In Continuum.

Irene Nemirovsky

(This entry is dedicated to the brave,brilliant,astounding woman,a heroine of her times: Irene Nemirovsky.)

To lift such a heavy weight,
Sisyphus, you will need all your courage.
I do not lack the courage to complete the task
But the goal is far and time is short.

I recall the first time picking up Suite Francaise without thinking much about it.It is a big book about World War Two,and those two elements alone turned me off the first time i saw it sitting amongst other bestsellers at Kinokuniya.That was back in January,if my memory serves me right,and a couple of months later when mentioned by Kenneth Kwan late one night,that this booked topped the chart at one of the website as one of the best books ever published in recent years,i had to get it.

I knew little about the author of the book.Initially i thought it was an autobiography of some sorts.Later researches proved me wrong,and i found out that this book is more than just a novel about World War Two.It is the life of Irene Nemirovsky herself,through the eyes of the characters she carefully crafted,laced them together like shoe laces and then poured her heart and soul into each and everyone of them.

During her own escape from Paris when the Germans invaded France,she fled to a sleepy village in central France called Issy I'Eveque,where she started on her work on Suite Francaise.It was initially meant to be a four,or maybe a five part book,telling the stories of the characters from the beginning of te German invasion,to the settling down of these soldiers,to the capivity of the French by the Germans.The later two parts of the story were not written,or planned.But Irene Nemirovsky was arrested by the French police shortly after she finished Storm in June and Dolce,the first two parts of her work on Suite Francaise.

It is a pity that such a masterpiece is left undone,but i thought that the fact that it is unfinished is such a beautiful thing.The manuscript remained in the village,and her daughter Denise Epstein stuffed them into a suitcase while fleeing the village,and over the years and through the war when peace was restored.

Both Denise's father and her mother,Irene,were sent to Auschwitz,Poland,where they were sent to the gas chambers and executed.It pained me,when i read about her death at the later part of the book,where additional materials from her book is provided.Those included her plans for the later two parts of the book,letters she sent to her publishers as well as a preface,which was meant for the French edition of the book.

In the later years of the 20th century,Denise discovered that supposed diaries written by her mother over the years were not merely diary entries,but rather a story about the mess of defeat,hypocrisy,compromises of war,hope,nobility and most of all,love in the most unlikely places.She sent her mother's manuscripts to the French publishers,and was later published in 2004 in French,and 2006 in English after translation.

Through the characters we see what Irene must have saw and experience.While the air raids occured and the bombers flew over their heads.When the distant explosions shook the hearts of many,as they spent so many sleepless nights,cold and hungry.The story of Lucile and Bruno touched me the most,the one with the French girl falling in love with the German soldier who occupied her home.

It's such a tragic thing,that in the book the Germans werent showen as being monsters,demons,or anywhere near being the enemy.Sure,there were conflicts within the heart of all the characters,but they knew that as much as they themselves didnt want the war to occur,sure enough the Germans who invaded them also wanted to be home with their mothers,fathers,sons and daughters,or even their wives.Away from their homeland,so far and so long,they have found refuge,not just in the form of shelter and food but also the companionship of these people,the conquered,the people whom shouldve hated them but took them in instead.

I loved the forbidden love between the two characters.While Lucile's husband is away as prisoner of war,she fights with her guilt whenever she feels a slight tingle of feeling for Bruno.At the same time Bruno understands the situation,especially under the watchful eyes of Lucile's mother-in-law.

The ironic thing,what pissed me off,is that Irene Nemirovsky,such a great writer,died under the very hands of these Germans,the Germans whom she described as being "Noble,gentlemanly,proud and polite" in her books.It's just frustrating that perhaps if the authorities read her work,they might have changed their minds as to executing her like that.It pissed me off,that despite all her efforts to understand the mind of the Germans,to understand their own pain and sorrows,she was killed like everybody else,piled on top of one another after being shaved and stripped,gased to death and buried naked with the other poor souls,forgotten and gone.

So this entry is for you,Irene Nemirovsky.The great writer of our time,but never got to see her greatness fulfilled.

"...The three young men stood up and clicked their heels. In the past, she had found this display of courtesy by the solders of the Reich old-fashioned and rather affected. Now, she thought how much she would miss this lightjingling of spurs, the kiss on the hand, the admiration these soldiers showed her almost in spite of themselves, soldiers who were without family, without female companionship (except for the lowest type of woman). There was in their respect for her a hint of tender melancholy: it was as if thanks to her, they could recapture some remnant of their former lives where kindness, a good education, politeness towards women had far more value than getting drunk or taking an enemy postion. There was gratitude and nostalgia in their attitude towards her; she could sense it and was touched by it. She waited for it to be eight o'clock in a state of deep anxiety. What would she say to him? How would they part? There was between them an entire world of confused, unexpressed thoughts, like a precious crystal so fragile that a single word could shatter it. He felt it too, no doubt, for he spent only a brief moment alone with her. He took off his hat (perhaps his last civilian gesture, thought Lucile, feeling tender and sad), took her hands in his. Before kissing him them, he pressed his cheek against hers, softly and urgently both at the same time. Was he claiming her as his own? Attempting to brand her with his seal, so she wouldnt forget?

'Adieu,' he said, 'this is goodbye. I'll never forget you, never.'

She stood silent. He looked at her and saw her eyes full of tears. He turned away..."

--- Chapter 22 of Dolce, from "Suite Francaise" by Irene Nemirovsky