Vague Souvenir

By Claude Lambert

Is this a book for you?
IT IS NOT FOR YOU if you look for fast pacing action, profound mystery, a Harlequin love trip or the recounting of world war 2 battles. It is just not what I did.
IT IS FOR YOU if you want to travel in history with a book that pays great attention to details (smells, dresses, food, the way of thinking of the time). The story is about a French family divided by war in the town of Lille. The place is important because the town reacted differently than the rest of France. People from Lille believed that they would become part of Germany and were therefore much more resisting fascism than the rest of France. The two heroes, one French, one American travel in Portugal, Spain, Britain and Ireland, as each country had its special political flavors and problems during WW2. The heroes have in common a very unhappy childhood. Many unhappy kids never become happy adults. How does it go in this story?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Claude Lambert
• Release date: Jun 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983679103

Claude Lambert

Claude Lambert is born in Belgium, worked in France as a geochemist and retired in the United States to be close to the American part of her family .She published in French a novel and a series of children stories. She also co-authored a political book illustrated by Virginia Haggard-Leirens, the author of “My life with Chagall.“Her recent books in English are distributed by Ingram and can be found easily on Amazon or Barnes & Noble. “On Pets and Men” are humorous very short stories. “Vague Souvenir” is a World War 2 fiction. "Crimes of the Balance Sheet" is a mystery book.

Book preview

1. Thanksgiving 1938

We have cherished and preserved our democracy.

President Roosevelt 1938 Thanksgiving proclamation.

Warm Springs, Georgia

Lyman Hall was leaving the Little White House with a profound sadness. It was young Lyman’s curse to see behind the mask of people, and it was also why President Roosevelt employed him. Lyman knew what was in the heart of people; it was easy for him to understand what they thought. Years confined in beds and hospitals when he was a child had made Lyman very attune to other people’s misery. Somebody should give the President a dog (1).

Yesterday, the President had been his boisterous self, looking forward to the traditional Thanksgiving lunch he loved to share with his family, the people of Warm Springs: neighbors, patients, doctors, architects, close friends. This morning, he had even taken Lyman on a tour with his car, astutely fitted with hand controls. Roosevelt had been benevolently smiling around and gesturing and driving like a fearless pirate. But when all was said and done, the Little White House was giving out its secret: the bed was too small and uncomfortable, the kitchen too rudimentary, the walls unadorned. Here there was a lack of feminine touches that said solitude. This President was a lonely man. Lyman saw it easily because he felt the same inside. He admired the man for his persistent optimism and enthusiasm; he wished he could conceal his own melancholy as well.

Lyman reflected on the Little White House. He thought that Eleanor (2) did not really see the place as it was – somewhat pathetic – even though she had been here as recently as March. Lyman shook his head. Roosevelt was not really alone in Warm Springs. He came over with family and friends. This was a man who did not enjoy being alone, yet the loneliness persisted in the settings, even in the walls.

Eleanor was the kind of person who had decided for herself that happiness is not important, much less important than duty. It made her strong, but sometimes, although Lyman recognized that she was the most compassionate woman he knew, it blinded her.

The President often called Lyman my cousin, but of course they were not really related, except that they both had suffered from polio. If anything, Lyman was related to Eleanor’s mom, the beautiful Anna Hall, who was born in Georgia like Lyman himself. Lyman felt much closer to the Republicans than to the Democrats, but the President had not talked politics at all with him. Instead he had deployed his considerable charm and asked for his help. Well, politics mattered less than the country. If the President requested his help, he would be happy to serve.

The President liked to have envoys he trusted. Lyman was family. Lyman would help him to double-check an administration he did not always control the way he wanted.

So Lyman Hall, age 23 and just out of college, was on his way to Spain to report on the future distribution of power. According to observers the fascist side was winning. The International Brigade had just left Spain (3) and Franco’s Nationalists were making steady and deadly progress. The President believed that by the time Lyman reached Spain the war would be over, so there was no risk, and above all, he reminded Lyman that he was not to put himself in any danger – Eleanor would not allow it.

Crolais near Lille, France

The tutor of Marine Leroy had no concept of what is suitable teaching to a 12-year-old; he treated her as an adult, and Marine loved him for it. In a household where she did not count, the hours spent with Mr. Delhaxe made her feel important. Delhaxe was an old man who taught Latin, Greek and history to supplement his pension, but as a young man he had been a prestigious archeologist and a member of the French School of Athens, the first foreign institute of archeology in Greece. The old Mrs. Leroy did not miss an opportunity to impress her guests with his story. In the meantime, he was only allowed in the kitchen, never treated as a guest himself.

Every morning, Delhaxe and Marine spent hours in the big Leroys’ library. The old prof had always the same dark brown suit that looked one size too large. His pockets were deformed by accumulated trash: crayons, lost papers, several handkerchiefs, his tobacco.

The pipe he kept in hand the whole time; he only brandished it to point at her. He tapped it on the desk with impatience when she did not answer fast enough.

This morning he talked about iotacism, one of his favorite subjects. If you had told him that it was not a subject for such a young mind, he would have been indignant. What was more important than understanding how a language evolves in time? So here he was, explaining with enthusiasm how, in ancient Greek, the sounds ei and oi were progressively replaced by the sound i like in ski. And how do we know that? he asked triumphantly; because people who made copies of manuscripts made mistakes, for instance in the New Testament.

The New Testament? It is in Greek?

Yes, of course, it was the universal language of the time, specially after the conquests of Alexander the Great. Languages follow conquests. Many people in Canada nowadays speak French, and many people in India speak English. You understand? So give me a definition of iotacism.

Young Marine, who had heard it all many times before, summarized the answer:

An iotacism is a barbarism.

The professor looked stunned and emitted a small, high-pitched laugh. He, he, excellent!

Most of the morning, though, was spent in conversations.

Now, Marine, suppose you become a cactus. What are the advantages of being a cactus?

Do you think that Nero burned Rome, or was it just political propaganda? What are the facts?

How would you define justice?

After all that came the reward. They played a game, sometimes cards, sometimes chess, often a skit. Delhaxe was a fan of historical battles, so they had played Troy, Hannibal and Julius Caesar. Sometimes they played literary pieces. Delhaxe would be the old dog of Ulysses, who dies when he recognizes his master’s gone at war for many years. Ulysses also recognizes the old dog and tries to hide his tears. So Delhaxe, as a dog, would look extremely happy, then suffer a cardiac arrest and fall with his paws up while Marine would declaim the eulogy of the dog, praise his strength and his speed, and marvel at how good of a hunter he was. Or Marine would be Madame de la Fayette, who loves somebody she should not.

Today they played the battle of Trafalgar. The British fleet was represented by new matches, the French and Spanish fleets were represented by burned matches that Mr. Delhaxe carefully aligned along the spine of a book symbolizing the coast between Cadiz and Trafalgar.

Do you want to be Admiral Nelson or his adversary Villeneuve? If you want to be Nelson, you will have to die.

Marine always delighted in playing Nelson. She loved to die even more than winning, falling on the ground, and calling the name of dear Lady Hamilton. Delhaxe, who thought that Napoleon was one of the worst mass murderers he knew of, played Villeneuve with gusto and ended up committing suicide. Obviously, Delhaxe enjoyed playing dead too. He fell on the floor and stabbed himself several times while emitting very unlikely dying sounds. The dead Nelson usually peaked out from the dead and snickered. Although the lesson included some naval strategy, it was mostly an allegory of method and preparedness against improvisation. Marine had to think this through, get her ships repaired, good food distributed, including lemon juice to prevent scurvy. She made sure every commander knew what to do. Delhaxe ran around like a fool, his hair tousled, and made last minute decisions (go this way, no, go that way, no, turn around) with no clear view of the battle and apparently with no plan at all.

In the end – and this was the best part – Marine had a lock of her hair cut for dear Lady Hamilton, and her body was preserved in brandy. This was represented by the professor throwing a slipcover over her. Delhaxe then pretended to carry the hair to Lady Hamilton herself, in this case the placid Yvonne who reigned in the kitchen.

Lady Hamilton, he said, this is a lock of hair of Admiral Nelson. I am afraid he is dead. Please do not faint!

Wash your hands, both of you, replied the noble woman, and you will get some soup.

2. Missing mothers (4)

Just another case of poliomyelitis

Augusta, Georgia, 1929

Lyman Hall was 14 years old. He had learned patience through the duration of this terrible sickness, but today a new doctor had come and palpated his leg. Lyman was so bruised and so tired of all the tension around him that he thought for the first time of running away from home, except that, of course, he would never really run again.

Not only was the examination painful, but all doctors said the same thing. Only his father would not accept it. This doctor had come from Atlanta. He looked up at Mr. Hall and said: The boy is lucky. The left leg is weak, but it is not deformed. Is it hereditary? asked Mr. Hall, not for the first time. No, Sir, it is infantile paralysis. It is like an infection; it has nothing to do with family. Lyman’s father looked around him furiously. It does not come from me, he said. Everybody on my side of the family is very healthy! With that, he stormed out of the room. The doctor looked at Lyman helplessly, sighed and went out too, unable to find comforting words for the child.

A few days later, Mr. Hall left for New York and never came back. He had not even said good-bye to Lyman. Lyman’s mother did not fare much better. She just told her son to pick himself up. Indeed he felt that she was resentful because her husband had left, as if it were Lyman’s fault.

In all this, young Lyman was helped by a stubborn streak; he would not feel guilty for getting polio. He just had to survive and go through this. Pick himself up indeed. Somebody in church told him he got polio because he was getting tested. Well, there was no denying that.

Summerfield coal mine, Pennsylvania

October 18, 1930

Alex was heavyset and harbored a hint of a mustache over heavy lips. Men thought he was of the decent kind, and women found him appealing. He was, however, regularly raping his step-child, Grace. I am worried about little Grace, he would tell his friends at church. She is very bright, but you know, precocious. And he would sigh, poor man, taking such a responsibility. The strategy was perfect. Grace was branded a difficult child by people who had never observed her doing anything wrong, as well as by people who had never met her at all.

I am afraid she may be already interested in boys, Alex said. She needs more discipline. Another sigh. People understood his concern.

If she ever accused him, everybody would think she was making excuses for running with boys her age.

Go to your room, and don’t make any noise and don’t move until I call you, he would say. If your mom knew what you did, it would kill her.

Crolais near Lille, France

May 1939

It was bizarre that in the big house full of family, seven of them spanning three generations, little Marine had fallen through the cracks. It was probably linked to the fact that small children were not supposed to eat at the great table. The whole family regularly forgot about her. She ate in the kitchen, where Yvonne, the old cook, always left food for her. She studied with a private tutor, and she was free the rest of the time to hide in the big house or take her bicycle for long runs in the neighborhood. Marine did not feel lonely. She had been alone and quite free as long as she remembered. Nowadays, at 13 years old, she was in love, and a great portion of her days were spent daydreaming about the dashing Tarba.

The big house was mostly a big ugly brick thing. It had the same industrial look as the heavy administrative building behind it. The plant was further down, over the bridge, close to the train station. What made the house ugly was the disproportion between the high first floor windows and the smaller windows of the second floor. The late owner had insisted on a library with a gallery on the left side of the house and a huge reception room on the right. At the edge of war, both rooms were usually deserted, and the windows had not been washed in a while. Between these two rooms, the lobby was too small. The mix of aristocratic pretense and industrialism was pervasive inside and out – just an ugly big house.

Marine was pressed against the library high window, hidden from staff and family by the long velvet drapes. She had been looking out for him all afternoon. Tarba was coming for a visit, and she was in love with him, with all the passion of a teenager. Tarba had glamour. He was full of life, generous, headstrong, and he had a new car, a Peugeot convertible that the whole household was anxious to see.

The car finally rolled in, but Marine could not run to the front door. She had heard the heavy steps of Uncle Jules in the hallway. Jules had to be avoided at all costs. She had to go back up to the second floor, run along the length of the house and take the servants’ stairs down to the kitchen door. When she came in view of the car, she saw something that would change her life.

Tarba, her hero, had gone out of the car to the right side, had opened the door and he was kneeling in front of another man. It was so weird; it stopped her in her tracks. Tarba started massaging the other man’s legs with energy. It is going to be fine, he said. Do not talk about the Spanish war, and do not talk about politics. Don’t tell them anything about your family. Marine thought that if Tarba kneeled in front of the stranger, the man must be very important. Was there anybody more important than Tarba? She was thrilled.

The stranger replied he would be fine, and then he did stand up and took a cane from the car. He was very tall, much taller than Tarba, with a severe face, but he appeared to be about the same age as Tarba, old in the eyes of Marine, but young enough for anybody else. Tarba was 24 years old. The stranger’s eyes met hers. She was a little girl with dancing hazel eyes and black curls, looking at them intently. He thought she might be Italian. She made him think of kids in the streets of Naples or Capri. God, how he missed holidays in Capri! He said: Good afternoon, Miss. I am Lyman Hall. Tarba just said: Hey, kiddo!

The kid turned away and ran back, without an answer, while they both walked to the main door. Tarba had come for a visit, he had taken the new car, and he had knelt in front of a stranger; there had never been such an exciting day.

3. Fleeing Spain

Aix-en-Provence to Lille, France, May 1939

Göring has only got one ball

Hitler’s ’re so very small

Himmler’s so very similar

And Goebbels has no balls at all.

on Colonel Bogey’s march

The two friends were perfectly at ease with one another, special friends as people who have been tested, like fishermen or army buddies. Tarba claimed that Lyman Hall had saved his life. Lyman dismissed it as ridiculous. In the confusion and the danger that ended the Spanish Civil War, they had escaped Barcelona together when the Nationalists defeated the town last January. Lyman was officially an Attaché to the American Embassy, just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Tarba was a French volunteer for the Republican side who had had no opportunity to fight – defeated before he even got a decent weapon. Lyman had given his passport to Tarba; he figured that the Frenchman needed more protection than him. But Tarba had not been arrested, so saving Tarba’s life was typical of the French sense of drama.

I cannot believe that you actually talked to Franco (5), and here you are sitting in my car, Tarba said. Do you speak Spanish too? Your French is almost perfect.

My French comes from a French nanny; she died when I was very young. She was sweet to me. And no, I do not really speak Spanish. I thought I did though, but in Spain, I realized that my Spanish is very Mexican.

Tarba laughed Catalan is easy for me because it is so close to French, so I was at ease in Barcelona, but I do not get a word of the Spanish they talk in the South. So what did Franco tell you?

Nothing much. He is not very educated, but he is very careful. I learned something, though. The man is in a pickle. He is supposed to restore the monarchy, call back the king and put the aristocrats back in power, but he does not want to do it. He wants it all for himself.

Interesting, what did he say that made you think that?

It is not what he said, Tarba, it is what he did not say. Of course Franco would have to choose between the king and some other pretender to the throne, but the real problem of Franco was to stay in power without offending either party.

How did he look? Did he look like the monster he is?

No, I don’t think they ever do, you know. He did not even look military. He is meticulous, careful, and he looks like a dentist.

Ha! I guess it should make sense to me, but it doesn’t. By the way, how is your leg?

Sore. It is not built to walk across the Pyrenees mountains. But don’t worry about it. It has been bothering me for years. I got used to it.

Tarba decided that he should soon stop and let Lyman stretch his legs. Next village. He did not understand how Lyman could have been behind the Nationalist lines talking to Franco, and then go to Barcelona in the opposite camp. It did not make any sense, so he asked.

Why did you go to Barcelona? Didn’t you know that Franco was on the attack?

And why did you go to Barcelona? Didn’t you know that the International Brigade had already left? I made a mistake, I thought I still had time. I wanted to meet with a couple of American Quakers who have been distributing condensed milk and supplies for children in Catalonia. One was apparently killed in an air raid, and I never found the other one. I knew the one who died. What about you?

I thought I would die on barricades like a hero. I never realized that my father’s gun was no match for the bombs, and that the airplanes of dear Franco would just attack all civilians on the roads between Spain and France. I ended up hiding in holes like a rabbit.

They felt silent. From time to time they rehashed their recent adventures like this, repeating the same stories, always with very little new information. What they did not talk about was their fears, the horror of seeing dead bodies, unarmed civilians, children, the cruelty, the atrocity of it all. Lyman had expected the Army blocking routes and soldiers interrogating everybody. He had not expected wild senseless killings. He knew that the Republican side had also committed crimes. He blamed the Communists. Their role in all this had been inexcusable. Also, France and Britain had refused to help, while allowing Germany and Italy to provide armaments to Franco. Then the Roman Catholic Church had taken sides, the right-wing side, more with political than religious views. He sighed.

Tarba must have had similar thoughts because he asked:

... and how come Americans remained neutral (6)?

We paid our dues to Lafayette in 1918, and that is it. I guess we do not want to meddle in European affairs. We like to enjoy our own freedom, peace and autarky.

Tarba chuckled. It does not hold when you look at the map of the world, he said. Fascism is everywhere, from Japan to Spain. Communism is growing everywhere, from the inside, trying to kill democracy. We are entering the new medieval era.

I guess so. Munich (7) has opened a lot of eyes. But it was too late for Spain.

Let us talk about something funnier, asked Tarba, like the Duke of Windsor (8) and his wife. Did you ever meet them?

Lyman had not communicated anything to Roosevelt about how he came out of Spain. He was not proud of it, and he did not want to be recalled because of Eleanor’s worry for him. As he was in France, Roosevelt had seized the opportunity to give him another safe mission: he was to evaluate the raw materials produced in France and the attitude of French industrialists. Meeting Tarba, who had inherited a small aluminum plant in the South of France, was for Lyman pure serendipity.

*****

War is a contagion, whether it be declared or undeclared. It can engulf states and peoples remote from the original scene of hostilities

President Roosevelt Quarantine speech, 1937

The trip between Aix-en-Provence and Lille was long, and made longer by Tarba’s insistence to stop every 30 miles so that Lyman Hall could walk for a few minutes and stretch his legs. They had spent a few weeks in Tarba’s home after the ordeal of getting out of Barcelona, but Lyman’s leg was still very sore.

Lyman had been introduced to olive oil tasting, a process as refined as wine tasting. If the olives had been picked early, still green, the taste was stronger; if they were taken late, when the olives got black, the taste was milder. But of course the amount of sun and quality of soil played a role. Lyman, with his good nose, discovered that the most important factor was cleanliness; the most bitter oils had an aftertaste of last season.

The funny part is that he discovered that when his nose was occupied, he suffered less pain in his leg.

The two friends often stopped in solitary places, out of town, often close to a cemetery. Finally Tarba’s strategy paid off, and Lyman remarked: It is frightening, the number of deaths you had during the Great War. There is not one hamlet that did not have five or 10 or 20 soldiers killed between 1914 and 1918.

Well, it is what I wanted you to see. replied Tarba. It is useless to talk about millions of deaths (9). I thought you would better understand the price of the war by looking at all these little memorials. It is what explains the desperate efforts of the French and the British to be at peace with Germany. I guess that most Americans, except of course your heroes, have no idea of what the war really means because they did not have a war on their own land for a long time. It is a whole different situation to be invaded.

In each village where they stopped there was a small monument with the names of fallen heroes. Tarba was right. It was the first time that Lyman realized how devastating the war in Europe had been. A whole generation of young people had been lost.

Lyman avoided telling his friend how important isolationism was to Americans; the general opinion of Americans was that they should keep well away from European problems. They rode in silence for a while, then Lyman said, But it does not make Chamberlain or Daladier less ridiculous! Tarba argued that both the British and French ministers were gentlemen. They did not understand men like Hitler: It is all about playing cricket and following the rules. They have no contact with reality.

It is worse than that, my friend, they sort of like Hitler, Mussolini, Salazar, Franco … you should hear how Henderson (10), the British Ambassador in Germany, talks about Salazar (11) or how much he trusts Goering. Tarba remained silent. The only way Lyman knew this was if President Roosevelt had told him, or if he had had access to some secret correspondence. Of course, you have special sources of information, to be so sure, he said. Do you have any influence on President Roosevelt?

Lyman laughed. "Rather

Reviews for Vague Souvenir

[cataryna_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm not usually a fan of WWII historical fiction because I feel they tend to be too militarized. I didn't find that in this book. There was a good mix of WWII information and personal information. I found both main characters delightful and enjoyed the fact that their romance was genuine and not overly sexed up. It read almost like a modern day Jane Austen type romance. It was well written and attention grabbing.

[raucousrain · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Vague, meaning indistinct or lacking definition; souvenir, meaning a memory … I had little idea what to expect when I read this book. I found it to be quite provocative, and I was delighted by it! Without giving away too much about the storyline and plot, some sections were disturbing when dealing with stories of war time, and other parts were stimulating in giving me an awareness of situations I never thought of in quite the ways presented by Claude Lambert. Her book is well written and well researched; I was entertained by her style of writing. In addition, I appreciated the supplemental end notes, as well as I discovered inspiration in the lessons that can be learned from the past in order to better deal with the present. I highly recommend Vague Souvenir!