I
The world breaks everyone and afterward
many are strong at the broken places.
-For Whom The
Bell Tolls
In the early morning
light, the four great statues at the base of the Wall of the Reformation,
William Farel, John Calvin, Theodore Beza, and John Knox, gazed down upon a
young soldier in a Swiss Army uniform, seated on a park bench next to a patch
of leafy, green rhubarb.
There on the bench,
the soldier put away the book he was reading, and looked around as he considering
the scene before him: He could hardly recognize
his old alma mater, The University of Geneva, which now resembled a farm, with more than a dozens, Victory Garden plots sprawled across the campus grounds.
It was the middle of June
1944, and war rampaged almost everywhere in Europe. But here in Geneva and in rest of Switzerland,
life continued pretty much as it had before.
Of course there was a partial military mobilization, food rationing, and
a night-time blackout was being enforced, but still the country remained an island
of relative normality in a sea of death, destruction and dislocation.
“Alec!”
from over his shoulder, a familiar voice called out the soldier’s name.
It
was Claude, Alec’s oldest and dearest friend, arriving on his bicycle, and in
high spirits.
“Let me look at
you, old boy,” Claude teased, grabbing Alec by the lapels of his ill-fitting,
wool, army uniform.
“You look…bloody
awful!”
“Oh bollocks,” rejoined
Alec. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This morning, on the train coming down here, a
beautiful, young woman propositioned me, thinking I was Cary Grant.”
Laughing,
they embraced.
"It's wonderful to have you back, my dear. Finally out of the fucking army, mine Generalleutnant,“ Claude saluted.
"So,
what’s the latest news, old friend?” Alec
inquired, as they sat down on the bench.
“It’s the same as
it was since the last time you were here:
Folks are pessimists one day, optimists the next—all depends on the war
news. Right now, most everyone is
optimistic on account of the Yanks and the Brits landing in Normandy
“And
you? Alec wondered.
“You
know me— I’m always the pessimist— that way I can never be disappointed… By the
way, Solange and I broke up.”
“Shit,
what happened?”
“We
were constantly quarrelling: She said I was immature, and I drank too much. Personally I don’t give a damn— life’s too
short.”
Claude
paused then looking around, before continuing.
“There
is something I need to talk to you about: I was going to write you, but I didn’t want
to put it in a letter. It’s about...about
Roland and JP…”
“Why,
what’s happened?”
Claude dropped
his voice even lower. “Two weeks ago, they
were out in Carouge, at the border, at night.
They crosses over to meet up with a group of refugees—
just three people—a man, his wife and her younger sister. It was going to be a simple op, just bring them back
over the border”
“And?”
“Roland,
JP and the group never came back. It’s
been two weeks, and…nothing. They’re
either arrested or…,” Claude said, his
voice trailing away.
“Do we know what
happened to them?
“Nothing so
far. We’ve heard from our friends that the
French authorities have been raiding hotels and pensions in Megève, La Clusaz,
and Chamonix, looking for Jews. Also, we think there might be an informant, tipping them off.”
“So
now what?”
“Everything’s
suspended. Not sure when it will start
up again.”
Alec handed
Claude a cigarette, and the two sat together smoking, not speaking.
“Bloody rhubarb,”
Alec said, breaking the silence.
“What?”
“That’s rhubarb planted
there,” said Alec, pointing to the plot next to the bench.
“How do you know?”
asked Claude.
“My grandmother
grew rhubarb in her garden. Once when I
was maybe eight, I went to stay with her, and she made me rhubarb tarts. They were awful, and I said so. Later my father told me I shouldn’t have said it. He said I hurt her feelings. But I was only
telling the truth, that her rhubarb tarts tasted awful, I insisted. So my old man tells me, yes, it's wrong to tell a lie, but sometimes in
order to spare someone’s feelings, it was okay. He called it a “little
lie.”
Alec took a long
drag on his cigarette.
Merde, Claude said, "looking at his watch. The Landolt just opened. Let's go have a pint!”
II
Alec was in Philosophy class, and having a hard time concentrating. It was his birthday, and he was thinking that
this war had now occupied a quarter of his life. Long ago, he had stopped thinking about what
he would do when the war was over, and like so many of his contemporaries,
lived in a state of perpetual suspension. But now with a year left until finishing University, and a real possibility the war would shortly conclude, Alec was starting to
think about the future again. He had in
mind attending graduate school in America, at Berkeley University, or perhaps at
a writing program at a school in Iowa he had just heard about.
At the end of the
class, Alec briefly spoke to Claude about a time to meet later that evening,
then jumped on his bicycle and raced home.
As he entered his parent’s apartment he could hear his mother in the
kitchen, but didn’t announce himself, going straight to his room, and locking the door. He removed his school books from his rucksack
and replaced them with a map; compass; a torch; a first-aid kit, and a small,
loaded revolver.
Hearing his
mother calling, he went into the dining room where his parents were
waiting. His father stood and proposed a
toast:
“To our most
wonderful son Alec, on his 21st birthday,” his father said. “You have blessed our lives with so much joy
and happiness. We are so thankful that
you are again safely home with your family. We love you. Chin-chin.”
Alec’s mother,
her eyes glistening with emotion, kissed him, then went back into the kitchen, and
returned with her big surprise: Entrecote and pommes frites, Alec’s favorite
meal.
“I want you to
know that your mother starved me for a month in order to save up enough rations
points to prepare you this meal, Alex.”
“Oh Max, stop making up stories,” insisted his mother.”
“So how are
things at school? “his father asked. “Are
you catching up with your studies?”
‘It’s much harder
than it was before I was called up, but I’m managing.”
“Oh, by the way, today I went round to Ecolint and had tea with my old English teacher, Mr. Bennett. He told me to send his best regards to you both,” Alec said.
For a brief
moment, Alec considered broaching the subject of graduate school, but decided
he’d wait for a more opportune occasion.
The conversation now
turned to the war. Max, who Alec called The Armchair Field Marshal, was about
to make one of his profound predictions about the war. Max’s source was someone who knew someone,
who had a friend who working for General Guisan, the Commander of the
Army. The Allies, Max reported, were
about to land in the South of France, and open the much anticipated Second Front. The Allied army would then quickly march up
through the Rhone Valley, and the Germans,
who had their hand full with the Soviets in the East, and Paton’s army in the
West, would be helpless to stop them.
“Old Mr. Hitler’s
is about to get his balls caught in a vice,” Max declared.
“Please Max,
don’t use such language,” Alec’s mother gently scolded.
“You mark my
word, it’ll be over by Christmas,” Max concluded.
“So dear,” his
mother said, turning to Alec, “Have any special plans for tonight?”
“Claude’s picking
me up, and we’re going out with friends to a café in the Old Town.
“I worry about
you driving with Claude when there’s the black-out, especially after you’ve
been celebrating.”
“You don’t have
to worry,” Alec reassured her, “I’ve made plans to stay at Claude’s flat
tonight, which is just around the corner from the café where we’re going.”
The dinner
concluded with a Black Forest cake, with a single candle on top. Alec kissed his parents and said
goodnight. Later, as Alec was leaving
the flat, he could hear their gentle patter from the salon, mixed with the
sounds of Debussy’s Clair De Lune
playing on the radio.
III
At around 9:00p.m.,
the familiar click-clack-clacking sounds of the Claude’s old Citroën was heard,
announcing his arrival. Alec got into
the car, and almost immediately sensed something was wrong.
“Happy birthday,
my old thing,” Claude said, slurring his words, ever so slightly.
“Are you
alright?” Alec wanted to know.
“I’m fine, just
fine,” Claude said, a little too emphatically.
“Christ Claude,
you’re bloody drunk?”
“No, I’m not
drunk! Okay, so maybe I had a couple of drinks before I came out—a bit of the
old Dutch Uncle, if you know what I
mean?.”
“No, I don’t know
what you mean.”
“I’m feeling
nervous, okay? It’s been a long time
since we’ve done one of these things, and I’m .... I’m nervous.
I woke up this morning and a little voice inside my head kept saying, ‘Claude, this isn’t the night you should be going
out…”
As Claude turned
a corner, the car started to drift toward the side of the road. Alec reached over and grabbed the wheel.
“Christ Claude,
look where you’re going!”
They were now on
an empty stretch of road heading out of town toward the border, at Veyrier.
Alec grew quiet,
and there and then, decided he’d have to cross over by himself. Claude was drunk, and in his condition he would
only be a liability.
They soon arrived
in Veyrier and parked just down the street from the village’s only café. From there, Alec could see the Swiss customs
station, up ahead, in the dark. He imagined the agents were inside, probably sleeping. By the dashboard lights, he consulted his
map, and located the farm where he planned to cross into France.
“Listen Claude, I’m
going over by myself, but I need you to stay here with the car until I get
back. Won’t be more than an hour. Okay?”
“You can’t go on
your own, dear boy. I'm going with you.”
“Claude, listen to
me. You need to stay with the car. Should the flics show up and ask why you're
here in the middle of the night, just say you had a little too much to drink at
the café, and decided you’d stay here and sleep it off. Okay?
“Alec, my oldest
and dearest friend, my dear, dear birthday boy: it’s dangerous to be out there
tonight. Way too dangerous.”
“I hear what
you’re saying, Claude, and I understand about the danger. But honestly, I’m not afraid. As they use to say in the army: you can die in your sleep, or God can spare
you in battle— in the end, it's all in God's hands.
With that, Alec
exited the car, and disappeared into the night.
IV
“Good evening, my
name is John Bennett.
For those who don't know me, I was one of Alec's teachers at the International School. First, I would like
to say how honored I am to have been asked by Alec’s parents, Max and Irene, to speak on this occasion, as we come together to celebrate Alec’s
life.
When Alec was in the
6th form, he was in my English class. That year, one of the class assignments
was the short story, “The Snow of Kilimanjaro,” by Ernest Hemingway. At the end of the semester, Alec told me how
much he enjoyed the story, and asked if I would recommend one of Hemingway’s
novels. So I loaned him my copy of “A
Farwell To Arms.” And that was the beginning of our friendship—a friendship that
shared a mutual love for literature— especially the works of Ernest Hemingway.
After Alec
matriculated to University, and later when he went into the army, we kept in
touch. The last time we saw
each other was this past June, Alec’s twenty-first birthday. That day he
seemed so upbeat when he spoke about his plans to go to graduate school in
America, to study writing. Then, as usual, the
conversation turned to books: Alec had
just finished Hemingway’s For Whom
The Bell Tolls, and he was anxious to talk about it.
For those not
familiar the book, it’s about an America expatriate, Robert Jorden, who goes to
Spain to fight on the side of the Republic, during the Spanish Civil War.
I remember Alec telling
me that to risk your life for a country and a cause that is not your own, was one
of the most courageous acts you could do.
And men like Robert Jorden are exceptional because their words and
actions are in harmony with their beliefs and values.
Now, some have
said that what Alec did was courageous, and some that it was senseless and fool
hearty. I will leave it to others to judge
which of these thing is true. What I can
say is that Alec was certain about what he was doing, and more importantly, why
he was doing it. He was not someone who
could stand by and do nothing if the opportunity to do something was there. For that, Alec will always be remembered in my
heart.
It has been 6 months since the war in Europe has ended. Only now are we even beginning to understanding
the magnitude of what has befallen the countries and the peoples of this great continent. Taken together, I sometimes feels like it is more than I can bare. But then I am with my students, and I see
that despite everything, they are optimistic about the future. And I believe in my heart that they are the generation that will not
so much change the world, but teach us all how to live in this world, in a new and
better way.
I’m afraid I have spoken for far too long, so I would
like to close with something Robert Jordan says at the end of the For Whom The Bell Tolls.”
The world is a fine place and worth
fighting for and I hate very much to leave it.
So to you, Alec, we say
we are so sad that you have left us, but we are so much the richer for you having
come.”
