June 6, 1944, more than sixty five years ago, D-Day, the landing of the Allied Forces in Normandy.
I will always remember that day. I was then a young teenager living with my parents in Paris in occupied France. In 1940, France had collapsed under the onslaught of the German Panzer divisions and of the screaming of the diving stuka planes. The British had scampered out at Dunkerque and the Yanks sat home in neutral isolation. Suddenly, over France, in 1940 and for the next four years, a huge lid of oppression had fallen. A nightly curfew, restricted travel, censored mail, controlled press, hostages, identity check points, rationing were ruling our lives. Cold, hunger, misery, fear, danger became our daily lot. Those next four years were going to be a long dark tunnel.
Some nights, air raids on the Renault factory in the north of Paris where Germans manufactured tanks illuminated the sky and we could see the lights and hear the rumble of the explosions. Most often, lying in my bed, I would hear the air-raid warning of the sirens wailing up and down but I would go back to sleep. After a while you get tired and fatalistic; might as well die in bed.
Of course there were the German posters, plastered all over the city announcing reprisals, execution or deportation of hostages. And there were those stories whispered between my parents about their friends denounced to the Gestapo by their neighbour, their mother-in-law, their wife!
Every evening we would gather close to our TSF (radio set) to listen to Radio London our only link to the free world. We had to listen intensely, for the broadcast was jammed by the Germans in two ways. First, there was the background noise of a buzzing saw. Then, superimposed over it, was the repeating sound of a child's music box, tee-ta-ta-tee-ta-ta-ta. In the background the voice of the announcers would rise and fall as if carried by the waves of the English channel. The broadcast opened with the characteristic beat of Bethoven Fifth on the drums: ta-ta-ta-dum, ta-ta-ta-dom. The program always started the same way: first "Les Français parlent aux Français," intoned the announcer. "The French people speak to the French people." Then the daily count of our struggle: "Aujourd'hui, six Juin 1944, le mille quatre cent quarante neuvième jour de la lutte du peuple Français pour sa libération." Yes, from day one, back in 1940, they had been counting the days and today, June the 6th 1944 was "the 1449th day of the struggle of the French people for its liberation." Usually,the news came after that standard opening.
On that day, June the sixth, suddenly, after four years of hope and prayer, we heard the amazing announcement, a terse statement: "Today, at dawn, the Allied Forces have landed in Normandy."
The impact of those few words was tremendous. The weight of those years of desolation and despair suddenly disappeared; we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. We had been in a huge jail for four years, under extreme jeopardy, with hunger and arbitrary arrests, but the doors were opening, our liberators were coming. The sense of relief was immense and hard to describe. Soon, we would again live without fear. We had not endured in vain.
At sixteen, suddenly my life came to a momentous turning point. I was going to be free to live again, not simply to survive from day to day.
The sixth of June 1944 is a date I remember vividly. It embodies the sadness of war and the sacrifices of many. The feeling of liberation and of relief on that day, sixty five years ago, is unforgettable because it marked the culmination of our fight for freedom.
Freedom, the essence of our reason on earth. ****
JMG - ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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