Carole Bumpus

Fiction and Non-fiction Travel and Food Writer

Category: World War II

An Immigrant in My Own Country – France – 1943

October 30, 2018 / / 0 Comments

Gare d’Austerlitz, Paris

April 1943

The train was packed with people like me, hoping to find a new life and a place without fear. I had not wanted to leave my job in Paris, but I could no longer count on my safety or that of my sweet baby, Gérard. I had no choice. Plus, I had to find my seven-year-old son, Thierry. Months before, he had been sent off with all the other school children in Paris to keep them safe from Allied bombing.  I knew little about where to find him, but once I received my travel pass, I decided I must join him. No one remained safe in Paris. Even André, the father of our beautiful baby.  But, he was to stay behind until his travel papers arrived.  For some reason, I wondered if he had requested them.

The train, itself, stunk to high heaven—-of cigarette smoke, bodies too long without a bath, baskets of food that had seen better days, plus the reek of urine and coal smoke.  German soldiers pushed their way onto the train, shoving into the best seats and elbowing the elderly and children into the aisles.  When I first saw them, a wave of fear enveloped me. I was not used to having soldiers so close by.  Immediately, I clutched dear Gérard, close to my breast.  Eight-months-old and he was all I had left of my love.  André.  My love.

There was nowhere to sit, so I, along with the children on the train, crouched down in the aisle.  As the train lurched forward, I caught a glimpse of André through the window, but because grime coated the window, both inside and out, it was barely a glimpse. I wondered if this would be the last time I would see him.    I tucked my few belongings under my feet and shoved my small inadequate basket of food under a seat. I looked around to see if there were facilities. If there were toilets, they were far, far away, and of course, no food service was available, not that I had any money for such things.  Again, a wave of weariness swept over me.  I steadied myself for the lengthy ride to the Auvergne, to the ‘l’interieur of France’, where I was told my seven-year-old son, Thierry, would be waiting.

As I looked down the corridor of the train, a German soldier caught my eye and gestured for me to take his seat.  Grateful, I swallowed the revulsion I felt for the Germans.  I rushed forward with my baby.  Quickly, I shoved my things under my seat and that is where we stayed for the duration of the trip.   Travel aboard a train had become quite dangerous, as the trains had become an open target for Allied strafing.  I tried to block this from my mind, as there was no other means of travel for us and I was determined to spare my children of any further trauma.

I allowed my mind to drift back to Paris.  Paris had become so dismal.      So bleak; so hopeless.   The sky had seemed a ceaseless gray, with the black soot of progress drifting down upon us.  But, whose progress was it?  I had not seen it.  I had had to scramble to make enough money to pay the nurses who kept my sons, which meant that many times I went without food myself.   If I had not been sharing my life with André, I’m not certain how I would have survived.

The train stopped and started at every village along the route.  The German soldiers were continually getting on and off, checking our papers repeatedly, riffling through our belongings—what we had anyway—and then the train stopped for a long time in Orléans.  What now?  What is happening? Was that the backfire from a car?  Was that a gunshot? Suddenly, I heard someone offering  café au lait outside the train window.  I propped Gérard on the seat, quickly lowered the window and ordered a large bowl of café.      The hot, rich coffee was like a salve on a cut; something I was familiar with but had not had in some time.   For a few moments, it helped stave off my fear, but, I remember holding the bowl between my hands and noticing I was shaking.   Once again, I was facing the unknown, alone.   A blast of the train whistle brought me to the present.   And, just as the train lurched forward I passed the bowl back out the window.

The train inched across the Loire River, and I noticed for the first time, that it was spring.   The terrain we had been crossing before Orléans, held wide expanses of plains and soft undulating valleys, but as we inched along, I noticed the landscape shift dramatically.  I caught my first glimpses of what would be my new home.  I had heard of this area of Central France, the Massif Central, but had no idea what I would find.

I grabbed a diaper and wiped a spot clean on the window to peer out.   A thrill of anticipation rippled through me, and I held Gérard up to the window so he, too, could see.      The train crossed and re-crossed rivers and gorges and entered onto a fertile river basin of the Limagne.   I had heard that dairy and beef cattle luxuriated in these meadows, but I also knew the war had taken its toll here, too.  Only a few cows were left grazing.  I looked for sheep or goats to point out to Gérard, but spotted only two, tethered close to a farmhouse near the tracks.  Yet, the fields of wheat had ignored the happenstance of damage from local shelling.  The wheat had turned chartreuse green and was shooting tall, almost as if in a spirit of rebellion.

The mountain range with its volcanic peaks and lunar landscape was something I will never forget. When I saw the deep gorges filled with the rush of water from the spring run-off, I suddenly was anxious to wash myself clean of the dreary, grey of the past, and of the dinginess and terror of war.

* * * * * * *

Just at the moment I felt I could relax, fear once again became my companion.      Outside the window, the glint of a plane swooped down over us. I knew one of the Allied targets was railroad bridges, and I stared down through the deep gorge below me and prayed for our safety. There was nothing I took for granted.  I bit down hard on my lip to keep from crying.  Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of Puy de Dôme, the highest mountain of the volcanic peaks.  As a young student in Brittany, I was taught that this was once the royal mountain to the Celts; a place where they worshiped their god of war.  At the time, I thought it was another connection to my Celtic heritage. But now, I could only cry out ‘We’ve had enough war.  We’ve had enough!’  Immediately I prayed to Ste. Anne to keep the war far away from the Free Zone.

Despite the perpetual clatter of the train, I returned to viewing the beauty outside the window. The wildflowers, which were scattered up and down the mountain sides, were in a profusion of yellows, pinks, and purples—flowers I had never seen.  I saw villages perched so high on ridges I thought they would surely cascade into the valleys below.  I watched children running through the fields in play, or precariously riding their bikes along rocky ravines.   And I thought of my son, Thierry.  This was a perfect place for him.

Softly, I told Gérard of the picnics we would go on and the vegetable gardens we would plant together, as farms blurred past.   He wriggled in my arms, as if fully aware of my recitation.  Narrow roads wound through forests of oak, pine and chestnut.  I fantasized about the chickens, ducks and rabbits that we would raise and of going fishing in those lively brooks.  Yes, this was a pastoral scene we all could call embrace.   Then reality snapped its fingers once again as German soldiers flashed past my window as they marched along those very same ‘pastoral’ roads.  My head throbbed from the constant jolting of the train, and I had the realization that I had not left the war behind after all.

Once I arrived into the region of the Auvergne and the village of Evaux les Bains, I was very weary.  I feared I could not go farther.  I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept.  Shifting Gérard onto one hip, I slung our bags onto my shoulder.  I was desperate to find Thierry.  I asked for directions to the village of Mainsat from the local peasants, who reminded me of my beloved Bretons.  Their regional dress was so familiar—the women were in black, full-length dresses with white aprons and round, white lace coifs on their heads, while the men wore dark blue denim smocks over black work pants. I felt like I had arrived back home.  I relaxed and set my valise on the ground.    Immediately, I realized their regional dialect was not one I understood.  And it was clear, they did not understand me.  Again, I requested directions and during that interim, my presence was met with a distant and cool demeanor . . . one of intense antipathy.  The tension in the air felt electric and I realized this was not my home.  At last, I was given directions; some I understood; some I did not.  They made it clear that the Amberts lived outside the village of Mainsat on a small farm . . . over eight miles away.

I shifted Gérard once again onto my other hip, picked up my valise and began to walk out of town.  Shame swept through me, as I heard what sounded like a cat-call.  The words, ‘saleté refugiate,’ were hurled my way.  Even though I had no idea what they were saying, I knew by the tone and the curl of their lips, I was not accepted.  Even the intent of the words struck at my heart.  Will I ever find my place?  Born on the last day of WWI, never knowing my father, rejected by my own mother, and cast aside for most of my 20-years of life, I wondered if I would ever find my place.  As I continued to walk away, I realized the meaning of those words, ‘filthy refugee’.   To have such foul words flung at me at a time when I already felt so abandoned, it took all my reserves not to drop to my knees in defeat.

Finally, after watching me kick and drag my luggage down the road while clutching little Gérard, one of the locals, more curious than anything else,  I presume, offered me a ride on his farm wagon.   We didn’t communicate much, but it became abundantly clear that my presence in the valley was not wanted.  I think they just wanted me to move on and this was one way to make that happen: to physically remove me from town.  I couldn’t blame the people; war had obviously arrived in the Free Zone and everyone was under suspicion.  For all they knew, I could be a collaborationist.  Unfortunately, I had no choice about whether to be in the Auvergne or not.  I was there to find my son.”

 

SALETÉ RÉFUGIATE – DIRTY REFUGEES

December 8, 2016 / / 0 Comments

SALETÉ RÉFUGIATE – DIRTY REFUGEES

REMEMBERING WORLD WAR II – PARIS:  MARCELLE RECALLS DIFFICULT MEMORIES

“You asked me what I remember about the beginnings of World War II in Paris,” Marcelle responded.  “What my life was like?  How I lived?  Let me see if I can remember……”  She sat quietly, running her index finger round and round the handle of the coffee cup before her, her mind racing back to her teens over seventy years before.

“Now, you probably know that Hitler came to power in 1933,” she began.  “I don’t think we thought much about it at the time, and I, of course, was too young to think of such things.  As you know, I was born on the last day of WWI.  So, I knew little of what caused war . . . although being French, politics was always under discussion.”  A twinkle flitted through her dark eyes.

“I do know that when the Spanish civil war began in ‘36, it became a dress rehearsal for what was to come, for Hitler was testing out his dive-bombers at Guernica.  We should have taken note.

“But, in 1936, I moved to Paris, where I gave birth to my son, Thierry.  Because I was an unmarried teen-age mother, I never returned to my grandmother’s home in Vannes and avoided my mother’s home in Paris.  It’s a long story, but it seemed better that way.”

“It must have been very difficult for you—being so young and on your own,” I said.

She shrugged her stooped shoulders and pulled her sweater more tightly around her.  A look of determination swept over her weathered face.  “I found that ‘family’ comes in many different forms.  You see, I was not the only young mother in Paris….and I made a network of friends.  Fortunately, I found a good job working at the Citröen factory and my beautiful son was cared for by the child care workers for factory employees.

“Like I said, the year was ‘36, and there was great turmoil going on in Paris.  At that time we didn’t know France was headed for war once again.”  She cocked her head to the side.  “But I remember that the atmosphere simply crackled with talk of it.

“I faintly remember hearing about such things, but not understanding what was happening.  Everything is made clearer in hind-sight, as they say.  I think it was around the time when both Germany, then Russia, invaded Poland, that we began to see that we needed to prepare for war too, but I suppose it was already too late.  The massive numbers of refugees were already beginning to fill the streets of Paris…..streaming down from the north.

“It was on September 3rd, 1939, when both England and France finally declared war on Germany, that it became real for me.  That was when the Communist Party was banned and as a factory worker, that meant that I no longer had as many rights.  Same as a union worker.  At least I still had a job, and that was what mattered most to me.

“The eight-month period which followed was known as the ‘phony war’ – Drôle de Guerre – phony, because although war had been declared, there was no fighting.  None at all!  Everyone was waiting to see what Hitler would do next.  Waiting for the other shoe to drop!  I guess we felt pretty superior as we had beaten Germany in WWI.  And we were relying on the defensive Maginot Line that had been built after World War I, along our northern border.    We were constantly being told by our government that we were all safe…..and, of course, we believed them.  We had no idea what was to come.

Not until the bombs began to fall on our beloved City, did we realize the danger we were in.  I remember it was the 3rd of May, 1940, the Germans began bombing Paris.  An estimated 1,000 bombs were dropped and the very Citröen factory where I worked became a major target.  The factory was seriously damaged and set ablaze; glass and debris littered the streets all around.

“As all of our workers raced into the Metro, we were handed WWI gas masks.  We had been told to expect the Germans would be using gas.  I tried not to panic, but we were all so frightened.

After the bombing raid was over and we came up from the Metro, a concrete air raid shelters across the street, crowded with women and school children, was crushed with all of its occupants mutilated beyond recognition.  Again, I could only think of my dear son.”

I could barely breathe until I received word my Thierry was safe.  I was, indeed, grateful.  Oddly, though, after those first bombs fell, I felt panic, yet there didn’t appear to be panic around me…. only outrage and a sense of unreality—a feeling that such things could not possibly be happening to us.”

It was on or around the early part of May, 1940, when Hitler ordered the invasion of France.  Again, we French relied on our expertise on the ground.  We hadn’t planned for the Nazis’ strong ‘blitzkrieg’ (air tactics), and within two days, the Germans had cut through our beautiful Ardennes forests …..where we didn’t expect them at all.  And they had gone around the infamous Maginot Line.  How could that be?  We French had constructed this wall with the best instructions from our most famous WWI general, Martial Pétain!   But, the Germans had completely cut off all means of French attacks.  We heard that Churchill ordered a massive evacuation from our French port at Dunkirk, where tens of thousands of soldiers were transported back to Britain including many of our French soldiers.  But, still, there were massive numbers of ships bombed and hundreds of our men lay dead or were dying on the beaches and in the waters.  It wasn’t until we heard the radio reports from Dunkirk, that we finally realized we were truly no longer safe.  In retrospect, all the signs were there . . . . but, it was too late.”

“I can’t imagine how frightened you must have been,” I said.  Guilt riddled me for having brought this painful subject up in the first place. But I couldn’t help myself.  For some reason, I needed to understand how she was able to make it.  “So, what did you do?  How did you carry on?”

Marcelle took a long sip of already cold coffee and placed her cup solidly on the saucer.  I could tell she was envisioning the scenes of her past as if watching an old newsreel.  But she sat up straight in her chair and continued on.

“I remember walking to work on a June day back then.”  She paused.  “All seemed so quiet; it was hard to believe that we were in danger.  The skies were a beautiful shade of blue.  The air was warm with the coming of summer.  Everything seemed so normal.  People were laughing and drinking in the café below my windows.  In fact, I had waved to some of the women who were busy hanging their wash on the lines out back.  Why, the people in our pension seemed to be going about their business like always. Edith Piaf’s voice lilted down to me from a radio in someone’s window.  But, then, I heard a news flash on the radio that thousands of people were streaming toward Paris…. mothers, children, and the elderly were marching south on the roads, because Dunkirk had been completely destroyed.  No men accompanied them, as they were either dead or captured by the Germans.  In addition, we were hearing constant reports of our French soldiers running just ahead of the Germans….but, without any weapons of any kind.  Was that true or propaganda?”

But by June 10th, I, along with my fellow employees, were told to prepare to go directly to Bordeaux.  A new Citröen factory was to be built.  We all made arrangements to make the journey, packing everything we could carry in one valise.  Even though I had no choice but to leave my four-year-old Thierry behind, I dreaded abandoning him.  My mother had done the same to me.  But, now I better understood her.  When it’s the only job you have . . . you must go.  And I was promised Thierry would be safe until I could bring him to Bordeaux.”

“As the Germans entered from the north into the back door of Paris, the flood gates of humanity poured out to the south and to the west.  Millions of people became part of a forced march, or as it came to be known, L’Exode de Paris, or the ‘Exodus of Paris’.  It was all so sad,” Marcelle intoned.  “We thought that as Citröen employees, we would be able to take the train.  But, as it turned out, we became like the rest of the refugees, forced to walk.  All the way to Bordeaux . . . 499 km. or 310 miles.

It was common to see little tots being carried, small carts being pulled by animals, big people, old people, children, all carrying everything they could possibly carry….everything they owned.  It was like we now see on T.V….but, from other countries. Families were evacuating the only lives they had ever known.  On that day we became part of the ‘Saleté Refugiate’ or the ‘dirty refugees’.  Unfortunately, that was not the last time we felt that scorn from our own countrymen.

“At the same time, unbeknownst to us, the French government had also fled to Bordeaux, leaving the war hero, Martial Pétain in charge.  They hoped for time to restructure the French government in relative safety.  As we all left the City of Lights behind, none of us knew what we would find at the other end of the road.

“Within a matter of days, the Germans had taken hold of Paris and, General Martial Pétain—that same WWI French war hero—had surrendered all of France.  How could that be?  We were stunned! We had been sold out like rabbits!  Even the French government had been left out of the debate.  But, even though we French harbored great resentment, we knew we must work and we must survive.

“Six weeks later, desperate to see my son, I, like so many of us, returned to Paris.  We proud French did not want to work for the Germans, but pride did not feed us or our children.  We had no choice! We were forced to return to the repaired Citröen factory, but this time to work for the Germans.  And this time we were forced to manufacture weapons to be used on our own people.”   She sighed and shook her old head sadly.  “At least my son was safe and that was all that counted—all that ever counted to me.”

Interview with Marcelle Pourrette which led to the historical novel, A Cup of Redemption.

 

Salete Refugiate – Excerpt from A Cup of Redemption

November 24, 2015 / / 0 Comments

Springtime – 1943 – France

After fleeing the nightly barrage of Allied bombers over Paris, Marcelle arrived in Evaux les Bains, in the heart of the Auvergne Region. She stepped off the train with her baby, Gerard, and luggage in tow. Hoping to put the terror of living in Occupied France behind her, they had endured a harrowing day-and-a-half train ride, only to have the train strafed time and again by the Allies. Finally, their fear and torment was behind them. They were now safe.

She shook the coal dust from her clothes, from her infant, stamped her feet of soot and brushed a lengthy shank of her dark hair behind her ear. She needed directions to the village of Mainsat where her 8-year-old son, Thierry, awaited her arrival. He, too, had fled Paris seven months earlier, along with the remaining Parisian children.

She stepped up to a cluster of local peasants, who reminded her of her beloved Bretons. The women wore regional dress—black, full-length dresses with white aprons and round, white lace coifs pinned on their heads, while the men wore dark blue denim smocks over black work pants. Seeing the Auvernais for the first time, Marcelle breathed a sigh of relief for she felt as if she was back home in Brittany. But, once she began to ask for directions and heard their reply, she realized the regional dialect was not one she understood. It took a few minutes for her to understand their response. During that interim, her presence was met with more than a distant and cool demeanor . . . in fact, one of great antipathy.

Hoping she had understood the directions correctly, she thanked them, shifted her baby up in her arms, grabbed her belongings with the other hand, and began to head out of town. After only a few meters away, she heard what sounded like a cat-call. She turned back, just as the words, ‘saleté refugiate,’ were hurled her way.   Not understanding the words, she knew by the tone and the curl of their lips that she was not accepted. Even the thought of the words struck at her heart. As she walked further down the dusty road, the meaning of the words came to her: ‘filthy refugee’. To have such foul words flung at her at a time when she already felt so abandoned and so alone, she almost dropped to her knees.

Although a very young woman now, Marcelle was born on the last day of WWI, never knew her own father and suffered the humiliation of illegitimacy. Now she tried to save her two—yes, two illegitimate children—from the degradation of the human spirit during wartime. It was difficult enough to be loathed by the Nazis. But, the almost crippling pain she felt from the collective fear and hatred from her own Frenchmen due to war was almost more than she could handle.

Instead, she put on a smile and trudged on. She had her beloved son awaiting her arrival. And, she understood the fear. She had felt it in Paris. It was the reason she had fled. Everyone had become a possible enemy; anyone could be a collaborationist. Yes, in trying to save her little family, she had become a ‘saleté refugiate’ and she would have to rise above it.

Excerpt from my historical novel, A Cup of Redemption

 

 

The Forgotten D-Day, but Not Forgotten Veterans

November 10, 2015 / / 0 Comments

Four remaining WWII veterans of the U.S. Army’s 3rd Infantry Division (Rock of the Marne) are sleeping in their own beds tonight, their whirlwind tour du France of the 70th Anniversary of the Southern D-Day a year ago last August–now a dim but savored memory.  But, as this Veteran’s Day approaches, what will these men dare to dream?  Will these Octogenarians and Septuagenarians dream of the few brief days they were celebrated as heroes?  Certainly, their friends and family members, who didn’t accompany them, will never understand.  The U.S. nation as a whole rarely grasps their valiant participation in yet another D-Day. And will time separate them from the richness of French gratitude extended to them during this eleven-day tour?  If our veterans could hold on to only a few of the words delivered by French dignitaries and the hundreds of men, women and children who came forth in the sweltering heat to honor them that August summer, then maybe their dreams each night will be a little sweeter.

The 70th Anniversary of the Southern Landing (the 2nd D-Day) on the Côte d’Azur in France began for our men on August 15th –the actual 70th Anniversary of the landing on three of the beaches—Pampelonne near St. Tropez, La Croix Valmer and Cavalaire-sur-Mer—where the historic landings took place.  Our men, in spite of being crippled by old age, stood tall and participated in seven commemorative events—just that day.  These included placing wreaths at the memorials of our fallen soldiers, participating in parades, and being honored and celebrated with receptions, speeches, dinners, and an extraordinary fireworks display that evening in Cavalaire-sur-Mer.

The following days found our veterans continuing their tour north—north along their original trek of liberation—stopping at one village after another (twenty-five in all) along the Rhone River, through the French Alps, the Vosges Mountains, and at the infamous Colmar Pocket where so many of our men lost their lives.  (Our John Shirley, from Livermore, CA. was captured, escaped and was shot near this location in Bennwihr.)  The tour ended in a regal reception given for them in an elegant Hotel de Ville in Chateau Thierry outside of Paris.  Throughout the tour, the pomp of full military accord with color guards, military bands, veterans of the 1st French Army, the French Air Force and members of the French parliament to wizened Partisans and former F.F.I. members met these ‘reluctant heroes’ and help to make certain they received their just due.  Through parades, festivals, commemorative ceremonies, receptions, and luncheons, speeches from mayors, vice mayors, and Counselor Generals, the messages could be heard.  But, it was also from the hundreds of villagers who lent their cheers and their tears to the soldiers who freed them.  Literally thousands of people gave of their time and talents to making this 70th Anniversary tour one of their best.

The veterans themselves stood tall and accepted their praise, but still after all of these years, their quiet response was:  “We were just doing our duty.”   Especially while standing before the sea of white crosses (including Stars of David) stretched across the fields of Draguignon, Épinal and the American Lorraine cemeteries, their voices remained silent; their tears gave way to their heart-felt grief and sadness.  Comrades lost; dreams unrealized.

But, it was probably the letters written for the veterans and read by the children of Saulx de Vesoul and Bennwihr, which touched the men most deeply:  “We will never forget,” they read as their small, clear voices reached forth, rising above the church bells which began to ring.  “We will never forget how you brought liberty to our beautiful country.”  “We will never forget that you saved us from the grip of German tyranny and freed us.”  “Because of your sacrifice, peace is now our second religion.”  “Thank you for the sacrifice of your lives.”  Throughout the readings, the church bells continued to chime, ringing the bells of Freedom and Thanksgiving.

Yes, that was the echoing refrain:  “We will continue the memory of your deeds with our children and our children’s children,” the French told our men.  “We will remind them of the sacrifices you made for us,” the mayors of each city invoked.  “We will tell them about how you, not much older than children yourselves, came to a foreign land to save us from tyranny.  No, we will never forget!”

Sleep well our ‘reluctant heroes’, for you have made our world safer and there are those who will never forget your sacrifice.  Yes, the second D-Day for the U.S. may not be known, but in France you, as veterans and your deeds, will never be forgotten.

 Happy Veterans Day to our own beloved veterans!!

2014-08-15 10.39.01John Shirley, 2nd Lt., of Livermore, CA

Patrick Heagerty, Sgt., Manlius, NY

Gerald Papin, Sgt., Spring Hill, FL

Charles Condren, Pfc., Kerhonkson, NY

 

 

 

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