TRAIN THOUGHTS AT COMPIEGNE

by Éanna Brophy                      

 

THE trains in France are such a joy. They go everywhere and they arrive on time. Step aboard and all of Europe is open to you. But we decided, on a Paris visit, to just take a trip to Compiegne  in Picardie. We had previously “done” both Versailles and Fontainebleu, so Compiegne offered yet  another royal chateau experience – and an excuse for a jaunt on a train.  

Besides its royal connections, we knew this small town north-west  of Paris  had a place in history. It was here, in a forest clearing that General Ferdinand Foch took the German surrender in his railway carriage at the end of the First World War in November 1918. And it was in the same railway carriage in Compiegne that Hitler had accepted the French surrender in June 1940.

What we did not know was that Compiegne also played another role during the Second World War, one that gets scant mention, if any, in the tourist guides.

 

A smooth, enjoyable rail journey brought us there. It was a dull October afternoon, but the town seemed abuzz with activity. There were dozens of policemen and policewomen hovering around the streets. Most were toting guns.

The show of force was because the disgruntled workers at a local multinational  plant were about to hold a protest march. Their union colleagues from nearby Beauvais joined them, disgorging from their train in a flurry of  flags and placards. A band struck up and off they marched. The French do this sort of thing with such panache, we thought.

 

We went in search of the chateau, but it was closed that afternoon. We hadn’t checked the opening times. Or maybe they were afraid the workers might march on the place … like in the old days. So we set out to find the Site of the Armistice instead. The railway carriage that stands on the site today is not the original: Hitler had that one towed back to Berlin after getting his revenge on the French, and it was reportedly destroyed later in Allied bombing.

It was beginning to rain, so we headed back to the town.  Taking a short cut, we managed to get lost. Eventually, while marching along a busy road beside an oak wood, we saw a sign pointing into the trees. It made us stop and stare.

The words on the sign read “Last Train to Buchenwald”.

 

But we hadn’t the time to go searching in a wet French forest to find out what it meant.  And frankly we didn’t want to. The day had grown even darker. By the time we reached the town again, the march had passed off peacefully, local citizens were placidly sipping coffee, and the police had little to do except divert the traffic. We were in plenty of time for the next train back to Paris.

 

In the station at Compiegne long platforms flank the tracks that snake away over the flat countryside. Ambling about to pass the time, we reached the end of the platform and saw some kind of war memorial beside old goods wagons on a siding.

Deciphering the French, we discovered Compiegne’s other place in history. It was in memory of  the thousands of Jews who had been loaded into railway wagons on this very spot and taken away to die in Nazi death camps.

 

Just then we were approached by a mild, bespectacled man. He addressed us in halting English. “You read this?”, he said, indicating the memorial. We nodded grimly. “This happened”, he said. “Yes”, we said, sympathetically, “a terrible thing”. He seemed puzzled, then shook his head. “No”, he said emphatically “I mean … it did NOT happen.”.

We began to edge away. But he followed us. “I have 59 years, and I know this NOT happen”, he earnestly assured us. He heard one of us say something sotto voce about his Arabic appearance, but he became more indignant. “I am not Arab. I am from Tunisia, and I know this is lies”, he said.

 

Our train arrived right on time and we jumped into a carriage far from his.

We slid back to Paris again in comfort.

French trains are such a joy, aren’t they?