In Brittany, in the village of Saint-Briac-sur-Mer, the locals had spent a sleepless night. The bombardments had kept the village on tenterhooks. Marie Thérèse Crochu was aged all of twenty, and determined to express her anger. Brittany belonged to France, and she could not bear to see it overrun by German occupiers. All that night she had wished to howl with rage, but her prudence had prevailed. She and her countrymen had been living under rationing for four years now, ever since the aerial attacks of 1940. She ate little, or poorly. They queued for hours outside the butcher’s and the baker’s, holding their little ration cards in a daily ritual. They were given the bare minimum, and it was usually not enough. “Not all families were in the same boat. The richest could afford to buy things on the black market, which were often delivered by German hands. The rest of us just had to get by,” Marie Thérèse Crochu was busy telling an American Marine, who struggled to understand her French. During the Occupation, she had found ways to manage – she had even grown coffee in her parents’ back yard. The flavour was harsh, but that small pleasure had been a luxury. Fortunately, they also had a friend who owned a farm, and who would bring them supplies from time to time – 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. What Marie Thérèse Crochu would have done for a good potato! Ration bread was black and hard, and she had often dreamed of a good loaf with a soft, white crumb. The lard that replaced their precious Brittany butter gave no taste to the bread. 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. But the worst of it was the cold: in winter their windows had all frosted over, for coal was needed to keep stoves lit, and there was little to go round.
On the morning of 15 August 1944, the residents emerged one by one from their homes to welcome the American Marines who had just liberated the village of Saint-Briac-sur-Mer. Marie Thérèse Crochu was getting ready. The traditions of Bigouden ran true in her, and she wore her headpiece proudly. It was almost half a metre tall; a symbol of Brittany’s greatness, of a land that would never submit, that would always be free and full of pride. So too did the Breton language flow from her lips, for they were a people who would not forget the bones of their country. “Trugarez!” she cried proudly from her balcony. “Vive la France!” cried another woman, who was also in costume for the occasion. Slowly the marines crept into the village, welcomed by the residents whose joy was abundant. Children came out into the street to admire them. They offered flowers, milk, anything they could. Everyone had gathered on the village square. The men and women linked arms and began dancing a gavotte. They formed a long line, ebbing and flowing as the marines looked on in bemusement. Then the villagers dispersed and began to waltz. Marie Thérèse Crochu removed her headdress and mustered all the courage she had to ask a US Marine to dance with her. Her bright blue eyes shone into the soldier’s shy face. They did not speak the same language, but appeared to understand one another, and they smiled warmly. Marie-Thérèse had never laid eyes on such a handsome man. Perhaps it was because she saw him as a hero, or perhaps because he came from far away. Of course, the uniform did not hurt either, being rather more dapper than the grey trousers and braces worn by her compatriots. The marine observed the young Frenchwoman with tenderness. Her doll-like face and flowery dress carried all the charm of France. Children flitted around them, happy to see their two countries united in love. They clapped, they teased, and the dancers savoured their moment.
Alan Alfredo Geday