Occupation Journal

by Jean Giono

  August 1

  Having just come from the Contadour, Olga Fradisse brought me very bad news regarding Lucien’s health. We fear for the worst, she told me. He’s in terrible pain, believes it to be cancer. It might be only a stomach ulcer. Lucy Fr. who is a doctor and is up there with Olga claims that it might be nothing, but he should see a specialist. I told Olga to urge Lucien to listen to me. I’ll make an appointment with Fernand Aviérinos in Marseille and Yves Bourdes, one of the best surgeons in France, I’ll go to Marseille with Lucien, I’ll take him by taxi. Down there he’ll get the care he needs. “But,” Olga said, “will he agree to abandon his garden?”

  Bombs in the city, shattering the nights. Élise is afraid.

  Determined to end this money crisis, I’m writing to Grasset and some Swiss publishers. I would like to avoid selling (manuscripts especially, or animals).

  By working steadily, I can finish Deux cavaliers in three months. I not only can but must, now.

  And I must also organize my solitude since it’s going to last and it could devour me.

  I think it’ll be easy for me to write Les Grands Chemins. The beginning would already be there if I could get started on it.

  Beginning to read Balzac again. La Rabouilleuse. Even his exaggerations are true.

  August 2

  I haven’t said anymore about the alerts. There were two between ten and one o’clock. During the last one, a squadron came from the north, passing right over the house. Earlier a squadron flew east-southwest in the direction of Avignon or Marseille. It is two o’clock. The alert remains in effect. Some people have just died. It makes the time purer, harder, the most luminous in the world.

  Marthe has asked me for a few words to appear at the top of a small plaque in memory of Jean.

  Sunday, August 6

  An alert this morning at nine o’clock. At noon it still hasn’t ended. Individual planes and large squadrons continuously roaring over. Rumbling on all sides, to the horizons.

  Since his article, “The Emigrants are Always Wrong,” I’m worried about Gide’s fate in Algiers.

  X wrote me that in Paris Maggie (Guiral-Vaudable) has begun to host lavish dinners with the future (probable) leaders of the Communist party as the guests of honor. Cocteau wriggling about among them. (Vaudable = Maxim’s).

  Last Sunday I heard that Martin-Bret and Picquemal might have been shot in the Baumettes prison in Marseille. I don’t believe it. This news was reported to me by W. just as I was going to the movies. On Monday Curet told me the same thing. He doubts it as well, but badly wants to be well-informed.

  Tormented by the desire to write Les Grands Chemins. I must hurry up with Deux cavaliers. Hurry but not ruin it.

  Still tired from the day of fishing on Friday, but a very healthy tiredness, my limbs happy and at peace.

  Still no response to the letter that I wrote to Lucien. It may be difficult for us to take a taxi. What an agony for him, this trip to Marseille!

  Tuesday, August 8

  Wonderful shop signs: the cabinetmaker who had already posted on his door: coffins, reduced prices, has added something splendid:blinds repaired. In Paris, near the East station I noticed: rendezvous with gas (at a bistro). In Taninges at a coffee merchant’s: Mont-Blanc roasting. In Marseille, this epitome of the comical: Hôtel de la Pompadour et du New-Vichy.

  Alert yesterday (it lasted three hours). Alert today.

  I am organizing my solitude.

  Last evening Crébely saw the chessboard set up on my little table. He taught me a few openings. Damiano defense for black. King’s gambit versus queen’s gambit. I proposed to him the king’s gambit declined to which I countered the symmetrical king’s gambit accepted. That didn’t seem correct. We continued playing to see. Despite his expert knowledge of the game, he had a very hard time finally checkmating me after which I not only nearly nullified the game but even neatly recovered and attacked. The checkmate was very difficult and forced by the knights.

  Friday, August 11

  Again the legend of my “immense” fortune, my flatterers, my court, my “evolution” in a letter from J. Cousin d’Aubervilliers. I answered him with precise facts regarding the truth. In the end, this is all comical.

  Yesterday fishing, a storm that caught us without shelter. Soaked to the skin. Protected a little by my waterproof jacket and hat, I gave my dry shirt to Gaston Pelous who is more delicate with his old lung abscesses; I gave him everything I had to cover himself and told him to run and dry off at the farm. Naked as worms, Blavette and I began to pull in the line and we caught some magnificent fish: barbels and roaches. In a little while, the sun came out again and dried us, but we were forced to remain naked until seven o’clock in the evening. Our worries about Gaston were over when he finally reappeared, warm and dry, with our dry clothes.

  Work going well on Deux cavaliers. The rhythm of my solitude helps me.

  Sunday, August 13

  Three or four alerts yesterday. Today two alerts already before noon. But no noise in the sky, not a single plane. We end up no longer paying attention to the siren and no one can say anymore if the alert is beginning or ending. Opulent heat these days and dazzling light. A terrible peace. They say the Americans are at Rambouillet.

  To smoke, I’m going directly to the garden to pick green tobacco leaves that I roast in the oven of the stove and then crush in my hands before filling my pipe. The smoke from them is overwhelming, bitter, strong, and immediately produces a kind of sickening vertigo. It makes your head swim. Very unpleasant. From time to time, Charles makes me a few grams of real tobacco with the same leaves that he cures with saltpeter and boiling water. Then I can smoke a few very good pipefuls, but I give so much away to all my friends that I quickly run out of it.

  Read the famous Judas by Rabinovitch, which he worked on for two years and it’s thirty-eight pages long. One thinks to oneself: thirty-eight pages, two years of work! Rabi is intelligent, this must be good. No. It’s bad. It’s not of the same order or measure. It’s constipated. No interest whatsoever, neither human nor general. Small rage lacking grandeur. On the other hand, read some of Bellion’s verse, the subprefect in Forcalquier, and it’s very beautiful; full of rhythmic cadences, music, and beautiful, noble thoughts. Among the best of today’s poetry. And he’s written a collection of stories, also very beautiful, especially “The Pornographer.”

  Also read Maurice Chevaly’s stories. Undeniable talent. Not enough discipline and work (self-sacrifice) yet, but talent.

  I pass judgment, I’m getting old!

  Wednesday, August 16

  Second day of bombing here. Since Monday evening I haven’t been able to write. Four killed by machine gun in Saint-Clément in a car, my neighbor Léonce Amalric among them, pierced by bullets, and then the next day my own adventure that I’ll write down here one of these days if I have the time and peace for it.

  Today they tried to demolish the bridge over the Durance with huge bombs that shook us four kilometers away. We’ve finished the shelter in the garden. My mother is holding up. Élise and Sylvie are happily at Margotte since Saturday evening. A very courageous attitude on the part of Aline who remains by my side and wants to stay here. She’s helpful and shows herself to be level-headed, wise, and cool. We are waiting. No sleep last night. I’m sheltering a young cleaning woman with a little girl in the small house, a survivor from Toulon, very frightened. Wonderful weather. I went up to my office after lunch to write these few lines to regain my footing after the crazy upheavals of yesterday afternoon and a sleepless night; I am very sleepy. Played card games with André and Marcel. Everything is purely a question of luck.

  Thursday, August 17

  The time will come for the “Joli Jésuite à la petite tache humide.”

  (Thomas Mann)

  Fairly calm night. We slept. Early in the morning planes returned and dove over Saint-Tulles. Bombs fe
ll near Corbières. After noon again four planes circling over the same spot and more big bombs dropped there. I don’t see what the target can be at that spot. They haven’t returned to bomb the bridge again. Not yet, at least (it’s three o’clock in the afternoon). Huge fire near Valensole after the bombs dropped. Turin Dessaud came back from Margotte and brought me a letter from Élise and Sylvie. They are frightened up there. They bombed the Forcalquier viaduct near them and the Saint-Maime cemetery. I wrote back that under no circumstances should they leave there and I gave them a few orders to obey. Apart from dropping bombs, planes are machine-gunning the roads, a little randomly it seems. In short, at least so far, a calmer day than the last few, a calmer night.

  Received a good letter from Lucien, who agrees to go to Marseille, but when, now?

  A thunderstorm – a simple thunderstorm, enormous – arriving from the south.

  All contact with Manosque has been cut off. We have only our neighbors. We’re together more and more. Small patriarchal clusters are forming from house to house. The town is silent, still, all the stores closed except from six to eight in the morning.

  The storm broke about six o’clock. It’s not raining. But this dry thunderstorm is making more noise than the bombs.

  There are fourteen dead at Vinon. The day before yesterday we saw our four usual planes that dive over and drop big bombs. Now we’re used to these four planes returning periodically to bomb us. Turin has set off again with the letter for Élise. If things calm down a bit, I’ll go see her with Aline. We’ll go on foot. We’ll go through the woods and stay the night. Let’s hope for a calm night.

  And fundamentally, what purpose does all this serve? Tuesday, when I was hiding under my olive tree, on the road along the pass, and when the plane with its machine gun was searching for me, circling like a bird of prey, what beneficial work was accomplished? What could that little cyclist, who had tossed aside his bike and run to take cover, truly represent? This wasn’t the joli jésuite, it was the anthropoid. Ah, how convenient it is to consecrate the halberds on the altar of the fatherland, what a black liberty that provides.

  Friday, August 18

  The night was absolutely calm. Not a sound. It was delightful. The crickets were singing madly. It seemed like perfect peace, like a cool fountain. This morning too it seemed as though our misadventures were over. But about ten o’clock two planes arrived that were flying very low, at barely ten to fifteen meters, and circled over us. Then they headed upriver beyond the hills and we didn’t hear them anymore. They swept over us again not long after, still flying low, and roared over Saint-Tulle, circling, gaining altitude, striking, then one of the two fell. I was watching them from my office window, I had a very good view of the falling plane. Its descent was preceded by a silent flash coming from the ground. Suddenly it burst into flame like a huge red mushroom. The other plane took off. If this was an attack by the machine gunners at the factory, we should expect retaliatory air strikes.

  My mother is bearing everything very bravely, but this morning she was very short of breath.

  I’ve stopped working on Deux cavaliers. I read. I listen and watch for planes. I keep an eye on the house, making sure that no one hangs the sheets out to dry, like yesterday. Make my mother come back inside at any sign of danger. I smoke the raw tobacco from the garden that Charles won’t use anymore because the smoke ruins his lungs. I play cards with André and Marcel. Time passes very slowly.

  Saturday, August 19

  Yesterday, which I thought would be calm, was the most dangerous yet. I’ve even decided to evacuate my mother, mother-in-law, and Aline. At noon you could feel the fever in the air, then at twelve-thirty, eight planes flying right over the rooftops, directly above the house, dove and fired machine guns, and then for the first time, we could hear the hiss of bombs. This time it was very close. We learned afterwards that the station five hundred meters away was hit. In no time, the house has become like a refugee camp; Marcel and André arriving with their wives, then later Blavette and his wife. Quite distraught despite a bit of bragging. They’d gone for lunch to Mathieu’s in the Prés neighborhood, a hundred meters from the station. The planes dove toward them and fired machine guns. They dropped the tomato salad they’d made and threw themselves on the ground. We spent the afternoon together, playing chess, cards, reading, smoking our horrible tobacco. Despite a few alerts for planes passing over, the rest of the afternoon was calm. About eight o’clock Blavette set out to leave, his wife broke down, and I suggested they sleep here. They agreed, happily. Blavette headed back to their house on the other side of town just to bring in the laundry and put away the leftovers of a mutton stew. But he returned shortly without having gone home, saying that the Americans are in Valensole (twenty kilometers) and that he saw (he repeated he saw) a pack of Camel cigarettes in the hands of a gendarme.

  The night was calm; nothing but two or three low planes passing over.

  This morning the French flag was flying from the top of the steeple and it’s nearly official that the Americans are in Sisteron, La Brillane, and Oraison, that is, twenty-nine kilometers northeast, in the direction of Route Napoléon.

  We are liberated.

  Let us hope we are liberated from the bombings.

  They announced the mobilization of men from eighteen to forty-five years old. Last evening the London radio station was praising a colonel, saying that he was, “a small manufacturer, great general, and handsome young man, thirty-three years old.”

  The plane that came down yesterday had hit some high-tension lines.

  There’s talk in veiled terms about a horrible bombing in Marseille that supposedly took place at the beginning of the week.

  At eleven o’clock in the morning the Americans arrived. The town was buzzing like a hive. I heard little Renée crying, “Maman, come quickly, they’re here!” I went to the window. An auto passed below on the road. It displayed a large tricolor flag. The eleven o’clock bells.

  I’m going to begin writing Deux cavaliers again, the next part, and finish the book. Then launch into Les Grands Chemins.

  Below in the meadow, the children are playing with a tricolor flag. Renée is waving it, then she clutches it by the fabric like a stick and chases the little boys, striking them on the head with it.

  False alarm. What we took for the Americans was simply a car with flags. They say the Americans are now passing through Digne.

  This afternoon I’ll go see Élise at Margotte.

  Blavette, invited last evening to lunch today, has arrived. The town is jubilant, it seems. They killed Mathieu the clockmaker because he was a double agent apparently, and Fayet the bailiff because he was the bailiff. Town gossip.

  I have to give up on going to Margotte. The roads are overrun with young men shooting their machine guns at random. Add to that the fact that they’re all completely drunk, and I really do think it’s safer to give up and wait until tomorrow.

  I’m spending my afternoon making a huge pot of pistou soup for this evening (green beans, garlic, oil, basil).

  Marcel and André arrived late in the day. They were taking part in the celebration. As a militant Communist, André shares the secrets of the powers that be. He told me that Fayet was killed (or nearly, he’s in a coma) simply by hitching a ride behind a truck, hanging on from his bicycle, and that no one shot Mathieu at all. I believe him. It’s more Manosquean than the other version. They’ve simply arrested twelve or thirteen people. André is out of money and work. I lent him 500 francs. Last night I lent 500 francs to Blavette who’s in the same situation. And I’m in the same situation. I have 20,000 francs total, that’s all.

  Sunday, August 20

  The difference in views and desires between the majority of the population and the dynamic Communist minority established itself from the very first day. Last evening already the town became disenchanted after chanting all day. In the opinion of Blavette and of
Charles Fiedler at dinner, people had suddenly become nervous faced with the initiative of the Communist backers. Then there’s also this mobilization announced for tomorrow for all men between eighteen and forty-five years old. The Russian Communist Revolution of 1917 was directed against the army and against the war. What made it successful is that it immediately declared “the war is over.” For the moment, people take comfort in saying, “it will be over soon now.” But what if it’s our bad luck that it’s not “over soon”? This morning the bells rang for mass timidly. Differences as well between the F.F.I. and the civilian fighters. And the sensible people who would like everything to rest on solid foundations are suddenly shocked by the disarray of this army of deserters (I use that word simply to indicate that the Maquis groups were formed by men who refused the draft. One imagines that they refused out of patriotism; that was the case for a few of them; for the majority, it was simple selfishness, perhaps even fear). Yesterday there were displays worthy of the army of Toussaint Louverture and Soulouque. Blavette told of the parodic arrival of an auto, coming from Volx, packed with drunk, half-naked young men, draped with cartridge belts, wearing battered American helmets, entering Manosque with their machine guns aimed at the crowd. They were imitating the Krauts, they said. Everyone headed for the café where they were greeted with cheers and kisses by the women. They left again shortly, climbing into the auto like clowns on a carnival float, but so drunk now that, when the car shifted into gear, those who were standing and had assumed the stance of defiant wounded heroes tumbled onto one whose machine gun was aimed at the crowd. It’s just by luck that a hundred people weren’t killed. Debauchery in cars and on motorcycles, all backfiring. They’ve finally found their unique reason for being alive. All day long they’ve done nothing but mindlessly circle the town, going up and down the Avenue de la Gare, driving through the boulevards over and over. They have gasoline! Posted on the walls: The Americans will guarantee each French citizen 2,000 calories a day! This line is repeated in hushed tones, discussed, everyone’s already stuffed to the gills! What magnificent happiness: 2,000 calories! The Perrin-Langevin-Brauman return! There they are with their laboratories slung over their shoulders. What a good life they’re going to make for us!