Radical Shadows Read online

  Monday the 21st

  Z and I go by bicycle to the gallery, then to the Trocadéro. In the vicinity of the gallery, the entrance to the rue d’Astorg is still guarded by a heavy machine gun: there is an NCO here in country dress spotted (for camouflage), a tall young brute with a thick moustache; also the machine gunner (a little guy, thin and pale, with a pince-nez or spectacles) and two or three armed soldiers. We meet Olga Roux-Delimal. While I wait for Z (who has gone to the gallery to see what new developments there may be), I see some people from the F.F.I. Red Cross go through the place Saint-Augustin carrying a stretcher on which an old lady in a dress and a black hat is lying.

  From the gallery we make our way to the Trocadéro without any difficulty. I go to see Rivière, to whom I say that I’m waiting for a liaison from the F.N. of the national museums. He takes me to the office of the architects of the building, to see one Sigwalt, a member of the “Liberation” group commanding the F.F.I. of the 16th arrondissement who are occupying the Palais de Chaillot as military.

  When we return, we see that barricades are beginning to go up in our own neighborhood, especially on the quai de Conti (where a barrier of stones and other materials is being built across the road from the Monnaie).

  Toward lunchtime, a telephone call from Sartre letting us know that he is going to move with Castor into his old hotel, the Chaplain (which, since it is situated in Montparnasse, seems to him preferable to the Hôtel de la Louisiane from the point of view of safety). In addition, we learn from a telephone call from Dora Maar that Picasso has left his home and that she herself is going to move into Olga Roux-Delimal’s house in the place Malesherbes (in fact, she will return home at the end of the day). Seeing that the quartier appears to be changing into a Fort Chabrol and that all our friends are taking off, I decide to send Jeanne and Jeannette to stay with Josette Gris, in the boulevard Montparnasse, while Z and I will go move in with Lucienne Salacrou in the avenue Foch (from which it will be easy for me to go to the Musée de l’Homme).

  Telephone call from Lucienne: Salacrou invites me to come, if I have time, to the Comédie-Française, where they are celebrating; since I still believe there is a truce (not yet aware that it has been openly proclaimed to be at an end and, moreover, has never been taken seriously by anyone), I do not feel at all obliged to go there, thinking they will meet there only in order to drink a toast in honor of what quite a few others and myself had taken to be an armistice.1

  Z and I, with some toilet articles and nightclothes, leave for Lucienne’s,2 whence I go on to the Trocadéro. At my office, I receive a visit from a boy who is coming to see me “on behalf of Jules” and declares that he belongs to the F.N. of the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires, where he works as an architect; it is agreed that he will telephone me at the Salacrous’ if they need me.

  Return to the Salacrous’, where Merleau-Ponty (who was with us the first day of the occupation of the Français) comes to dinner.

  During dinner, a telephone call from Dalmau (the boy who came to see me that afternoon at the Musée): he tells me the F.N. has decided to go ahead with the occupation of the Musée de l’Homme and that I must therefore come to the Palais de Chaillot to spend the night there, sleeping (as I choose) either at the Musée de l’Homme or at the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires with the people from the F.N. of that institution. I finish my dinner quickly and leave on my bike for the Palais de Chaillot, through perfectly calm streets.

  At the entrance to the left wing of the Palais de Chaillot, parleys with the F.F.I., who are guarding the door. Because they have orders not to allow any strangers to enter, I enter the Arts et Traditions Populaires by the small door that opens onto the gardens. Here I find Dalmau, who has moved in with several comrades (including Mauss’s niece, who is working at the Arts et Traditions Populaires under the name of Melle Maurin); it is agreed that I will sleep in the lecture hall of the Centre de Documentation Folklorique, which they are using as a guardroom. I go to see Rivière, who has been sleeping in his office for several days in order to be prepared for whatever may happen. I return to see Sigwalt, whom I inform that the F.N. is ordering me to occupy the Musée de l’Homme. Sigwalt tells me that, since the Palais de Chaillot has been classified as a “cultural building,” our mission consists of making sure no one fights there and in guaranteeing, if need be, the protection of the structure against looters. He declares, in the conversation, that he could give me command of a detachment of “a hundred men” (sic). […]

  Return to the Centre de Documentation Folklorique, where I sleep on a table. The F.N. of the Arts et Traditions Populaires has no weapons. Only the F.F.I. guarding the palais de Chaillot have some.

  Tuesday the 22nd

  I return to the Salacrous’ early in the morning to wash up, then go on foot to the Musée de l’Homme. As I am entering the museum, I meet Dr. Vallois, to whom I announce, after a brief bit of conversation, that I am—symbolically—occupying the museum in the name of the F.N. He does not hide from me the fact that this news doesn’t surprise him at all. It is agreed that our occupation will remain discreet. […] In the vicinity of 1 bis avenue Foch, which is now my home, one hears only rare gunshots. Generally speaking, the appearance of the 16th arrondissement is radically different from that of the 6th: German cars drive about without anyone either making way for them or firing at them. Numbers of people—young men or young women—go about with Red Cross armbands, in order to appear to be doing something or to guarantee immunity for themselves. On the esplanade between the two wings of the Palais de Chaillot, people look anxiously toward the south, hoping to see billows of smoke that would tell them the battle was approaching.

  In the evening, while Falck and I are at the museum, a heavy cannonade that shakes all the basement doors. Accompanied by the head caretaker, Billion (who has been sleeping at the museum for several days already), and the concierge’s daughter, we go up onto the terrace. In the direction of Villeneuve-Saint-Georges, we notice at fairly long intervals an intense glow with a plume of smoke, followed by a heavy, muffled explosion: a German naval gun must be firing out there. Almost everywhere in Paris: the sound of motor vehicles in motion, gunfire, companies of firemen. Here and there, flares.

  Wednesday the 23rd

  After taking a shower at the museum, I go to meet Zette at avenue Foch. As the idea of abandoning our quartier has always revolted her, and I myself am rather disgusted with the 16th, we decide to go for a walk on the quai des Grands-Augustins, where we meet Jeanne and Jeannette on their way back from Josette’s. At the same time, I will go let my colleague Baillon know that we have formed an F.N. at the Musée de l’Homme and that we are proceeding to occupy it.

  Departure on bikes from Lucienne’s (general remark: I feel much calmer when I go about with Z than when I go alone; one of the main reasons—perhaps the main one—I wanted to move close to the Musée de l’Homme is that, had we remained at the quai des Grands-Augustins, I would have had to make that long, rather dangerous trip all alone). Having arrived within sight of the Grand-Palais, we see the building in flames. A little way beyond the Gare des Invalides, the quay is guarded by a detachment of armed Germans. Z wants to continue on her way and ask them for permission to pass. I tell her she is crazy and that we run the risk of being fired at. We therefore make a detour, opting not to go along the quays. In our quartier, we marvel at the F.F.I., who are preventing people from going through certain strategic points (certain parts of the quays and certain barricades, for instance). The rue des Grands-Augustins is barricaded, almost at the level of the quay, by an S.I.T.A. truck (in normal times used for removing household trash).

  I stop in at Baillon’s house, as I intended to, and I tell him that if he has nothing better to do, we are counting on him to guard the Musée de l’Homme. He answers that this is all right with him, and that as soon as he has settled his wife in a quieter part of town, he will go to the museum. He has nothing better to do here: when he offered his services to the local
administration of the 6th, they answered him that they had no weapon to give him; even so, he had managed to stand guard at the barricades a few times, relieving fighters while they went off to eat.

  I am scarcely back at the house when the alert is given: a German tank is patrolling our neighborhood. Rifle fire and cannonade on the Right Bank. A tank (or heavy-machine-gun car?) passes quickly along the quai des Orfèvres, coming from the Pont-Neuf, and turns in front of the Palais de Justice. Disorderly rifle fire. Some shots, fired against the Resistance, are apparently coming from a house on the quai des Orfèvres (it was the same thing during the truce); they are firing at suspicious windows. The alert continues, so we decide to have lunch here while waiting to be able to leave again. During a lull, the Resistance people set about shifting the S.I.T.A. truck that is obstructing the rue des Grands-Augustins. At first I watch them from the window, then, with Z’s agreement, I decide to suggest giving them a hand. I go downstairs and offer my services to a fellow whom I find leaning against the corner of our carriage entrance and who is wearing a Basque beret and a tricolored armband. He answers me that I needn’t bother: the truck is now in place. During the conversation that follows, he explains to me that his specialty is attacking tanks, and he shows me his equipment: the bottle of gas that one throws first, the grenade that one hurls next in order to light the gas and lastly the rifle with which one cuts down the Germans when they try to leave the blazing vehicle. All of this in the simplest tone, without any bragging, and as though this sort of work were the easiest thing in the world. I go back up to my apartment. Conversation, out the window, with an F.F.I. who is still on guard on the balcony of the house next door. He is bored, because he no longer has any work to do: in fact, no German vehicles have passed since the barricades have been up. (Addition to the conversation with the fellow of a minute ago: how one attracts tanks, with a skillfully directed gunshot toward the labyrinth of streets where they get caught in the traps, of the mobile barricades.)

  The rumor is circulating that a column including no fewer than a hundred (sic) tanks has just emerged from the Luxembourg and is heading toward our neighborhood; this news has been given out officially to the command post of the F.F.I. established in the bistro at the corner of the rue Dauphine and the rue de Pont-de-Lodi (just opposite my tobacconist’s shop), the command post in whose canteen our friend Jeanne Chenuet works. Hearing rifle fire and cannonade in the direction of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, I telephone Moré (10, quai de la Mégisserie, which is—though I didn’t think of this—quite a bit farther to our right than the presumed direction of the fighting) to ask him if they are fighting in his area; he answers me that it is in the area of the Carrousel.

  They announce that the expected column has changed direction and the alert is over. Zette and I take advantage of the period of calm to leave. After depositing Z with the Salacrous, I go to the Musée, where Baillon will not arrive until the evening because shortly after our departure a new tank came to patrol, so that he could not leave his home. […]

  Return to the Salacrous’, where Sartre and Castor come to have dinner with us and spend the night. I learn through Sartre, who went to the Français, that the local administration of the 1st arrondissement sent word asking for volunteers for the barricades there. I tell him I am rather inclined to go; I am available, in fact, because after the meeting of a short time before I realize that there is no question that the people in the Palais de Chaillot will fight, and because I have also learned, through Dalmau, that the upper echelon of the F.N. did not consider the occupation of our respective workplaces to be military work. However, the next morning, I will say to myself that there’s no sense in running all over this way, and I will let Sartre know of this reversal of my decision of the evening before.

  I am now more reassured than worried by the barricades and feel attached to our quartier, to which I finally want, pretty much, to go back.

  Thursday the 24th

  At the museum, under Falck’s escort, inspection by the two F.N. of the underground passageways connecting the Musée des Arts et Traditions Populaires, the Théâtre de Chaillot and the Musée de l’Homme; this with a view to a possible escape should the Germans seize the building or a section of the building, which there is no thought of defending. But it is obvious that if we were to be pursued we would get lost in the labyrinth of underground tunnels.

  Lunch at Lucienne’s with Castor, who has stayed (whereas Sartre left with Salacrou for the Comédie-Française). Because the radio has announced that Paris (where the fighting is far from over) has been liberated, we decide, Z and I, to go back to the quai des Grands-Augustins to witness the actual liberation in our own neighborhood. Since Castor is afraid to set off by herself, I go with her on foot as far as the place de l’Alma, then continue to the museum by way of the avenue de Tokyo. From the avenue de Tokyo, I hear a fairly brisk fusillade coming from the warehouses of the Ville de Paris (?) located on the other bank. I go first to the folklore museum, then to the Musée de l’Homme, where I announce to Schaeffner that—since there is really no need for me to take night guard duty at the museum again (others, moreover, can now do it in my place)—I am going back to my own neighborhood, eager to see the liberation there. I return to avenue Foch to get Zette, and we leave, after a telephone call to Jeanne to find out if the quartier is approachable.

  Coming back by bicycle, we cross the rue de Bourgogne, which has been a veritable firing range for some time now. People urge us to cross it on foot, claiming that the Germans are most likely to fire at cyclists. We comply and notice a German soldier with a submachine gun in ambush at a street corner.

  The quartier is still agitated. Barricades. F.F.I. special service. We meet two young fellows walking like Sioux Indians, slipping along the walls with rifles in hand, who say they are looking for militiamen and Germans who have supposedly infiltrated the blockhouse. […]

  From time to time, spoils of war (German vehicles or prisoners) arrive in front of the door of the Dépôt, greeted with cheers. A light gun captured from the Germans is set up in firing position in front of the door of the Dépôt, aimed toward the Pont-Neuf.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, the radio announces that the Leclerc division has entered Paris, but in Paris people know the news is premature. In the approaches to the Dépôt, we observe that many policemen have donned their uniforms again to welcome the troops. An airplane passes very low over the Dépôt; submachine guns are fired in volleys (for a time I will think that a German airplane was cut down by the occupants of the Dépôt with submachine guns—because after the volleys one could see the airplane wobble—but upon reflection, and since I do not see the news announced anywhere, I will realize that this was simply an observation plane—probably an Allied one—and that the volleys we heard must have been merely salutes).

  Fairly late in the evening (which we have spent expecting to see elements of the Leclerc division cross the pont Saint-Michel any minute, coming from the porte d’Orléans), a series of blue, white and red flares go off from the Palais de Justice, the great bell of Notre-Dame begins to ring (soon followed by the bells of other churches); the people inside the Palais de Justice and the Dépôt sing La Marseillaise, then, in a sort of spoken chorus, shout out two or three times, “Liberation!” Telephone calls back and forth to various friends concerning the great news. Coming from the pont Saint-Michel and racing at full speed in the direction of the Pont-Neuf, a cyclist appears, bent over his handlebars and yelling over and over: “The Americans (sic) are at the Hôtel-de-Ville!” (The next day, when I see the soldiers of the Leclerc division, I will understand why he made this mistake: given their equipment, it is quite natural that someone seeing these soldiers for the first time should take them for Americans.)

  Toward the end of the afternoon, I had seen a large black automobile bearing a British flag arrive at the Dépôt.

  To bed, with the intention of rising early to go see the soldiers of the Leclerc division.

  Friday t
he 25th

  Out early with Z and Jeannette to see the Leclerc division. From the people who are outside we learn that we have to go to the Notre-Dame square. We cross the pont Saint-Michel, then proceed along the Préfecture wall: on the sidewalk, quite a lot of glass from panes broken by bullets; numerous holes and scratches in the walls. When we reach the bridge that extends from the rue Saint-Jacques, we come upon a group of armored cars of the Leclerc division, around which a huge number of enthusiastic people are crowding despite the early hour. Sudden fusillade: these are shots (submachine gun or machine gun) fired by Germans or militiamen occupying the tower of the Sorbonne observatory, rue Saint-Jacques. Soldiers of the Leclerc division shout to the crowd: “Stand back! We’re going to shoot …” The people do stand back, in fact, but—at least most of them—without really taking cover. Small tanks armed with submachine guns and a tank armed with a light gun move into position and open fire on the tower. Shooting with a marvelous precision: we see the shots constantly land, marked by the blossoming of a plume of white dust on the spot on the tower that has just been struck (and this excites cheers). Soon the occupants of the tower are reduced to silence. The vehicles then abandon their positions and, after turning in the square, come to park alongside the Hôtel-Dieu. We follow the current and find ourselves near the narrow garden along the Seine on the side of the square. More gunshots, which produce a certain confusion. They are coming from the other bank (houses close to Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre) and, they say, from Notre-Dame itself. The soldiers shout to us to lie down because they are going to open fire and we will then find ourselves caught between enemy fire and their own, since they are in firing position, backed up against the Hôtel-Dieu. With some other people, we remain crouched behind some cars parked along the square, which protects us against the shooters on the other bank. The din of French shooting (which is as loud as it can be for us, since we are positioned in front of the guns) is deafening. A fellow who happens to be next to me remarks, laughing and blocking his ears, “This is going to scare the little birds.” Near us there is also a nurse, who is blocking her ears as well and who screws up her eyes when the noise is too loud. After a few minutes of heavy firing, a commander arrives, shouting: “They’re crazy to fire like that! If they go on, there won’t be anything left when they need it …” A moment later, the firing stops. We take advantage of this to go to the Hôtel-Dieu. Some F.F.I. urge people to disperse, go back home. But we don’t really know which route to follow, nor where to take refuge temporarily, because we hear gunfire more or less on all sides. While we are near the Hôtel-Dieu, we see two or three wounded civilians brought in, including a woman and a man with a bloody face. We think for a moment of walking around behind the Préfecture, but we give up that plan, since the Leclerc vehicles have gone in that direction to continue their cleanup operations; besides, we instinctively prefer not to deviate from a known route. Taking advantage of a lull, we therefore go back home, retracing the route we took when we came.