Beasts of Liberation
Here we sit silently around the table, filling our bellies with cassoulet. None of us has eaten so much warm food in several years. The Germans who occupied our town took all of our food and wine for themselves, while for months at a time we survived only on mouldy bread and dog meat. For months we lived in darkness.
One morning, while in town, I heard thunder in the distance; it was coming from the sea. The thunder grew nearer. Explosions. The church spire was the first to go. It came down like an enormous gavel and then, as a brick of ice, shattered over the plaza. After running home, we all crouched in the root cellar; it was the only safe place away from the terror. The thunder went on through the day and into the night. In the morning I heard the rattle of many lorries on the road, followed by shouting in English. Gunfire. Explosions. Immense confusion. Although I was in the root cellar below it all, I could feel the chaos, the madness above. Dirt fell on my face every time the earth shook.
Canadian and American troops have arrived and have taken the area. They march and parade through the streets. People swarm to meet the soldiers. Are they gods? I see they do not understand that we starve because they take food from the stores. I suppose it shows true graciousness that a starving woman would give a stranger a whole basket of fruit. Yes, it is far preferable to before. The town celebrates the liberation, but what is left of my family is silent; the silence that comes after death. Last week, my father and eldest brother were killed in an air raid. They were bringing the sheep inside to protect them from the sky battles when an aeroplane flew in low and released a shell on the field. I watched through the window as the sheep and human parts stained the trembling pasture a dark red. One sheep did survive, but it escaped through the fence into the neighbouring farm. I felt something inside of me grow numb at that moment. I felt it in all of us. Numbness doesn’t quite leave one the same. If a lavender bush freezes in the winter, it will still grow in the spring, but its leaves will droop and the stalk remains a dusty grey.
At first I cannot understand that the Krauts are gone. I have become so accustomed to acting very cautiously. When passing a German soldier, I would look at them-not in the eyes, but at them. They did horrid things to people who looked away. I once saw a woman who looked away from an officer. He seized her by the hair and clubbed her over the head with the end of his rifle. I have not seen the woman in town since then. The officer said he did not like her nose, but I don’t think he had a reason. Those who wear a black spider on their forearm never have good reasons for what they do. They are like spoiled children with no mother to punish them.
Walking through the bustling streets amidst the festivities, I see my sister, who shouts out to me:
“Olivier! Won’t you come dance with us? I have met some very nice American soldiers who like dancing!”
I pretend not to notice. I see a soldier coil his arm around her waist and press his drooling lips to her face. I would say something to him in broken English, but the numbness conquers the rage inside of me, and I must buy bread and meat before it all runs out.
There is a growing crowd outside of the boulangerie. Through the crush, I see six women lined up against the wall. Their heads are shaved and their clothes have been stripped from their bodies. Many people are throwing rotten pieces of food at them and shouting “Nazi whores.” I recognise one of the women; I have seen her at the church. She always wore the prettiest dresses and had the kindest face. I have no reason to dislike this woman. I ask the man standing next to me what these women had done.
“Those vile creatures whored themselves to all the German officers! And they lived like princesses while we starved,” he answered. “Look at them; aren’t they pathetic? They ought to be burnt alive!”
He is a priest. I believe he baptised me as an infant.
In the boulangerie, I wait for an half hour to buy bread.
“We have many soldiers to feed,” the baker says to me. “We must show our gratitude by not having them wait!”
I should be happy. Why am I not excited like the rest? I remember reading about the Revolution in school. The masses of hungry peasants stormed the king’s palace and took the royalty out to have them executed. After the King and Marie Antoinette’s heads had been cut off, the people celebrated. I look at the streets now and feel almost as if I had lived then. But why should I not rejoice? These men whom I know nothing about have swept the Germans away like a bad dream. Like a sordid nightmare. Seeing all these smiling faces ought to bring me a brighter mood, but somehow I remain unaffected. The sky is a thick, oppressive grey that will not let the sun through. The air is humid and my skin feels oily. My head is heavy and hot. I am overwhelmed. I must escape this noise. I must swim through this turbulent sea of flesh before I drown. Everywhere there are people. I must swim or I will drown.
The shouting, the engines, the church bells! I must escape. I cannot stop swimming.
The cobblestones grab at my feet and twist my ankles. I cannot stop swimming. I look above the waves. There are people hanging from the lamp posts, like scarecrows. They hang from ropes like strange fruit from a tree. I thought it was all over, but the sea is full of beasts. The whalers hunted the whales, but now the beasts surface from the abyss. I refuse to believe that these are my own people! Never before have I seen such a cruel mockery; such primitive contortions casting wild and fantastic shadows on the walls. I am frightened.
But through it all, in the distance, I see a harbour. Its soft lines sooth my tumultuous body. Its flowing pastel vista rescues me from my confused palsy.
I stumble into a field and fall on my back in the heather. My bread is gone; I must have lost it somewhere in the crowds. I do not care. The heather dances and tickles my cheeks and I smile. Straight up I look. The grey sky is not so heavy and oppressive as it felt before. Now it’s like a warm blanket wrapped around me. Under me the earth is soft clay. I rub some into my palms and breathe in the robust, wild scent. Above, the airmen still chase each other like hares. Don’t they know they are brothers? Perhaps they do know and are only playing.
One morning, while in town, I heard thunder in the distance; it was coming from the sea. The thunder grew nearer. Explosions. The church spire was the first to go. It came down like an enormous gavel and then, as a brick of ice, shattered over the plaza. After running home, we all crouched in the root cellar; it was the only safe place away from the terror. The thunder went on through the day and into the night. In the morning I heard the rattle of many lorries on the road, followed by shouting in English. Gunfire. Explosions. Immense confusion. Although I was in the root cellar below it all, I could feel the chaos, the madness above. Dirt fell on my face every time the earth shook.
Canadian and American troops have arrived and have taken the area. They march and parade through the streets. People swarm to meet the soldiers. Are they gods? I see they do not understand that we starve because they take food from the stores. I suppose it shows true graciousness that a starving woman would give a stranger a whole basket of fruit. Yes, it is far preferable to before. The town celebrates the liberation, but what is left of my family is silent; the silence that comes after death. Last week, my father and eldest brother were killed in an air raid. They were bringing the sheep inside to protect them from the sky battles when an aeroplane flew in low and released a shell on the field. I watched through the window as the sheep and human parts stained the trembling pasture a dark red. One sheep did survive, but it escaped through the fence into the neighbouring farm. I felt something inside of me grow numb at that moment. I felt it in all of us. Numbness doesn’t quite leave one the same. If a lavender bush freezes in the winter, it will still grow in the spring, but its leaves will droop and the stalk remains a dusty grey.
At first I cannot understand that the Krauts are gone. I have become so accustomed to acting very cautiously. When passing a German soldier, I would look at them-not in the eyes, but at them. They did horrid things to people who looked away. I once saw a woman who looked away from an officer. He seized her by the hair and clubbed her over the head with the end of his rifle. I have not seen the woman in town since then. The officer said he did not like her nose, but I don’t think he had a reason. Those who wear a black spider on their forearm never have good reasons for what they do. They are like spoiled children with no mother to punish them.
Walking through the bustling streets amidst the festivities, I see my sister, who shouts out to me:
“Olivier! Won’t you come dance with us? I have met some very nice American soldiers who like dancing!”
I pretend not to notice. I see a soldier coil his arm around her waist and press his drooling lips to her face. I would say something to him in broken English, but the numbness conquers the rage inside of me, and I must buy bread and meat before it all runs out.
There is a growing crowd outside of the boulangerie. Through the crush, I see six women lined up against the wall. Their heads are shaved and their clothes have been stripped from their bodies. Many people are throwing rotten pieces of food at them and shouting “Nazi whores.” I recognise one of the women; I have seen her at the church. She always wore the prettiest dresses and had the kindest face. I have no reason to dislike this woman. I ask the man standing next to me what these women had done.
“Those vile creatures whored themselves to all the German officers! And they lived like princesses while we starved,” he answered. “Look at them; aren’t they pathetic? They ought to be burnt alive!”
He is a priest. I believe he baptised me as an infant.
In the boulangerie, I wait for an half hour to buy bread.
“We have many soldiers to feed,” the baker says to me. “We must show our gratitude by not having them wait!”
I should be happy. Why am I not excited like the rest? I remember reading about the Revolution in school. The masses of hungry peasants stormed the king’s palace and took the royalty out to have them executed. After the King and Marie Antoinette’s heads had been cut off, the people celebrated. I look at the streets now and feel almost as if I had lived then. But why should I not rejoice? These men whom I know nothing about have swept the Germans away like a bad dream. Like a sordid nightmare. Seeing all these smiling faces ought to bring me a brighter mood, but somehow I remain unaffected. The sky is a thick, oppressive grey that will not let the sun through. The air is humid and my skin feels oily. My head is heavy and hot. I am overwhelmed. I must escape this noise. I must swim through this turbulent sea of flesh before I drown. Everywhere there are people. I must swim or I will drown.
The shouting, the engines, the church bells! I must escape. I cannot stop swimming.
The cobblestones grab at my feet and twist my ankles. I cannot stop swimming. I look above the waves. There are people hanging from the lamp posts, like scarecrows. They hang from ropes like strange fruit from a tree. I thought it was all over, but the sea is full of beasts. The whalers hunted the whales, but now the beasts surface from the abyss. I refuse to believe that these are my own people! Never before have I seen such a cruel mockery; such primitive contortions casting wild and fantastic shadows on the walls. I am frightened.
But through it all, in the distance, I see a harbour. Its soft lines sooth my tumultuous body. Its flowing pastel vista rescues me from my confused palsy.
I stumble into a field and fall on my back in the heather. My bread is gone; I must have lost it somewhere in the crowds. I do not care. The heather dances and tickles my cheeks and I smile. Straight up I look. The grey sky is not so heavy and oppressive as it felt before. Now it’s like a warm blanket wrapped around me. Under me the earth is soft clay. I rub some into my palms and breathe in the robust, wild scent. Above, the airmen still chase each other like hares. Don’t they know they are brothers? Perhaps they do know and are only playing.