Jacques FRANÇOIS – Moving letter during the war.

Jacques FRANÇOIS (1920.2003)

Autographed letter signed to Olga Barbezat.

Four pages, quarto. December 26, 1944

"I've hit rock bottom, I've gone beyond the limits of disappointment and sadness, I've been too sad to be sad anymore, I don't care about anything!"

A very moving letter from the French actor recounting with fatalism his personal situation at the end of the Second World War.

"My dear Olga, It's been so many days and months since I last heard from you, and since you last heard from me, that I don't know what to tell you, where to begin, what might interest you, what's important, and what isn't. I'll try to give you a brief summary of what's happened since the last letter I sent you, I believe, from La Clef des Champs, some time before the arrival of American troops in our region. We saw the German troops leave one fine day, and an hour later the Americans arrived. It was about a week and a half after the Allies reached Paris. There was no battle here, and even if there had been, it wouldn't have mattered to me at all. After a week of hesitation, I decided to return to Paris to see what was happening with the theater and the cinema, and if there was any possibility of me working again ." After some serious investigation, I saw that only those who had any chance of playing the role of a "hero" of the Resistance, which I was not, had any. Apparently, Marchal, Dacquemine, and others covered themselves in glory by taking German prisoners, who had been disarmed beforehand by the Americans. I'm willing to believe it, but besides the difficulty of finding something to do, the general atmosphere filled me with such disgust that I quickly decided to get away from it all by any means necessary. The French were no longer tolerable to me, and I decided to seek refuge with the invading forces. Nevertheless, I began by spending fifteen days fighting my way through the crowds at the Hôtel du Beaujolais, where I had taken up residence. After that, thanks to my mother's pro-American leanings and a few connections, I managed to enlist in the American Army, or at least in the French contingent incorporated into the American army for the repatriation of deportees and prisoners of war. A decree from the Minister of National Defense promoted me to Lieutenant. I had a magnificent uniform made (without, believe me, losing my sense of humor for a second) and was sent to Champagne to an American training camp where I spent a little over a month. After that, I was deemed to have many qualities and was seconded to the General Staff of the 7th American Army to handle the matters I mentioned earlier. The objective has been achieved: I am in contact only with these foreigners; I have practically no contact with the French except to give them directives, not receive them. I have an enormous, interesting job that leaves me no respite, filled with responsibilities. I am treated with immense respect by everyone, everyone needing me. I am stationed in a town in Alsace where the sound of artillery fire is constant. I go online every day and in the evening I come back here. I have a place to stay in the most beautiful house, with people who know no how to please me. I'm warm, I have boiling water, a bathroom, a car, I smoke a lot, and I'm delighted every moment to be so far away from everything . I never receive letters, I rarely send them, only to my mother, to my friend Jean Denis Maillart, and to you for the first time. All this, my Olga, shows you, I think, roughly where I'm at. You, who know me, can guess that I've hit rock bottom, that I've gone beyond the limits of disappointment and sadness. I've been too sad to be sad anymore. I don't give a damn about anything! The only reason I can find to exist is to start believing in miracles, and unfortunately, I'm not very religious. It's impossible for me to tell you in a letter what happened to me; besides, you already know from the letters I sent you from the countryside. All of this is ruined, and I'm deeply convinced it's final (my only consolation is knowing that if the one I love is alive, their suffering is equal to mine, but is that any consolation at all?). So, to avoid having time to think too much about myself, to avoid having to make plans, to draw up activity schedules, to eliminate social, professional, and worldly obligations from my life… I know that nothing can distract me . I've chosen the only path where this memory can't be spoiled or sullied by contacts that would either drive me mad or distract me and, an hour later, find me ready to end it all. So, I've chosen a kind of fake Foreign Legion. Wasn't that the best solution? I'm stuck in this until the end of the war, and probably even a little after. This work could be fascinating if I could find it , but alas, that's impossible. However, through sheer passivity, I've become capable of intense activity, and everyone here is enthusiastic about my zeal, the results I achieve, my initiative, my authority, and I, Olga Darling, just smile gently. That's quite a mouthful to describe me. I'd love to know what's become of you. Take a deep breath, write me a long letter, and know, my dear Olga, that I am your friend forever, that I would give anything to see you, that I love you, and that I have always remained your brother. Happy New Year to Marc and to you. Jacques François