzy, it was pandemonium as they grabbed her. Her father was unable to stop them from pulling her away and yelled, “It’s my daughter, what are you doing?”
But no one listened.
Hearing her screams, he tried pushing his way through the circle surrounding her, but it was impenetrable.
When they had finished defiling her physically and verbally, Mathilde was sobbing and beside herself.
”It’s not true, father, I saw the soldier who helped me in that park. I only talked with him, I am no collaborator.”
Grabbing a hat that had fallen on the ground, he covered her head and took her home.
It was more chaos, as both her mother and brother, uninterested in listening, screamed at her. ”Why? Why? Why?” was all they could say.
Sobbing in her room, her father came to comfort her in the middle of the night. He told her people have trouble with ambiguity, adding that he would try to take her to Geneva soon and she could stay with his brother for a while.
”It will be better. I promise you, things will be calmer, and then you can come back.”
***
A blast of merrymaking yanked Mathilde from her trance-like state, as she and her uncle watched hundreds of French national football team supporters chanting and rushing onto the railway platform. They were on their way to a World Cup match.
”Mathilde, you look as if you just saw a ghost. You know you are safe with us. No one from France can harm you here.”
”I know! I was reflecting, it’s as if the war didn’t matter. Ten years ago, we were forcing the Germans out of Paris, and today, we are in the same football tournament.”
But, twirling a curl, the pain of fleeing the coiffeuse months after arriving in Geneva, when fear became a phobia, suddenly returned.
