Autumn 1944 • Vol. VI No. 4 NonfictionOctober 1, 1944 |

Memory of France: April 1944

In a few months it will be five years since I left France. September 1, 1939, and now April, 1944. Not a day has passed that I haven't thought of her as the prostrate and silent nation whom the powers of the world have temporarily abandoned to her age-long enemy. Not a day has passed that this thought has not appeared to me impossible to hold and realize and accept. In my mind it daily undergoes a change and a blotting out. Memories of what I knew and loved efface realities which I am unable to comprehend and contain within me. There is a regular procedure in this resurgence of my memory which involuntarily replaces the present anguish of France described by the newspapers and books and exiles. It begins with a flash of sunlight, so strong that it dispels the picture of bombings and enslavement. Often it is light refracted against the walls of a building, and always it is southern France I see, which is the real kingdom where the sunlight marries the stone of edifices like the c

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