Sacrament of our Days - Tilted Forum Project Discussion Community

chavos · 08-24-2003, 10:59 PM

this is an idea i've been kicking around for a while...and i don't know if it's any good. part of me says that i don't know enough to write a good war story, but i do have a fair number of tales, second hand from my grandfather, and they're good ones, too. So here's my start....

Many have written of what has come to pass in this land, but I will add my words to give an orderly account of the life of Michel of Alsace. I knew him almost all his life, but only as an outsider can. And perhaps you may be angry that an American will write these things of one of the saviors of France. Yet you have no cause for alarm. I cannot tell you what his life meant, or of the legends that have been built. I can only tell you of the friend I lost…a story far removed for such things as love of country.

In 1930, I left New York with my parents to live in the country side of France. My father had always owned a large export company that did most of its business in fine wines. It should be no surprise that we became much more wealthy during the twenties. Nor that we left quickly, telling no one of our departure. I was ten years old, and running from one of the most powerful nations in the world. And where we ran! The house was a small estate, bought up from a frightened matron whose husband had passed in the war. She was convinced that the jerry would come right back trough for her, and practically gave us the house.

Life was not east for me there. As idyllic as the place could be, it simply was not my home. I began to pick up a few phrases, but I was still very much regarded as the alien. In the school, I simply sat and listened to the words rush past. The teachers would let me be forgotten, had it not been for Michel. His soul burned with a passion for France, and he let it be known that he had every distain for the likes of me, who would come to a nation, yet knew nothing of being a citizen. He quoted Napoleon, and spoke of Joan. He did so with the conviction of a man who’d seen God. Quite simply, he frightened me.

I can never forget the day he first took the time to learn my name. Before, I was always “le etranger” or “le Americana.” Then, as if from nothing, he strode up to me, as I began to walk home. Loudly he called for me, and all the heads turned. His words had been biting and harsh, and everyone expected a fight. I turned, if only to see if I had enough distance already to run. On my shadow, he was far too close to try such foolishness. My broken French acknowledged him, and he stared I to my eyes. We faced each other at a stride apart. I suppose now is a good of time as any to tell you that I will not try to hold myself to recalling these words as they were spoken. For all the time spent there, I could never hold my own in their tongue. This too, is heresy. But those years are long past, and I can only give what my mind has kept.

He asked me sharply what my name was. I answered. John. He rolled it his mouth.

“Jean?”

I shrugged. It could be, if he cared for it that way.

“Are you my foe?”

I had no idea of how to respond. I got the feeling he knew more about the answer than I did. I demurred, about to give an explanation if the best my French could handle. He cut me off, taking me by the shoulders. A kiss on each check, as he turned to the assembled crowd of students.

“I present to you, Jean. Our friend.”

He ceased to be cold to me, and the others had no fear in talking to me anymore. I never got close, and tripped in my words, but they smiled when I tried.

That was many long years ago when I met him again. For years, the Nazi threat had grown, and our family searched for a new place to find refuge. My parents left for brazil at long last, just as Poland went under. Despite my mother’s frantic pleas, I stayed. I was barely a man in many ways, but I knew I must get out from under them. It was a risk, but one worth taking. I bought the story of the Maginot, and hoped for the best. I knew, but I forgot when I tried hard enough. That’s when the Tiger tank came trough the back lawn, cutting up the main road. I heard the noise, and grabbed the shotgun…but as I come to the porch, I could see only a small sea of men break out of the woods, following close behind. To be free would be suicide.

I loaded all the shells, and thought about it for a moment. No. I could not break my mother’s heart again. I found some loose floor boards, and stashed the guns we kept, for hunt and for our safety on that lonely place. I had more than a feeling they would come in search of such things.

In shock, the invasion settled in. The surrender was only reality, but we could not shake the feeling from our hearts. We were supposed to live on in this madness? A few days after Paris fell, and the Vichy was begun, a messenger came to my door. He spoke quickly and my ears strained to pick his words from the color of his accent. Michel. The tavern. Tomorrow. Dusk.

A wake, surely. The man must have died in a blaze of glory at the first sight of the enemy. Such was his spirit.

I walked in, shuffling my feet to shake the dirt as I crossed the door. The light came in green from the windows, and I asked for some wine. Not much was left, and we all despaired of the quality. But it was better to calm yourself on something.

“Jean?”

I nearly lost my glass. Michel…alive. I sat down in shock, my eyes saying the question my mouth could not form. He smiled at my confusion, and motioned for me to draw close. He told me quickly, mixing English and French of how he had gotten back home. Joining the army, he had been assigned as staff to an English general, to draw up some plan. Michel regarded this as a joke, but I drew some comfort that he could pepper his speech with words I actually knew. The plan of course failed, perhaps it was for Dunkirk, or maybe Belgium. It mattered little. He was allowed to stay at Gibraltar if he wished, but chose to sneak back through Spain. One by one, he had begun to contact men he knew from the army, who had all taken a rifle, mortar or some other toy from the armory before going back to their homes. With more practicality than I had ever seen in him, he made no speeches of failed duty. He only spoke of how God meant for him to come in to France at this hour, and collect what had been left to him.

Why me? He stammered for a moment, and then came out with it. An American was valuable. They were not yet at war, and I could serve them as a neutral citizen. This of course made me just as hangable as them. Just then, the messenger that had come to me the other day burst trough the door. Germans, checking papers. Michel simply explained that he had not had time to acquire “suitable” papers, and pulled me towards the back. He took two pistols from his jacket, and handing one to me. He racked his round, with a sound that a man can hear a million times, and never get used to.

He saw my expression, and said simply. “the sacrament of our days.”

Furious, I snapped back at him a doxology of bitterness. “The bread of Hell, given to you in hate!” I racked my own round, and placed the gun in my coat, still clutching it. I was about to be shot as a traitor, and he had the nerve to speak of God. Michel simply laughed, and motioned for the door. The messenger lead the way, and Michel stayed behind.

As we left, we heard a voice call after us in German, and then in French. “halt!”

We kept walking, and the voice got louder. I nearly looked back, but the messenger nudged my shoulder to keep me facing away. A warning shot rang out, and we broke in to a run for the woods just a few yards away. Crashing down a trail in the failing light, I was sure my life was closing. I thought of my mother’s tears, I thought of my father and how we had first begun to run in to this death, and how warm Brazil must be. We made our way towards a clearing, and I realized we had nearly looped back. Dread filled me, and I had no words to tell my silent compatriot. He simply pulled at my arm when I began to fall behind, as we sprinted towards the street. The three Germans, or at least the three guns I had heard, were no far off. The occasional round splinted branches around us. The last of the sun crept over the roofs in front of us, and we could barely see from the glare and the dark. A shadow could just be seen moving to intercept us, and as we fell over our steps in to the alley, shots rang out. One, two. One. Two. One, two. The messenger had wheeled around to fire, but his gun was still and with out any hint of smoke. My eyes strained to see the shadow. It was Michel who strode over to the Germans, and began to strip their bodies of their weapons. One twitched, and he fired another shot, at arms’ length to silence the man. He and his man made quick work of them, as a taxi pulled up. “Ami!” Michel cried and I started for the opening door. I jumped in, followed by the messenger. Michel threw the weapons in the back, and slammed the trunk closed. The front door closed behind him as he yelled for the man to drive. Bouncing over dirt roads, we did not stop until we had come to a farm far from town. Stunned, I could only watch as they moved with precision to conceal the vehicle in a barn, and pull me in to the farmhouse. I’m glad you joined us, Michel said. God be with us all.

I was bewildered. God was far from these lands, and I had made no choice. Still, I could not help but trust the man who had brought me to death, and then to life again.

J.R.V.A. · 08-25-2003, 04:54 AM

More!! More!!! This is really good. Thanks

Jaron · 08-25-2003, 09:01 AM

What JRVA said.

I want to see more. You remind me, almost, of Hemmingway in your style and subject matter both.

But please, I'd like to hear more.

08-24-2003, 10:59 PM	#1 (permalink)
chavos Banned Location: St. Paul, MN	Sacrament of our Days this is an idea i've been kicking around for a while...and i don't know if it's any good. part of me says that i don't know enough to write a good war story, but i do have a fair number of tales, second hand from my grandfather, and they're good ones, too. So here's my start.... Many have written of what has come to pass in this land, but I will add my words to give an orderly account of the life of Michel of Alsace. I knew him almost all his life, but only as an outsider can. And perhaps you may be angry that an American will write these things of one of the saviors of France. Yet you have no cause for alarm. I cannot tell you what his life meant, or of the legends that have been built. I can only tell you of the friend I lost…a story far removed for such things as love of country. In 1930, I left New York with my parents to live in the country side of France. My father had always owned a large export company that did most of its business in fine wines. It should be no surprise that we became much more wealthy during the twenties. Nor that we left quickly, telling no one of our departure. I was ten years old, and running from one of the most powerful nations in the world. And where we ran! The house was a small estate, bought up from a frightened matron whose husband had passed in the war. She was convinced that the jerry would come right back trough for her, and practically gave us the house. Life was not east for me there. As idyllic as the place could be, it simply was not my home. I began to pick up a few phrases, but I was still very much regarded as the alien. In the school, I simply sat and listened to the words rush past. The teachers would let me be forgotten, had it not been for Michel. His soul burned with a passion for France, and he let it be known that he had every distain for the likes of me, who would come to a nation, yet knew nothing of being a citizen. He quoted Napoleon, and spoke of Joan. He did so with the conviction of a man who’d seen God. Quite simply, he frightened me. I can never forget the day he first took the time to learn my name. Before, I was always “le etranger” or “le Americana.” Then, as if from nothing, he strode up to me, as I began to walk home. Loudly he called for me, and all the heads turned. His words had been biting and harsh, and everyone expected a fight. I turned, if only to see if I had enough distance already to run. On my shadow, he was far too close to try such foolishness. My broken French acknowledged him, and he stared I to my eyes. We faced each other at a stride apart. I suppose now is a good of time as any to tell you that I will not try to hold myself to recalling these words as they were spoken. For all the time spent there, I could never hold my own in their tongue. This too, is heresy. But those years are long past, and I can only give what my mind has kept. He asked me sharply what my name was. I answered. John. He rolled it his mouth. “Jean?” I shrugged. It could be, if he cared for it that way. “Are you my foe?” I had no idea of how to respond. I got the feeling he knew more about the answer than I did. I demurred, about to give an explanation if the best my French could handle. He cut me off, taking me by the shoulders. A kiss on each check, as he turned to the assembled crowd of students. “I present to you, Jean. Our friend.” He ceased to be cold to me, and the others had no fear in talking to me anymore. I never got close, and tripped in my words, but they smiled when I tried. That was many long years ago when I met him again. For years, the Nazi threat had grown, and our family searched for a new place to find refuge. My parents left for brazil at long last, just as Poland went under. Despite my mother’s frantic pleas, I stayed. I was barely a man in many ways, but I knew I must get out from under them. It was a risk, but one worth taking. I bought the story of the Maginot, and hoped for the best. I knew, but I forgot when I tried hard enough. That’s when the Tiger tank came trough the back lawn, cutting up the main road. I heard the noise, and grabbed the shotgun…but as I come to the porch, I could see only a small sea of men break out of the woods, following close behind. To be free would be suicide. I loaded all the shells, and thought about it for a moment. No. I could not break my mother’s heart again. I found some loose floor boards, and stashed the guns we kept, for hunt and for our safety on that lonely place. I had more than a feeling they would come in search of such things. In shock, the invasion settled in. The surrender was only reality, but we could not shake the feeling from our hearts. We were supposed to live on in this madness? A few days after Paris fell, and the Vichy was begun, a messenger came to my door. He spoke quickly and my ears strained to pick his words from the color of his accent. Michel. The tavern. Tomorrow. Dusk. A wake, surely. The man must have died in a blaze of glory at the first sight of the enemy. Such was his spirit. I walked in, shuffling my feet to shake the dirt as I crossed the door. The light came in green from the windows, and I asked for some wine. Not much was left, and we all despaired of the quality. But it was better to calm yourself on something. “Jean?” I nearly lost my glass. Michel…alive. I sat down in shock, my eyes saying the question my mouth could not form. He smiled at my confusion, and motioned for me to draw close. He told me quickly, mixing English and French of how he had gotten back home. Joining the army, he had been assigned as staff to an English general, to draw up some plan. Michel regarded this as a joke, but I drew some comfort that he could pepper his speech with words I actually knew. The plan of course failed, perhaps it was for Dunkirk, or maybe Belgium. It mattered little. He was allowed to stay at Gibraltar if he wished, but chose to sneak back through Spain. One by one, he had begun to contact men he knew from the army, who had all taken a rifle, mortar or some other toy from the armory before going back to their homes. With more practicality than I had ever seen in him, he made no speeches of failed duty. He only spoke of how God meant for him to come in to France at this hour, and collect what had been left to him. Why me? He stammered for a moment, and then came out with it. An American was valuable. They were not yet at war, and I could serve them as a neutral citizen. This of course made me just as hangable as them. Just then, the messenger that had come to me the other day burst trough the door. Germans, checking papers. Michel simply explained that he had not had time to acquire “suitable” papers, and pulled me towards the back. He took two pistols from his jacket, and handing one to me. He racked his round, with a sound that a man can hear a million times, and never get used to. He saw my expression, and said simply. “the sacrament of our days.” Furious, I snapped back at him a doxology of bitterness. “The bread of Hell, given to you in hate!” I racked my own round, and placed the gun in my coat, still clutching it. I was about to be shot as a traitor, and he had the nerve to speak of God. Michel simply laughed, and motioned for the door. The messenger lead the way, and Michel stayed behind. As we left, we heard a voice call after us in German, and then in French. “halt!” We kept walking, and the voice got louder. I nearly looked back, but the messenger nudged my shoulder to keep me facing away. A warning shot rang out, and we broke in to a run for the woods just a few yards away. Crashing down a trail in the failing light, I was sure my life was closing. I thought of my mother’s tears, I thought of my father and how we had first begun to run in to this death, and how warm Brazil must be. We made our way towards a clearing, and I realized we had nearly looped back. Dread filled me, and I had no words to tell my silent compatriot. He simply pulled at my arm when I began to fall behind, as we sprinted towards the street. The three Germans, or at least the three guns I had heard, were no far off. The occasional round splinted branches around us. The last of the sun crept over the roofs in front of us, and we could barely see from the glare and the dark. A shadow could just be seen moving to intercept us, and as we fell over our steps in to the alley, shots rang out. One, two. One. Two. One, two. The messenger had wheeled around to fire, but his gun was still and with out any hint of smoke. My eyes strained to see the shadow. It was Michel who strode over to the Germans, and began to strip their bodies of their weapons. One twitched, and he fired another shot, at arms’ length to silence the man. He and his man made quick work of them, as a taxi pulled up. “Ami!” Michel cried and I started for the opening door. I jumped in, followed by the messenger. Michel threw the weapons in the back, and slammed the trunk closed. The front door closed behind him as he yelled for the man to drive. Bouncing over dirt roads, we did not stop until we had come to a farm far from town. Stunned, I could only watch as they moved with precision to conceal the vehicle in a barn, and pull me in to the farmhouse. I’m glad you joined us, Michel said. God be with us all. I was bewildered. God was far from these lands, and I had made no choice. Still, I could not help but trust the man who had brought me to death, and then to life again.

08-25-2003, 04:54 AM	#2 (permalink)
J.R.V.A. Junkie Location: Utah	More!! More!!! This is really good. Thanks __________________ And as she plays, her sweet song of laughter floats through the air and warms my heart

08-25-2003, 09:01 AM	#3 (permalink)
Jaron Crazy Location: Hong Kong.	What JRVA said. I want to see more. You remind me, almost, of Hemmingway in your style and subject matter both. But please, I'd like to hear more.