THE WAR

— Mol, when I grow up, I'll go to war too and kill all the Germans.
I turn around abruptly as if I'd heard a grenade burst just behind me.
It was Jean who had just spoken to Mimi. A deep chill froze my heart.
It's true, alas! That my little Jean is threatened with the same illness I myself suffered. And my Pierrot, and my François, and all the little boys of France, and mothers, or wives, or fiancées, Solange, Mimi, and Geneviève will not escape the ordeal.
I had never, until today, given much thought to this threat, or rather, I didn't want to think about it. Jean's words, tearing away the veil, show me that the preoccupation with war lurks within me, a monster on the lookout, which never slumbers. Since God populated my home, I have not for a single day ceased to think about war, not the one I fought, but the other, the one that is coming, shod in felt to muffle the sound of its footsteps, clothed in mist, to extinguish the gleam of its weapons, but which is coming, but which is approaching, attentive, resolute, impatient, and leaving no day without a stopover.
Its charnel-like odor reaches me in gusts, and it is because of it that I know no caress without a sigh, no kiss without melancholy, no celebration without regret, no joy without remorse.
Yet it was to kill war that we fought there, with such enthusiasm at first, then with such fierceness, then with such resignation. We had no doubt about this death of war, we did not want to doubt. We held the throbbing, wounded Beast beneath our knees. And tomorrow!...
Could another war arise after the nameless horror of the melee in which our bodies and souls boiled? Such an effort cannot be asked twice of humanity.
And then, we would be victorious. And victorious, we would know how to forever clip Germany's claws and fangs...
Alas! Alas!

In the years following the war, one could indulge in hope. We no longer saw little boys playing soldiers as we did in our childhood. Fathers, who had fought in the war, no longer gave out uniforms, cannons, and panoplys as New Year's gifts. And I remember my joy when I heard Geneviève ask me one day: What's the point, Dad, of soldiers? I was falling asleep in my security. I so needed to believe in eternal peace, me, the father of six little ones! Then the sudden awakening, my Jean talking about starting the war again!
Have we changed in France? Oh no. I know it, I'm sure of it. No desire for conquest, no appetite for glory drives us. Glory? We brought so much back from the war that it clutters our houses and every day we throw basketsful of it in the trash. But really, there's too much commotion over there on the other side of the Rhine. Too many fiery words glow there. Too many sounds of weapons echo...
I ask Jean: — Why do you want to kill all the Germans?
— Because they're bad.
— Who told you?
— Geneviève.
I turn to Geneviève. To my question, she doesn't know what to say. Of course!

Who told her that the Germans are bad, that they're preparing for a new war? Nobody and everyone. It's a rumor that runs along the walls, infiltrates homes, and leaves its mark on the most innocent and gentlest souls.
And here is my Geneviève, the one in love, breathing hatred into her brother's heart! And here is my Jean, the cherub, dreaming of blood and carnage!
At least, we are innocent in France, we can testify to this. It was from Germany that the contagion came, from there alone!
Don't they have children in Germany?...

Jacques PÉRICARD