to Maman a lot which I think Maman likes as in Paris she had lots of ladies to talk to but here she is often by herself.
Luc is mooing at the cows now. I let out a great whoop and go chasing after him. Luc looks about, startled, but then joins in and we go racing down the street. I feel like I’ve been let out into the wild after years of being a pet. Maman would never have allowed us to walk to school in Paris – too many motorcars, too many dangers.
We get to the school gate and split up. Luc gives me a wave. I hope he doesn’t come up to me at break time again, as last time a couple of the other boys laughed.
We started the new term a few weeks ago. Eléonore’s school is further down the high street, along from ours, but she likes to leave earlier than us to be on time. Papa announced we would all be spending the ‘foreseeable future’ at our schools and that we were to work hard until we could go back to Paris after the war. It seems to have gone on practically for ever already and Paris has become all faded in my head like that picture in the nursery where the colours went all pale.
School is nothing like my last school in Paris, which was built with heavy stone walls which made it cold in both the winter and the summer, and had huge echoey rooms and stained-glass windows everywhere. This one is smaller and sits between the other shops and houses on the high street. It has flowers in little boxes on the windows and it has been whitewashed on the outside. Quite nice. For a school.
The teachers put football goal-posts up on a grassy bit at the back last week and the master in charge, who looks a bit like the Villiers’ dog (a sort of flattish face and a look that says: ‘My bite will hurt’), has organized shooting practice later today. I will probably make the team but first I have to get through a whole day of lessons.
It seems silly to be inside in a classroom learning algebra and reciting Latin. There is a war on. When a German soldier is running at you there’s no point quoting Virgil at him, better to kick a football at his face. We sit in three rows of four desks in a room with wooden beams and a massive map of Europe on the walls. Monsieur Pincet, who teaches us Geography and Science, has drawn a line all through it in red pen, showing where the occupied zone is. You don’t have to go very far north to get over the line. He got cross when Michel said it seemed a little strange – why would the Germans only want part of France?
Our form teacher is Mademoiselle Rochard and she isn’t like any of the teachers in Paris. She looks so small and delicate seated behind the huge desk at the front. I didn’t know teachers came like her at all: she’s softly spoken and her hair smells lovely, like honey. I once asked her to check a piece of my work just so I could catch the smell again. She has the sweetest voice which rises above all of us when we all sing in the mornings under the photograph of the old man whose name begins with a P. I had to punch Dimitri on the arm last week when he teased me about her. He claimed I loved her but that is stupid. I don’t love her, she is a grown-up. The punch left a good purpling bruise.
The good news is that Mademoiselle Rochard thinks I’m wonderful. She told me that I am very clever. This is not a view shared by my old teachers from Paris, where Monsieur Hébert was quick to get his cane and punish me for any small thing. He definitely didn’t think I was ‘ très intelligent ’. My heart skips a beat at the thought that I will not be seeing him at all this year. No more Paris is quite sad, but no more Monsieur Hébert – my backside rejoices.
Being new is fun too. We get a lot of attention. We’re the newest people to join the school and the only ones from Paris, and a lot of the other pupils love my stories about the Eiffel Tower and the busy honking of the Champs-Élysées. I am a glamorous city boy and I try to keep people happy, telling tales about
Luc is mooing at the cows now. I let out a great whoop and go chasing after him. Luc looks about, startled, but then joins in and we go racing down the street. I feel like I’ve been let out into the wild after years of being a pet. Maman would never have allowed us to walk to school in Paris – too many motorcars, too many dangers.
We get to the school gate and split up. Luc gives me a wave. I hope he doesn’t come up to me at break time again, as last time a couple of the other boys laughed.
We started the new term a few weeks ago. Eléonore’s school is further down the high street, along from ours, but she likes to leave earlier than us to be on time. Papa announced we would all be spending the ‘foreseeable future’ at our schools and that we were to work hard until we could go back to Paris after the war. It seems to have gone on practically for ever already and Paris has become all faded in my head like that picture in the nursery where the colours went all pale.
School is nothing like my last school in Paris, which was built with heavy stone walls which made it cold in both the winter and the summer, and had huge echoey rooms and stained-glass windows everywhere. This one is smaller and sits between the other shops and houses on the high street. It has flowers in little boxes on the windows and it has been whitewashed on the outside. Quite nice. For a school.
The teachers put football goal-posts up on a grassy bit at the back last week and the master in charge, who looks a bit like the Villiers’ dog (a sort of flattish face and a look that says: ‘My bite will hurt’), has organized shooting practice later today. I will probably make the team but first I have to get through a whole day of lessons.
It seems silly to be inside in a classroom learning algebra and reciting Latin. There is a war on. When a German soldier is running at you there’s no point quoting Virgil at him, better to kick a football at his face. We sit in three rows of four desks in a room with wooden beams and a massive map of Europe on the walls. Monsieur Pincet, who teaches us Geography and Science, has drawn a line all through it in red pen, showing where the occupied zone is. You don’t have to go very far north to get over the line. He got cross when Michel said it seemed a little strange – why would the Germans only want part of France?
Our form teacher is Mademoiselle Rochard and she isn’t like any of the teachers in Paris. She looks so small and delicate seated behind the huge desk at the front. I didn’t know teachers came like her at all: she’s softly spoken and her hair smells lovely, like honey. I once asked her to check a piece of my work just so I could catch the smell again. She has the sweetest voice which rises above all of us when we all sing in the mornings under the photograph of the old man whose name begins with a P. I had to punch Dimitri on the arm last week when he teased me about her. He claimed I loved her but that is stupid. I don’t love her, she is a grown-up. The punch left a good purpling bruise.
The good news is that Mademoiselle Rochard thinks I’m wonderful. She told me that I am very clever. This is not a view shared by my old teachers from Paris, where Monsieur Hébert was quick to get his cane and punish me for any small thing. He definitely didn’t think I was ‘ très intelligent ’. My heart skips a beat at the thought that I will not be seeing him at all this year. No more Paris is quite sad, but no more Monsieur Hébert – my backside rejoices.
Being new is fun too. We get a lot of attention. We’re the newest people to join the school and the only ones from Paris, and a lot of the other pupils love my stories about the Eiffel Tower and the busy honking of the Champs-Élysées. I am a glamorous city boy and I try to keep people happy, telling tales about
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