Gaston and Gustave were expelled from school until after Christmas vacation. I cannot remember which year it was, but that day we all had a good laugh in that teacher's class. Perhaps even the teacher herself laughed that evening when she told that story to her friends.
I should give a name to that pretty teacher. Just to make her more
vraisemblable.
I'll call her Colette. Yes, Colette is a good name for her. As for the ugly mean teacher, I won't bother giving her a name.
Since I am telling what went on at school, I should tell what we sometimes did in the playground during recess.
Our school was like a prison. It was surrounded by a tall brick wall. There was one corner of the yard which could not be seen from the windows of the principal's office, and that's where some of the boys played ...
Nine years old. You are in school. An all boys' school. A French school. You were born in France. It's not your fault. You had no voice in that decision.
During
récréation
some of the boys go to the far end of the yard near the big wall to play. You go with them even though they make fun of you because you're rickety and clumsy. That too is not your fault. The older boys let you play with them because they like making fun of you.
In the far corner of the yard near the big wall, where the Pion in charge of watching the boys during recess cannot see whatâs going on, the tallest boy draws a line on the wall above his head with a piece of chalk, while another boy draws a line on the ground about two yards from the wall. Then the boys, half a dozen of them, start the competition to see who can piss the highest above the line on the wall. You never win.
Only once did you succeed in pissing above the white line, but that's because you stood close to the wall, in front of the line, and also because you held back all the
pipi
you had in you since the night before in anticipation of the competition. You were excited to have managed for the first time to piss above the line, to piss into the sky, even if you did not win the competition that day.
The other boys said you cheated because you crossed the line on the ground. Only those who piss on the wall from the line on the ground are qualified. Those who cross the line are disqualified. That day you were disqualified as a high altitude
pisseur.
Enough about what went on in school. Now I want to describe the game I liked to play in the street when I was alone.
On a small stick of wood, like a matchstick, I would glue a little piece of paper at one end making it look like a flag, then I would stick this flag into a cork, a bottle cork, to make it look like a small sail boat which I would put in the water that ran in the gutter, and I would follow my little boat until it disappeared into the sewer on its way to another world deep underground. A world I imagined totally different from the world I lived in. A world full of marvelous things. I was not sure what these things were, but there were always marvelous and mysterious. That was my favorite game, but I could only play it when the street cleaners let the water flow in the gutters.
When I tell someone today that I spent my impoverished childhood in Montrouge, immediately I am told, Ah, but Montrouge it's a fashionable suburb now, highly sought after by the baby boomers.
Perhaps now, but in my time Montrouge was a crummy proletarian suburb.
Though I am told that recently the Montrouge bureaucrats have given an historical name to my school. It is now called,
L'école Raymond Queneau.
Makes me really proud to know that my school has been named after such a famous poet, especially since, without realizing it, the bureaucrats gave half of my name to the school. Normally there is no accent on Federman, but if one day the town of Montrouge decides to name a school for me, or a streetâpersonally I would prefer a culde-sacâI am sure the name Féderman will have an accent. It makes it more French. As a writer who could become famous after his death, it's possible that Montrouge will name something after me, or...
Federman, now you're getting ridiculous. Who do you think you are, Victor Hugo? Finish the story, will you.
Please excuse the self-indulgent digression, and as the judge said to Maître Pathelin,
revenons à nos moutons.
I was saying that during my childhood Montrouge was a working-class slum. Especially our street, because of the big smelly factory across from our house.
Mostly North Africans worked in that tannery. We called them
Sidis
because they didn't speak French like us. Everyone in our neighborhood was afraid of them. They looked mean. They all had a mustache. People said that they all carried a knife under their clothes. Some of them wore long robes. They looked like they never washed. In the evening when the
Sidis
came out of the factory, the people in the street would rush into their homes.
They lived in
La Zone,
a wasteland between Porte d'Orléans and Montrouge. This
terrain vague,
as it was called, used to surround the entire city of Paris, and that's where most of the
Sidis
lived. As I said in the list, they slept in cardboard boxes, or wrapped in newspapers. They cooked their food on small camp fires. During the winter when it was very cold, we would see them standing around their camp fires with a blanket wrapped around their shoulders. The lucky ones worked in that tannery, but many couldn't get work because they couldn't get working papers. So they had to beg.
The Zone was a dangerous place. Especially late in the evening when the people, who had gone into the city to a movie, or a restaurant on the boulevards, or a bordello, had to cross the Zone to get back to Montrouge, because the last stop of the métro was Porte d'Orléans. Sometimes they would be attacked and robbed.
From the Porte d'Orléans to Montrouge it took a good ten minutes to cross the Zone. People would walk together in groups for fear of being attacked. And if one of the beggars came close, his hand extended, saying,
Moi beaucoup faim, moi pas mangé, moi pas travail,
the people would start running. You didn't mess with the
Sidis
or else, psitt, you got a blade in your stomach.
The Zone no longer exists today. It has been cleaned out, and luxury apartments have been built there.
At the beginning of the Zone there was an
octroi,
a tax booth. All the trucks that entered Paris had to stop there to pay a toll. I don't know when all these
octrois
disappeared, but I remember them.
I also remember how during the weekend all the Parisians who had a car would drive out into the country.
My sisters and I we would sit on the curb of La Route d'Orléans and watch the cars rushing out of the city one after another in an endless parade. It was like a river of cars. This exodus would begin early on Saturday morning and continue until afternoon. A stream of cars. Small ones, big ones, old ones, new ones, limousines with chauffeurs, small trucks. Every weekend, the people who owned a car went to the countryside for picnics, or to the beach in Normandy, or to visit the castles along the Loire river, or to their country houses. And on Sunday evening they all drove back to Paris.
For my sisters and I, it was a spectacle, and so on Saturday morning we would tell Maman that we were going to watch the cars. And Maman would tell us to be careful, and to never cross the highway.
We would try to count the number of cars that rushed past, but they were going so fast we would get all confused with the numbers and had to start all over again. We never arrived at the same number.
On Sunday evening when the cars were coming back and it was starting to get dark, the headlights were like the yellow eyes of big monsters. My sisters and I were a little scared, and after a while we would hurry home.
The weekend exodus was like a ritual. All the Parisians took off to ...
Federman, since you're speaking of exodus, why don't you tell us now, as you promised in your list of scenes, how at the beginning of the war you and your parents and sisters ended up in Argentan, in Normandy, when the Germans invaded France.
Ah, yes
Le Grand Exode
when the Germans were approaching Paris, and everybody took off. People were afraid of the Germans. All kinds of stories were being told about them. How mean they were. How they would cut off the hands of little boys so they wouldn't fight them when they grew up. How they would steal everything. How they would burn the cities. For me, that exodus was like an adventure. It's interesting how little has been said about that shameful moment of French history, that debacle of the French army.
OK then, I'm going to tell the Exodus.
When the German tanks were on the verge of arriving in Paris, almost all the people in the city took off. As we did, my parents, sisters and me. And eventually we landed in Argentan.
First we went by train, and then on foot on the roads of Normandy, and finally exhausted and hungry we arrived in Argentan, that beautiful city with its splendid cathedral that later was completely destroyed by bombardments.
The great irony is that when we arrived in Argentan, the Germans were already there, waiting for us with open arms and wide smiles on their faces. They had reached Argentan before all the refugees from Paris. I remember how impressed I was by their uniforms. Especially those of the officers. These officers looked magnificent. I was dazzled by their shining black boots, their riding pants, their kepis, and the medals on their chests, but especially the revolvers in the holsters on their belts. Oh, and also the black cross tied to a ribbon they wore around their necks.
They looked like they had just stepped out of a Hollywood war movie. I felt like getting close to them to see if they were real, but my mother kept pulling me away by the sleeve.
Thousands and thousands of people not only from Paris but from other cities were on the roads of Normandy or roads that went South. Many left by trains, but when the trains reached the end of the line, they were forced to go on foot. Other people left by cars, motorcycles, bicycles. There were people pushing baby carriages and wheelchairs. They were all lugging suitcases and bags. All kinds of rumors were circulating. One was that the Germans had arrived in Paris and that the city was on fire.
We left from
Gare Montparnasse,
the closest train station from our house. We rushed through the crowded streets. People were running in all directions as if lost. There was a mad crowd at the station. People were boarding just any train without even checking where it was going. People were arguing. Pushing. It was a real panic.
When we arrived at the station we saw a bunch of people running towards a train which looked like it was about to leave. We followed them and forced our way into a car. Well, my mother forced her way in by pushing and shoving while holding on to my hand and pulling me behind her. My father behind us was holding on to the hands of Sarah and Jacqueline. It was the first time I saw my father's love for his daughters. He looked desperate. All the seats on the train were occupied. So we stood in the aisles pressed against one another. It was so crowded, when the train started rolling some people had to stand on the steps outside the doors.
The train had a steam engine. So when it accelerated the smoke drifted back into the train, people were rubbing their eyes and coughing, children were crying. People kept asking each other where this train was going, but nobody really knew. Some said that it was heading towards Normandie, but they were not sure, others that it was traveling South. But some frightened people were lamenting, Maybe it's going East where the Germans are.
I don't know how long the train had been going when suddenly it stopped in the middle of the countryside. In the middle of a forest. Someone said that the tracks were blocked with metal obstructions. Nobody knew what to do. One of the controllers who was squeezing his way between the people from one end of the train to the other, was explaining that the train could not go any further and that people should get off immediately because he didn't know what was going to happen. So people
started rushing out, pushing through the doors. Others were scrambling out through the windows. They would throw their suitcases down on the ground and jump. It was as though they had been told that the train was going to be bombarded by German planes. So people were running in all directions, disappearing into the forest. Some of them started marching along the tracks in the direction the train had been going. Others were following little paths in the forest. They were all hoping that they were going in the right direction. Away from Paris.
Many fathers were carrying little children on their shoulders, and mothers pulling them by the hand. It was hot that day, in June, 1940.
We too started walking along a path in the forest, following Papa who for once seemed to know where he was going. He had taken charge of the family. Even though it was difficult for him to breathe because of his tuberculosis. For me a great adventure had begun. I imagined the Germans attacking us. Taking us prisoner. We were walking in a single file, my sisters and me in front of Maman who was lugging a huge suitcase full of our things. I remember, the suitcase was black, and Maman had tied a rope around it because it didn't close properly. Papa had a
musette
on his back, and his old Polish suitcase in his hand. He was walking fast, even though he kept coughing and spitting blood. Sarah, Jacqueline and I were carrying our school bags into which Maman had shoved more clothes. We walked like that a long time, twisting our ankles in the ruts of the path, until Papa was forced to stop to rest. He was coughing hard. He sat down on the ground, his head resting on his suitcase. Maman stood protecting our luggage, as other people walked past us. While Papa was resting Sarah, Jacqueline and I were gathering wild berries in the bushes along the path. They tasted so sweet, even better than the ones we sometimes got at the
marché.