people parading down the street, the great trees that lined the Bois de Boulogne lie on the ground like fallen giants. Scrawny cats dig their claws into the flaking bark, and children with dirty faces and fingers saw off limbs for the fireplace. Next to the scavengers, men and women sit on the cement drinking champagne from a bottle. Jorgen dabs the sweat from his forehead.
Last week, when he was walking down the Bois de Boulogne from the hospital to the boardinghouse, he overheard two women discuss how the paintings in the Louvre will be saved after all. The officials removed the paintings from their frames, rolled them up, and sent them to the prison at Brest.
They are packed in boxes and marked with the word FRAGILE , said one woman, her voice excited and shrill.
Thank God. We can’t lose our national treasures, says the other, aghast.
Can you imagine if we lost the Mona Lisa? Or if Fragonard’s The Bathers was scratched?
The French and their obsession with beauty, he thought then, and he thinks again now, watching them celebrate. Why did he join the French army? An incompetent, ill-equipped army, disillusioned by their earlier conquests, and look at them, their frivolity, and the way the man publicly touches that woman’s breast. What other country allows their rich youngmen to pay another, a foreigner at that, to take his place in a war? Perfectly legal, this so-called blood tax or substitution. He thinks now of the wealthy Frenchman, dressed in fox furs and a shiny black top hat, a cane for affectation, who paid him handsomely, handed him his draft notice, and told him to go as his replacement to his brigade. Jorgen couldn’t believe it was legal. Quite legal, said the Frenchman. As long as I provide someone in my place, the French army does not care. He told Jorgen he was heading for the Mediterranean to sun himself until the war was over, then he would return, but only if Paris wasn’t in shambles. Adieu, my friend, adieu, adieu. Appalling, thinks Jorgen, but what choice did he have? He could never fight on behalf of Prussia. The Germans killed his great-uncle in the Danish-German War. When he joined, he was certain, as everyone was, that France’s superior military prowess would end the war swiftly. When he saw how unorganized, how chaotic the French army officials were, he envisioned himself soon placed in charge of a unit, in recognition of his abilities, and he’d be covered in medals, hoisted up above the shoulders of his men in a cushion of hoorays. But none of that happened, and who would have guessed he’d be standing here without a leg?
Tired of the noise, he shuts the window. He hears her come up the stairs, her voice singsong, a hello, hello ringing. He’ll tell her he’s too busy to talk. Look at all these boxes, he’ll say. And your brother, you must know, is a difficult man. He pokes the end of his crutch at the thin paper lying on the floor, sweeping it up in one big arc. Her song is coming closer. He’s about to throw the paper away, but there is something printed on it. She is coming down the hallway. He doesn’t have time to look. That humming is outside the door. He plucks the paper off the end of his crutch and tucks it into his bag of goods.
Hello there, she says, peeking her head into the room. I won’t stay long. I wanted to see if you were doing all right.
Busy, but fine, he says, his tone subtly defensive. He leans against his crutch and studies the toe of his black boot.
Good. My brother. He has a rather brisk manner.
I’ve no complaints. He closes his mouth hard and begins unpacking another box.
I’m sure it will be fine, she says, gripping and twisting her hat in her hands. I just came by to see if you needed anything.
He does not feel he owes her anything. For this job, this shelter. Happenstance, he thinks. Pierre needed a worker and he was available; he will do a fine job, and actually, her brother is getting a good deal, given the small wage Pierre is paying
Last week, when he was walking down the Bois de Boulogne from the hospital to the boardinghouse, he overheard two women discuss how the paintings in the Louvre will be saved after all. The officials removed the paintings from their frames, rolled them up, and sent them to the prison at Brest.
They are packed in boxes and marked with the word FRAGILE , said one woman, her voice excited and shrill.
Thank God. We can’t lose our national treasures, says the other, aghast.
Can you imagine if we lost the Mona Lisa? Or if Fragonard’s The Bathers was scratched?
The French and their obsession with beauty, he thought then, and he thinks again now, watching them celebrate. Why did he join the French army? An incompetent, ill-equipped army, disillusioned by their earlier conquests, and look at them, their frivolity, and the way the man publicly touches that woman’s breast. What other country allows their rich youngmen to pay another, a foreigner at that, to take his place in a war? Perfectly legal, this so-called blood tax or substitution. He thinks now of the wealthy Frenchman, dressed in fox furs and a shiny black top hat, a cane for affectation, who paid him handsomely, handed him his draft notice, and told him to go as his replacement to his brigade. Jorgen couldn’t believe it was legal. Quite legal, said the Frenchman. As long as I provide someone in my place, the French army does not care. He told Jorgen he was heading for the Mediterranean to sun himself until the war was over, then he would return, but only if Paris wasn’t in shambles. Adieu, my friend, adieu, adieu. Appalling, thinks Jorgen, but what choice did he have? He could never fight on behalf of Prussia. The Germans killed his great-uncle in the Danish-German War. When he joined, he was certain, as everyone was, that France’s superior military prowess would end the war swiftly. When he saw how unorganized, how chaotic the French army officials were, he envisioned himself soon placed in charge of a unit, in recognition of his abilities, and he’d be covered in medals, hoisted up above the shoulders of his men in a cushion of hoorays. But none of that happened, and who would have guessed he’d be standing here without a leg?
Tired of the noise, he shuts the window. He hears her come up the stairs, her voice singsong, a hello, hello ringing. He’ll tell her he’s too busy to talk. Look at all these boxes, he’ll say. And your brother, you must know, is a difficult man. He pokes the end of his crutch at the thin paper lying on the floor, sweeping it up in one big arc. Her song is coming closer. He’s about to throw the paper away, but there is something printed on it. She is coming down the hallway. He doesn’t have time to look. That humming is outside the door. He plucks the paper off the end of his crutch and tucks it into his bag of goods.
Hello there, she says, peeking her head into the room. I won’t stay long. I wanted to see if you were doing all right.
Busy, but fine, he says, his tone subtly defensive. He leans against his crutch and studies the toe of his black boot.
Good. My brother. He has a rather brisk manner.
I’ve no complaints. He closes his mouth hard and begins unpacking another box.
I’m sure it will be fine, she says, gripping and twisting her hat in her hands. I just came by to see if you needed anything.
He does not feel he owes her anything. For this job, this shelter. Happenstance, he thinks. Pierre needed a worker and he was available; he will do a fine job, and actually, her brother is getting a good deal, given the small wage Pierre is paying
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