Excerpt of Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky
(Page 1 of 9)
Printer Friendly Excerpt
1
War
Hot, thought the Parisians. The warm air of spring. It was
night, they were at war and there was an air raid. But dawn was
near and the war far away. The first to hear the hum of the
siren were those who couldn't sleep—the ill and bedridden,
mothers with sons at the front, women crying for the men they
loved. To them it began as a long breath, like air being forced
into a deep sigh. It wasn't long before its wailing filled the
sky. It came from afar, from beyond the horizon, slowly, almost
lazily. Those still asleep dreamed of waves breaking over
pebbles, a March storm whipping the woods, a herd of cows
trampling the ground with their hooves, until finally sleep was
shaken off and they struggled to open their eyes, murmuring, "Is
it an air raid?"
The women, more anxious, more alert, were already up, although
some of them, after closing the windows and shutters, went back
to bed. The night before—Monday, 3 June—bombs had fallen on
Paris for the first time since the beginning of the war. Yet
everyone remained calm. Even though the reports were terrible,
no one believed them. No more so than if victory had been
announced. "We don't understand what's happening," people said.
They had to dress their children by torchlight. Mothers lifted
small, warm, heavy bodies into their arms: "Come on, don't be
afraid, don't cry." An air raid. All the lights were out, but
beneath the clear, golden June sky, every house, every street
was visible. As for the Seine, the river seemed to absorb even
the faintest glimmers of light and reflect them back a hundred
times brighter, like some multifaceted mirror. Badly blacked-out
windows, glistening rooftops, the metal hinges of doors all
shone in the water. There were a few red lights that stayed on
longer than the others, no one knew why, and the Seine drew them
in, capturing them and bouncing them playfully on its waves.
From above, it could be seen flowing along, as white as a river
of milk. It guided the enemy planes, some people thought. Others
said that couldn't be so. In truth, no one really knew anything.
"I'm staying in bed," sleepy voices murmured, "I'm not scared."
"All the same, it just takes one . . ." the more sensible
replied.
Through the windows that ran along the service stairs in new
apartment blocks, little flashes of light could be seen
descending: the people living on the sixth floor were fleeing
the upper storeys; they held their torches in front of them, in
spite of the regulations. "Do you think I want to fall on my
face on the stairs! Are you coming, Emile?" Everyone
instinctively lowered their voices as if the enemy's eyes and
ears were everywhere. One after another, doors slammed shut. In
the poorer neighbourhoods there was always a crowd in the Métro,
or the foul-smelling shelters. The wealthy simply went to sit
with the concierge, straining to hear the shells bursting and
the explosions that meant bombs were falling, their bodies as
tense as frightened animals in dark woods as the hunter gets
closer. Though the poor were just as afraid as the rich, and
valued their lives just as much, they were more sheeplike: they
needed one another, needed to link arms, to groan or laugh
together.
Day was breaking. A silvery blue light slid over the
cobblestones, over the parapets along the quayside, over the
towers of Notre-Dame. Bags of sand were piled halfway up all the
important monuments, encircling Carpeaux's dancers on the façade
of the Opera House, silencing the Marseillaise on the Arc de
Triomphe.
Still at some distance, great guns were firing; they drew
nearer, and every window shuddered in reply. In hot rooms with
blacked-out windows, children were born, and their cries made
the women forget the sound of sirens and war. To the dying, the
barrage of gunfire seemed far away, without any meaning
whatsoever, just one more element in that vague, menacing
whisper that washes over those on the brink of death. Children
slept peacefully, held tight against their mothers' sides, their
lips making sucking noises, like little lambs. Street sellers'
carts lay abandoned, full of fresh flowers.
Excerpted from Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky
Copyright © 2006 by Irene Nemirovsky. Excerpted by
permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All
rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced
or reprinted without permission in writing from the
publisher.
