It was April of 2009 and after two weeks in Paris, Sylvain and his family brought me on vacation with them to a rural, southern part of France where his grandparents live. After a four hour drive through French country-side, complete with
Everything painted was peeling. Everything white was beige. Everything I could see was older than I, save Sylvain’s triplet cousins who were taking turns on the swing. There is a kind of inexplicable comfort in being surrounded by things that have tempted time and survived. That is how being in France feels. Especially Paris.
We went inside and Sylvain’s grandfather, Leo, received me warmly. Speaking the broken English he learned as a boy he insisted on showing me a tiny town named Oradour-sur-Glane. Eager to see more adorable French homes I agreed. I was not prepared for what I would see next.
Leo, Sylvain, and I drove out of the charming village and approached a town that looked at though it had been abandoned. We parked, walked past the memorial museum we would visit later, and followed a cobbled path into town. The first thing I noticed was the sound of the place. It was void of the normal outdoor noises. I did not hear birdsong. The buildings were crumbled, roofless, forgotten like Mayan ruins. All around were fences, houses, and trees scorched and stained with ash. The entire town was deserted- streets littered with cars made of rust and broken sewing machines of the same fate. This was unlike anything I had ever seen and a shocking disparity to the beautiful house I had just beheld. There is something inexplicably disturbing about such a setting. It was clear that something terrible had happened in Oradour, France.
Leo explained (with the help of his grandson whose English is much better) that the town was attacked by two German platoons on June 10th, 1944. The Nazis were on their way to the beaches of Normandy to provide aid when they came across Oradour-sur-Glane and decided to “make an example” of it. The village-men were rounded up and gunned down while the women and children were herded into a church which was set on fire. The town was looted, destroyed with gunfire, and set ablaze. In total, 642 people were slaughtered. Five men and one woman survived.
The town, which has become known as Martyr’s Village, was left in its ravaged state as a reminder of the destruction caused by war as well as a memorial to those murdered there. Seeing it all- feeling the weight of the tragedy- awoke a profoundly deep sadness in me that I did not recognize until later that day. We walked down the empty streets in silence. I kicked a rock.