dull. In spite of all the efforts my uncle and aunt made to have me enjoy their home and the surrounding countryside, I soon tired of the woods, which I found sad and too still. And also, should I say that already I was missing someone?

One month before I was due back home, I wrote my parents reminding them that I had a heavy school program ahead and suggested that I return early so as to prepare for it. Delighted with this scholarly zeal so against my usual habits, they allowed me to return. The trip seemed interminable, and when I finally arrived, our scraggly little garden seemed more beautiful than the vast forest where I had been. That same evening I knocked on Erik's door. '

It is difficult to express one's happiness in words, but I shall never forget how happy the succeeding months were, how the solitude of an only child suddenly vanished in the presence of this unexpected and clandestine friendship.

Every evening, after leaving my parents, I would spend an hour with Erik, 1 never tired of listening to him. He would speak of books he had read, of all he had ever learned, We went through his History of Painting and he initiated me into the other arts. We would listen to the radio and he built the foundations of a musical culture that had been neglected up to that time, Thanks to him, names like those of Goethe, Bach, and Grunewald took for me a significance they would never lose. Other evenings he would speak of his trips across Europe, of Munich, his native city, of the valley of the Rhine, his favorite region of Germany, of Greece and Italy, which would have been the most beautiful countries of the world if only they had Paris. He would speak of his mother, whom he adored, and 14

of his friend Kurt, fighting in Russia, who used to write him frequently-but of him he never said much. Was he trying to avoid touching upon any subject that could remind us of the war? Or had he guessed that I did not like for him to speak of Kurt?

The profound admiration that I felt for this man who knew all, had read so extensively, remembered, so much, and had a personal opinion about so many things, was a stimu lus to my classroom work, I ceased being the conscientious if rather dull student I had always been and gave to my studies more than just fire: I became truly intoxicated with a passion for learning,

Erik was often free on Thursday afternoons and, pretending a visit to the Louvre with the history professor, or going to a movie with my schoolmates-I had learned to lie with faoll ity that astonished me-I would meet him in Paris.

Through the eyes of this foreigner I discovered the emotional beauties of this city that he loved so much, my own native city. My schoolmates would be puzzled when I would speak of the apse of Notre Dame when dusk transforms it into a mysterious medieval forest, of the unique perspective of the Champs Elysees, of the touching poetry of the little shops and flower stalls along the Madeleine. I also became · aware of how young and lighthearted he was when we spent hours in the zoo, laughing at the grimaces of the monkeys and bears, Dressed in civilian clothes, speaking such flawless French, he could have passed for my brother.

I remember the Paris of that time so welll I think that all who knew it felt the same: the city of lights, the city of banal pleasures, the alty of luxuries, now plunged into darkness, seriousness, and material difficulties of all sorts, had never been so beau.

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tiful. Its beauty was of a less dazzling kind, of course, but more profound, more human, more captivating, much like a truly beautiful woman remains so without makeup and jewels, even when garbed in the most severe mourning dress.

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One evening my parents allowed me to go into town, where I pretended I had been invited by a schoolmate. In reality I was going to the opera with Erik, to see a performance of Die Walkure that was intended to a FrancoGerman bond. I do not believe that German propaganda ever suffered a more serious setback. The enormbus hall, poorly heated, was occupied exclusively by German officers and garishly-dressed women collaborators in the orchestra, and a handful of musical fanatics in the gallery. The rest of the theater was empty, for the Parisian public avoided Wagner. This quarantine that my compatriots had imposed on the German composer amused me, and I sincerely wanted to go, particularly since Erik had tactfully dressed in civilian clothes, but I was distressed by my companion's obvious disappointment. He pointed out that the opera was poorly staged and that neither singers nor orchestra had done their best.

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As a matter of simple precaution, my parents kept their radio in their bedroom and every evening would listen quietly to the London broadcasts. From the Artic to the Black Sea, the German advance progressed only slowly. Here and there the Russians made counter-attacks, some of which would succeed. The Paris papers said that one of these had caused about a hundred German casualties. Mother, her ear glued to the set, heard through the static the official communique from Pravda: they estimated at over two thousand the number of encircled

German soldiers who had died in action, of cold, of hunger. She would always comment on such news with the same phrase: "They will never kill enough of them."

When I went into Erik's room I found him lying on his bed. He turned toward me with an expression of infinite sadness and said simply: "I have just received a letter from Kurt's sister . . . he was killed in a battle near Leningrad." Then, without waiting for my reply: "Please be a good kid and leave me. Tonight I need to be alone."

This grief, its silent dignity, overwhelmed me. I was furious at not finding words that I could say to him. I thought that Kurt's death was the

payment for the Russian victory that had so rejoiced mother. "They will never kill enough of them." Mother always so kind, so sweet.. who would cry when the red posters of the Kommandatur annouced the execution of hostages

That night, perhaps for the first ume, I really understood what war was, its ravages, the storms that it unchained in the hearts of men.

At the end of spring, a sudden spurt of growth transformed me completely. My body reached its definitive size, my voice became deeper, once a week I had to borrow Dad's razor. At night it would take me a 15