FRENCH SCHOOLMASTER
By LEN ORTzEN
N the village schoolroom the desks are all piled in one corner, except for three at which soldier-clerks are sitting awkwardly th their legs straddled and their backs bent. On the blackboard written a lesson in Roman numerals, and the date at the top is e 6th. There are military orders tacked on the wall next to the ckboard,'a juxtaposition of war and peace common enough in the age.
e schoolmaster himself lives in a brown and white villa on the skirts of the village where he has been teaching the children ce 1926. But altholigh his school has been requisitioned Monsieur bert is rarely at home during the day. He can often be seen hing about the village on his bicycle, jumping off every fifty yards SO to grab the arm of someone he has been seeking, then mopping face with a large handkerchief, and tilting his hat to the back his head. During the German occupation he was known to a only as the chief of the local resistance group ; now everyone ws of his dual role, and this pleases him very much. He helps the Maine, which seems perpetually bewildered at its constant, customed stream of visitors, and he has just been appointed a - porary Adjout au Maire. He possesses one of the few remaining eless sets—the Germans ordered all sets to be surrendered, but hid his in a cupboard and three times a day he writes down the s bulletin, then gets on his bicycle and hurries away to pin es on the public notice-boards.
onsieur Gibert is usually out of breath, either pushing hard on Pedals of his bicycle or hurrying through a long conversation. As stands on the white steps of the Maine, leaning back against the r with his hands on his hips, his brown hat pushed away from forehead, his brown eyes seeking someone he cannot find, his h-chain dangling loosely and his trouser-bottoms tied with pieces ersatz string—standing thus to recover his breath, he does not like a schoolmaster. Only his speech is a sure indication of Profession. His sentences and the manner of their delivery
are those of a teacher, precise, dry, clear ; and often slow and loud, accompanied by an emphasising gesture of the thumb and little finger, as if he were still in his classroom.
He tells you that the pair of trousers he is wearing cost 3,000 francs—" and my legs feel naked," he emphasises. "School? " he says, shrugging his shoulders. "For the moment there is more im- portant work to do." He looks on the rumbling military convoys, and his eyes shine with pleasure and enthusiasm. But he is not satisfied ; he cannot understand why the English do not arrest the villagers who made a small fortune in the black market, and the women who slept with Germans. He carries their names in his pockets, written on many odd pieces of paper, together with half- completed reports on their past activities. He cannot understand why the English do not consider these people to be of military importance, but he is nevertheless not surprised. "You are too timid," he says, biting the end of his English cigarette. "Too easy- going. You forgive too much. But a day will come for them." And he steps back a pace, making a cutting gesture with the side of his hand. His father was living in Caen when it was liberated. "You evacuated him to a place where he knows no one, and you billeted on me some people whose relatives live where he is," he says, not so much complaining as criticising.
But a minute later he invites you to spend the evening at his home, and then begins to laud the works of Shakespeare. The small salon of his house is square, neat and formal. The furniture is solid and well polished. Two twin angular pianos face each other across the room, and a collection of photographs demonstrates that Monsieur Gibert and his wife taught many stolid, unenthusiastic young persons how to play the piano. The English soldier is pre- sented to Madame Gibert, and then introduced to Monsieur Gibert's father, to the schoolmaster from a neighbouring village, Monsieur Desmoulles, and his wife, and to a woman refugee from Caen. The seven people sit around the table in the exact centre of the room, and the conversation is stiff and formal, courteous and cautious. Madame produces a bottle of Muscadet, but shared between seven people it fails to enliven the gathering. The soldier hands round some cigarettes. Each person accepts one, and looks at it as an Englishman would look at a banana ; the woman refugee puts her cigarette in her handbag to keep for her husband.
It is for some such cue that Monsieur Gibert, it appears, has been waiting. He tells the soldier about life during the German occupation, the privations, the restrictions, the high cost , of living, the requisitioning of labour, and the methods of avoiding all German regulations. He emphasizes his points with his thumb and little finger, and the other five people nod and gesticulate their agreement. There is less restraint in the room now ; the French are leaning across the table, nearer to the Englishman. He has heard hundreds of similar unburdenings and tries to stem the tide. De Gaulle?—of course they accept him, all reply at once ; besides, who else can they look to? Why has he not been recognised by the Allies?
Monsieur Desmoulles suddenly bursts into a torrent of speech, a swirl of complaints against England which have been dammed since Dunkirk. Monsieur Gibert and the others look dismayed and ashamed, and try to stem this discourteous outburst. The con- versation is now in full flood and sweeps on to engulf the post-war policy of America, the treatment of Germany, Maupassant and French regional literature, English cooking and home-grown tobacco. Instead of decorum and caution there is now vehemence, unruliness and flashing movement. But the storm abates as quickly as it had arisen. Monsieur Gibert leans back in his chair with exhaustion and smiles all round the table. The evening ends with handshakes and unanimous agreement that the past must be for- gotten, recriminations must not be indulged in, and that England and France must work together. The English soldier thanks Madame for "une heure de conversation bien francaise," and Madame asks him to procure for her a Union Jack to hang beside the Tricolor over her door. Monsieur Gibert watches his guests depart down the lane, leaning against the wall of his house, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open to recover his breath.
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