“Those caves, that’s where Roger’s father lived when he was with the Resistance.”
One of the things I love about spending time in this area of France is the local history. In addition to living structures and towns that date to medieval times, the area was a hotbed of the Resistance during World War Two. Drives with Zia, to marchés or cafés, were peppered with historical anecdotes: the source of a recent roof on an older building or scorch marks on a wall, or the significance of a hamlet we were passing through. Today we were back at the source, re-filling out water jugs, and her enthusiasm was palpable. I followed her pointed finger to rectangular cuts in the granite cliff as she explained this was where local resisters had plotted against (and sought refuge from) from the Nazis. (In the waning days of the war, the Nazis repaid their efforts by rounding the locals in to churches and setting the church roofs on fire.) This first-hand and familial knowledge of war, I finally understood, was why the French were reluctant to follow the US into Iraq, and why the locals had such sympathy for me during my first visit.
It had been during the summer of 1999, ten months after losing my husband. I was lost, and the visit would provide respite from familiar reminders of my sorrows. Zia’s friends would query whether I was married and her explanation (Il était dans la Air Force, il y avait un accident…) would be met with sincere condolences (Je suis trés désolé…). She had told me that Roger’s father had been part of the local résistance, a group of men who had banded together, plotted and took action against the Nazis during the darkest hour of the war. Many had been killed defending the area, as had their sons serving with the formal armée, and all had suffered under the harsh regime. These stories had been passed along with reverence, with the families of those who gave their lives treated with the highest respect. Because of my loss, this respect was extended to me.
This experience may explain the series of photos I did not realize I had taken until well after the fact: the marker found in each village square that commemorates local sons killed in battle. Le 1ene Guerre Mondiale, le 2eme Guerre Mondiale, Indochine, l’Algerie, Maroc-Tunisie, they were all there, in bold letters, along with the names and ages of les enfants qui morts pour la France. Each year the names are read aloud during Remembrance Day ceremonies. It is a refreshing contrast to the US, where most citizens seem to have forgotten we are in our 16th year of active war (with no end in sight).
I gazed up at the cuts as we filled our bottles, careful to not become so distracted I dropped one on the stones below. Soon they were full, and we were back in our little white car, zipping across the French countryside to our next adventure.