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VERCORS' FAMOUS BOOK

THE SILENCE OF THE SEA

In memory of SAINT-POL-ROUX, assassinated poet.

"This film has no pretension

of solving the problem of Franco-German relations,

for they cannot be solved while the barbarous Nazi crimes,

committed with the complicity of the German people,

remain fresh in men's minds."

And so, he had left.

And so, he submitted, like the others,

like all the others of that miserable nation,

and I tried to etch into my mind the events of these last six months:

Our evenings, his words,

his revolt. Yet not even he, of all men, had the courage

to resist his master's orders.

His arrival was preceded by a major military deployment.

Later, the soldier returned with another.

They spoke in what they thought to be French.

I couldn't understand a word.

However, I showed them the available rooms.

They seemed pleased.

The next morning...

a military touring car entered the garden.

Two soldiers withdrew two crates from it.

The car left,

and a few hours later, I heard hoofbeats.

Three riders appeared.

I later saw they'd driven my workbench clamp into the wall

to tie up the horses in front of my workshop.

For two days, nothing else happened.

I didn't see anyone.

The men rode out early and returned in the evening.

They slept in the straw they'd spread in the hayloft.

On the third day, the car returned.

A set of sheets, please.

My niece had just served coffee, like every evening.

It helps me sleep.

I was seated in the back of the shadowy room.

Excuse me.

My name is Werner von Ebrennac.

I'm sorry to -

Naturally, this is necessary.

Or else I'd have avoided it.

My aide will do his best not to disturb you.

I have great respect for those who love their country.

I'd like to go to my room, but I don't know the way.

My niece opened the door to the stairs and went up

without looking at him, as if she were alone.

He followed.

I noticed that he limped.

My niece returned.

He seems respectable, thank God.

The next morning, the officer entered while we were eating breakfast.

Another stairway leads there, and I don't know if he heard us,

or if he just happened to pass that way.

He said:

I slept very well. I hope you also slept well.

Your old mayor told me I'd stay in a castle.

I'm glad my men made a mistake.

This house is much better than a castle.

That night, he returned at the same time as yesterday.

We were drinking our coffee.

He knocked, but didn't wait for my niece to let him in.

He let himself in.

I fear I'm disturbing you.

If you prefer, I could enter through the kitchen...

and you could lock this door.

I bid you good night.

We never locked that door.

I'm not sure our reasons were very clear or very noble.

By unspoken agreement, my niece and I decided

to change nothing in our lives, not the slightest detail,

as if the officer didn't exist. As if he were a ghost.

But it's possible that another motivation tainted my decision:

Even were he my enemy, I cannot without compunction offend a man.

For a long time, over a month,

the same scene repeated itself every day:

The officer knocked, then entered.

He said a few words about the weather,

or similarly banal topics.

Their common link was they didn't require an answer.

He always stayed a short moment looking around him,

a tiny smile expressing the obvious pleasure he took in looking.

Each day, the same survey of the room, the same pleasure.

His eyes rested on my niece's face in profile,

as always, stern and impassive,

and when he finally looked away,

I was certain I saw a kind of smiling approval.

I bid you good night.

One night, things suddenly changed.

Tiny snowflakes fell, mixed with rain, terribly cold and damp.

I was burning one of the thick logs I save for such nights.

In spite of myself, I imagined the officer, covered in snow,

but he never came.

His normal hour of arrival was long past.

With annoyance, I realized that he filled my thoughts.

My niece knitted slowly, seeming very absorbed.

Finally we heard footsteps, but from inside the house.

I recognized the uneven rhythm of the officer's steps.

I realized he'd entered by the back door and was coming from his room.

To prevent us from seeing him in a damp, unglamorous uniform,

he'd changed first.

A heavy step, then a light one, descending the stairs.

The door opened and he appeared in civilian clothes.

Excuse me, I'm not warm enough.

My uniform was soaked and my room is freezing.

I'll warm myself at your fire for a while.

That's nice.

Winter in France is nothing, it's quite mild.

At home, winter is very harsh.

We have dense forests of pine,

covered in a thick sheet of snow.

Here the trees are slender. Snow covers them like lace.

At home, they remind me of bulls, stocky and powerful,

needing strength to survive.

Here, what's needed is the mind, subtle and poetic thought.

I've always loved France.

I was a child during the last war, so my opinion then doesn't count.

Since then, I've always loved it,

but from afar, like a faraway princess...

because of my father.

Because of my father.

He was a great patriot,

bitterly wounded by our defeat...

and yet, he loved France.

He loved Briand.

He believed in the Weimar Republic and in Briand.

He was enthusiastic.

He said, "He'll unite us like man and wife."

He thought the sun would finally rise on Europe,

but Briand was defeated

and my father realized France was still led by your cruel bourgeoisie,

industrialists like de Wendel, Henry Bordeaux,

your old Marshal Foch.

He told me, "You must never enter France except in boots and a helmet."

He was on his deathbed, so I swore.

When war broke out, I'd visited all of Europe except France.

I'm a musician.

Not a performer, a composer.

It's my whole life,

so it's strange to see myself as a soldier.

However, I don't regret this war.

I believe great things will come of it.

Forgive me, perhaps my words hurt you,

but they come from the heart.

I say it out of love for France.

Great things will come of this war for Germany and France.

Like my father, I believe "the sun will shine on Europe."

I bid you good night.

Perhaps it's inhuman to refuse him even a single word.

I almost felt myself blush.

From then on, his visits were like that.

We rarely saw him in uniform.

First he changed,

then he knocked on our door.

Was it to spare us the sight of an enemy uniform,

or to make us forget and become used to him?

Probably a bit of both.

He knocked and entered without waiting for the answer

he knew we wouldn’t give.

With a candid casualness, he'd warm himself at the fire,

his excuse for visiting us.

We knew it full well and so did he.

He didn't even try to disguise it.

He didn't come every night,

but he never came without speaking to us.

He stood by the fire,

warming various parts of himself

while his voice droned on quietly

about topics dear to his heart: his country, music, France

in an endless monologue.

Not once did he try to obtain a response from us, an agreement,

not even a look.

He never spoke long,

never longer than the first night.

He said a few sentences, sometimes punctuated by silence,

sometimes flowing onward with prayer-like monotony,

sometimes still as a statue by the fireplace,

sometimes moving to examine an object or drawing,

then he'd fall quiet.

He'd bow and say:

I bid you good night.

He once said, during one of his first visits:

How does my fire at home differ from this one?

The wood and fireplace are similar,

but the light isn't.

It depends on the objects and people it falls upon.

Why do I love this room so much?

It isn't especially beautiful.

I'm sorry!

I simply meant it's no room in a museum.

You don't say, "What marvelous objects!"

However, this room has a soul.

The whole house has a soul.

Balzac, Baudelaire, Corneille, Descartes, Fénelon, Gautier, Hugo.

What a list. And I'm only up to H.

Not to mention Moliere, Racine, Rabelais,

Pascal, Stendhal, Voltaire, Montaigne, nor any of the others.

For England, Shakespeare immediately comes to mind.

For Italy, Dante.

For Spain, Cervantes.

For us, Goethe.

But to find others, you have to think about it.

But when they say "France," who comes to mind?

Immediately leap forth Moliere, Racine,

Hugo, Voltaire,

Rabelais and who else?

Names jostle like a crowd outside a theater,

each trying to enter first.

But for music,

it's my country.

Bach, Handel,

Beethoven, Wagner, Mozart.

Which name comes to mind first?

And we warred against each other.

But it will be the last war. We'll never fight again.

We will marry.

Yes, we will.

It will be the most beautiful marriage in the world.

I bid you good night.

I'm going inside to get warm.

He never mentioned their encounter.

When we entered Saintes,

I was pleased by the way the people welcomed us.

I was very happy. I thought it'd be easy.

Then I realized it was nothing but cowardice.

I despised those people and feared for France.

I thought, "Is this what she's become?"

But no, after that I could see her better,

and now I'm pleased with her stern face.

I'm happy to have found a dignified old man...

and a silent young lady.

We must conquer this silence,

conquer the silence of France.

I like that.

Then, one night:

It's better this way, much better.

It creates a solid union, where each is made greater.

There's a lovely fairy tale that I read,

that you've read, that everyone's read.

I don't know if the title is the same.

In my country it's called, Das Tier und die Schöne.

Beauty and the Beast.

Poor Beauty.

She's at the Beast's mercy,

a helpless prisoner,

and he relentlessly imposes his burdensome presence.

Beauty is proud, dignified.

She hardens herself.

But the Beast isn't as bad as he looks.

Yes, he's boorish, clumsy, a brute.

He seems like a boor compared to Beauty's delicacy,

but he has heart and his soul seeks elevation.

If only Beauty would accept.

It takes a long time for Beauty to accept him,

but slowly, gradually, she discovers in the eyes of her hated warden

the glow of prayer, of love,

and she forgets his heavy paws, the chains of her prison

and she stops hating him.

She's touched by his steadfastness and she reaches out to him.

Immediately, the Beast is transformed.

The curse imprisoning him in his barbarous disguise is broken.

Now he is a handsome, noble knight,

sensitive and cultured,

and with each kiss from Beauty his qualities grow.

Their union leads to sublime happiness,

and their children,

blessed by the gifts inherited from their parents,

are the most beautiful ever seen on earth.

Don't you like that story?

I've always loved it.

I read it over and over.

It made me cry.

Especially the Beast, because I understood his suffering.

Even today, I am moved talking about it.

I bid you good night.

One night, entering my room to fetch some tobacco,

I heard the harmonium playing.

It was "Prelude and Fugue No. 8."

My niece was learning it before the defeat.

The songbook remained open to that page,

but since then, my niece hadn't had the heart to practice.

I was surprised and pleased she'd started again.

What inner desire led her to finally change her mind?

No, she hadn't left her chair, nor her work.

Nothing is greater than that.

"Great" doesn't even describe it.

Born from man, from his flesh, it helps us know -

No, it helps us guess -

No, intuit what nature is,

divine nature, untouched by a human soul.

Yes, it's inhuman music.

Bach.

He could only be German.

Our land has this inhuman character.

I mean, it's not on man's scale.

I love that song. I admire it.

It fulfills me, it is inside me...

like God's presence.

But it's not mine.

I want to write music on a human scale.

This is also a path to truth.

It's my path. I can follow no other.

I know that now.

It's clear to me.

Since when?

Since I've lived here.

I need France now.

I demand a lot.

I demand she welcome me.

It's nothing to be here as a foreigner,

a traveler, a conqueror.

She gives nothing to them, and they can take nothing from her.

Her highest riches can never be conquered.

They must be drunk at her breast.

She must offer her breast in a gesture of maternal affection.

I know it's up to us, but it also depends on her.

She must accept to understand our thirst

and she must accept to quench it.

She must accept to unite with us.

I'd need to live here a long time,

in a house like this one,

like a local boy in a village like this one.

I'd need -

The obstacles will be overcome.

Sincerity can always overcome obstacles.

I bid you good night.

I no longer remember all that was said over a hundred winter evenings,

but the theme was the same:

the long rhapsody on his discovery of France,

his love for her before he knew her,

the love that grew each day he was lucky enough to live here.

And me, by God, I admired him.

He never gave up

and never tried to tear us from our silence

with violent language.

On the contrary,

when sometimes he let silence invade the room,

filling it from corner to corner like a heavy, suffocating gas,

he seemed the most comfortable of the three of us.

Then he'd watch my niece with that strange smile,

both approving and serious, that he'd worn from the first day.

I felt the agitation of my niece's soul inside the prison she'd built for it.

Many signs betrayed her. The smallest, a trembling in her fingers.

When he finally chased away the silence

with his softly droning voice,

it seemed that he allowed me to breathe easier.

My house in the forest - I was born there

and went to school in the village.

I only left to go to Munich for exams

and Salzburg for the conservatory.

After that, I always lived there.

I don't like big cities.

I've visited London, Vienna,

Rome, Warsaw

and of course, the German cities.

I wouldn't like to live there.

However, I liked Prague.

No other city has so much soul.

And Nuremberg -

for a German, it makes our hearts swell,

this city of beloved ghosts. Each stone is a memorial

to the noble lineage of old Germany.

The French must feel the same way about the Chartres Cathedral.

In spite of themselves, they feel their ancestors' presence,

the grace of their souls, the splendor of their faith,

their kindness.

Destiny led me to Chartres.

Attention!

350 meters, plus 10.

Fire!

And yet, it's true.

So many things stir at once within the soul of a German,

even the best, yet he'd love to be cured.

At home, in a nearby castle, lives a young lady.

She's very beautiful and very sweet.

My father rejoiced to imagine us married.

When he died, we were almost engaged

and we were allowed to take long walks on our own.

One day, we were in the forest and -

Werner, I'm so happy.

How lovely are all God's creatures!

I'm happy too.

Ouch!

What a miserable critter!

I got stung.

Look, Werner. I have caught it.

Now I will punish it.

One by one,

I'll tear its legs off.

Luckily, she had many other suitors.

I didn't regret it.

After that, German girls frightened me.

Our politicians are like that too,

which is why I never joined them,

even though my friends wrote "Come join us."

I preferred to stay at home.

It didn't help my musical career, but that's all right.

Success isn't much compared to a clear conscience.

Although I know my friends and our Führer have great, noble ideas,

they'd also tear the legs off a mosquito, one by one.

It always happens to Germans when they're lonely.

It always emerges.

Who is lonelier than men on the same side when they are the masters?

Luckily, they're no longer alone.

They're in France. France will cure them.

I assure you, they know it.

They know France will teach them to be great, noble men.

But for this, love is needed - mutual love.

I bid you good night.

The long days of spring arrived.

Now the officer returned as the sun set.

ON HIS 52ND BIRTHDAY THE FÜHRER DECLARES:

"FAR-REACHING HISTORICAL DECISIONS WILL BE MADE"

One night, he came downstairs holding a book open with his finger,

his face lit with the special half-smile

of expectation when giving others a treat.

He said:

I'm sorry to disturb you so early,

but I brought this for you.

A page from Macbeth.

What greatness!

It's the end.

Macbeth's power is slipping away

through the efforts of two men who realize his black ambitions.

These nobles defend Scotland's honor and await his coming downfall.

One of them describes the symptoms of his ruin.

"Angus:

Now does he feel his secret murders sticking on his hands,

now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach.

Those he commands move only in command, nothing in love.

Now does he feel his title hang loose about him,

like a giant's robe upon a dwarfish thief."

Isn't that what troubles your president's dreams?

I truly pity him,

even though he disgusts me, as he disgusts you.

"Those he commands move only in command, nothing in love."

A leader without the love of the people is just a miserable puppet.

But what more could we wish for?

This sullen, ambitious man accepted the role.

We need him.

We needed someone who'd accept to sell his homeland

because still today, and for a long time,

France cannot willingly fall into our open arms

without losing her sense of dignity.

A sordid matchmaker may lay the foundation of the happiest alliance.

Even so, the matchmaker remains sordid,

and the alliance remains happy.

That's the Paris train.

I must inform my hosts that I'll be gone for two weeks.

I'm delighted to go to Paris.

I'm on leave, and I'll spend it in Paris for the first time.

It's a great day for me - the greatest while awaiting another.

With all my heart,

I await this day of greatest joy.

I'll wait years if I must.

My heart is very patient.

In Paris, I'll probably see my friends.

Many are involved in the negotiations with your politicians

to prepare the marvelous union of our two nations.

In a way, I'll be a witness at this wedding.

I rejoice for France,

for now her wounds will heal quickly...

but I rejoice even more

for Germany and for myself.

No one ever benefited more from a good deed

than Germany will by restoring France's greatness and freedom.

I bid you good night.

THE FRENCH ARMY, EMBARKED AT BOULOGNE,

THREATENED ENGLAND

THE THIRD COALITION ARRIVED ON THE CONTINENT

THE FRENCH FLEW FROM THE OCEAN TO THE DANUBE

BAVARIA WAS FREED,

THE AUSTRIAN ARMY CAPTURED IN ULM

NAPOLÉON ENTERED VIENNA, TRIUMPHED AT AUSTERLITZ

IN LESS THAN 100 DAYS, THE COALITION WAS DISBANDED

I AM SENT HERE IN GOD'S NAME

TO DRIVE YOU ALL, BODY FOR BODY, OUT OF FRANCE.

We didn't see him return.

We knew he was back because a guest's presence in a house

is betrayed by tiny signs, even when he remains unseen.

For many days, much more than a week,

we didn't see him.

I'll admit that his absence made me uneasy.

My thoughts turned to him.

Perhaps I felt regret, even concern.

Neither I nor my niece mentioned it,

but some evenings, on hearing his uneven footsteps upstairs,

I clearly saw by the effort she made to concentrate on her needlework,

by the way her face was marked by a stubborn, yet attentive expression,

that her thoughts were not far from mine.

One day, I had to go to the Kommandantur

for a routine tire declaration.

Come in!

FOR A FREE EUROPE

What can I do for you?

Yes, Lieutenant?

Make five copies and send one to the units in the region.

Yes, Lieutenant.

I never mentioned it to my niece,

but women's instincts are sharper than a tiger's.

All evening, she kept raising her eyes from her work

to stare at me,

trying to read my expression.

I struggled to remain impassive.

I concentrated on smoking my pipe.

Finally, she dropped her hands as if exhausted.

Folding her needlework, she asked permission to go to bed early.

She kissed me good night,

and her beautiful gray eyes seemed full of reproach

and heavy with sadness.

After she left, I felt shaken by an absurd rage,

rage at being absurd and having an absurd niece.

What was this foolishness?

I couldn't answer.

If it was foolishness, it was deeply rooted.

Three days later,

we had barely finished our coffee

when we heard the familiar irregular footsteps

approaching without hesitation.

It reminded me of the winter night when we first heard them,

six months ago.

I thought, "It's raining today too."

My niece had covered her shoulders with a printed silk scarf.

I warmed my fingers on the bowl of my pipe

even though it was summer.

I imagined the man behind the door,

his hand raised, ready to knock,

hesitating, delaying the moment

when by the act of knocking, he'd be obliged to enter.

Finally, he knocked.

Not light taps of hesitation, nor abrupt taps of overcome shyness,

but three long, slow knocks,

with the calm of an irrevocable decision.

I waited for the door to open like it used to,

but it remained shut.

Suddenly, my mind was overwhelmed by a troubling dilemma.

He'll go away.

What were they, tonight,

this night, the dictates of dignity?

Come in, sir.

That night I learned that for keen observers,

the hands express emotion just as deeply as a face.

Perhaps they're more expressive than a face,

for it's harder for us to control them.

I have a serious announcement to make.

Everything I've said these last six months...

everything the walls of this room have heard...

must be -

It must be forgotten.

Oh, what a light!

I saw those victorious men.

I spoke to them.

They laughed at me.

I was so delighted to go there.

FRENCH TOURISM CARS

Treblinka?

Yes. So what?

- What does Treblinka mean? - Nothing. It doesn't matter anymore.

Why doesn't it matter anymore?

No, let it be. This isn't for the faint of heart.

"The mass executions take place

with monoxide gas in gas chambers

and in cremation ovens.

The capacity figure currently amounts to 500 persons a day.

However, improvements are under way

that will help to raise this figure

to 2,000 persons a day in less than two months.

Treblinka, March 21, 1941."

The beginning of spring.

The beginning of spring.

This gas chamber is currently in operation?

No, Treblinka has served its time.

It's done, finished.

There is no one left to execute.

Military Command in France General of the Luftwaffe Paris

Chemical Inspection Site

You

You're in my heart

You

You're on my mind

You

You cause me such pain

You don't know how fond I am of you

Yes, yes

You don't know how fond I am of you

You

You're in my heart

You

You're on my mind

You

You cause me such pain

You don't know how fond I am of you

Yes, yes

You don't know how fond I am of you

Your views on this matter are surprising to me.

Haven't you realized yet that we're tricking them?

Do you think we're so stupid as to allow France ever to rise again?

We are no buffoons.

Politics is not some romantic dream.

Why do you think we went to war?

To please your old marshal?

We aren't lunatics, nor are we fools.

We have the opportunity to destroy France and we will do so.

Not only its might, but also its spirit.

This is where the biggest danger lies.

That's our mission.

Don't kid yourself, my friend. We will be smiling.

We will proceed with mercy.

But we will turn France into a cowering dog.

You're blinded by your love of France. That's dangerous.

But we will cure Europe of this pestilence.

We will utterly destroy this poison.

Naturally, we will flatter their writers.

But the necessary steps have already been taken.

Never again will a single French book enter Belgium,

Holland or any other country that we have conquered,

except for technical publications about ballistics,

the manufacturing of concrete and so forth.

But works of culture? None! Nothing at all!

We will pull the poison fang out of this beast.

They're becoming afraid.

They fear for their wallets,

for their bellies, for their industry or their trade.

That's their sole concern.

Of course, there are exceptions.

But we will bend those few into shape with flattery.

No problem at all. - For a mess of lentil pottage.

Have you considered what you are doing?

Have you thought this through?

Do you think we will be bashful?

We are cut from a different cloth.

Then the fate of France is sealed forever.

It's a matter of life or death.

To conquer, violence is sufficient,

but not to rule.

We know full well that an army is not enough to rule.

But not at the expense of the mind. Not at that cost.

The mind -

it has been through a lot worse.

The mind is immortal.

We are establishing a millennial empire.

And first we must destroy.

It's our right.

And our duty.

NOTICE On September 16, 1941,

another German soldier was cravenly murdered.

As a repressive measure, the following hostages were shot:

If any such acts reoccur, many more hostages will be shot.

Wait here for a moment.

A box of matches, please.

NO JEWS ALLOWED

There is no hope.

No hope!

No hope!

Nothing,

no one.

Not only your modern writers,

your Péguys, your Prousts, your Bergsons,

but all the others.

All these, all of them!

They'll extinguish the flame completely.

Europe will no longer be illuminated by their light.

"Nevermore."

One of those men was my friend,

a brother.

We'd studied together and were roommates in Stuttgart.

We spent three months together in Nuremberg.

He played my compositions

and read me his poems.

He was sensitive and Romantic...

but he left me

to read his poems in München - Munich -

for his new companions.

In every letter, he urged me to join them.

He's the one I saw in Paris, with his friends.

I saw what they'd done to him.

He was the most rabid, veering from rage to laughter.

He glared at me and said,

"The serpent must be drained of its venom."

He said...

"Do you realize what you're doing?"

I looked at him - looked deep into his blue eyes -

and he was sincere.

That's the horror of it!

They'll do what they say...

methodically and relentlessly.

I know the determination of those devils.

I saw his mouth open, and I waited for his exhortation.

I believed that he'd urge us to revolt,

but no words left his mouth.

They told me, "It is our right and our duty."

"Our duty."

Blessed are those who are so sure they're following the path of their duty.

At the crossroads, they say, "Take that path."

But you see it doesn't lead to the bright mountain crests.

It leads to a sinister valley,

foul darkness, grim forests.

Dear God...

show me where my duty lies.

Is it our duty to never condone murder?

As is my right,

I requested to be transferred to the front lines.

My request was finally granted.

Tomorrow I'm authorized to leave

and return to battle.

To hell.

I bid you good night.

Farewell.

Farewell.

To hear it, you'd have to be listening for it,

but I heard it

and so did Werner von Ebrennac.

Take my things downstairs.

"It is a noble thing for a soldier to disobey a criminal order."

Everything is ready, Lieutenant.

Yes, I'm -

I'm coming.

My niece prepared lunch, as she did every day.

She served me in silence,

and we drank in silence.

Outside, pale sunlight shone through the fog.

It seemed very cold outside.

It seemed very cold outside. OCTOBER 1941

THIS BOOK WAS CLANDESTINELY PRINTED

BY A PATRIOT DURING THE NAZI OCCUPATION

FEBRUARY 20, 1942.

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