2005-1
A French Affair
Paris, France
November 11th 2005
It was like any other day. The sun sat low in the sky, casting dim rays over the Palace of the Louvre which stood majestically in the near distance. There was a chill in the air, a breeze that went through my clothing and cut at my bones. I shivered, and put on my coat.
Like any other Armistice Day, there were various elderly fellows done up in their old army costumes, every one looking wistful and misty eyed, us younger ones just looking on with no idea of what they had gone through. Most of these men were veterans of the Free French army, others were members of Le Résistance. I strolled slowly along the Cours de Reine, ignoring all that was going on around me. Not far away, on the Champs Elysees, the annual ceremonies to commemorate the war living and dead were drawing to a close. I had heard the solemn fanfare earlier, and now, as I walked alongside the dark Seine I felt a true sense of history. I had read in the paper that there would be some survivors of the Great War in attendance, each over one hundred years old. These were men who fought in, and got out of the hell that was the trenches.
I now turned into the Quai de Tulieries, and came alongside the gardens. They were in the latter stages of dying, the flowers gone and the trees bare, mere spiny skeletons of their former glory. But, I thought, next year the flowers will return, the trees will bud and the gardens will come back to life. But now, I felt with a shiver, it was just a lonely place of death.
As I walked slowly through the gardens past a fountain, I felt a twinge in my ankle. Last year, I had broken it in a skiing accident, and on cold days I could still feel where the bone had cracked. As soon as I came to a bench I sat down, and brought my coat close around me. I intended to carry on walking as soon as the dull pain went away.
The bench upon which I had sat was not empty. On one end, a scrawny, lonely figure, was an old fellow, dressed up to the nines in his army outfit. He looked so forlorn, his ancient blue eyes sunken into his wrinkled, wizened face. He seemed not to notice me, and I at first tried to pretend he was not there. His eyes glanced up at me, balefully. He begun to stand up.
“Don’t go on my account,” I said, smiling. He nodded, and sat back down slowly. He sighed.
“Most kind of you, young sir. You know, I just like to sit here and think, especially on this day. So many memories I have, you see.” I laughed gently.
“You must have some stories!” He looked up, his face much brighter than it had been.
“Oh, of course! But you don’t want to hear any of them I’m sure.” I smiled, and shook my head.
“No no, I would love to!” His eyes lit up.
“You would?”
“Sure.” He slumped back down, and sighed.
“No one else does, you know? Everyone else just says ‘shut up, old man, no one wants to hear about the bloody war‘. They just don’t understand what we all went through. Are you sure, because once I get going there’s no stopping me.” I laughed, nodding.
“I served as a peacekeeper in Bosnia, so I myself have some war stories of my own. No one ever wants to listen to me, either!” The old man let out a wheezy cough.
“All right then. It was the spring of 1936...”
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