Where Carte Bancaire Is Not Welcome

We were just getting into the car after a couple hours wandering around the castle of Saissac when the noon church bells started chiming. To me, this is always a good sound because it means restaurants in France will begin serving lunch. Not a minute before. Then we realized that there was a welcoming restaurant just across from the car park, and the sun was shining for the first time in nearly two weeks. Serendipity! We picked the table in the fullest sun, ordered lunch and a pichet of rose, and felt good. Doug's quiche lorraine starter literally hung over the edges of the plate so I easily talked him into a few bites. His chicken curry and my lasagne evaporated before I even thought of taking a few photos of the presentation. We rarely have coffee with lunch, but this day we just didn't want to abandon the sunshine after the slimy weather we had been suffering.

The proprietor, who had earlier proudly told us that he had been to New York, brought the bill. When I handed him my Carte Bancaire card, he both verbally and demonstratively indicated that he did not take that card. I offered my Visa, but soon discovered no plastic was acceptable. He suggested a check, which I did not have. I asked him why he did not accept credit cards, a young man sitting at the bar responded something to the effect that "we are not Parisians." The proprietor concurred, with a sense of honor in his demeanor. I suggested that I would go to the bank and asked where the nearest CredAg was. "Carcassonne" I was told. That didn't seem logical at the time. I scoured my purse for Euros, turning up no paper bills but only small coinage being saved to use at vide greniers. I had approximately 18 Euros, which I offered to apply to the 40 Euro bill.

The proprietor then asked me for an ID, and I understood that he would hold it ransom until I mailed him a check. Upon receipt of my payment he would return mail my driver's license. Since the Leran La Poste wasn't open Friday, my chauffeur drove me to Laroque d'Olmes. Within thirty minutes of transacting my business at La Poste, I regretted not including a self-addressed stamped envelope to make the proprietor's part easier. With no mail delivery on Monday (the day after Pentecost) I don't expect my check to arrive until Wednesday.

In the meanwhile, if anyone sees my Colorado driver's license being offered for sale on Ebay, please let me know. I'd include a photo of it for authenticity, but I'm unable to right now. I'm also making sure I carry some real cash with me from now on.

The SILENCE of Oradour-sur-Glane

At the entrance of the destroyed village of Oradour-sur-Glane, a large weathered sign rests at the base of a tree. "SILENCE" is its only caution. This visit will be painful. The village that exists after the events of June 10, 1944, cannot help but evoke a gut-level reaction. This did not occur hundreds of years ago. It was not a radical religious incident. As if to think that either of those situations would justify, let alone explain, what happened.

Walking down the streets of Oradour-sur-Glane was surreal. I felt like I was on location of a Hollywood movie set. It was like a giant grotesque dollhouse. Doors, windows and roofs were missing, and walls were crumbling. The cityscape was disturbing, abandoned. What could burn, did...and disappeared forever. What didn't burn were objects of metal, iron and steel. These materials, usually considered cold and calculating, are what today gives Oradour-sur-Glane its lasting humanness. Their tortured form is part of the monument and have not been moved.

We began our journey walking down Rue Emile Desourteaux. Name plates have been erected outside numerous buildings, identifying the inhabitants and/or shop proprietors on June 10, 1944: Vin-Spiriteux -- L. Denis; Forgeron -- D.-B. Beaulieu; Carrier-Puisatier -- J.-B. Doire; or Courtier -- M. Picat, to name a few.

We read the signs as we looked inside the buildings, and imagined what their lives were like before 2:00 pm on that June day. The objects of iron and steel that remain in these houses link us to L. Denis, D.B. Beaulieu, J.B. Doire and M. Picat, their families, and to what happened that day. This is all that is left of the lives of 642 people, but it helps to tell their story. They were alive, engaged in their occupations, socializing with family and friends, or handling household chores.

There may have been people sitting at the cafe, chatting about plans for the weekend.

Young girls might have been learning to sew their first dress on their mother's Singer sewing machine.

Teenage boys could have been tuning up their cycles for a big ride after church on Sunday.

Since it was Saturday, some men might have dropped their car at the garage to have tires changed.

There might have been people lined up at the gas pump, using their ration cards to top off the tank. In other words, before 2:00 pm, nothing was much out of the ordinary for wartime.

Plaques are posted on the interior walls of houses, listing the inhabitants present on June 10. The plaques tell us that entire families were wiped out.

Continuing walking through the town, and now we see signs not about the livelihoods of the people but signs about their death. "Here, the place of torture, a group of men were massacred and burned by the Nazis. Meditate." Another sign reads "Here were found two bodies burned to ashes." The descriptions are not intended to be pretty, but accurate.

Inside the church it feels especially cold. The rain begins to fall harder through the roofless structure. The church is good-sized, but I try to imagine 240 women and 205 children and babies being locked in here on a June day that is not cold and rainy. This is where all but one woman was burned to death. The altar and baptismal font have been damaged. On the floor in front of the altar lies a collapsed baby pram. Was this mother out on promenade when she was so ruthlessly rounded up? Twenty children murdered that day were less than one year old.

Small personal artifacts that were found afterwards were placed in a display case in an underground memorial next to the cemetery. One case held numerous burned pocket watches, all of which had stopped working between 16:00 and 17:00 hours (4:00 pm - 5:00 pm). The time on the watch indicated the approximate death of the individual wearing it.

The regular tramway from Limoges arrived in Oradour-sur-Glane that evening at 7:30 pm. I have tried to imagine what the passengers saw and felt upon their arrival. I do not think the imagination is that powerful. Recueillez-vous.

The Sorrow of Oradour sur Glane

This is the entrance to the museum, visitor center and to the former village of Oradour sur Glane. On June 10, 1944, the people of the village were rounded up by the SS and shot and burned. Six Hundred Forty-two people perished on that day and no one really knows why. Survivors, of which there were only a handful, describe an almost leisurely process of the Germans rounding up the residents and herding them to the town square. They were then divided into six groups. Most of the women and children were forced into the village church. Other locations held various groups of men, boys and others.


At around four o'clock in the afternoon, a grenade was exploded as a signal device, and the massacre commenced. A handful escaped, one woman from the church, and five young men from a barn. After the machine gunning of the villagers, the SS set fire to the entire town with straw and hay, oil and petrol poured on the bodies and other flamable items tossed into the mixture. The Germans left only their command post in the village untouched. They returned the following day to bury the bodies and try to cleanse the scene of their involvement.

After the war was finally over, General Charles DeGaulle visited the village and declared that it should remain in it's present condition for all time as a reminder of the vagaries of war.

In this confessional inside the village church, two young children were found with their arms wrapped around each other. Their bodies were dessicated by the intense heat.

Inside the church, where the women and children were, was this marble commemoration of the dead soldiers of World War I. Two stray bullets from the massacre left their mark on the names from the previous atrocity.

Very little of the 642 dead was recovered due to the intensity of the fires. Most bodies could not be identified. In the cemetary, inside a sealed vial are some of the charred bones and bodily
remains.

The cemetary has a series of plaques that display all the names of the dead in alphabetical order. I didn't think to count the plaques, but I'm guessing there were easily six or seven of them. To walk through the cemetary was a totally different emotional experience from that of wandering through the village itself. Pictures of the dead are everywhere along with names, ages and their relationships to others. As sad as it was to see the ruined village, it was infinitely more troubling to see the cemetary with it's tokens of sorrow. Note: I just noticed that Monsieur Compain and his wife are listed on this plaque. His photo is in the previous post, leaning out of his bakery window.

In the days following the massacre, locals were engaged in cleaning up the bodies and trying to sort out the mess the Germans had made. This is one of the few photos from the recovery effort.

In our next post, we'll present some photographs of the town as it appears today, assuming you want to see them.

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time there was a peaceful village in the midst of war-torn Europe. It was in Vichy France and the horrors of war had mostly bypassed Oradour Sur Glane. It sits some 20 kilometres from Limoges, the renowned city of porcelan and enamels and Limousin oak barrels used in the manufacture of Cognac. There was a tramway running from Limoges to Oradour and people used to come out for the day to picnic or fish in the peaceful River Glane for an afternoon. The folks in Oradour had rarely seen German soldiers and rationing and shortages were the only hint of war. In the picture above, Monsieur Copain leans out of the window of his patisserie. He would be dead in the very near future.

There was a newly formed football club competing in the 1944-45 season. In the top row are Rene Mercier, Henri Bouchoule and Joseph Bergmann, among others, but those three would soon be dead.

Here is a photograph of the boys school, class of 1936-37. Robert Hebras is in the second row with the large white scarf. Eight years later, he would survive while others in this picture would die a gruesome death.

This picture is of Georgette and Denise Hebras, sister of Robert. They would both soon be dead.

This is the girl's school photo for 1943. In a year, almost everyone in this picture would die together in the village church, either of bullet wounds or by the fires that followed.

It is very peaceful and picturesque in this photo from around 1900, but today, it looks nothing like this. As we know, southern France returned to near normal after the German invasion and the fall of Paris. The Germans were interested in occupation of the Atlantic coastline to prevent an invasion, and keeping the Parisians in line. Southern France, for the most part was left on it's own. On June 6, 1944 the Allies invaded the Normandy beaches and the French Resistance stepped up operations of sabotage, and everything changed.

A division of the SS began moving towards Normandy and found themselves near Oradour on June 8th. On that night the Maquis blew up a railway bridge near Saint-Junien, which is near Oradour. A few nights before, a German Sturmbannfuher was taken captive by l'Resistance. These events, or perhaps other events, led up to what happened on June 10, 1944. No one knows for sure, and the German Army and Nazi regime remained silent on the ultimate reasons. The result was the slaughter of Oradour sur Glane.

A Side Trip to Rocamadour

The other day we decided we needed a break from toilet repair, tile setting and other home rennovation details that we have neglected for five years to take an overnight trip to a destination that we have wanted to visit for some time now. No, not Rocamadour, but the beautifuly situated village was on the way, so we decided to make a small detour and take it in. The above photo is taken from somewhere in the center of the photograph below. From the village you can only see rooftops, the valley below and the cliffs on the opposite side of the valley.

You get a glimpse or two of Rocamadour as you approach it, but only the rooftops and the monastery. You don't get much of an idea of the crazy way it perches on the side of a cliff until you drive around a corner and "Voila", there it is. I suppose there are other villages in France or Italy, or somewhere, that perch enchantingly on the side of the cliff like this, but I don't know where it would be. It is very dramatic, and sadly, about the only reason to visit the place.

For all it's undeniable charm from afar, the town lacks much other reason to visit. It was lunchtime so we sat down and had a bite, but it was nothing to write home about. The village itself is loaded with boutiques, souvenir shops, postcard sellers and the other vendors that tend to destroy the ambiance of Mount St. Michel and Carcassonne as well.

We climbed the Grand Escalier, and it wasn't as greuling as I had feared, even after lunch. You can choose to take an elevator that hauls you most of the way up; 2 Euro up and 3 Euro round trip. Like the Grand Canyon, it was almost easier climbing up than it was going down, and less dangerous. They should amend the price to reflect that fact. In the photo above the grand staircase goes through a beautiful doorway into the approach to the church and monastery, and more steps.

Nancy went up further to the subterranean church of St. Amadour that lies beneath St. Saveur. On the summit is the chateau built to defend the village.

We spent about two hours in Rocamadour and then headed on towards Limoges, where 20 some kilometers outside of the city is the little village of Oradour sur Glane, the reason for our excursion. Stay tuned, kids, and click on em' to enlarge em'.

Stopper in the Name of Love

On June 12, 1901, an incident occurred in Karnes County Texas. The Cortez brothers, Gregorio and Romaldo, were interrogated by Sheriff Brack Morris for suspected horse thievery. The Sheriff was accompanied by deputy Boone Choate, who was apparently fluent in "Mexican". Through prior questioning of locals, Choate had learned that Gregorio had recently acquired a mare through a trade. When questioning Cortez, the deputy asked him if he had recently acquired a caballo (stallion). Gregorio responded no, that he had acquired a yegua (mare). The deputy did not comprehend the distinction (a horse is a horse...) and did not property translate. The Sheriff then shot and wounded Romaldo, which then prompted Gregorio to shoot and kill the Sheriff. A bad translation can really mess up a day. (To find out what happens to Gregorio, check out the film 'The Ballad of Gregorio Cortez').

My "Gregorio Cortez" moment happened last week. No shooting, no wounding. But a really bad translation. Our copy of the FLASH INFO LERAN for Mai 2011 arrived in the mailbox, the untranslated French version. An English-language version is distributed to the homes of the not-so-fluent residents at a later date. This translated version is quite an ambitious project for such a small village. The Flash Info Leran isn't highbrow, just your basic articles and adverts essential to the daily comings and goings of Leran. For instance, this month there is/was the Fete du Village, Faites des Jardins, and a teaser for the up-coming Marche Gorumand Nocturne. But there was one advert in particular that caught my attention: Les Bouchons d'Amour.

I painstakingly make a stab to translate the Flash Info before the English version arrives, just to test my reading skills. I pick out words I know and let the context paint the picture. So, when I got to the full-page ad about Les Bouchons d'Amour, imagination won out over translation. I knew "bouchons" from tire-bouchon, a corkscrew. Bouchon, to mean plug, stopper, cork, etc. And who hasn't heard of "amour"----love. So, follow my thinking here. Les bouchons d'amour, the stopper of love, the love plug. Could it mean a condom?

Over at the bar later that evening, I posed my puzzlement to Marek. Initially, Les Bouchons d'Amour didn't ring a bell to him. He concurred that "bouchons" was indeed a stopper and amour was love. Then he pulled his Flash Info Leran out of his mailbox, turned to the page in question and Voila! He rushed back into the bar and brought out a bag of bottle tops. Les Bouchons d'Amour is asking people to collect bottle tops which are then traded for sports equipment for people with disabilities. All kinds/types/sizes of bottle tops from a variety of products are accepted in the receptacle in front of the Mairie.

Speaking of condoms, it reminds me of a story. A friend was staying with a French host family when she was a college exchange student. The first morning, the family was seated around the table. Michelle wanted to practice her French and ask for the jar of jam to be passed. She couldn't think of the French word for jam or jelly, so decided that "preservative" had that French sound to it. What she said came out something like "passez moi le preservatif" and immediately the two children started giggling uncontrollably. The parents attempted to hide their laughter. When she asked why they were so beside themselves, the mother responded "you asked to be passed a condom".