Prelude to the Second Weltkrieg - Part 2: Commune of France

February 6, 1937

February 6, 1937 – Nancy, France

Dear Marguerite,

I was actually a little confused when I read your note about Simone because the day after I wrote that letter I met a very different Simone that wiped the earlier Simone from my mind.

Margeurite, I think I'm in love! I know, I know, your brother has a bad habit of doing this, but this time it's real, I swear it. This new Simone is a mechanic that just joined our unit. She doesn't have the body of a goddess the way Simone-in-the-brothel did, but she's almost as beautiful. More important, I find myself hanging on to her every word. I have trouble thinking of anything else. I've invented countless excuses to visit her the past few days. More importantly, I think she's also warming up to me. This morning she visited the men's barracks to offer some extra coffee the women had been allocated, and most of her visit was spent with me. We talked for nearly an hour and a half. My commander even let me skip out on a drill we'd had scheduled – the old man might not be so heartless after all. And now all I can do is replay every word I said to her in my head, hoping they were the right ones.

I could write you a letter just about Simone. The way she looks, talks, laughs – oh my god her laugh! – but since I know you're not particularly fond of my taste in women, I will restrain myself and regale you with a funny incident that happened yesterday instead.

Silmani, that Algerian loader I told you about a few letters ago – you know, the one who's so short he's the only one who can stand up all the way inside the engine compartment? Well yesterday he was doing an inventory of shells. And it turns out Silmani is almost as illiterate as he is short. He came back after an hour with a number of shells much larger than could possibly fit in the magazine. He reported the number back to his commander, who went back with him, took one look, and told him to count again. So Silmani counted again, and came back with the exact same number. The commander told him to try one more time. So Silmani goes in, comes back – very hungry I might add, because they made him count over lunch – and has the exact same number!

Finally the commander exploded and told him he was obviously very stupid. Then he demanded Silmani show him how he counted the shells. So Silmani marches back to the magazine with the commander and about half the squadron in tow, because we all want to see how he's managed to go so wrong. We followed him into the store room and the commander tells him, "Start counting!" So Silmani starts, and we are all watching, waiting to see where he goes wrong.

It takes a while. He is doing fine, then he gets to seventy eight, seventy nine... one hundred.

One hundred!

The poor man had such a lacklustre education in French in Algeria, that his teacher only ever taught him how to count up to seventy-nine. He assumed the French way of counting was to go to seventy-nine, then start over at the bottom hundred. We all laughed so hard at his expense, I felt sorry for him immediately. The poor man couldn't help getting a piss poor education from the Imperial dogs who used to run the country.

We all had a good laugh, then one of the other loaders – I forget who – asked him how he'd managed to get through so many years in France without knowing how to use numbers. "How often do you have to count to a hundred?" Silmani asked.

"No no" the man said "how did you shop for food? How did you know how much you were getting paid?"

"Oh that's easy, I can read those numbers! They're Arabic numbers!"

We all laughed so long and hard at that, and the commander even gave him an extra ration of cigarettes for being so funny. I had to ask him how he thought we French got away only counting to eighty every time, but used eighty-one through ninety-nine in all our other numbers. He gave me the most serious look and said. "I always wondered..."

Anyways, that's the best story from here. I'm glad work has cooled down and you have left Pierre behind for good. I never did like him, although I think even less of your taste in men than you think of my taste in women. So maybe don't go on to the next man very quick, or maybe try going for an ugly, sensible man instead of the flashy ones you usually wind up falling for, ok?

And you are a saint for looking after mother so well. I've included an extra few francs I don't need this month to help out with those groceries, and maybe look at getting her a cane to help her get around. I know she won't want to use it, but she needs to be careful. Especially if the snow gets bad and she slips on some ice, it could be very bad, especially since her hip already hurts.

Your brother,

Henri