A woman who works in my lab, Astrid, lives in Caen, the capital of Normandy (long commute she has to work every day!). Almost since I joined the lab, I have been telling her how I wanted to see the Beaches of Normandy, where Allied troops invaded on June 6, 1944. And that fairly well sums up everything I knew about D-day before this weekend. Thanks to Astrid making my dream a reality, I got a mini-lesson in WWII history and a new-found sense of national pride.
Before making our way to the beaches, Astrid took Saori (the Japanese post-doc also from my lab) and me to the War Museum in Caen, where we familiarized ourselves with the key role the region played in the turning point of WWII. Even before entering, I felt moved by the serene and powerful show of flags. Even Germany’s was represented, so apparently they are not only the Allied flags.
The inscriptions on the wall read “ The pain broke me. The brotherhood lifted me” and “From my injury gushed a river of liberty”.
And along the side of the wall were numerous smaller plaques quoting diplomats from different countries after the war ended. Most read simple messages like “Son, defend the freedom your Father won.” The two plaques from Germany were complicated, practically philosophical proofs on human rights and culpability. I guess it is hard to justify a war that the entire world blames you for. (What would the US say about the War in Iraq?)
Inside, the layout of the museum made you feel like they were descending into the depths of hell, as you spiraled down a ramp where the lighting became increasingly darker until finally you walk through a doorway under the projection of a larger-than-life image of Hitler. I was curious to see how a French museum would present France’s role in the war. Much more emphasis was placed on Resistance heros, like Charles de Gaulle and Jean Moulin, and less on the Vichy government and Nazi collaborators. I have seen elsewhere, like the Holocaust memorial in Paris for example, France depicting itself solely as victim of, not conspiring at all with, the Nazi government. In this museum, you were left to believe that the Vichy government was more passive, more forced into being, a means of survival in a way, in a German-occupied, war-torn France. More research is needed, and I want to know if this is accurate.
After feeling almost a sense of information claustrophobia, I was well ready for the open air of Omaha beach on Sunday. The clearest signs that D-day, or Jour-J (or Day-D, short for Day-Day) was only 4 days away were the men driving 40’s style open-top Jeeps and French flags that we passed on the highway. I am sure that if I had been at the festivities 3 years ago, for the 60th anniversary of D-day, and the first to which the Germans were invited, it would have been much more raucous.
Otherwise, nothing about our trip there or our initial walk on the beach would have given away the upcoming anniversary, and especially the atrocities that occurred there. The beach was gorgeous, the golden sand was soft and covered with pebbles (as well as shells, starfish and dead sea life), sand dunes and cliffs lined the shore. Even some foolish (probably Northern Europeans) were swimming in the frigid water. Astrid explained to us that the beaches, and in fact the whole of Normandy is very marshy. In fact, some of the buildings in the town of Caen lean, like the Tower of Pisa, on soft earth. So the German forces thought the area would be difficult for the Allies to access and were caught off-guard by the attack.
Walking up the hill away from the beach, to the American cemetery, we did run into gnarly vines and overgrowth. I complained about this pesky obstacle, but then felt bad considering under how much better conditions I am visiting the beach. An interesting fact about this American cemetery, maybe like all of them around the globe, is that it is owned by the USA. We actually passed a fence, shown below, where we left France, and entered the USA (no passport required). I asked Astrid if a baby were born IN the cemetery, which nationality would it have. She did not have the answer.
We did not do much talking in the cemetery. It was more beautiful and touching than I expected. There were rows and rows and rows of crosses, and some Stars of David, for almost as far as the eye could see, and beyond that, the sea. Inscribed on the crosses were the name, homestate and date of death of each soldier. Many lost their lives in June or July 1944. But I was surprised to see some dates well after, October or November, and even more surprised to see that some people actually died before June 6, in March 1944 even.
The memorial in the cemetery was also quite beautiful. There were large maps outlining the paths that the United States, Canadian and British divisions took as they invaded the Beaches of Normandy and spread inward. I counted about 10 United States units for every 2 or 3 British or Canadian or French. I know that the number of troops per capita was probably similar, and that Britain had been fighting for long on home turf. Still, I was proud in the war that the USA fought.
On a lighter note, Saori and I were treated to staying in a real home. Astrid lives in the heart of the old quarter of Caen, the one that escaped WWII ruin. In an old home, with exposed stone and creaky floors, almost giving you the sense of being in a castle. Cream sauce is a specialty of Normandy and I incorporated it into each meal. Her kids seemed very interested in an American and a Japanese. Her daughter, age 18, was furiously preparing for the BAC, like the SAT, but more important as it will determine if she is accepted to university. Her son had a concert with his middle school that we attended. In fact, noone in the house really payed much attention to pre-D-day other than us tourists. Life goes on.
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