This article was written for Annabel & Grace, which is now part of Rest Less.
It is coming up for seven years since we arrived in this small corner of France and the more time goes by, the more I notice how the French are very parochial and resist change.
J and I are on the Committee des Animations et Fete de Sonac – he’s the treasurer and I’m the joint treasurer. There was nobody else stupid enough to volunteer. Every time we have a communal meal, film evening or social event, we have a meeting to discuss the menu, shenanigans, etc. which doesn’t start until 8.30 pm and by which time I prefer to be happily dozing in front of the fire/television, with a large glass of my favourite vin rouge. The committee consists of the mayor’s wife, her best friend and various others, also stupid enough to volunteer. By the time we have all finished kissing each other three times and finding out the local gossip (which sheep ran off with which ram) it’s often 9.30 pm.
The menu for lunch following the Remembrance Sunday service is the same every year, although I have tried to persuade them that a change is as good as a rest. But no, we have chicken bouillon with vermicelli (the bouillon is the stock in which the chicken and vegetables have been boiled), poule farci (a large boiling fowl) braised with carrots, turnips and onions, served with a garlic stuffing. The stuffing, or farci, served on the side, is an ancient family recipe, which if I was told the ingredients, I would be sworn to secrecy but needless to say, they won’t tell me! Mustard and gherkins are an accompaniment, followed by cabecou, which are small goat cheeses, salad and then a fruit tart and copious amounts of red wine. The only problem is the mayor’s wife is now getting on in years and will not let anyone help with the carving of the chickens when they are ready so by the time we have dished up for, on average, 60 people, the main course is cold. J and I stand there getting frustrated but realise it is not politic to try and change the order of things in this tiny commune.
Every November 11th we attend the memorial service in the village. I never went to a memorial service when I lived in England. Somehow, here in a commune of 80 residents, as we pass the plaque of remembrance every time we go out, it seems more pertinent. I come from a military family but thankfully have no idea of the personal horror of war. I am desperately proud that my father was awarded the Military Cross, aged 19, for bravery during the Second World War. He says it was stupidity, not bravery.
At the Remembrance Day service in the village I cannot help crying, overcome with the futility of what we are remembering. A retired Mayor (now aged 97) reads out a eulogy to the fallen, with such a firm and proud voice, a tribute to the young men who lost their lives. This is followed by him reading their names and after each name the villagers say “Mort pour la France”. This is particularly harrowing as there are eight names from the First World War, three of them from the same family – three sons who were killed fighting for a cause they had no idea what it was for, but were sent to slaughter by generals playing war games with human lives. These eight deaths were from a village of 80 inhabitants. Three more young men died in the Second World War.
In a few villages near us there are memorials to those who were killed by the Nazis as they retreated. One village has been left as it stood in 1945, houses now derelict and the remains of the burnt church, which the nazis herded all the inhabitants into and then set on fire. They machined gunned anyone who tried to escape. There are some people who judge the French for being divided over their involvement in WW2. When you realise the mindless slaughter of their young men in WW1, who can blame them? By 1918, 1,397,800 French soldiers had died and 886,939 British soldiers had died, devastating families with each loss. “Lest we forget.”
