My Father's Story

Words by François Bereaud

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

I am six and half when the American tanks reach our town. It happens only a few days after I saw something a child should never see.

I am thirteen and my groin pulses and I know my face is red. My father and I are at the Garage Viez in front of the church and my father is talking to Madame Viez about a bicycle for me. Although she is dressed modestly, in black as always, there is no denying her beauty and the ample bosom on her slender frame. I stare and I imagine things I can’t imagine. And I know this is wrong. Especially wrong with what happened.

I am eighty or maybe eighty-five and my legs shake and my mind is unsteady. I have Parkinson’s and I understand there is no cure. I am not afraid of death and sometimes I welcome it. But sometimes I think maybe there will be a cure. I used to live in an old house in the country. I had many guns. I always kept a twenty-two loaded and I would shoot rabbits from the window. My dog would fetch them and I would make lapin aux pruneaux. I want to go back to that house.

I am almost six and I’ve always lived under Hitler and never had any money. War is boring. I spend lots of time at the front window, waiting. In the square young Germans soldiers do calisthenics with no shirts even in the snow. I hate them. Two older German officers come to my house every week for coffee. They say they miss their wives and children and want to go home. I resent but don’t hate them.

Then one day at the window, something happens. A girl I don’t know walks by and trips. We live in a small town but I don’t know many kids. There is no school and we mostly stay inside. Our parents tell us not to play in the fields though sometimes we do, hoping to find an exploded bomb shell. When the girl trips, she drops a pouch and I see many coins fall out. I rush outside to help her up. I take some of the coins. It is my first money and I hide it in my room.

Later there is a knock at the door. A man comes with the girl. He is probably a miner, every man I know except Mr. Viez and my father are miners, and he is her father. He speaks to my father. I am scared. My father says, “Sir, please tell me your address. Go home and I will speak to my son. I will visit you shortly.” My father asks me if I stole the money. I say yes and he slaps me hard. I expected that. He tells me to go get it and I do. He slaps me hard again. I cry but I am grateful that he did not do this in front of the man or the girl. I have never stolen again.

I have shit myself and my sons are cleaning me up. They’re good boys and trying to make light of the situation but this is not good. I tell them that I never had to do this for my parents. My parents died in France while I was living in my house in the country in New York. Now I live in Florida and sometimes I shit myself.

I have a wife now but I had another wife before. I think about her often. She is American but we met in England and I was attracted by her huge trunk which I discovered was packed by her mother with soaps and towels and other things. I thought that anyone whose mother took such care to send her daughter across the ocean with so many things must be a valued person and I should get to know her. I didn’t have much but I had a car which my father bought from the Garage Viez. It was a quatre chevaux. I take her driving in the English countryside and it is very good until we get divorced. I can’t remember why we divorced. I ask my son but he says he doesn’t know either.

I am eight and the war is over. I am in a class with eleven and twelve-year olds because my father taught me to read the newspaper during the war so I’m advanced. The other kids resent and bully me and I have no friends. One day walking home, I see a man with a small dog. He asks me if I want it and I say yes. My father is angry but my mother says let him keep it. “Well, what’s the name?” my father says. I don’t have a name so I have to think fast. The dog is black so I say “Blackie”. It’s one of the English words I’ve learned from reading my Uncle Jean’s books. My uncle left them with us when he went to teach in Guadeloupe.

Blackie is a good dog until he runs away. He goes to a nearby farm and tries to get into the rabbit hutch. The farmer gets mad and stabs him with a pitchfork. When he comes home, he has three holes in his side and he dies. My father tells me that I was irresponsible for letting him run away. He orders me to bury him in the backyard. I dig the hole and I sob. I hate my father for that.

I would like to be cured but I am not afraid to die. I tell the nurse, do not resuscitate me. My brother-in-law died last year. They tried to resuscitate him and his son Patrick got mad. Patrick is an emergency room doctor who thinks people should stay out of hospitals.

* * *

Throughout the war, most of us kept radios in the basement so we were able to keep up with the news. The Germans were either too lazy or stupid to find them. Or maybe they thought us miners were too poor to have radios. Thus in June 1944 we knew that the Americans had landed in Normandy and, that for the first time in years, there was real hope for us to get out from under the Nazi occupation. As with everything in the war, word spread fast, too fast, and it was Maignault’s bastard kid Thierry who got the whole terrible episode started. Maignault was an honorable miner like the rest of us but his kid was a pissant who thought himself above the job. Six months in, he’d shown himself to be nothing but lazy and reckless and none of us wanted to work with him. And the kid talked nonstop. When you’re way down below, the last thing you need is some guy running his mouth and breaking your concentration. He was always insulting us, talking about why don’t we stand up to the Germans, our generation has no balls, that kind of shit. As if the Gestapo were just a bunch of schoolyard bullies. After a while, we stopped paying attention to him.

So when the word about the Americans came, Thierry started talking to his friends, most of them malingerers like him. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen-year-old kids, good for nothings. We worked too hard to have kids like that, but there we were. War does that. Whoever doesn’t get killed gets ruined.

Of course, the Germans knew about the American landing and were nervous. More than nervous. Many of their soldiers went west to the new front, and those who stayed paid little attention to our comings and goings. Even a moron like Thierry could see that. So he takes his crew, some thirty-five or so scoundrels, across the villages raiding every barn they could find. And those sons of bitches come up with a small arsenal, mostly old shotguns, stuff the Germans didn’t even bother to take. Half of the guns probably didn’t work, not to mention that most of those assholes probably didn’t know how to shoot, but still, it looked impressive when you put them in one place.

Even with what was to come, this part still hurts the most. The best we can figure is that they went to the Garage Viez in the middle of the day when we were all deep in the earth. Now Paul Viez was a great man, our friend, our comrade. That man could make anything work. He fixed our bikes, our heaters, hauled our wood with his flatbed truck. He was a prize. And his wife. She was the town beauty, no doubt about that. If we’re honest, many of us had impure thoughts where she was concerned, but who could deny that Paul was deserving of such a fine creature. And how they doted on one another. But no kids. We could never understand that.

But anyway, Thierry and his band show up at the garage in full force with their broken down guns. Both Viezes are standing outside when the brigade of boys arrives.

“We need the truck Viez.” Thierry doesn’t even have the decency to address Paul as Monsieur Viez.

“What do you mean ‘we need the truck’?” Viez answers.

“Just what I said. We need the truck.”

“For what?”

“To kill Germans. Now give us the goddam truck already.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re a bunch of boys. You’re not soldiers. And besides, I need my truck for work.” Viez stands his ground.

Now Thierry nudges one of his buddies, probably LeGrand’s kid, also an asshole, and says simply, “Do it.”

LeGrand raises his rifle and points it directly at Madame Viez.

“Put that down, espece de con!” Viez yells.

Thierry looks behind him and four more guns are raised, all in Madame Viez’s direction.

“Look Viez, it’s easy, the keys or your wife.” Thierry becomes even uglier as he says these words.

Now we can only speculate what went on in Paul’s mind at this point, and we know he was not a man who would have feared any of those sons of bitches. But at the same time, he was facing down thirty of them, any of whom could have been malevolent or stupid enough to pull the trigger at any point. So, with no real option, he reaches into his pocket and hands Thierry the keys.

“That’s better but that’s not enough,” Thierry sneers.

“What are you talking about? You have the keys; the truck is there. Take it and get the hell out.”

“We need you.”

“What?”

“We need you to drive. None of us know how to drive.”

“No. No, no, no.” Madame Viez enters the conversation for the first time.

More guns get raised and there are shouts.

Later, Arnaud the baker whose shop was across the square would say he heard a gunshot around that time. But it was war. We were used to gunshots. The Germans would take target practice at least once a week.

Whatever the exact sequence, on a Friday around noon, Thierry and his crew left with Viez driving his truck. Madame Viez did not tell any of us about her husband, and shamefully, we didn’t notice. Our life in wartime kept us focused inward. With the Germans taking the best of everything off the top, we worked even longer hours in the mine, our bodies and minds exhausted when we got home, just hoping for a bit of meat and a cup of wine. For the next few days nobody missed Viez or any of those goddam kids.

On Sunday afternoon, with church over and all decent people at home resting, a German truck drove through the town, voice blaring from the loudspeaker.

“We have an order from our beloved Führer. All of you come to the church square immediately. Men, women, and children. Those who do not come will be found and shot. We have an order from our beloved Führer … ”

We did not anticipate this action as we were expecting the Americans’ arrival any day. But we did go. Men, women, and children. We did go.

“On your knees, you miserable French. On your knees. Order. Silence.” The German officer barked at us, the buttons on his pressed uniform gleaming in the sunshine. Gestapo soldiers with large guns formed a perfect line behind him. We hated being treated like dogs but we complied.

“The Führer is your ruler. You obey the Führer. You obey the Führer.” We wanted to kill this officer and even more so the Führer. Death to Hitler was in our hearts but we stayed silent. A whistle blew and the colonel commanded us to look up. He pointed across the square.

Viez’s truck pulled in slowly. The flatbed was full and covered by a tarp as if Viez were hauling in a load of wood, but now a German was at the wheel. The truck stopped in the center of the square, another whistle blew and two Gestapos walked over and untied some rope at the bottom of the tarp. Then the flatbed began to rise. We held our breath.

The bodies fell one upon the other. They were bloodied and full of holes. Dead. All of them dead. Our friend, Paul Viez, had a hole where one of his eyes should have been. We cried. We cried. We hated the Germans more than ever.

Even now, so long after, when we greet Madame Viez, we look down. She has kept the garage, no more repairs, but she sold bicycles and now she sells cars. We have tried to recover our manhood but it is hard. The war has taken so much.

* * *

Even my father cried the day the Germans unloaded the flatbed. But when the Americans come, it’s different. Someone runs up and down the street yelling and I come out to look. The first American G.I. I see is black and seven and a half feet tall. He’s the first black man I’ve ever seen though I’ve read about them in my uncle’s books. He’s wearing a mask because those bastard Germans like to use gas. They killed my uncle with gas in World War I. The American wears huge boots and carries grenades, a large gun, and so much other gear. Right away I know he is too powerful for the Germans and finally the war will be over. He reaches into his pocket and motions to me. I am afraid but also curious. He throws something to me. I pick it up and look at it. It is a thin piece of paper. I don’t know what it is. He laughs and takes out another one from his pocket. He takes off the paper and puts what’s inside in his mouth and starts to chew. I do the same thing. It’s sweet and delicious. He smiles and throws me a few more pieces.

I follow the Americans to the church. It seems like everyone in town is following them too. We stop in the church square. I put another piece in my mouth and look around. I do not see Madame Viez.

I am eighty or eighty-five and I have Parkinson’s. A black man comes to my house in Florida and I remember the soldier from my town. This black man is also tall but he just wears a blue shirt and pants, some kind of plastic shoes, and has no gear. He speaks French and tells me he is from Haiti. He has a big smile and very white teeth. I have not been to Haiti but I have been many times to Guadeloupe. This man is here to help me take a shower and when he helps me get onto my shower chair, I can tell he is strong.

I have never been good with names but I know that the man who is helping me is Geoffard. It is a strong name for a strong man, a name I can remember. I will also never forget Madame Viez. But I am sorry that I cannot remember when she died. Probably I was in my country home in New York. I kept many guns in that house. The Germans were never going to take that house.

After the shower, Geoffard rubs my back with a towel. It feels very good and I think I will live a bit longer.

About the author

François Bereaud celebrated turning 50 by earning an MFA from San Diego State University. He was the bosque Journal’s “Discovery Author Award” winner in 2017. He has also been published in the City Works Journal, online at Rejected Manuscripts and The Write Launch, and has a story in the upcoming Table for None Anthology.

He has written a novel and two short story collections which he dreams of publishing and seeing in the window of his beloved neighborhood bookstore.

In his non-writing life, François is a dad, full time community college math professor, retired youth soccer coach, tutor and mentor in the Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player.

About the illustrator

Yaleeza Patchett has been creating whimsical art and illustrations since a child; her inspiration comes from the cartoons, comic strips and animated movies she grew up with. Four years ago, Yaleeza began expanding her art into her own business named Rowan Ink. It began with a simple pair of hand-painted custom-made shoes for a friend’s birthday. Through her artistic journey she has expanded into different art mediums, but her true passion is sketching, illustrating and painting. Yaleeza currently resides in the south side of Indianapolis with her husband, her dog, and her cat. You can find her current artwork at Rowaninkstudio.com