Paris Letter
D
EAR
PR:
It's snowing tonight, on Notre Dame and Luna Park, on the lean
and hungry-looking student who has just walked past my window, and
on the half-starved
sinistres
(apt term!) living under crates in the ruins
of Rauen, Le Havre and Dunkerque. A clear, cold evening and a clean
hygienic snow: together they make a greyish pall over Paris. I sit here
in my overcoat, blowing on my fingers to keep them from utter paralysis,
and wonder how so many of the French managed to survive last winter.
Earlier this evening, before the snow had begun to fall, I went to
see the wife of a friend of mine, a French officer stationed in Baden,
the H.Q. of the French army of occupation. We sat in Paul's unheated
study and talked about him for a few minutes: the immense confusion
of the French zone, the ambiguous policy of the government, the unend–
ing struggle with red-tape-and suddenly the lights went out. "Ne vous
derangez pas," said Mme P's mother. "C'est la panne." It wasn't the
regular shut-down of current, which moves across Paris like an enormous
black hand; it was a
panne de delestage,
which one could never foresee
and plan for. The neighborhood, and god knows how many other neigh–
borhoods, was suddenly full of people in the process of tripping over
chairs, hunting for candles, striking matches, or simply hung foolishly
in an elevator-refrigerator immobilized between the sixth and seventh
floor of an apartment building.
You have probably heard about all this before, but I insist on telling
you that life is extremely uncomfortable here. Being a member of the
new master-race, I work in a partially heated office, so that I undergo
a slight defrosting from time to time. Moreover, my body, which receives
a normal diet, maintains its own (inadequate) heating system. But the
French are suffering, less violently and dramatically than during the last
period of the German occupation, but intensely and with a kind of in–
sidious ache which is compounded of the constant chill in their bones
and of the dismay in their hearts. They had hoped that we would not
let
them reach such a state of distress....
When I returned to Paris, about five weeks ago, there was a general
air of optimism among my friends and in the press. The latter, which
is predominantly left-wing, was happy about the elections. The fermer,
whatever their political opinions, told me that there was more food in
the markets, that bread was no longer rationed and that there would
be coal this winter: not much, to be sure, but enough to keep industry
