In April, I left my Parisian train-train in the dressing room to take a big bowl of East. I wanted to see the city of wars, the city of the battle of 1916. Verdun here I am, disappeared here I am.
Documentaries, books, images and testimonials. Nothing is missing. Verdun, milestone in history, city of war and devil's anvil. A hundred years ago, in this lost corner of the Meuse, a score from French History was played, with howitzers and bayonets. It all starts at the Gare de l' Est, in Paris. It is always from there that trains leave for the new region of the Grand Est, towards Alsace and Lorraine.
I'm coming into that station. I imagine the crowd, the screams and the sorry faces. It is here that the youth of France left forever, a summer month with ripe wheat. In 2017, the pressed traveller replaced the soldier with the red cap and pants. In this railway cathedral, Albert Herter's painting looks out for travellers in a hurry and busy shops on its promontory. This American painter represented the departure of the Poilus for the front in August 1914. He painted scenes of jubilation, smiles, crying and flowers in the gun barrel. Perhaps it was so, maybe not. Still, my train is announced. On the way to Châlons-en-Champagne, first stage.
On the rails. 12h30. In the afternoon, the old Intercities leaves. After about ten kilometres, we drive at a brisk pace towards the prefecture of Marne where a bus to Verdun awaits me. Behind the filthy window, the sun plays hide and seek with clouds and is reflected on the glazed top of the East Parisian buildings. In a few minutes, we leave the capital behind. The doors of rural France are wide open. The cars are rushing towards the Diagonal of emptiness with some impatience. The groves, forests and rapeseed fields pass by in front of me. For a few moments, I look up from my book to observe this region that I know very little about. The splendid valley of the Marne is filled with spring sunshine.
After about twenty minutes, the train stops at Château-Thierry. I've heard the name of this town before. She received the Legion of Honour and saw the birth of Jean De la Fontaine. You'll tell me so much! Just enough time to rejoice at this reminiscence that the train is leaving. It takes two hours to reach Châlons. Contemplating the hills with green and yellow reflections heals me from the grey concrete of the city. I am happy to leave the tumultuous life and noisy Paris area for the quiet of pastoral France. I'm in the Marne. The vines draw green watercolours with olive reflections on the hills. Our train stops at Epernay, capital of champagne. The green shores of the hillsides of this wine kings thrive as far as the eye can see. A dozen or so passengers get off the wagon. These Champenois-Parisiens take advantage of the weekend to return home. A sort of weekly greening.
Soon, the car descends a small valley and drives in front of the Verdun Memorial. This modern architecture stands out in the immense Verdun forest. A few tens of meters further on, a sign says "Fleury-devant-Douaumont Village destroyed". It is one of seven villages that the French and German howitzers crossed off the map. One million shells rained on Verdun on February 21,1916, the first day of the German offensive. Another 52 million over the next ten months. This steel storm shattered farms, bakeries, shoemakers and laundries. Here, life is gone and time has suspended its flight.
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