"The endeavor to fight necessitates an endeavor to peace."
22 June 1940
The scene presented before him is a familiar one: a stationary rail carriage painted a glossy black, seeming almost lost and lonely amid the lush greenery of Compiègne's forested eastern outskirts. If it were not for the delegation of black-clad Germans waiting out front, it would have been a beautiful, untarnished image.
Their leader stamps his feet and beams in excitement as the French delegation's motorcar slows to a stop on the dirt path. It reminds Français brilliantly of a child, but he doesn't make an effort to hold the insult; he isn't in any position to jest, and he doesn't want to think of this as child's play. It isn't, even if their leader clearly never outgrew his adolescent envy.
The camera recording the day's events swings away from Français as he steps out from the backseat, taking great care not to show how touching the land hurts him. It is nothing but pain, the silence of ninety thousand dead, the wails of two hundred thousand wounded, the fear of two million languishing in capture. The land itself cries from her many holes for cities and bloody streams for rivers. It is too much sacrifice, she sobs. I can only take so much.
Shh, cher. It will be over before you know it. A lie, but it is the best he can offer. After so many centuries of war and bloodshed, her pain should be a dull ache, a cumbersome consequence of his existence, but no amount of time can change how the pain slices. A part of him wants to slide his fingers through the grass just to grasp the strength she has left. Most of him treads carefully, avoiding as much as contact as possible.
He scans the delegation as the two warring nations' leaders shake hands—one exalted and smiling, the other curt and precise—but the face he searches for is not present. Resentment boils, and his hands clench—coward—but Français is forced to put it away when Hitler reaches to shake his hand. He smiles and greets him in friendly German, but Français knows better.
He is not here for an alliance. He is here for the scenery and the pretty memorial waiting behind them.
Français knows, too, that the memorial will tell quite a different story before the day's end.
The transition is sudden, moving from a clean summer breeze to the still, damp grey of the carriage's interior cabin like the flick of a switch. Upon first glance, Français notices the heavy wooden panels are the same, if not on the verge of unhinging, and the cornices have not chipped, but there are slivers and cracks in the ceiling, shattering the memorial's timeless air. Dust, though the best efforts have been made for its removal, lays lazily in corners and on the window sills, which are draped in burgundy curtains, tied off to let in sunlight from the east and the west. A long conference table nearly fills the carriage, each place marked with a delegate's name.
The chairs are upholstered instead of bare-backed; the muslin gauze on the windows, granting additional privacy, is absent; and no one has bothered to straighten the off-kilter rug underneath the table. Hardly the proper replica Hitler pined for, but then, styles change.
Contrary to his inclination for presentation, the mistakes reassure Français, make him feel slightly more grounded in what he is about to do. He can almost appreciate the effort the Germans made if it weren't for the haste in its completion, and one more thing.
The table, rather than white linen, is draped in a red cloth. The edges fold like cascades of dripping blood, frozen in time, and so it seems that Hitler could not resist his vanity enough to attempt a semblance of accuracy beyond the obvious.
As the cameras snap and swing to catch angles, Français allows himself a small smirk. It makes sense, he supposes; Hitler was nowhere near Compiègne when the delegations gathered here twenty-two years ago—he wasn't even relevant—but Français thought Germans were supposed to be nit-picky.
Ah, but the Führer isn't German, is he? He is Austrian.
Somehow, as Français lowers himself into his designated chair, that makes this defeat so much worse.
German guards stood sentry along the windows and walls when the delegations entered. As the final men take their seats, they begin to file out—all, save for one. In full uniform, he blends into the wooden framework and deep-hued curtains, but his pale, strong face is stark, and Français recognizes it instantly.
His eyes narrow, and Ludwig Beilschmidt's gaze darts away, Adam's apple bobbing as he resumes a killing stare at the opposite wall. To anyone else, he will appear as Hitler's bodyguard, one designed to be forgotten, and Français alone will know the difference. He, after all, can recall him as a young boy some one hundred and sixty years ago, barely eight years old. His ice blue eyes are almost exactly like his brother's. Almost.
They lack the wild ambition his brother never understood how to limit.
The French delegation faces the west side of the car; the Germans, the east. A pristine replica of the positions of Marshal Foch against the German delegations on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, 1918. Français can't say he is impressed by the recollection of such a small detail, given the blatant disregard the cloth symbolizes, but he can acknowledge that Hitler cares about history, even if he only strives to make it rather than obey it.
Français slides another glance in Ludwig's direction, asking silently, Why haven't you tried to teach him? He receives no answer, hardly a glance. He doesn't expect one, but it doesn't do to be ignored, especially when he has so little advantage over him.
He sighs softly. Beside him, General Weygand glances around the carriage and grouses, "It was better off staying in the museum. What does he hope to gain by recreating the Armistice?"
Français does not have to consider his answer. It comes cleanly and easily, a bittersweet change from the muddled train and doubt he still suffers after months of subtle subterfuge and propaganda.
"Retribution."
Weygand cannot respond before a rotund man at the head of the table calls their attention.
"Will the translator for the French delegation stand?" he asks in German, with the strict sort of tone that pretends to understand perfectly why his leader chose to imitate the Armistice.
Français rises and clasps his hands behind his back.
The German—in decorated uniform, but bearing the haughty air of a government worker—rises as well and declares, "Repeat after me, in German: I solemnly swear to uphold the German language."
Français hesitates, but only briefly, and only Ludwig notices, acknowledging it with a blink and twitch of his jaw. Français silently thanks God that his brother isn't here; he would be snickering by now, inconsolable. Hitler hangs on to his every word as it is, enamored by the idea of an arrogant, self-assured Frenchman speaking German, as though his greatest dream is coming true. " 'Ich schwöre feierlich die deutsche Sprache zu wahren…' "
"The purity and the truthfulness of the language…"
" 'Der Sprache Reinheit und Ehrlichkeit…' "
"And shall not defame it by lying or mistranslation of the articles of Armistice."
" 'Und ich soll sie nicht durch Lügen oder Übersetzungsfehler der Artikel des Waffenstillstands diffamieren.' "
"You may be seated."
Feeling utterly as though he needs to wash his mouth with soap, Français sits and hides his hands under the table so no one will see them shake. He is not a man inclined towards hatred. Repeated offenses he can forgive.
Yet, in that moment, being forced to pledge to a language—in a language—that is not his own simply because they could, he wants to reach across the table and throttle someone. Anyone, he doesn't care who.
Why would he attempt to hide from his own people the direness of the situation? His military capitulated, his cabinet refused Britain's offer for a union—an idea fathered by a French general, no less; there is little hope. There hasn't been for months, ever since Hitler used the radio waves to plant seeds of doubt in his peoples' heads.
Français does his best not to glare as the German general passes the articles to his bastard of a leader, but he makes it clear who is the delusional liar at the table, and it is not him.
They act as if he has already been bought and his allegiances morphed, but his mind is still his own. His body may be tearing, but his mind is not lost. Français has not yet succumbed to enforced regimes. This war, however draining, will not be an exception.
In the familiar, wheezy voice he uses to manipulate his crowds, Hitler begins to read off the terms of surrender one-by-one, pausing graciously to let Français translate. There are no negotiations. One party simply listens while the other dictates. It is just as before.
One-by-one, Français's tone grows more forcefully nonchalant. One-by-one, his nails dig a little deeper into the skin of his cold, corpse-like palms.
Everything that has been conquered—from the German border to the Atlantic coast—is now an occupied zone. Including Paris…especially Paris.
Everything south of a declared line belongs to Marshal Pétain, former hero and present Nazi puppet, and his regime. All of Français's colonies fall under his jurisdiction.
His Navy falls under Vichy jurisdiction, and is to be demilitarized.
His Army reduces to one hundred thousand men, and all German troops in occupied areas are to be sustained at French expense.
The lands of Alsace-Lorraine—Jeanne, not her, please, I beg you—return to Germany.
All prisoners captured during the six-week campaign, all one million nine hundred thousand of them, from Dunkerque to the Ligne Maginot, will be retained indefinitely as prisoners of war.
By the end of the twenty-forth and final provision, Hitler is smiling broadly, and in between his anger, his pride, and his pain, Français has difficulty repeating the terms. Anticipating humiliation is one thing—and he burns with the indignity, make no mistake—but suffering revenge in the form of another Versailles Treaty is quite another. The seams of his hold on the nation snap gradually, painfully as the terms are read, and the long scar across his diaphragm, begotten from countless uprisings, cuts a thin, albeit telling, line. Hitler's word isn't simply breathing life to his despair: it is destined. Français has no choice. He must give up, he must depart, because the land is asking him to.
It shouldn't come as a surprise. Paris is nearly empty; l'exode has passed, and his heart has dissolved with it. If he focuses within himself, each heartbeat echoes the marching step of a parade display. Each thump of blood trails a surge of triumphant joy that leaves him feeling bitter and hateful. It turns the organ black, and the depth of his hatred towards it only fuels his heart's slow death.
Stop, he breathes, letting the command wash over him. You are not made for this. His heart listens, somewhat. He can still hear Hitler's men marching, but it dulls when he opens his eyes.
Each member of the delegation—both sides—stares at him impatiently. Hitler's face reddens steadily, on the verge of exploding—no longer the happy Austrian child. He's ruining his perfect fantasy; he's missed something.
Then he sees the paper before him, the long list of unconditional terms. The row of signatures at the bottom.
War is such a tiring foe. Formidable at best, pathetic at worst. Pyrrhic, always. The formalities, when put into perspective, reach uselessly across these tables in feeble effort to pretend man hasn't seeped his poisonous hatred into the hearts of thousands, hasn't slipped the tongue like a snake into their ears. It's our cause. Fight for your country, your freedom, and you will be rewarded with eternal glory. You will be free and safe.
Will you? The endeavor to fight necessitates an endeavor to peace, however shallow and repugnant, but why must they fight at all? What cause is worthy enough to justify a war?
One man started this mess, one man can be held responsible for drawing the flame from hundreds of thousands of lives—delicate, beautiful lives—lost, but it is Français, and all the others like him, who will pay the price. They will be the ones who live long after, watching how the world churns in the aftermath of obliteration.
They will be the ones who gather the remains in their arms, who coat their hands and wrists with their ashes, who stand knee-deep in their expended blood, and rebuild them. Painstakingly, with attention to every trivial little detail, they will rebuild their people. Their culture, their beauty.
They aren't gods, but they are the closest this earth has. This war, like all the others, is a simple matter of time, and like its perpetrators, an aggravating obstacle.
Français glances at Ludwig, whose only movement through the proceedings has been to blink—often rapidly, uncomfortably, rarely naturally. He could be a statue, and his brother would be proud. Slowly, however, the pull of Français's gaze wins, and he looks over, unseen by his delegation.
There is a look of utmost sorrow hidden deep inside of him. It would be easy to miss, if one is not looking for it. His eyes flit down to the treaty and back up, blending an apology he isn't allowed to voice. A hope he doesn't dare give fruition.
That's what Français thought.
To the relief of every man in that rail carriage, Français finally takes up the pen and signs.
If he must leave, so be it; he's had to before, but if the land holds no promise of a return, he will never forgive her for losing sight of the purpose of his existence…all to satisfy her thirst for blood.
Footnotes:
1. The French premier, Paul Reynaud, resigned his post on 16 June 1940. The next day, new Premier Philippe Pétain approached the Nazis for surrender, believing it was the best course of action to protect French interests.
2. Hitler took every opportunity to humiliate France at their surrender. He wanted to recreate the Armistice to express to them just how abhorrent he believed their Great War victory and the Versailles Treaty were towards Germany, and had the rail carriage—formerly belonging to Marshal Ferdinand Foch, Commander-in-Chief of the Allied forces at that time in 1918—pulled from the museum where it had been interred as a memorial and placed in the exact spot of the Compiègne forest where the Armistice was signed. Then, he personally relayed his own "Versailles Treaty" to the remains of the French government, offering them no room to negotiate, just as it was given to Germany. Some of the terms listed in the story above are similar to and-or exact provisions that Germany was required to fulfill.
Afterwards, Hitler had Foch's rail car removed to Berlin, where it stood as a monument to the Nazis' triumph over France until it was destroyed. He also had the grounds where the car stood manipulated so that no trace of Germany's surrender in World War I remained.
3. The French fought for six weeks. Many people—in- and outside this fandom—like to call France weak; this time, that was not the case. Before invading, Hitler waged a bit of a psychological warfare by using French radio waves and native-French-speaking broadcasters to cast worry about the German military's dominance and strength. Unfortunately, it worked. Resolve crumbled, and people began to believe that France could not withstand an attack, and that lack of confidence was ultimately their doom. It was not their numbers or any natural inclination to surrender. It was a lack of faith that felled them.
4. The union with Britain referred to in the story is true. It was inspired by Charles de Gaulle and offered by both he and Churchill to Reynaud over a telephone call. Reynaud was ecstatic with the possibility, and it almost went forward - Churchill got on a train ready to head to the coast - until Reynaud presented it to his Council of Ministers, who rejected it as a British scheme to take over their empire. Marshal Pétain, believing Britain was already doomed to Nazi dominance, regarded it as "fusion with a corpse".
5. General Maxime Weygand was made the commander of French forces too late, on 20 May. In a bitter irony, he was also present as Marshal Foch's chief of staff at the original Armistice signing in 1918. I don't know whether he was present in 1940—in fact, he probably wasn't—but it felt appropriate to include him.
6. Speaking of historical liberties (ahem, errors), the table was polished wood, not covered in a red cloth, but again, it felt appropriate.
A special thanks goes to EaglesFeather17 for helping refine my German usage in this story.
The intention of this oneshot is not to inspire prejudice against Germans. It is a written representation of an event and an ideology of the past, and Français's views are not mine as they relate to the present-day German society; they simply aim to capture the feeling of a 1940s world. Thank you for reading.
Information Sources:
"All About History Book of World War II" – Imagine Publishing Limited
When Books Went to War, by Molly Guptill Manning
"When Britain and France Almost Merged Into One Country" - Dominic Tierney, The Atlantic
World War II: The Definitive Visual History, by DK Publishing
1000 Years of Annoying the French, by Stephen Clarke