In the Norman village of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont, just above Utah beach, Hugues and Odette remembered well the days of the German occupation. They would carry those memories unto their graves. They had lost a son, and who could forget such sorrow? Who would forget such sacrifice? Hugues believed that to forget was impossible, and that the memory would live on through generations. Odette, in her spirit of generosity, wanted to thank and congratulate the American soldiers. Many of them had passed through the village of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont, to the applause and acclamation of its inhabitants. “Vive les Américains!” they cried. The Germans had fled, but had ransacked everything in their wake. The fields had been burned, houses pillaged, livestock slaughtered. They would not allow the people the luxury of tasting liberation with their possessions intact.
Hugues and Odette recalled the four hard years of occupation. After the first aerial bombardments in 1940, the restrictions began. They ate poorly, and seldom. Each day they queued at the baker and the butcher, ration cards in hand. They were given a bare minimum, which usually was not enough. “Not every family was in the same boat. The rich folks could get things on the black market...usually stuff that had passed through German hands. The rest of us just had to make do,” Odette told the American marine, who was doing his best to follow along in French. Hugues explained to the soldiers that he’d been able to grow coffee in his back yard; the taste was bitter, but this small pleasure had been a luxury. Luckily, they also had a friend who owned a farm, who would sometimes find something for them – a freshly laid egg, still-warm milk, or the vegetables that the Germans did not recognise and therefore did not confiscate: Jerusalem artichokes, parsnips and rutabaga. Oh, what Hugues would have done for a good potato! He was lost without bread, and often dreamed of a good loaf with a soft, white crumb. Here in Normandy they were used to the finest butter, and the lard that replaced it had no taste to them. For dessert there was no hope of a tart or a flan, and only children were allowed to eat the biscuits pumped with vitamins that tasted like medicine. Still, for want of anything better his grandson still devoured them. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on some chocolate, or anything from the colonies. But the worst of it was the cold: in winter their windows had all frosted over, for coal was needed to keep the stove on, and there was little to go round. His son used to steal it from a shunting yard, in the residue left by the locomotives. His son was a survivor, God have mercy on his soul, until the war took him. At these words, Odette shed a tear. The American felt great pity for the two old folks, even if he hadn’t understood a word of their tale. He offered his cheek to them, and Hugues and Odette were only too happy to kiss their saviour.
French flags flew out of every window. Vive la libération! Vive la France! Never again this shame; never again this humiliation! The people poured out into the streets, crowding around the American marines. They offered them whatever they had left. It was a warm welcome and well deserved, for the villagers were finally released.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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