On Pain of Death
by Jan Rehner

excerpt 1

June 18, 1940

Paris has disappeared.
A week ago, as the steady boom of artillery drew closer, I watched the desperate flight of citizens from a window overlooking the Gare d'Austerlitz. By the time the Germans marched into the city on June 14, their triumph watched only by stragglers or the most stubborn of Parisians, the narrow, winding streets and grand boulevards lined with chestnut trees were eerily quiet. Now, as I write these pages, the Germans seem almost festive. They are taking photos of each other and visiting famous landmarks. They don't realize that Paris is missing. I am documenting its memory.

My name is Juliette Benoit. In a few days, weeks or months, I may be dead. In the meantime, I cling to words, to the here and now. My words ground me, shelter me. They may survive me when all else melts into air. Perhaps some unknown hand in some unknown future may find this document, turn its pages and hear one woman's voice whispering from the darkness. This is my story, my testimony.

I fell in love with the real Paris before the world went mad. I came to study French literature at the Sorbonne and to discover what lay beyond my little town of Chapleau in northern Ontario. Europe was darkening even then, but the skies still seemed bright in Canada and I heeded no warnings.

The Paris that welcomed me was generous and gay. My fellow students teased me about my French, street French they called it, rough-edged and nasal. But I didn't mind. I told them the bare facts about Chapleau, a tough little railroad town of only a few thousand. Its only claim to fame is that Louis Hémon, who wrote Marie Chapdelaine, the bible of schoolgirls in Quebec, was struck by a train there and killed outright in the summer of 1913. Of course, no one in Paris had ever heard of Chapleau, but since they'd not heard of Toronto either, I was secretly pleased. In their eyes, I was even exotic. Over wine or endless coffees in the student cafés, I could cast a spell over my friends by describing the thick forests of ancient trees and granite, the deep green lakes and the dancing lights of the Aurora Borealis that sweep across the huge night skies of my home.

Gradually, my French improved, tutored by passionate discussions of Hugo, Zola, Flaubert and Malraux. My friends and I talked about everything from philosophy to art to who sold the best baguettes. I discovered that I held my knife and fork differently than they did. I learned to smoke Gitanes. We went dancing and listened to music in smoky little jazz clubs. We took long walks that started on the Île-Saint Louis and traced all the bridges of Paris. We even talked about Hitler and the Nazis. We laughed about them, God help us.