The Blood of Freedom

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The Blood of Freedom


“Paris is shooting all her bullets in the August night. In this vast setting of
stones and waters, all around this river that has reflected so much history,
the barricades of freedom have once more been thrown up. Once more justice
must be bought with the blood of men.” - Albert Camus


Since escaping to the woods, our fight has seemed without gain. We
few deserters, enemies of the Germans, exiles of the Vichy—Maquisards—like
Robin Hood’s merry men of yore, we banded together so that instead of feeling
like prey, we may serve as hunters. Hunters of a free France, away from
Nazi rule.
My name is Mersault Grenier, son of a school teacher and before the war
a scholar myself. It was a different world, distant months ago. We held our
heads high above the Maginot line, underestimated our enemy. As war washed
in around us, I saw my country fall, pulled myself from the rubble. I left the
academy and escaped Paris as under the armistice of Petain, my Jewish peers
were escorted away by German officials. Although the memory should seem
fresh, it is faded; I seemed much younger then.

* * *
Mersault is laying in his makeshift tent, his friend Michel leans through the flap
and Greets Mersault:
“Mersault, we are moving out at dawn. There have been reports of
German troops in the area, much too many for us to fight head on.”
“We are low on supplies; those bastards are tightening the noose.”
“It is a tight spot, we’ll pull through, though, or at least take a few of them with us into oblivion.”
“A few of so many, like several strands of wheat in a field of blonde monsters.”
“Yes, but there is something bracing about fighting a losing battle, once
you accept the inevitability of a meaningless death, each action becomes
more vivid. Sometimes it feels like I am the last pawn on the chessboard,
tirelessly defending the king against impending checkmate from a master’s
hands.”
“Michel, you’ve been smoking again haven’t you!”
“I discovered a little something extra on our last supply raid.”
“Something to divert your attention from the futility of life?”
“No, only something to make it a little more cheerful…”

* * *
After leaving the academy I decided to go home and check on my
family. I knew that things would never be the same again. The feeling of
occupation sat heavy in the air. The days of gaiety were through, this fact
settled in as I traveled through towns of the disillusioned. I returned home
only to find that my father, Jean Grenier, had been killed when he publicly
resisted the German patrols. He did not die as a school teacher should. My
childhood home transformed as I hid there. The streets, once safe and sunlit,
were now perilous and unnaturally shaded; Germans pillaged, unchecked and
at will. These were not men, only hideous caricatures seemingly
uncomfortable in their smooth flesh. Reading the newspaper, everything
seemed hopeless. Germans were entrenched in most of our large cities and
only a small geographically unimportant patch of France was left unoccupied.

* * *
The sun crests the rigid horizon. Darkness—fleeting—erupts with bright reds
and purples. Michel quietly awakens his friend:

“Good morning Mersault, were you able to sleep last night?”
“Only in short stretches, the sun was welcome.”
“Each dawn carries significance now.”
“It is a beautiful sky to die looking up at.”
“So the general still plans on attacking?”
“In a blaze of glory we shall write our page in history.”
“Yes, written with the blood of freedom.”

* * *
To pass the time I went through my father’s books and writings. He had
spoken often of a student he had taught at the Lycee, in amongst his own
journals I found a manuscript with this student’s name on it. With a scholar’s
curiosity I put thoughts of the war to the back of my mind while I did a quick
once over on the manuscript. Le Mythe de Sisyphe by Albert Camus, the title
set my mind racing through the corridor of mythology, dusty, in my brain. It
fell upon the image of Sisyphus, son of Aeolus, forced to tire endlessly at
pushing a boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down upon him. The title
immediately interested me, the image of Sisyphus comforting me in my own
dire circumstances. Upon opening the first page a flyer slipped out and fell,
flittingly, to the ground.
It was an anti-German pamphlet put out by a group called the Maquis.
I had read about them in an underground paper that my family’s housekeeper
smuggled in for me. The Maquisards were a resistance group that mostly
consisted of escaped members of the French army, outraged French citizens
and downed British airman. They hid in the woods of unoccupied France and
attacked the German troops in whatever way they could. It was a grim picture
and the pamphlet did nothing to hide it:
"Men who come to fight, live badly, in precarious fashion, with food hard to
find. They will be absolutely cut off from their families for the duration; the
enemy does not apply the rules of war to them; they cannot be assured any
pay; all correspondence is forbidden."

* * *
Gunfire erupts through the snowy vale. Mersault and Michel lay huddled
beneath a mossy overhang, bullets thud all around them:

“How many rounds do you have left?”
“Only four.”
“They say that in the foxholes there are no atheists, shall we pray?”
“Bah, I say that if thou art god, avenge thyself.”
“Haha…we shall continue to fight the Germans in Hell.”

* * *
I wondered then, what the point of fighting was. Our entire army was
routed by the Germans in one svelte swoop, what could a grab bag group of
partisans do against such a large evil? My life once seemed to have meaning,
looking back, though, I am disillusioned. I try to remember what got me out of
bed, back at the academy. What meaning set me toiling through endless
texts for endless tests, which in the end mattered little to me? As these
thoughts bounced through my through my head, I turned back to the
manuscript and began to read. My surroundings faded out of focus as I fixed
my attention to the essay. I instantly realized that this manuscript was no
minor work; that night I sat and read the entire thing. The next morning I
packed a few cherished belongings and Camus’ manuscript and set off to join
the Maquis.

* * *
Michel lays bloodied at Mersault’s feet, a circumference of crimson running
through the snow. The Germans have surrounded Mersault’s position and now
it is only a matter of time before they kill him to:

“Michel, can you hear me?”
“…”
“I hope that where you are things are more beautiful, we know different
though, don’t we?”

* * *
When I boarded the train many thoughts were running through my head.
Had I made the right decision? In the back of my mind, I knew my actions
had no real consequences. That does not mean, though, that there is no
merit in trying, that there is no merit in revolting against the absurdity.
Camus’ words echoed through my mind, still resonating from the night before.
I opened the manuscript and began to re-read the words, although they
already seemed engraved in my mind. Half-way through the first section my
reading was interrupted by the man sitting across from me.
“Hey, my names Michel, what’s that you’re reading?”

* * *
Mersault jumps to his feet in a final, desperate, charge against the Germans,
before his second footfall his torso and lower hip are ripped open by cold
German bullets. He lays in the snow, coldness fleeting before the absence of
life. As the enveloping darkness surrounds him he lets go a final sentence:
“It was all only a diversion.”

Ali

A nice long one about the realities of war...
Kinda makes me wonder why my father was ever in the Navy.....