My father joined up in 1939 when he was 14 and towards the end of the war became a driver. He chauffeured a British General into Paris in 1944 and at first enjoyed the sights and sounds of a free city.
But he was struck by the horror of the scene of a young girl being attacked alongside Notre Dame Cathedral for consorting with a German and this memory has stayed with him for almost 70 years.
My poems are inspired by this lest we forget who some of the real criminals were during the Occupation of France.
Martyrs of Notre Dame
In 44
My father drove
His General into Paris
He parked the car
And sat and smoked
Before he saw the malice
The girl was young
Her head was shaved
Her body bruised and battered
She had but slept
With a German boy
And now she was repaying
She stood in tears
And took the blows
No escape was coming
Her forehead scarred
And punches landed
So victory to the brave
Lost Love
I saw the face
But not the race
Of him I did adore
His smile his laugh
His heart his soul
I loved him to the core
He came at night
In secret tryst
To avoid the prying eyes
It was not safe
It could not last
But love it knows no bounds
He hung his grey
Above my bed
And naked we would love
I saw no nation
Caste nor creed
But love and love alone
It was too late
My love fled East
My heart was crushed and broken
I cried and mourned
I had lost all
But wrong I had not done
I loved and lost
Lost all my love
My country won its war
I lost my love
but kept my love
Inside my heart for ever
Reminiscence
It’s so easy to say
A war long gone
Is easier best forgot
But if we shy
Away from truths
We learn nothing from our past
Who won the war
When war was won
By sacrifice and loss
We won the war
But lost the peace
As anger overflowed
Hit out at us
The easy prey
We who did but love
Afraid to live
Alone at night
Disgusted by our lust
You look at me
And sneer and scream
Your hate as clear as day
But who are you
To act as judge
And jury at my guilt?
You sold him bread
You served his wine
And laughed and joked with him
Is that not worse
Than giving love
To profit by your acts?
You made him safe
You eased his mind
In fear he did not live
You made it simple
For him to act
As ruler and as friend
I gave him love
And peace and joy
At night instead of day
Was my grave fault
As bad as yours
So easy not to say
We’re both the same
In equal guilt
In service to the Reich
You on your feet
Me on my back
Our service so complete
I gave him love
You took his gold
Who turned the other cheek?
Pigeon
I would not sit there
Too long white friend
You never know what’s coming
A brick, a rock
A net, a bag
Your body is so welcome
To catch to take
Our home we make
An abattoir of feathers
Your taste so bland
But sweet as honey
Our taste buds so rewarded
Acorn, chestnut
A texture new
Our stomachs find most
Refreshing
The suede so dull,
The turnip’s such a treat
Our stomachs welcome them so freely
To taste buds deadened by defeat
Our hunger stilled
Another day
The damage done
Unknowing
Our feathered friends
Still sit and coo
Their fate they can’t see coming
Tondue
Aloof as their own Marianne
Oblivious to the jeers and gibes
Her head held high she sees them all.
The man who sold them his goods
The woman who cleaned his house
The child who ran his errands
The cook who delighted his palate
The abbe who took his confession
As if they had no remorse at all.
And she who just filled his bed
The mocking razor cuts.
Her locks fall down but no strength is lost
Blowing in the wind a wry smile blushes her lips
She sees the friend who broadcast the lies
and told her tales to all who’d listen
but shared her food and drank the wine
and laughed and teased and wished he’d wanted her.
She feels the punch and bends her knee.
The blade cuts through again and golden locks
cascade and fill the air, glistening.
Her blouse is ripped her eyes fill with tears
but she will not weep though her blood she tastes
nor give them satisfaction by apology
they slap her face and she curls her lip.
More hair floats down
ashamed to leave her saintly crown.
Her forehead tainted by Hitlers cross.
Her fair breasts exposed to mocking men
who always wanted her exquisite grace
To sneering women who always begrudged her
delicate bloom.
They punch and kick as she stands so proud
exhausting their hatred and their dangerous self
Guilt.
Till dragged away to stand and stare indifferent
A sister to the next and next.
Easy target and victim one by one
Pushed by fear or loss or need
To do what they should never do.
They condemn those who but for the grace of God
Their place they’d have happily grasped.
Too happy to cast the stone
Lest they should be exposed.
Brass bands in the Tuileries
The matrons sit
And needles click
Talking not discussing
At each other ears as hours pass by
And leave the square
With nothing
They sit and talk
And while away
The hours that Gods given
Of sunlight, warmth
And gentle breeze
The garden flowers blossom
The German band
Play long and loud
Trumpets gleam and glisten
The matrons sit
And talk and talk
To music they don’t listen
In our backyard
Perform they dare
To strut and boldly march
If we don’t hear
Or see them play
Paris is not given
Over to the conquerors
Who so gentile and polite
Take food
And goods
Our men and will
The fighting crushed and broken
Our women too
Sweet girls too young
To understand their folly
Walk arm in arm
And hand in hand
Bewitched by promises given
If they but knew
True loves not real
When conquered people rise again
Fate will make them pay
The war will be lost
With such a cost to bear
By those who gave their bodies
The matrons do declare
The girls lose too
More than their honour
All dignity and grace is squandered
And the band is quiet
The Garden grows cold
The music gone forever
Les Suede
It sits there like some maiden aunt
Untouched with such disdain
What do we do with a suede so bold
To boil, to roast?
To steam, to fry?
A hundred different choices
But to what avail
It tastes the same
A lingering yellow
Acrid mush
To satisfy and fill a space
A job it does too well
But then it rots
Our innards out.
Brings boils to flesh
and taints the face
The suede, so docile
So clean and bright
It’s mystery turns
Our insides out.
No wonder when
All food was there
We never gave suede
A thought nor care
It’s evil taste and smell and texture
Deceives us all when hunger craves
A gap to fill, a mouth to feed.
So crowned suede
Your rule will end
We never again
Your texture blend
With acorn chestnut or nettle broth
With pigeon, rat or turnip soft
The war has brought disgust disease
But worst of all
It brought the suede.
Deux souers
My husband embarked
A war to fight
for France and left me
alone at home.
Did not take too long
We lost the war and
my love was lost
my husband to the cage.
Alone and scared
He gave his hand
And gladly I did take.
He was my love
I needed him
He took away my sorrow.
I send him food
And go without
His hunger I cannot bear
All news is good
Despite the truth
His spirits high
I yearn for his return
Alone afraid
I’m at a loss
I need someone to care
To keep me safe
To hold me close
Does it matter what his race?
I see the girls
With Boche on arm
And feel but hate and anger
They give their bodies
To those who took him
To rot in stinking squalor.
I see their faces and feel their hate
But love does not come often.
He may be German
But he’s just a man
And comfort he has given.
When war is over
And him to return
Our love will be complete.
It’s been hard to lose his love
To live with hurt but honour
At least he will return to me
My husband and my lover.
In 39 my lover left
To fight the war for France
He lost his life on that first night
My heart was slashed in two
My love, my life just blown away
No body to recover
I needed love I needed hope
I gained both but at what cost
You love your German
I love my man
I never did surrender
You gave up all
For loves brief kiss
I hope it’s worth our anger.
I needed love
To take my pain away.
I found brief love
In grey uniform of hate.
I miss my man, but
True love lies dead
In fields so far away.
It gives no comfort
To my broken heart
But passes time each day.
Du Pain
Oh Lord I beg
and solemnly pray that
The loaf we buy
Should taste like bread
Not chalk.
I cannot stand
The looks and pain
That welcomes each sad loaf
That once was seen as king
As ruled by law.
To taste and satisfy
We took it all for granted
And enjoyed each day
It’s clean yeast taste
And texture rough and biting.
But now it’s full
Of God knows what
Of ingredients so
injurious.
But bread as we knew
In times long gone
By Christ we know it’s not.
Crucifixion
You scream at me
And call me whore
To even some sad score
But words cannot hurt
Your actions fail
I meet you with disdain.
You spit at me
To wash away
Your guilt and own dishonour
Expunging thoughts
Of your own acts
And what you should have done
You kick at me
And bruise my flesh
My blood may weep
And bones may break
But never hurt
As much as I hurt myself
You shear my hair
My lustrous locks
A sign of strength and power
I lose but neither
As strong I do become
My heart grows ever stronger
You scar my brow
With painted taunts
That is not me nor never was
My spirit is clear and so pure
I did what I did for love not country
Don’t judge my actions other.
Don’t dare to say
I cannot understand
I understand too well
Your guilt your crimes
Your rage your pain
You share with what I’ve done
To cover what you’ve dealt
To hide your guilt
Each in their own way
Did less than their best
In dark and evil days
Drancy
Torn from her mothers’ grip
Ripped from her family
Displayed to all
As Juden child
The yellow star
Shining bright
On darkest night
Sold to the highest bidder
In black of day
Into the night
That consumes our love
And burns
Till only ash remains
And memories
Of our betrayal
By those we thought
Were once our friends
And neighbours dear
Our happiness shared
A life for life
To give not to receive
A tainted aim
The Germans to appease.
All too easy
To wring their hands
Despair and guilt
Build as one
All too easy
To say it’s war
But a child of
Eight
Fights no
War.
How can you say
I did this for France
To deprive a race of life
And liberty and air
On some false premise
That convinced you that they care.
They did not want
The child to live
To destroy and wipe from earth
The child of God
The precious soul
You allowed them
To take.
A race to ashes
You allowed it to happen
No blame but the blame is yours.
Invisible
I hoped that once
We survived the war
That when our menfolk
Returning heroes came
That all we had won
And all would be well in
Our Brave New World.
I say survived as
No one wins a war
Least of all
We women of France
Who held our families together tight
And worked as never before to
Keep the home fires burning
In factory and in field
Ran business and livelihood
That once was mans’ preserve.
We fought and killed, yes died together
That France could again be free.
Yet all we have is
Our old position returned
Onto our backs legs splayed
Hands in suds and scrubbing floors
Creating homely meals
At least not with acorn or with cat
At that we can be pleased.
Know that the Germans
Did not see the women who fought
And paid their price for
Ignorance.
But once again
We’re not seen
Nor heard
At all.
Travail, famille, patrie.