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.”