"Les Amèricains" in France on VE Day
His hand was softer than I expected as I gazed over the deep fault lines running wrist to fingertip and gnarled joints permanently stiffened from nearly a century of life. He held my hand in both of his, bowed his head and said a very quiet “merci.” Tears brimmed in his eyes as he looked directly into mine. I was speechless and felt so unworthy of his thanks that it bordered on shame. I squeezed his hands back and smiled, tearing up myself, but having no idea what to say. Even if my mind hadn’t blanked on the little French I did know, I don’t think I would have found the right words.
I should be thanking him I thought – he was probably younger than me when he was fighting for his life and the world’s freedom all those years ago. For the first time, our travels felt insignificant and almost selfish. He fought through the best years of his youth and the worst times in history so I could have the luxury of being here right now. I couldn’t imagine going to war, being away from everything familiar and safe, and witnessing the loss of life and friends that he must have seen. And because of his service, I thankfully didn’t have to.
I watched as he straightened and walked carefully to his table, one tentative step at a time, his jacket pressed and adorned with faded medals pinned precisely on the pockets. More octogenarians filled the plaza as noon approached. All of these men, and the women left behind to raise families and armies of their own, had sacrificed in ways I’d never understand from the privileged and peaceful life I’d lived thus far. I was humbled, grateful, and in awe as we settled in beside another family at the long cafeteria tables set up for lunch.
It was one of those picture-perfect May afternoons in the south of France with dazzling blue skies and bright sunshine that warms you from the inside out. The cicadas and noon church bells were the only sounds as we bowed our heads in a moment of silence. Our little village was hosting an Apero to celebrate VE Day, the day World War II officially ended in Europe, and as we lifted or heads, plastic cups of Rosè and paper plates of chicken, corn, and buttered bread were being passed down the rows.
“If it wasn’t for you we’d all be speaking German, ha ha” said the man across from me as he lifted his glass of Rosè toward us. Jeff and I smiled sheepishly and cheers’d back. We had lived in this little village in the south of France for two months and hardly knew anyone except our British hosts and a few of their friends, but I was starting to realize that everyone knew us: “Les Amèricains.”
Honestly, I was unprepared for the genuine kindness and welcome we’d received. I remember various people warning us before we left the States that “no one likes Americans anymore”, to “watch out” because we were targets, and that we could always say we were Canadian because everyone likes Canadians. We didn’t take their advice per sè, but I’d be lying if I said we didn’t hesitate a moment before telling people we were from California.
The way we were being treated today completely blew my mind and as lunch went on and the Rosè flowed into broken Anglo-French conversations, I stated to feel something I hadn’t felt in a while. Pride. For the first time in a long time, I felt proud of being an American and of our past, proud of our global presence and our role in some of the most pivotal moments in history. Moments that still define our world today and that allow us the luxury of living a life of freedom, peace and opportunity.
My cup of Rosè was empty and families and friends were filtering out of the plaza arm in arm. In the south of France, life flows in tandem with the rhythms of the light and it had started to shift from the brightness of early afternoon to the warmer tones of evening and I felt it was time for us to head home as well.
We sauntered back up the path, slightly buzzed, but wholly consumed by the newfound responsibility we felt to build upon the legacy these men and women had fought for and left in our keeping; to continue to do our part as “Les Amèricains” so that their suffering was not in vain, but in honor of a greater future.
