Rumour was sweeping through the quiet village of Colombey-les-Deux-Églises: it seemed that General de Gaulle had returned to his beloved hometown. How fortunate its inhabitants were that despite his advanced age, the General remained a faithful, prodigal son of their small village in Haute-Marne. Locals emerged onto the winding, cobbled streets of Colombey-les-Deux-Églises, eager to catch a glimpse of the man who had refused to abide, who had sounded the call to arms on 18 June 1940, and who had made France a free nation once again. Here he came! “You’re our hero! Our saviour, my general!” whispered a nun, her voice hushed with pride. The general was somewhat surprised; the war was over, France had long been liberated, and the economy had recovered. Now, though, the country’s youth were calling for freedom. Workers denounced the capitalism of French society. Young French men and women were vocal in their protest, with the movement of May 1968 having brought the nation’s great cities to a standstill. The country was tearing itself apart. Trains and buses sat motionless in their stations, and planes remained idle on their runways. Ports were blocked by dockworker strikes, and the postal service was running on fumes. The French reproached him for his handling of the war in Algeria. They painted him as an old man, authoritarian and reactionary. They no longer saw him as a hero, but as a symbol of the moralising bourgeoisie and an unjust state that had driven a wedge between workers and the upper classes.
“You made history, my general,” the nun complimented him. “France stands proud, and the French answered your call!”
“Sister, our history begins with Clovis, chosen to be King of the Francs, from whom our country takes her name, and the first king to be baptised. My country is a Christian country, and so I consider French history to begin there, when a Christian king bearing the name of the Francs came to the throne.”
“My general, I did not take you for a man of faith.”
“I am, though my position precludes me from taking communion in public. I prefer to attend mass in our dear village.”
“The Church has been wounded by this war...the French are losing faith,” said the nun, sadly.
“Yes, many of the bishops sided with the Vichy regime, and the consequences for the clergy have been dire. But, my dear sister, the young people of France now want sexual freedom, the right to abortions, to contraception; all of which passes over the heads of the Catholic Church. I myself feel somewhat lost in this era.”
“But where were you on May 29, my general? We waited for you here in Colombey-les-Deux-Églises, and we were worried. You need not worry can tell me.”
Indeed, on 29 May 1968, at the height of social unrest and student protests, General de Gaulle had cancelled his meeting with the Ministerial Council and left Paris in total secrecy. No-one knew where he was going; nobody was told his final destination. The helicopter took off around noon, and the general reappeared in Haute-Marne at nightfall. But where had he been for over six hours? The answer remained a mystery. On that day France’s public services had been paralysed, and the students cried aloud: “Ten years of de Gaulle is enough!” He had been on the verge of standing down. What had happened to make him reconsider, and vanquish his doubt?
Alan Alfredo Geday