Here's an excerpt:
3
December 1914
Dear
You Unlucky Bastard,
NCO says writing is the best way to
clear your head. Says it’s important to let your family know how you’re doing.
Good idea, except the part about having a family. Any advice for special cases
like me? He says to keep a journal. And here we are.
I haven’t got a clue what to write,
and I’m only doing it because there’s nothing else for me to do. Might as well
begin by writing that it’s cold. The army gave me nothing to keep warm, except
this dingy blanket that couldn’t keep a sheep dog from shivering. The wind
blows around too much out here. Getting in my bones.
I’m somewhere out in eastern France
waiting for combat orders in a billet. Several other recruits are doing the
same as me. But they’ve got families to write to.
I guess I could write about myself
and how I got here.
I was born in Paris. Grew up there
too. Parents died when I was 5. Both of them got tuberculosis the same time and
died the same time. I vaguely remember them holding hands as they died, leaving
me alone. Ended up in an orphanage where they taught me numbers, words, and the
bible. At first it wasn’t so bad. They treated me well, till I was about 8.
Then they expected me to do kitchen work, like scrub pots and clean floors.
Things women do. I refused most times.I can still feel the sharp pain from when
the sisters hit my knuckles with the rolling rod. I didn’t give them many more
chances to do it again. I packed what little I had and left that place on my
tenth birthday. It was a present to myself. The first one since my parents died.
After wandering the city for about a
month, sleeping in parks and any place I could find to stay warm, I found the
perfect spot. On Scipion Street there lived the old couple Édouard and Claire Dussollier. Their apartment
building was nothing fancy, but it was warm and easy to get into the basement.
There was a clutter of old junk and dust that hadn’t been touched in years, and
they rarely came down. Maybe three or four times while I lived below them. My
favorite thing down there was Édouard's old tuba case.
I made it into a bed till I outgrew it. Sometimes I pretended it was a castle,
and I a king. I called the Dussollier's apartment my home for six years.
In
that time I learned more about those two than I ever knew about anyone. Even my
own parents. In a way, Édouard and Claire
were like my parents. We never met, but I learned everything I know from them.
I read letters from their children, Martin and Gilles, to teach myself to
write. I learned patience and pleasure from sneaking Claire’s homemade confiture
de fraises. I learned to make memories of a normal life by listening to their
conversations above me. Theirs were voices coming down from Heaven.
So that's just a bit of what I've written so far. This project has been a neat experience/experiment over the last two months, and I'm glad that I chose to write about something as difficult as this. I absolutely had the power to write about anything I wanted; I had decided that the more unfamiliar the writing style and topic, the more rewarding the work would ultimately be. I'm certain I did the right thing.
