On this June morning in 1944, somewhere in Sainte-Mère-Église, Madame Hale was hastily getting ready. The American soldiers would soon be passing down her street. At first light her husband had pulled on his boots and slung his bayonet over his back, and set off to join the British and America troops gathered in the area. The village of Sainte-Mère-Église had been liberated two weeks ago. Now, troops would regularly walk the rounds of its little streets to ensure the inhabitants were at peace. Two weeks ago, the villagers had formed a jubilant crowd at the arrival of the liberators and the British paratroopers. They came out into the streets holding American flags in their hands, dancing in the village square and offering milk to the American GIs. They were happy; they rejoiced. They thanked their English neighbours. All the men had participated in the war effort. They took up whatever arms they could find and went off to fight. For over four years the people had lived under the hellish restrictions of the German occupation. A hundred grams of meat, fifty of flour, Jerusalem artichokes and barley coffee – those were their rations. The Germans had invaded Sainte-Mère-Église and set up a machine gun turret. They’d marched over the cobblestones in the early dawn, terrifying the villagers. France was occupied, and Sainte-Mère-Église had been wounded by this occupation. The villagers had collaborated, and had done the work of their oppressors, pushing broken-down vehicles to the nearest village, carrying sandbags to fortify guard posts, milking cows to feed the Germans. Madame Hale had heard it all. “Hurry up with those sandbags!” a German soldier ordered a villager. “You there! Push this car to the next village!” laughed an officer addressing the mayor. Madame Hale powdered her cheeks. She was finally ready to entertain the American marines. She emerged onto her front steps and called to the passing troops: “Come in, come in for some tea! Come in, good sirs!” she cried. She too would play her part in France’s liberation. Soon, she would go to Paris to honour the American troops. Madame Hale heated water in a large pot and prepared the cups.
“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you kindly! Very kind of you,” said an American soldier with a blond moustache, bringing a cup of tea to his lips.
“My name is Madame Hale, and I’m happy to serve you tea as long as you remain here in Sainte-Mère-Église. I can also play the accordion, if you would like a little entertainment.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Sure would be nice to hear a little country music like we got back home. Back in the Wild West, you’d call it.”
“Thank you, ma’am!” said another GI. “I love country music.”
“Well, I’m afraid all I can offer you is some traditional French music,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “My voice is not what it once was, but for you fine American soldiers I shall do my best to impress,” concluded Madame Hale, pulling the accordion strap over her shoulder.
“Thank you, ma’am! Thanks a bunch. You have a lovely voice.”
“Of course, you don’t get these kinds of songs over there in America. Listen well, gentlemen.”
The American soldiers listened with admiration to Madame Hale’s musical stylings. Her voice creaked like the village’s tumbledown houses, but they were charmed by her generosity and kindness. Madame Hale pulled out all the stops to entertain her guests, but it was time for the soldiers to set off and continue their rounds. “Goodbye, Madame Hale, oh-rev-owar!”
Alan Alfredo Geday
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