Every evening, after leaving my parents, I would spend an hour in Erik's room, and come away quite dazzled. I never tired of listening to him; he would speak to me of the books he had read, of the many things he had learned. We would examine his «History of Painting», as step by step he introduced me to the plastic arts. We would listen to the radio together, while he founded the groundwork of my previously quite neglected musical education. It was thanks to him, that names like Goethe, Bach, Grunewald attained their value in my eyes a value they were never again to lose.

On other evenings, he would tell me of his travels through Europe, of his home town, of the Rhine Valley which he preferred to any other part of Germany, of Greece and Italy which would have been the most beautiful countries in the world, had they only contained Paris. He would tell me of his mother whom he worshipped, and of his friend Kurt who was now stationed in Russia and who wrote him often; still on the latter he never dwelled very long. Was it that he wanted, in accordance with his own rule, to avoid any subject which could even remotely remind us of the war? Or had he guessed that secretly I was not at all pleased when he talked to me of Kurt?

The deep admiration I felt for the man who knew everything, had read so much and retained so much, who had a personal opinion, either amusing or deeply felt, on every subject, proved to be an excellent stimulant, scholastically. I ceased being the conscientious, rather dull student of past years, becoming animated in my studies by something more than ardor a veritable rapture for learning.

Everyone was quite astounded at my progress, even if my essays, having become audacious, were not always approved by my literature teacher.

Erik, quite often, happened to be free on Thursday afternoons and, on the pretext of a visit to the Louvre organized by my history teacher, or a trip to the movies with friends (I soon learnd to lie with an case that overawed me), I would rejoin him in Paris.

Through the eyes of this alien I discovered, at so early an age, the touching beauty of the city that was mine and that he loved so well. I used to amaze my classmates by expressing my admiration for the apse of Notre-Dame when it was transformed by the twilight into a mysterious medieval forest, or for the unusual view of the Champs-Elysées, or the touching poetry inherent in the flower girls of La Madeleine.

We had fun, as well, and when spending time at the zoo, Erik would be young and gay, laughing at the follies of the bears or the monkeys. Out of uniform, with his fluent French, he could have been taken for my elder brother.

How well I remember the Paris of those days! I think that anyone who had known the city, must have experienced the same thing; must have felt that this city of light, the city of gaiety, futility and luxury, thrown into darkness, graveness and any number of materialistic difficulties, had never been more beautiful. Less brilliant its beauty undeniably was, but more profound, more human, more captivating just as a truly beautiful woman is more beautiful still without the artifices of make-up and jewelry, in the most severe garbs of mourning. For Paris suffered, and remembered, and waited, and if Erik and I had forgotten the war, we were soon to find out that it was not a game for children.

―

My parents gave me permission to spend an evening in Paris, where I had pretended to have been invited by a class mate. Actually I went with Erik to

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the opera where «Die Walküre» was being presented with the plain objective of a Franco-German conciliation under the banner of music.

I suspect that German propaganda had encountered few failures quite as resounding. The huge poorly heated hall was attended only by German officers and some gaudily gowned collaborators in the orchestra, and a few fanatic music lovers up in the balconies. The rest of the theatre was empty; the Parisian public had their grudge against Wagner.

My feelings were divided. The ban which my compatriots put on the composer amused me, and since Erik had been so considerate as to wear civilian clothes on my behalf, I was very sorry that we were there. Yet, on the other hand, had my friend's disappointment pained me. He had even remarked that the opera been poorly staged, that the musicians and singers hadn't given it their best. For his sake, I wished that the house had been packed and the performance a triumph.

We went on foot down through the black out darkness of the Avenue de l'Opéra. When we reached the Comédie Française the public was just coming out of the theatre. The crowd was quite large and one could read on the playgoers' faces the kind of elation which a successful performance will evoke. Erik glanced at the posters. They were giving «Hamlet».

For the sake of caution my parents had placed our radio in the bed room where they listened secretly every night to the British broadcasts.

From the Arctic Ocean down to the Black Sea the Germans were advancing only slowly, while from all sides, by and by, came Russian counter attacks, some of them successful. The Parisian newspapers stated that one of these, in the vicinity of Leningrad, had claimed the lives of about one hundred Germans. Mother, her ears glued to the loud-speaker, heard, through the interference, the official communiqué of the «Pravda»: The number of German soldiers who had been encircled and, through battle, cold, and hunger, completely anihilated, was estimated at two thousand. Mother always received that kind of news with the same phrase: «They'll never kill enough of them.»

When I entered Erik's room that night, I found him lying across the bed. He turned towards me a face that was weary and full of grief, and said quite simply, «<I've had a letter from Kurt's sister. He was killed in battle near Leningrad.» Then without waiting for me to speak, «be a good boy, leave me now. Tonight, I want to be alone.>>

I ached at that manly sorrow, so restrained and so silent; I fumed at my inability to find the words I wanted to console him with; I felt that the death of Kurt was the price of the Russian victory which had so delighted my mother: <<They'll never kill enough of them.» My good, gentle mother who wept when the red posters of the Headquaters announced the execution of hostages.

That evening, perhaps for the first time, could I really fathom the meaning of war, the havoc it left behind, and the tempest it stirred up within the hearts of men. ÷

By the end of spring an abrupt growing spurt completed my transformation: My body reached its full height, my voice became deeper; I exchanged the parting on the side of my head for a crew cut, and the knickerbockers for my first pair of long trousers. Once a week, I had to borrow my father's razor.

At night it now took me a long time to fall asleep, and mother would be astonished to find my bed all tumbled up in the morning. A host of images had 23