Europe now lives at such a mad, reckless pace that she has shaken off all guidance and all reason, and she is running headlong into the abyss; we would do well to avoid it with all possible speed. Yet it is very true that we need a model, and that we want blueprints and examples. For many among us the European model is the most inspiring. We have therefore seen in the preceding pages to what mortifying set-backs such an imitation has led us. European achievements, European techniques and the European style ought no longer to tempt us and to throw us off our balance. When I search for Man in the technique and the style of Europe, I see only a succession of negations of man, and an avalanche of murders.
~ Frantz Fanon,
The Wretched of the Earth
Place du Combat, Paris; March 1934
The Spring had come late upon the city but now across the parks of the French capital the flowers were in bloom. It had been a gruelling Lent but now the Easter holiday was almost upon Paris and for the first time in a generation it was a celebration which had the wholehearted backing of the French state.
This was not only to emphasise the recent revocation of the republican laws separating church and state within French society but also an attempt to bring the French people together after the ugliness which the formation of the state had entailed. It was a time to come together under the Marechal and celebrate the glory of God as one nation, back on the righteous path at last.
If the new censures on the press and radio hadn’t ensured this message was projected loud enough the city was being branded enthusiastically with painted slogans of the Action Francaise and Cross of Fire amongst numerous other factions. Each was eager to prove their loyalty but also to put their own stamp on the regime still being crafted, tricolours could still be seen on the streets of Paris but they were now matched in number by several different monarchist and party flags. These competing enthusiasms for different images of France had not boiled into hostility so far between these disparate groups however, Pétain’s leadership had seemed to ensure that via daily radio broadcasts from his new governmental residence within the Palace of Versailles.
The public reaction to these pronouncements had been a mix of enthusiasm and resignation. Many people had been genuinely swept up in the calls to save France from internal and external enemies whilst others had seen ways to move ahead in life through support of the new regime, or simply to settle old scores. Others couldn’t get the images of bloodied, starving students and trade unionists being dragged through the streets from the last occupations towards an uncertain fate.
From the new governmental ministries, the less glamorous means of implementing a new regime were also under way in their own locations. In the unremarkable structures of the Place du Combat this took the form of the new General Commissariat for Foreign Elements, tasked with rooting out aliens undermining the state in the aftermath of the Stavisky affair and the Communist subversion being spread from Berlin and Moscow. Until recently this had been the headquarters of the French Communist Party, and those now contemplating their fate within its walls were left to wonder how many of the former occupants had escaped to either of those countries, amongst the countless other thoughts which wandered in and out of their heads. Amongst those awaiting an answer to these questions was former Sergent-Major Hachim Gueye of the Colonial Corps.
Hachim scowled, trying to take his mind off the pressing boredom. It was hard to focus on the clock in the crowded hall but he was fairly sure it wasn’t actually moving. He was certain some people had left the waiting area in the meantime but it was also definitely busier than when he had first arrived. The increasing number of people had only made the crowd more diverse. He was not alone as a Senegalese but there were also Arabs, Algerians, Morroccans, Malagasy, Guyanans and Laotians, Germans and Jews. He realised he would likely lose count if he tried to keep track of everyone but he doubted that even this new authority was really managing to do that. They were here because they were the other and thanks to that status their fate was now ambiguous.
It was a scandalous state of affairs but no-one was here to complain and even with the wait there had been little audible grumbling. These were people who wanted to prove why they deserved to be part of the new France after all, or at least to retain part of their previous dignity. When Hachim had received his own letter alerting him to report for the examination of his case it had been a struggle not to burn the piece of paper there and then but he had built a life in France and had earned the right to do so. He was resolved to make the new regime see that whether they liked it or not. And so he waited.
Many others had simply left. During or immediately after the coup it had seemed a civil war like the type which had torn through Germany four years earlier might erupt, people dreaded the violence on the streets whereas others dreaded the new regime even more. A week of sporadic electricity and no trains left a sense of things falling apart. The stories of rioters in the other banlieues being gunned down left an impression every time a crackle could be heard in the distance, or merely a car backfiring.
Hachim had long been acquainted with such sounds and struggled to sympathise with anyone flinching at the sound of faraway gunfire. He had once been similarly scared but charging into the face of German machine guns had left him numb to such sensations, even whilst some of his comrades were left with mental wounds far more severe than anything they had incurred physically. He and his fellow tirailleurs had been told they were descendants of martial races, built for combat, but they had bled and suffered just as much as anyone else in the war. That had been the result of the promises of adventure, opportunity and citizenship which had inspired him to leave the backbreaking drudgery of farm work in his homeland for the metropole.
After two years of hell the war had finally ended but that hadn’t cut short his military service, the devastated French countryside being replaced for the occupied German Rhineland. It was an environment untouched by the last four years of bloodshed even if the Germans had seemed hellbent on tearing themselves apart. Hachim had not had the same thirst for revenge against the Germans as the Frenchmen he had fought alongside but they were the enemy and now a conquered nation under occupation, if they wanted to kill each other he didn’t mind all that much and neither did his superiors seem to.
His fluency in French allowed him to develop a handle of German and he was able to glean insights as to the political chaos of the land they were occupying, which only seemed to complicate the situation further. Whilst French troops had fought and died in a new fight against communism in Russia, German communists were allowed to shelter from the German authorities under French protection.
By the time that decision had quite literally blown up in the face of his superiors Hachim had finally been discharged but without the promised citizenship. He had opted to remain in the metropole anyway, to return to Senegal would be to acknowledge a return to subservience. The promise of work in Paris had given him a life of sorts in the long hours of unsteady jobs that so many of the city’s residents had grown accustomed to. It remained a magical place all the same; Paris was a world of its own, one where drudgery did not exist. It was one he had fought for and one he intended to remain a part of.
Eventually Hachim’s name was called and he was escorted to an office where a young man asked him to sit. After confirming his name and previous rank the official parroted an explanation of the reasons for the new regime and why their sworn duty to the future of France involved looking into him. This hadn’t been the first time Hachim had ever been brought in to explain his residency to officials but it was the first time he had been explicitly told that people like him were no longer welcome. Where his record of military service had usually been enough to embarrass anyone too interested in his right to remain within France it was now his time in the Rhineland that was of interest.
Being stared down by someone in their twenties in a suit too big for them and asked as to whether he had had any communist contact whilst in Germany had made him want to laugh. Hachim had wanted to spit in the youngster’s face, to ask him if he had served in the war or if he had even been alive at the time of Verdun. But he wished to remain and as such deferentially denied anything which could be deemed disloyal. He tried to reassure the official that he wished only to serve the Empire he belonged to as loyally as he had in the past.
It was, seemingly, enough to win him a reprieve.
Hachim was finally told he could go home but might be called upon again in the future. He had missed a day of work in waiting to be told his fate remained in the balance. Then again, he thought, that would have been the case either way.
The people of France awaited the results of the constitutional convention regardless of their background but Hachim knew the players involved and to expect the worst. Today he had gained a taste of the new official attitude, people like him were inferior, fit only to be subjects, second class citizens in their own native lands rather than tolerated in the metropole.
But he existed there all the same and he would continue to.
It was the best victory he could score against them at this moment in time.
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The painting is
Comedian's Handbill by Paul Klee