Caging Skies: A Novel by Leunens Christine

Author:Leunens, Christine [Leunens, Christine]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Harry N. Abrams
Published: 2019-08-05T16:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

It must have been mid-afternoon, for the shadow of the Bulgaris’ tree invaded our backyard, forcing me to keep moving my chair every few minutes. Pimmichen tottered out of the house, her fingers set about her mouth in that pensive way that meant her teeth were newly set in and precarious. A soldier was following her and funnily enough I couldn’t make out a word he was saying—and no wonder, for he was speaking French. Gesticulating broadly and prissily with cigarette in hand, the way the French do, he looked ludicrous and with reason—God knows why but he had on an American uniform, and, what was more, one twice his size. The cuffs hid his hands, the seams of the armpits came down to his elbows and his trouser bottoms had been rolled up thickly.

My grandmother conversed through ever-pensive fingers set like a goatee, repeating, “You promise to be kind to him? Vous promettez d’être gentil? Vous promettez?” and he, “Oui, ça va, ça va,” the irritation in his voice accumulating. Then she told me I had to go with him, that it was a normal procedure for everyone my age.

The soldier led me to a French base where many French soldiers and officers were going around in American uniforms. From what I learned, the Americans had donated uniforms to the French army, but as there was a difference in size between your average American and your average Frenchman, the French weren’t looking too smart for all the American generosity. If that wasn’t enough to confuse me, I sat there wondering why the French had given their French uniforms away to all the black people who were present—to me, Moroccans were black. I assumed it was out of decency, because they didn’t want them to remain naked, as they had probably found them back in Africa. Only later I learned that Morocco was a French colony and its citizens were thus part of the French army. The Moroccan troops, sent to the front lines, weren’t victims of shortages as far as uniforms were concerned. With all those who fell under fire in the front line, one could even consider uniforms a surplus.

I couldn’t understand much outside the odd phrases I’d picked up from Pimmichen, who liked to show off her knowledge of French. As I lent my ear to the Moroccans speaking Arabic, I found the intonations harsh and barbaric. To my relief, I wasn’t the only Austrian who had been brought in; far from it since a few hundred had been waiting around before me. Frankly it would’ve been a Babel Tower if not for the Alsatians, who spoke German and French and were there to translate. Still, they weren’t numerous and the interrogations, forms—and smokers—unfortunately were.

While there I was given one chapter to read out of an American book. Hitler had changed the foreign language to be studied in Austrian schools from French to English, so I could handle a basic level—I am, you are, oh my, it is raining cats and dogs—but not more.

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