A European Education

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Text originally published in 1960 under the same title.

© Eschenburg Press 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

A EUROPEAN EDUCATION

by

ROMAIN GARY

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

DEDICATION 4

CHAPTER 1 5

CHAPTER 2 7

CHAPTER 3 10

CHAPTER 4 13

CHAPTER 5 14

CHAPTER 6 17

CHAPTER 7 20

CHAPTER 8 23

CHAPTER 9 24

CHAPTER 10 27

CHAPTER 11 29

CHAPTER 12 32

CHAPTER 13 36

CHAPTER 14 41

CHAPTER 15 43

CHAPTER 16 50

CHAPTER 17 57

CHAPTER 18 66

CHAPTER 19 68

CHAPTER 20 73

CHAPTER 21 78

CHAPTER 22 80

CHAPTER 23 83

CHAPTER 24 87

CHAPTER 25 92

CHAPTER 26 94

CHAPTER 27 105

CHAPTER 28 111

CHAPTER 29 115

CHAPTER 30 123

CHAPTER 31 132

CHAPTER 32 140

EPILOGUE 145

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 150

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 151

DEDICATION

To the memory of my fallen comrade,

the eighteen-year-old Free Frenchman,

Robert Colcanap,

this book is dedicated.

CHAPTER 1

THE HIDEOUT was finished just as dawn began to glimmer. It was a wretched dawn in September, drizzling with rain. The pine trees floated in mist; the sky was lost somewhere out of sight. For a month they had been working secretly, by night; the Germans never risked leaving the main roads after dusk, but by day their patrols ranged the forest, hunting for the few remaining partisans whom hunger and despair had not yet forced to give up the fight. The den was twelve feet deep and fifteen feet wide. They had flung a mattress and some rugs into one corner; six sacks of potatoes, a hundredweight each, were stacked along the earthen walls. In one of these walls, alongside the mattress, they had dug a hearth; the chimney flue came up to the surface a few yards from the hideout, in a coppice. The roof was solid. They had made good use of the door of an armored train which the partisans had derailed about a year ago, on the line from Wilno to Molodeczno.

Don’t forget to get fresh brushwood every few days, said the doctor.

I won’t forget.

Keep an eye on the smoke.

Yes, sir.

Above all, don’t talk to anyone.

I won’t talk, promised Janek.

Shovel in hand, father and son inspected their work. It was a good den, thought Janek, well hidden in the brushwood. Even Stefek Podhoriki, better known in the school at Wilno as Winetoo, the Noble Apache Chieftain, while Janek himself went by the glorious title of Old Shatterhand—even Winetoo would not have spotted its existence.

How long shall I be living like this, sir?

Not long. The enemy will soon be beaten.

When?

Don’t lose heart.

I’m not losing heart. But I want to know. When?

In a few months perhaps.

Dr. Twardowski looked at his son. Stay hidden.

Yes, sir.

Don’t catch cold.

A pair of snowshoes was lying by the hearth, the kind that trappers use in all those adventure stories about the far northern wildernesses which Janek loved so much.

Dr. Twardowski caught his glance. You’ll use them when the snow falls. But even then you must drag the blanket behind you to erase your mark. Otherwise, they will follow the track and find your hole.

Janek felt a little thrilled. I know about them, sir. The trappers use them in the Far North when they hunt the animals for their skins.

The doctor nodded. Yes, he said, when they track the animals for their skins. He took a Browning automatic from his pocket. Look. He explained how the pistol worked. Take good care of it. There are fifty cartridges in the bag.

Thanks.

I am going off now. I’ll come back tomorrow. Keep well hidden. Your two brothers were killed—you are all we have left, Old Shatterhand!

He smiled. Be patient. You’ll stay here only as long as the S.S. troops are here. They are not even an army. They are the worst there is in the human race. They will be gone in a few weeks. Think of your mother. Don’t ever go far away from your hideout. And cheer up. Freedom always returns. It will speak the last word.

Yes, sir.

The doctor went away into the mist. It was daylight now, but everything was still gray and hazy—the pine trees floating in mist, their branches drooping like burdened wings that no air can lift. Janek slipped into the brushwood and raised the rusty iron door. He climbed down the ladder and threw himself on the mattress. It was pitch dark in the hideout. He got up and tried to light a fire; the wood was damp. He got it going at last, lay down again, trying not to cry. He took up the big book Winetoo, the Red Indian Gentleman. But he could not read. The silence in his ears was frightening; it was as if the whole earth had turned to stone. His eyes closed. Weariness numbed his body, his mind.....He fell asleep.

CHAPTER 2

HE SPENT the next day in his underground lair. He read the chapter in the book in which Old Shatterhand, bound to the stake, succeeds in eluding the vigilance of the Indians and escapes. It was his favorite passage. He roasted potatoes in the embers and ate them. The chimney drew badly, smoke filled the hideout and stung his eyes....He dared not go out. He knew that outside, all alone, he would be frightened. In his lair he felt safe from men.

Dr. Twardowski arrived at nightfall.

Good evening, Old Shatterhand.

Good evening, sir.

You haven’t been out?

No.

You weren’t frightened?

I’m never frightened.

The doctor smiled sadly. He looked old and tired. Your mother wants you to pray.

Janek thought of his brothers. His mother had prayed a lot for them. What use is praying?

No use. Do as your mother tells you.

I will, sir.

The doctor stayed with him all night. They did not sleep much. They did not talk much, either. Only Janek asked, Why don’t you come and hide, too?

There are a lot of sick people at Sucharki. Typhus, you know. The famine is spreading the epidemic. I must stay with them, Old Shatterhand. You understand that, don’t you?

I do, sir.

All night the doctor tended the fire. Janek lay with his eyes wide open, watching the logs turn red and then black.

You aren’t asleep, my boy?

No, sir...

Yes?

How long is this going to last?

I don’t know. No one knows—no one. Suddenly the doctor said, The Americans are in the war now. They will come from the west, soon. In the east the Russians are fighting like lions.

Are they fighting for us, sir?

Yes—for us, and for millions of others.

The wood crackled, burned and fell into ashes. The doctor sat on the mattress, rubbing his hands. He looked into the fire. When he spoke again, his voice shook a little.

It will take some time. You must be patient. If you don’t hear from me, whatever you do, don’t go back to Sucharki. You have food for some months. When you have nothing left to eat, or if you get too lonely, or too scared, go and find the partisans.

Where are they?

I don’t know. They are constantly on the move. They are hiding in the forest. Try to find them—but don’t ever show them your hideout. Whatever happens, don’t show it to anyone. If things go badly, always take refuge here.

I will, sir.

Two days later the doctor returned. He didn’t stay long. I daren’t leave your mother alone.

Why?

"A German non-com has been killed at Sucharki.

They are taking hostages."

It’s like the Indians, said Janek.

Yes, like the Indians.

The doctor was staring into the fire. One more thing.... He raised his eyes. Remember, nothing important ever dies. Whatever happens to your mother, or to me—it is only an episode. What our enemies are trying to kill is immortal—out of their reach. Liberty, love. It always grows again.

He stood up. Perhaps you are too young to under-stand. You will have to find out by yourself.

I’m not too young, young Janek said.

The doctor smiled. Good. Don’t get careless. Keep yourself clean and tidy. Do as your mother has taught you.

Yes, sir.

Don’t waste matches. Keep them near the hearth, in a dry place. They are the only thing that can help you to keep warm.

I’ll take care of them. Sir...

My child?

This battle, in the east? And the Americans? When are they coming?

There is no news. It is difficult to know what’s happening. I am sure they are trying their best. Cheer up, Old Shatterhand. We are not alone. It will be only a few weeks. Goodbye for now.

Goodbye, sir.

The doctor went. The next day he did not come back.

CHAPTER 3

THE S.S. division Das Reich had already spent five days in Sucharki, licking its wounds, waiting for orders and trying to patch up a morale somewhat shattered during the last few weeks they had spent on the Stalingrad Front before fleeing back home under fatherly orders from the Führer himself.

It was the first time the division had seen the front. It had been carefully recruited and guarded for special work, far from the fighting lines in occupied territories, which regular units of German officers and soldiers could not be entirely relied upon to perform.

Just at dawn the division entered Sucharki, two trucks, one empty and one full of S.S. men with pointed tommy guns, went from house to house rounding up young women and bringing them to the summer villa of the Counts Pulacki, which stood three and a half kilometers southwest of the village on the road to Grodno.

The roundup was carried out in accordance with written orders from the divisional command. Its motives were twofold: to provide some needed relaxation for the soldiers and to test the strength of the local partisans, drawing them out of the woods.

It had long been part of the S.S. action in occupied territories, and it was almost always crowned with success. The partisans would break their commanders’ orders and rush out from their inaccessible hideouts against the waiting tanks and carefully placed machine gun nests, in a desperate attempt to rescue their wives, daughters and sweethearts. It was a good, classically simple plan, based on a thorough psychological knowledge of humanity—and combining, so to speak, pleasure and sound military doctrine. It had been successfully tested in France, Holland, Belgium, Russia—and with the Poles, who had a strong sense of honor, it never failed to work. One could just wait there, smoking a cigarette, for the enraged and crazed men to come out into the open. Whole groups of partisans had been thus tricked out of the forest and exterminated all along the division’s way from the front. It was one of the division’s favorite tricks, and it made its name hated and despised everywhere, even among the more conservative commands of the German Army.

The Pulacki villa had been built in the early nineteenth century as a summer "folly"—an imitation of Marie Antoinette’s Petit Trianon palace in Versailles. It had high French doors and windows, enormous rooms, and no heating. Almost all the windows were broken. A few hours after their arrival, some of the women had tried to swallow glass or cut their veins with it, so all the window frames had been removed. The cold and the damp inside were such that they acted almost like an anesthetic and helped the captives to forget their other miseries. It was only on the second day that some of the families managed to bribe the guards and to have some warm clothing and blankets delivered to the palace.

The park stretched out beyond the palace toward the woods. There were gazebos; empty ponds half filled with dirt, fallen branches and dead leaves, with their rusty iron piping sticking out among the statues of cupids and Apollos; and exquisitely conceived French tonnelles—where, in better days, the polite society used to play, flirt, converse, watch the fireworks, or listen to the music from the orchestra stand, where now three soldiers stood guard day and night around their machine gun.

The S.S. had put one stove inside the palace, but there was never enough coal, for the rooms were big, the walls thin, and through the empty windows rain, wind and dampness filled the place.

There were about twenty women in the big ballroom, which was richly decorated with blue-and gold French boiseries—the ceiling was painted with angels and winged goddesses in the manner of Tiepolo.

About three hundred soldiers passed through the palace each day.

At dawn on the second day, a small group of six partisans came out of the woods and walked in line across the park, firing wildly, killing no one and losing two men before withdrawing into the forest.

It was after this incident that the S.S., pleased that the plan had worked once more, installed the stove in the ballroom and rationed out some fresh, hot food to the captives.

A very young, blond, teen-age girl was constantly going from one dazed woman to another, a cigarette dangling between her lips, trying to comfort those who seemed unable to adjust themselves to their new circumstances. The girl had a little, thin, freckled face; it was heavily powdered, and thick lipstick covered her mouth. She was not from Sucharki, and no one had seen her before in the village. She told them that she came from Wilno, that her parents had been killed and that she had been going with the soldiers for over a year. She wore a beret and a heavy man’s coat, and her black woolen stockings were constantly falling over her ankles. She would pull them up, standing on one foot, bending the other leg, with the childish gesture of a little girl whose stockings fall during play.

When one or another among the women became hysterical, she would rush to her, take her hand and plead earnestly, Please...It doesn’t mean a thing, really. They can’t do much to you if you don’t let it upset you. It’s just the way you think about it.

She took particular care of a good-looking woman in her late thirties, with graying hair and big dark eyes—the wife of the local physician, Dr. Twardowski. She often knelt before her, took her hand and said lovingly, They won’t keep us here forever. We’ll be all right.

There was no furniture in the villa. The women lay on straw mattresses thrown on the floor, or they leaned against the walls. Some of the family portraits of the Counts Pulacki, however, still hung on the walls, torn and full of holes: gentlemen in blue silk court dress with white-powdered wigs and vests studded with orders, ladies with proud features, with little dogs on their laps.

Whenever a soldier chose the blond girl, she would put out her cigarette carefully, place it on the window sill and go with him. Then she would come back, pick it up and light it. She seemed to care more about what happened to her cigarette than about herself. She didn’t seem to think that anything did happen to her.

Whenever she caught sight of an officer visiting the place, she immediately rushed to him and started to