This evening, no one has been invited to the small apartment in Cit\u00e9 M. How could anyone be invited when there are only sardines for dinner?
At about 7 pm, the Admiral knocks on the door unannounced. He is a man of honor who once swore allegiance to the Spanish Republic, he is here in exile and lives alone in a dark room in the Arnaud Bernard neighborhood.
He says, he could not stay put, so he came. Please do not bother. Besides, he is not hungry…
The physics professor arrives shortly thereafter. As always he has a shy smile that looks like an excuse. His wife had an operation for breast cancer at the Hospital Purpan. She wanted to go back to Spain to die at home1<\/sup><\/a>.
The bell rings again: Jacqueline is greeted with shouts of joy. She came on her bicycle, as always. She brings jam and apples.
In 1940, the young social worker learned of the case of this man alone with his five children. Since then, she has become a real friend of the family with whom she willingly shares her free evenings and the multiple problems of our humble exiled existence. After becoming a nun, eight years later, she wrote to her friends from Cit\u00e9 M. “Thank you for teaching me to sing at month’s end despite empty buffets.” But why is Jacqueline here on this Christmas Eve, while her family is waiting and sure to be disappointed by her absence?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
![\"belen1b\"](\"http:\/\/contactprod.com\/invitationauvoyage\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/12\/Belen1B.jpg\")
<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\nYoung people continued to arrive, but now the curfew has started and the doorbell should no longer ring. Well, almost, a boy arrived after the curfew. Crazy! He is scolded but he loves the risk and all are happy he came. No Christmas tree. Anyway, what would we use for decorations? And it’s not part of our tradition. In Spain, at our grandmother\u2019s, we would set up the Nativity. Ah! The charming miniature Spanish sceneries overloaded with anachronisms and characters recreating the life of a simple village, or the house of King Herod next to the electric train track… The simple-minded villager, talking nonsense, is surrounded by peasants on their way to the barn; the blind man plays guitar, the old women spin the distaff, the chestnut roaster touts his merchandise while turkey keepers lead their flocks to the river made with mirrors – where the swans see their reflections and where the merry washerwomen rinse the swaddling clothes of the Infant Jesus. The green dyed sawdust offers the softest lawns where lambs frolic and are followed by their hooded shepherdesses loaded with milk pots and cheese.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Around the nativity, family and friends would sing Spanish Christmas carols, “villancicos”, accompanied by “zambombas”, a primitive instrument unknown in France, and typical of the Spanish Christmas eve, the “Nochebuena”. She accepts willingly. The Admiral hums a famous \u201cpasodoble\u201d. Soon, all the young people join in, singing. Everyone steps back to make room for the couple. Conversation languishes. The fire goes out. Everyone becomes pensive, everyone has retreated to his or her own fantasies. The youngest of the children had fallen asleep on the floor and nobody had seen him place his shoes near the fire. Tomorrow, however, he will have his Christmas present. His older siblings have crafted a puppet show for him. 1<\/sup><\/a> Thirty years later she was still alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the kitchen, there is a long tailor’s table around which we gathered all the seats in the house. Since there weren’t enough, we put the ironing board between two chairs. Perfect.
The saut\u00e9ed sardines in the pan are a success, there will be exactly three each. The Admiral glorifies the humble fish and remembers humorously about one of his friends, a lady of Madrid’s aristocracy who lamented: “What a pity sardines are so cheap. They are so good!”
We share the apples and the jam. The meal is finished. In secret, the manager of the grocery store sold us a big bag of twists candies that are saved for later. The vigil is organized around the fire. Yes, we have wood! The Germans have cut down some of the magnificent sycamores that lined the canal, and despite being prohibited the young people have taken some branches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<\/figure><\/li><\/figure><\/li><\/figure><\/li><\/figure><\/li><\/figure><\/li><\/ul><\/a><\/a><\/a>
Suddenly the physics professor remembers with nostalgia:
“My wife sang “villancicos” very well”. He explains to the young Frenchmen, with his usual air of apology: “You know, they are songs full of love…”
Everyone in the room sings:
Madre a la puerta hay un ni\u00f1o
Mas hermoso que el sol bello.
Yo creo que tiene frio\u20262<\/sup><\/a>
Suddenly loud knocks at the door chill the atmosphere. The older boy opens it.
“What are you doing?!” shouts a rude and vulgar voice. “Celebrating Christmas and forgetting the passive defense? Light is coming through your shutters. This is your warning! We are coming back in fifteen minutes.”
The door slams. Everyone is working to cover up the shutters’ grooves with rags and newspapers. We are afraid. The admiral wants to give new zest to the evening and reminisces about the splendor of the Christmases of his youth:
“The uniform of a naval officer has always had great prestige”, he says in a tone that could be mocking or proud. At the balls, the most beautiful girls were ours.
He gets up, pulls on his jacket lapels and frayed cuffs, and bows to Jacqueline: “Madame…”<\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n
“Where we are from”, says the Admiral, “when we dance, we carry the woman in our arms like a wreath.”
He demonstrates. The young social worker is a little embarrassed.
The host, whose seriousness is well known, clearly disapproves of the scene. Are we forgetting, in his home, that we are at war? Suddenly everyone feels uncomfortable. Silence. The Admiral leads Jacqueline back to her place and returns to his chair like a naughty child.
This time it is the physics teacher who wants to make things right:
“Christmas Eve is Christmas Eve, and we must honor it no matter what”, he says. “In \u201836, in Madrid, I remember we celebrated in the passages of the metro. The city was almost surrounded by the enemy, shells were raining unceasingly, there were horror scenes everywhere. Many homes were destroyed or uninhabitable and people were living on the streets with their mattresses and furniture. Those of us who had a spot in the halls of the metro, as my wife and I did, were privileged. We had just put up a hard fight, losing many friends. Well despite that, on Christmas night, we sang and ate nougat coming from I don\u2019t know where. I even remember having invited a French comrade from the International Brigades. He was from Marseille and he talked about his Christmas menu at home. ‘You don’t know what foie gras is?’ And to help us understand, he raised his eyes to heaven in a comic gesture. Meanwhile, the two of us shared an egg! I promised him a real Christmas dinner after we won the war. A real Spanish dinner with baked sea bream, turkey with chestnuts, “mantecados”, Marzipan …”
“Please, have mercy, shut up!” interrupted the girls, laughing. In reality, they do not suffer from lack of food. They learned long ago to eat to live not live to eat. Their real concerns are elsewhere, as are those of all the guests tonight.
Someone asks what the “mantecados” are. We try to describe this delicious crumble cake, with almonds and cinnamon, made especially for the “Nochebuena”, like the \u201cb\u00fbche de No\u00ebl\u201d in France.
And now everyone becomes interested in gastronomy in a rather… abstract way.
“In France, we also eat turkey, but oysters are required.”
“Oysters? In Spain, they are reserved for an exclusive crowd. Here most people have had them.”
In France, in fact, there is relative equality when it comes to food.
The conversation turns to the drinks.
“Nothing replaces champagne.”
“Of course. And the champagne is French!”
“Champagne is a myth!” says a young man. We do not agree with him. He insists. We are about to get into an argument.
Here are the \u201cpapillotes\u201d, wrapped cookies to make the peace. There are jokes, charades, riddles printed on paper. They amuse us for a while. Finally, a pleasant surprise: tangerines! We are sated.
Now the door has been locked and the group gathers around the old radio. London. The BBC broadcasts a sacred song composed for the occasion. It cinches the heart:
“Oh sad Christmas, away from loved ones.
Let\u2019s celebrate this sad Christmas no matter what!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
It is very cold now. The circle tightens. It is out of the question for anyone to leave: you do not mess with the curfew. Fatigue has suddenly hit us all. We distribute blankets, we wrap ourselves in them, we look at each other, we smile, we close our eyes slowly.
All will remain here until dawn, some hand in hand in a communion that will give the night its true meaning, the one Jacqueline and the others came here for.
At about three o’clock in the morning, we hear gunshots outside, very close.
Muted, the BBC repeats: “Let\u2019s celebrate this sad Christmas no matter what!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
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