Diary of a French Girl

By Zéphanie

This true story takes place in Paris, the City of Lights

where Zphanie was born in 1925. In this memoir, you

will learn what life was like during the war and occupation,

and how the resistance movement helped the fallen pilots

that were parachuted into German encampments.

You will read how one girl preserved her sense of

compassion and kindness regardless of the circumstance.

There are heroes born among us every day, but they too

often remain unsung. Zphanie was one of them

She handled the horrors and tragedies life handed her with

grace and dignity, and she survived long enough to make her

way to England, then to America. Her fascinating

story will captivate you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 21, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452054889

Zéphanie

Now living in Rockport, Massachusetts and working on her next book, Bonjour America

Book preview

Contents

Destiny

Paris

New Beginning

Tragedy

The Farm

Uncle Albert

Summer Camp

Daily Life

Religion

The Countryside

Death

Monique

The War

Batiste

The Train

Carole

François

The Death of Batiste

Romance

The Liberation

Paris Liberated

The Air Force

England

Newcastle —England

and The O.T.U

The O.T.U.

Back To Paris

Destiny

One may often wonder if we choose our parents. Do we really have a choice, or are we thrown into this world at a precise time, in a specific place or country with designated parents? Is there some sort of organized destiny to which we are subjected, for some specific reason? Some may argue that it is just not so, that life is not so clever and one understands that we are pushed into existence by chance or simply as a consequence of sexual activity. Is it fate? It certainly demands a lot of thinking to arrive at a conclusion too often dictated by religious teaching, technology or guessing. But, if we have a choice and such is granted, can we just point a finger and say, This is it? I doubt it very much as too many would want the very best of situation, physical as well as financial and the very finest of location. I would tempt to presume it is far more complicated than that and from my own experience I can assure you it is not so. One has only to look at the tragedies that surround us: discrimination, poverty, starvation and the endless suffering of some to be quite aware that no one would choose this of their own free will unless they were seeking punishment. It could be that you have to take the good with the bad perhaps as expiation of previous life’s crimes, but for atheists it would not ring true since most people do not believe in reincarnation. Perhaps a guilt complex could propel one to such awesome penalty. What about opportunity for challenges from which to excel, to be a hero, to conquer one self and shine in spite of the odds? Isn’t it what is always portrayed in movies or stories, how the hero faces mountains of danger and win? But this is man made tale, which, unfortunately, does not ring true in real life. Most of the time true heroes are silent, unknown and go to their grave unappreciated except by very few or not at all. They pass through life doing infinite good with a grandeur of soul unexcelled, no medals, no music, no fanfare, no flags or advertising and at time no one ever know they have been there. Then, I ask, who does? Here could be the answer to all life’s questions, and it would imply that there are choices to be made, either previous to living, while being here and in which place to do one’s duties. This book, in its sincerity, may answer some of the questions one has about life, its purpose, its downfall, its rewards, and salvation. In this true story you will find the silent heroes, the strength of character, personality, dedication, survival and how to change one’s life, destiny, to make the most of it, to climb the mountainous hindrances, rejection, hatred and jealousy. But most of all, it is how to love and express it.

Paris

Surely, if choice was to be made, a lovelier city could not be found. Paris of yesterday or tomorrow will still be the most appreciated and loved place in the world. It takes more than a lifetime to see it in its entirety. Its palaces, fine edifices, bridges, the Arènes de Lutèce, the Palais de l’Unesco or the Eiffel Tower from which one can discover the scenic view of the entire city; the Sacré Coeur, the Arc of Triumph, the Magnificent Opera, the Louvre Museum, once Napoleon’s palace. The Luxembourg with its parks, Les Tuileries gardens all of incomparable beauty. In this city of creation, war and strife have existed for centuries. It is where conquerors have passed through and where the great have lived or died. How could one not desire, wish, beg, implore to be born there even if in the most sordid of Paris’ quarters, still considering himself blessed and extremely fortunate.

In the darkest of streets, talent resided or was born. It seems as though misery produced artists wanting to express their pain and sorrows. From the poorest areas emerged the now well-known Maurice Chevalier, Edith Piaf and so many others, all climbing the steep roads of poverty and misery. But this is what Paris was, fascinating by its historical past, its castles, political struggles, wars, famous composers, writers, painters and scientific discoveries. What a challenge this great city is!

Paris in 1925 had long recovered from the 1914-18 war and had bathed in its victory. Soon, however, their heroes were forgotten, the wounded or the dead past history, except of course for the families afflicted by it all, still cherishing their dead and living with the cripples, survivors and remains of battles won.

There was then a sense of accepted debauchery. Houses of prostitution were operating flagrantly unobstructed, pimps getting rich and the crime element unabated. Poorly gas lighted streets were a heaven for attempts. A class distinction, which began after the revolution became defined, labeled, and turned into a curse. Here you were either a hobo, poor, a member of the working class, or established, then a petit Bourgeois, an arriviste, a nouveau rich, artists, scientists, doctors, followed by lawyers and finally political members of the government. As to the nobility, the aristocrats, they were a whole class into themselves. Unless one had a title, nobody could enter their closed circle or even be considered to have that right. The fact that most of them were destitute made no difference. They were influential in business and had political connections. Well-educated, refined in mannerism, elegant and pretentious, they proudly spoke of their heritage. Out of dire necessity, they sometimes accepted to be somewhat courted by the rich in order to survive financially. Some, actually, had to work when their inheritance was exhausted, disseminated or gambled away. Society used them for business connections, or possibly to impress one’s friends, boasting how they had reached into that specific class. It was understood that it was some sort of superficial acceptance at being paraded, entertained by people of lower background, mainly to enjoy being admired for their rank and status. Was it a remnant of the revolution when the masses hated them for their wealth, their power and possibly their education? Envy of such position, even though almost extinct, created this sort of worship of a time gone by and of unattainable greatness. To be close to someone whose forefathers had gone through the revolution, may be escaped the guillotine when being part of parliament at time of reforms, survived assassination as well as the rancor of the masses, heir or descendants of great men, like famous people they were part of history, they had regained some of their position in the mind of those who once wanted to kill them all for the abuse suffered at their hands. Even the tragedy of Napoleon had not extinguished the respect and love the people had for him and possibly, through his death, had attained more understanding and admiration than in his lifetime. True the country was deciding whom its heroes were and whom to worship. But the fact that Napoleon’s tomb is in the heart of Paris and consistently visited may prove a point in the matter. Since the nobility did not represent the same threat as before, they were envied. Possibly from this sort of feeling, education grew. Good manners, good taste and refinement in food began a new way of life. Without it, one would immediately be ostracized. Even in the poorest family, table manners were enforced, as well as to excel in education, to cultivate an appreciation of fine food and beautiful surroundings, even if unattainable. Paris’s haute couture and clothing could immediately identify to which class you belonged simply by what you wore. This is when dressmakers became the poor’s salvation by copying new models and confusing the classes. However, without mannerism, attitude, and perfect French, one could not deceive a trained person who had been raised into a better situation or paid a high price for clothes. For those who could not afford to have their clothes made, they themselves gave it a try. It was said that a French woman, even in the cheapest of attires, looked well dressed and elegant. Some went even further stating that a Parisian only covered with an apron would still look beautiful knowing how to wear it, making it shine like a high fashion piece of clothing. I believe it was true. It was an inner knowledge, a love of beauty, fashion, and the desire to express it. Too often, envy promulgated one to strive to achieve, become rich, to succeed where others had failed, to extricate oneself from an intolerable situation.

Now, strangely enough, the hobos also were choosy and did not lack a certain amount of mannerism. They lived under the famous bridges hovering the river Seine, a whole society of its own. This is where they slept and gathered at night around ground fire, while during the day, they begged, borrowed, trying to find food or donation. Actually they were famous in their own way. A radio show portrayed their lives and way of living in a very humorous manner. Jeanne Sourza was the idol of the program called sur le ban (on the bench), the story of two hobos meeting each other to have lunch or dinner. Everybody listened fervently, looking forward to the next episode. It is true that most of them refused to be hosted at the Salvation Army’s quarters, preferring to retain their independence and freedom of choice. Were they dangerous? Some of them were. Killers, some mentally disturbed, but this was not the majority who was passive. Among them, it was not unusual to also find a laureate who, disgusted by the mentality of mankind, had just given up. People would gather around him to hear his opinion, his way of thinking, and for a while he would enjoy the arguments that could be presented to him. But it would not last long as he soon would find his way back into the flow of daily life, after his family found him and would return, for a while, to be positively active in his position without forgetting what he had learned from life itself. What was this Paris so loved and admired? Was it for its romanticism, the lovers kissing on benches, or walking the beautiful bridges at night, seating at sidewalk cafés, or frolicking in the park while passionately kissing? No one can answer in one sentence what this fabulous city was or meant to people. Could one be deceived, disenchanted by this impressive background, by such wealth of life? Of course, when misery overwhelms an individual, the bridges of Paris were tempting. It was not unusual, for many young girls, in the penumbra of the night, to jump into the murky waters trying to extinguish their sufferings. A marriage gone bad, a shady deal uncovered, or depressed by an incurable disease, the river Seine seemed to be a solution. It was not uncommon to see a body floating by. Police would often look for someone who had disappeared while the body, anchored underneath a barge remained there for months only to reappear when the boat started on a journey to deliver material. Only those who had dreams, ambition and courage, could upgrade their life style into a better one. Fortune gained and lost, position attained without merits, struggles, hardship, all gathered into one place, inflamed by alcoholism, diseases, poverty, wealth and grandeur.

Perhaps one born there, who lived and endured the consequences of class distinction, war, political upheaval, the challenges which forces one to survive and promotes the efforts to belong, only such individual could define what it meant to be born and raised in Paris. This true story, the diary of a French girl, will illuminate one’s understanding and even help those who, in the world, find themselves at the end of the line, poor, uneducated, downtrodden and forgotten. May it help them produce perhaps something to discuss and fantasize as to what brings a human being to such level of decrepitude. There were no answers or explanation to destiny or bad luck. Sometimes, one had to trade carefully when visiting the hobos. One would encounter a few mean winos, and quite often bodies were thrown into the river, floating along barges or disappearing forever when caught by the boats’ propellers. This was also the choice of those who wanted to end their misery. Young people attracted by the lights of Paris, who found life disappointing even cruel without friends or support, money or shelter, even if saddened by a terminated love affair, they would jump from the bridges into the dark menacing water ending their youth and dreams in the putrid flow of the river, which, they thought, would extinguish all pains.

The police made their round at night looking for a specific person, a murderer, an escapee or a thief. If they were friendly in their approach and attitude, they were in no danger. But, those who tried to play tough with these vagabonds had much to lose, mostly their lives as the river Seine welcomed their bodies. The tramps knew their rights and how far to go.

Why was this Paris so loved and admired? Was it for its art, beauty, The Sorbonne University so revered for the highest of education it provided, or perhaps its elegance? No one can answer in one sentence what this fabulous city was or meant to people. Possibly, one born there, who lived and endured the consequences of poverty, war, political upheaval, the challenges of class distinction which forced one to survive and promote the efforts to belong, only such individual could define what it meant to be born and raised in Paris. This true story, the Diary of a French girl and her Silent Heroes, will illuminate one’s understanding, even help those who, in America, find themselves at the end of the line, poor, uneducated, downtrodden and forgotten. May it help them to rise above all afflictions and shine, like a light in the darkness, an example of courage, strength and success. This book is dedicated to all who suffer in the hope it will alleviate their sorrows and give them hope.

New Beginning

In the twilight of early morning hour, Paris awakened. One could hear street cleaners sweeping sidewalks as water surged along the gutter. Horse-pulled wagons delivered milk in large metal containers, which gave a resounding sound as they were dropped on the pavement in front of opening stores. The rhythm of horses’ hooves hobbling on cobblestones as they climbed slowly up the steep narrow streets indicated that the day had begun. Then the scent of freshly baked goods perfumed the air, insidiously sipping into buildings, tickling nostrils of residents, awakening their desires for bread, croissants, patisseries. By daylight, voices of street sellers would rise, window shutters would open as clients called out their needs. The window repairmen praised their glasses; baker offered their goods still warm from the oven; grocery vendors trying to catch buyers needing something for breakfast before they left for work. Rag collectors whose strident cries would awaken even the soundest of sleepers, stopped at each building with insistence and repetitious songs. It was the same everyday, but on weekends floweriest merchants would roll their carts full of scented flowers of the season, while a fiddler would lament under windows with old and new songs. Often one could hear a clicking noise as pieces of money hit the pavement when people threw small change either out of kindness or, at times, if the violin’s sounds made one cringed it was to get ride of the untrained player. But if an accordionist walked the streets, with joyful and popular music and at time sang along, windows would open and faces would appear leaning forward to hear better and even sing the melody. This was easy and cheap happiness, moments stolen from sufferings, an enjoyment of life so rare in a painful world.

Strangely enough, even funerals attracted onlookers to see the black horses wearing silver and plumes that pulled a black decorated hearse adorned with beaded wreaths, mourners following on foot, women’s faces covered with opaque black veils, the long procession some times accompanied by sad funeral marches. Why would one be attracted to it? No one can tell except to see what was, ultimately, awaiting them all and how they would depart.

But in wintertime, it was quite different. With the incoming snow all sounds were muted. Streets were somewhat deserted from the usual daily activities. People walked quickly to reach the subway or wait impatiently for the bus, well muffled up, rhythmically stamping the pavement to warm up their feet. Street cleaning was then done with large machines that removed the snow and threw salt on sidewalks. It was a totally different atmosphere of rushes, pedestrians walking briskly and quickly disappearing into stores only to emerge again with full, heavy shopping sacs.

To be born in wintertime was not a very good idea. Children were sensitive to cold since there was no medication to help if they fell prey to infection. Old fashion remedies would be applied and some, with luck, worked. Most babies were tightly wrapped up in blankets from the chest down, making them unable to move their feet and were usually restricted to home under the guard of a grandparent or an elderly babysitter. But our heroine did not have the comfort of home or of a babysitter, nor was cutely tended by an elder and secured against the elements.

So, as the November weather pressed its way with ice and snow, our heroine was born in the tenth quarter, delivered by a young intern who helped a thirty-year-old woman, Juliette, bring her child into the world. He is facing his first delivery. Only twenty-nine years of age, lacking practice, he is shy and nervous. By sunrise and without many problems a little girl appears. It is 7:30 A.M. and it had been a long night. The mother did not seem overjoyed at the sight of her new born child, redhead and blue eyes. When asked what name to put on the birth certificate, the woman hesitated. Had she possibly expected a boy? Being a romantic, the young man suggested Zéphanie his girlfriend’s name. The mother nodded and so our heroine was now established into life with a name and a birth date of November 23rd 1925 in Paris.

If some children are happily forthcoming into a family, this was not the case. It was not a happy event. Zéphanie was a third child, her siblings being a brother eleven years older and a four years old sister, second in line. She would not be a welcomed addition, neither by them nor by the father, a wounded war veteran alcoholic and violent.

Her mother Juliette was a nurse who faced the tragedy of all abused women, the hardship of having to work, raise children and endure a contagious husband afflicted with tuberculosis. On one hand she had to insure that her children would not catch the dreadful disease, and on the other hand she had to make ends meet with very meager income. The twentieth quarter where they resided was one of the poorest in the city and the most pitiful. One bedroom, which now five people would occupy; a small living room and dining room area; a tiny kitchen where one only could fit, aired by a small window underneath which a screened wall opening acted as a cooling storage.

A countertop alcohol stove was the sole cooking appliance. It had two burners and no gourmet platter could be expected. A small sink served to wash dishes or one’s face. The bathroom facilities consisted of a toilet situated between the third and fourth floors and serving tenants of both. Actually, it was simply a hole in the ground with side footrests above which a water tank would discharge water when a long chain was pulled. No need to mention the stench that emanated from this place, as too often the water did not reach certain areas and one had to be sure to jump quickly when the water gushed everywhere except where it should have.

One had to bring their toilet paper. If they forgot, it was unfortunate.

Too often children’s feet could not master the footrests and it was for them a pitiful struggle as they, invariably, missed the hole.

In wintertime, during which Zéphanie was born, there was no heating system. A coal-burning chimney, located in the bedroom, was the sole provider of heat for the entire apartment. Since no one could tend to it during the day, it was only lit at night and took a long time to generate some heat.

The crowded bedroom consisted of a center bed for the parents; a baby crib next to it; a portable bed located at the foot of the parents’ bed to accommodate the boy and girl. This arrangement caused constant friction when the both of them had to sleep at opposite ends, kicking each other while trying to secure more space for their legs.

This is why the newcomer was so unwelcome when the boy’s bed was eliminated to make room for the crib. A pot de chambre (chamber pot) was centrally located for the children or the parents to use during the night. It was not the standard porcelain bowl that could fit into a nightstand, but a high blue metal container difficult to manage, the sharp rim painful against a child’s skin. It could easily tilt and the bleach the mother carefully put in as antiseptic, emanated fumes, which stung when in contact with urine and produced a burning sensation to one’s bottom. It had a metal cover to reduce odors, but created noises when removed or put back. To awaken Emile from a sound sleep was a big mistake, especially when he was recovering from a drunken night spent at some café. Considering how the grandparents lived with many more children and smaller quarters, it could then have been considered to be good or at least better. What antecedents did Zéphanie have? On the maternal side, her grandmother, Adolphine, had thirteen children out of which only seven survived—all living into two rooms located on the second floor, overlooking an enclosed courtyard while the bedroom windows faced an alley. In this small confine, were seven children, plus the parents, a grandmother then close to one hundred, they all ate, slept and bathed. The discipline had to be more than just words. Older children would handle newborn, school being a luxury that few of them attended regularly after the grandmother passed on at one hundred and six. Adolphine worked as a laundress while her husband Jules was somewhat of an artist, doing expensive silk wall coverings, or decorative plaster and painting. It may have sounded expensive, yet the work paid little even though only the rich could afford it. But, having to feed and clothe seven children, an elderly parent plus themselves, there never was enough money to sustain even a normal way of life. No meat was ever served at the table over which the father reigned.

As he sat to eat, he would put his leather belt on the table by his right hand and was not afraid to use it when one dared speak, as no word was permitted during meals. The sight of the belt was enough, and no one dare move or speak unless spoken to. Soup, bread and vegetables were the main course, and no one expected dessert. Their Christmas gift was a fruit, mostly an apple or orange and they felt privileged to receive it.

In a small entrance corner was a washbowl for their washing duties. One had to wait in line for their turn, and it was done without fuss or trying to get ahead of another. The bathroom was outside in the courtyard and was used by many tenants. So, here again, a chamber pot was to serve all of the children. The bedroom had only three beds and all had to fit into them no matter how uncomfortable it might have been. There was no time for gentleness, kindness or affection. The restricted quarters, the demands made upon each child, the lack of toys, food and, at times, clothing, made these children grow without love or even knowing what love was. Being raised in this fashion, it is easy to keep repeating this pattern and perpetuating this unloving, yet caring attitude. The children were not neglected, strict demands of cleanliness were enforced and obedience to bylaws accepted without complaints. People thought it was the right way to raise children.

For Juliette, she had the misfortune of being born second in line of the thirteen infants and was, of course, the one to help raise them. Short school sections always interrupted by a newborn, especially when her grandmother Justine was unable to tend to so many children. The rigor of poverty, the lack of privacy, tenderness or appreciation would form a character to endure, to survive without, however, the tendency to show love in any form except in duties and responsibility. That deep down there would always be devotion, she could not or knew not how to express gentleness or sweetness toward her own children, as she had never witnessed it, felt or experienced such feelings. Whose fault was it? Certainly the harshness of life, the limitation of her own parents who, possibly, had been raised in this fashion and knew nothing else. But the gift of discipline, good manners and cleanliness are indeed tools that bring one to succeed in spite of all odds.

On the paternal side, here again, the harshness of life was evident. Zéphanie’s father, Emile, was also born into poverty. Nine sons, three girls and some deceased children in between, for him life would be a continuous fight for survival. His parents, a Prussian mother and a German father, did not bring any softness to his upbringing.

Emile’s father was a brutal alcoholic, a disciplinary parent, while the mother, hard working, physically and morally abused could not handle her sons all over six feet tall, ruthless and consistently fighting. Disliked and feared by their peers, the boys were known to enjoy the opportunity to battle or strike at any one for no specific reason just for the fun of it or if only to prove their superiority. Even among themselves, they pursued each other on roofs if needed be, and their violence had no end. The girls, however, were different. Overpowered by their brothers and under their protection it made it impossible for them to have any freedom of movement. Shy and sweet, the youngest, Madeleine, had a hard time finding a beau that would be accepted by her brothers who fiercely watched over her. Consistently chaperoned by one of them, suitors were too afraid to make the first move. But love has a way of finding a receptive heart and soon, one summer, came the time for her wedding shower. Everyone was thrilled, according to their recollection, as the young suitor was a wonderful proper, hardworking young man with a good future. Because she was absolutely beautiful and kind Madeleine seduced everyone’s heart. During the festivities, someone jokingly put ice in the back of her dress as she complained of being warm and sweaty. She felt a chill, paid little or no attention to it, unaware that lung disease was prevalent in her family; that they ignorantly suffered from it, but even if they knew, tuberculosis was then incurable and extremely contagious. Her chill turned to pleurisy, she became bedridden and the marriage was postponed. She died at twenty years of age and was buried in her wedding dress that she had made for herself. This is possibly when it was discovered that there was a history of tuberculosis in the whole family.

Then the 1914 war began. Already, Juliette had met Emile, one of the seven brothers. Actually, he was her sister Leone’s beau. It was through her that they met, but Leone, being flirtatious, had eyes for someone else and Juliette ended up with Emile. One must remember that dating, at that time, was not permitted and that parents or chaperon was to be present at all times. Virginity was to be preserved until marriage, as mishaps were frowned upon and truly a tragedy for one’s family.

Passion was to be put aside and strictly controlled by social rigor. Soon Juliette and Emile were married in a simple ceremony. As she later related, her first night was horrifying. She became frighten by the amorous advances of Emile and of his sexual knowledge while she tried to defend her virginity against the unpleasantness of losing it. At daybreak, as soon as her husband left for work, she returned home, declaring she did not want to be married after all and wanted her place back into the fold. She was shocked to hear her father ordering her to go back to her husband, to accept her situation and not come back again except to visit. Even her own mother could not offer any solace to her plea. She possibly understood her daughter’s fears and humiliation, yet, this opportunity to take her daughter in her arms and explain what marriage and sex was, fell through. Juliette in tears and without comforting words or kindness and without understanding, returned to the cold and unattractive apartment. Had she known the future, she possibly would not have done so, yet at the time, she felt she had no choice. She had been working in a war factory producing ammunitions, while her husband was in the military. Then Emile was sent to the front line. He received a rank since he spoke German and could translate when interrogating prisoners. Juliette was already pregnant with her first child, a son who would be born during the war while his father was in the trenches battling Germans, toxic gas and bullets. She possibly welcomed the challenge of being alone while facing the prospect of raising a child during wartime. It was not really new to her since she was born in 1895, also during a war. The Germans were at Paris’ door and the city was under the threat of the dirigible, which bombed the capital. Food was scarce while under siege, and her mother had to go outside the surrounding walls that protected the city. It is then that a bullet went through her child’s bonnet missing her mother and her. She would long recall that, as a child, her older brother was taken to safety as her parents sought refuge from the bombing. Now it was a bigger war, and as a mother herself she had many responsibilities. Never would she mention whether or not she was truly in love with her husband or whether her marriage was an escape from an overcrowded apartment with too many children and duties, which restrained her from studying and bettering herself.

When her son, Raymond, was over two years old and her husband, though on leave from the front line, did not come home, worried, Juliette decided to go see him and brought Raymond with her so he could see his father. It was where wounded soldiers gathered on permission to relax for a few days, for just a moment of respite between fighting. The town was filled with disabled soldiers, some recovering from physical atrophy. It was horrifying: dejected men crowding bars and hotels where they drank to oblivion before returning to fight, wondering whether they would face death this time or the horrors of it.

When Juliette arrived, she found Emile flirting with a tavern owner, a beautiful redhead holding a child of almost one year old, a little boy that looked exactly like Raymond when he was that age. As most women have that instinct that tells them the truth, she immediately knew, without a single doubt, that Emile was the father. The way the woman acted, the attention he gave her was a far cry from the way he treated his own wife. He did not act guilty when he saw Juliette and his son. He was not thrilled. Neither was the innkeeper, who in an instant realized that her lover’s wife and child were now facing a tragedy.

Emile did not show any joy at seeing Juliette, nor did he pay much attention to the child. He declared this was not a place for her and took her away to a small nearby hotel, and to add insults to injuries, she could be tended by his mistress’s relatives who owned the place. One can easily imagine Juliette’s disappointment, her heartbreak, her hopes destroyed, and her innocence gone. This was reality. She had faced it and now had to deal with it. Seeing the misery surrounding her, the debauchery, the muddy town and the distant sound of canon, the sexual approach from drunken soldiers, she decided this was not a place for her or the child. After a few days, to the relief of both the mistress and her husband, she went home. It is not hard to imagine what her trip back must have been like. Disenchanted, hurt, having to face a future with a debauched husband and possibly a wounded veteran or even would he leave her for the other woman and her child, so many devastating thoughts, so much pain she must have endured. Perhaps it was then that she decided to return to school and to study to become a nurse, though she never spoke of it. She, like her own mother, knew how to endure tragedies, show courage, and be silent no matter what, never appearing as a wounded soul, strictly adhering to moral laws, to marriage’s woes and motherhood.

There were other afflictions and distress in Emile’s family. His younger brothers had volunteered to become soldiers. One by one they were killed. The last one was