(.... till I end my song}

                                                                     

                        I BECOME A BRITISH CITIZEN

            I am back at the point where I started my story.  It was my good luck that I had explained my circumstances to the Personnel Officer, and that she had not picked up on them.   It was my good luck that I had been offered a job with NATO, even though I had failed the shorthand test.  Perhaps my good degree tipped the balance, or perhaps they just needed more girls.  I had soon found out that the Personnel Officer had a drink problem, and was not really up to her job.   In fact she left NATO soon afterwards.  In any event, this meant that once I had arrived in Paris, the Organisation bore a certain responsibility for me.

         With the doughty Mme Dreyfus in charge, supported by my boss, M. Woirin, and some senior NATO officials, events were set in motion, and within a few weeks I was asked to present myself at the British Consulate in Paris, where I met a charming lady, Betty Barclay, the British Consul.  I was given my papers of naturalization to sign, in which I declared my allegiance to the United Kingdom, I became a naturalized British citizen, and received my British passport.  After many years of struggle over the problem of my nationality, now, with a little influential pressure, it was all resolved and I was able to get my French ID card and so stay on in Paris.

         My gratitude to Mme Dreyfus and to NATO was unbounded, and still is.  At last I had an official status, I was no longer an alien having to report to the police whenever I changed my address.  This word had been buried deep in my unconscious, together with other words such as ‘illegitimate,’ ‘sinistre’,  'stupid.' Worse still, the French word ‘aliéné’ meant to be mad, insane, deranged!  Thus is our sense of identity formed through outward circumstances.  This sense of identity would continue to be formed and reformed through outward events.  All these inchoate and buried ideas had contributed to my complete lack of self confidence.   Although through my reading I had built up an imaginary world, and created a barrier against the real world.

         I never discussed this with my mother, like so many other things, but I imagine she must have felt a sense of guilt about it.

         We found a place to live after some searching, as accommodation in Paris was scarce and expensive.  Our new address was on the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, just off the Champs Elysées.  The flat, so-called, was in a ‘maison de maître’ or town house belonging to the Count and Countess de Saint Poix who lived in the country.  It was a beautiful house, painted pale eau-de-nil, with shutters of the same colour, with a courtyard presided over by the concierge. He lived in a little cottage at the side of it.   Our living arrangements were slightly unusual:  they had been the servants’ quarters, and consisted of a long corridor which had a toilet at one end, then a small gas cooker halfway along;   this opened out into what was my mother’s bedroom, and off that there was a large room with a bath in it and my bed.  It was by no means ideal, but we were seduced by the glamour of the location and the external beauty of the house.  I was young and still entranced by living in Paris;  it seemed to me  Bohemian and romantic.  Added to which, we looked out onto the back of the famous five star restaurant called Lasserre!

        

         My mother, now seventy three, took it all in her stride.  Still very active, she enjoyed the variety of the French markets and finding her way around the shops.  With her French she was able to talk to the shop keepers and the very extrovert French. She still managed to produce delicious meals for us on two gas rings.

         We were due to move into the new headquarters at the end of the year.  The new NATO building was a large and imposing structure in the shape of an A, situated at the Porte Dauphine by the Bois de Boulogne, so it was a very pleasant, wooded area and not too far out from the centre of Paris.  The move was a huge operation, especially since a large part of the contents were classified Secret.  I had had to sign the Official Secrets Act when I first arrived.  We had to pack all the documents up before we left the old building, then the Staff were given some days off whilst everything was transported to the new building. When we came back to our new office, it all had to be unpacked again.

         The new building now housed not only what was known as the International Staff, but also all the delegations of the fifteen nations which made up NATO, and the Office of the Secretary General.  I missed the old building, with its friendliness and somewhat ramshackle appearance, which gave it a casual, almost carefree feeling. I missed the old cafetaria with its delicious French food.  M. Woirin could no longer jump in through the window, but had to come up the stairs like other ordinary mortals.  We now had a huge canteen, with different caterers, and the food took on the blandness of mass production. We had an office on the first floor, neat and functional.  I felt this was where my life in NATO began in earnest.  Up to then, it had seemed more like a holiday!

(....till I end my song)

                                 MOVE TO PARIS IN 1959

                              (Revised version)

         I am on my own – in Paris!  I can hardly believe that I am here.  My mother is going to follow me in a week’s time.  I walk about as though in a dream.  It is July when the mass of Parisians take their annual monthly holiday.  The streets are silent and empty.  Most of the shops are shut, the bakeries, the dairies, even some of the smaller cafés.  I walk for miles along the sunlit streets, relishing the symmetry of the long avenues lined with plane trees, the architecture, the tall buildings with their uniform limestone façades and shuttered windows.  I walk along by the river Seine exploring the secondhand bookstalls, the ‘bouquinistes’ as they are called, and cross the bridge over to the Left Bank.  Here the streets are narrower and the buildings older.  I peer through the windows of the many little antique shops, with interiors like theatre sets.  I find the Boulevards St Germain and St Michel and well known cafés like the Café Flore and Les Deux Magots, which I have read about, where famous artists and writers used to congregate and drink and talk.

I sit in the sun with a café crème and watch the Parisians go by.  Everything is fresh and new and exciting.  I feel totally, deliriously happy.

                                    * * * * *

I had replied to the Daily Telegraph advertisement and taken a shorthand and typing test.   I had passed the typing test, but not the shorthand and that seemed to be the end of the matter.

However, a few weeks later a letter came from the Personnel Officer at NATO offering me a job as a shorthand typist.  I wrote back explaining my stateless situation and that I only possessed an Aliens Certificate.  I also told her that my mother was dependent on me and so would be accompanying me to Paris.  I  received a reply confirming the appointment and asking me how soon  I would be able to start.

I had to give three months’ notice to ICI.  Peggy, of course, was delighted  by my news and wished me well, as did my friends.  We gave our notice to our Jewish landlady.  Formerly pleasant, she had for some reason turned against us.  On our last morning in the flat, I had taken our luggage down to the taxi and was just closing the door when she darted out holding my sunhat, remarking tartly that she hoped “the sun would not go to my head.”  It cast a momentary cloud over my mood.

NATO had booked a room for us at a small hotel in the Place  du Trocadéro. This was a large circular area leading off in several directions in the 16^th ‘arrondissement’, one of the smarter residential districts in Paris, not far from the Place de l’Etoile, and it was situated right behind the temporary headquarters of NATO, or North Atlantic Treaty Organisation, to give it its official name.  The hotel was a narrow building with several floors and no lift.   Our room was on the fourth floor.  Every morning the ‘femme de chambre’ brought me my breakfast in bed, a delicious hot croissant and a bowl of milky coffee,  a ritual which I loved.

Then my mother arrived.  I had found a ‘pension’ where we could stay for a while, in a leafy suburb in the 16^th arrondissement, not too far from NATO.  It was an old house with a large, shady garden, run by a kindly, middle aged woman called Mme Lapérouse, who seemed to be permanently worried.  She had a Downs syndrome daughter. We would get our breakfast and an evening meal.

The French people were so different:  they were sharp and quick, extravert, lively and loquacious, I could hardly understand them.  My own spoken French was still halting and slow.  I learnt a new word:  ‘énervé’, which meant irritable or stressed out.  Many French people seemed to be in a constant state of ‘énervement,’ taxi drivers in particular, who would rant and shout, hoot their horns (this had not yet been banned by law), fling up their arms – “que je suis énervé!”  they would exclaim.  No wonder they all suffered from liver problems, their major health complaint. 

I presented myself nervously at the NATO headquarters,  at that time housed in a temporary building annexed to the Palais de Chaillot,  which had been rebuilt for the World Fair of 1937.  It was beautifully situated overlooking the river Seine and facing the Eiffel Tower, with the Trocadero Gardens down below.  NATO at that time was composed of fifteen nations.

 I met the Personnel Officer, a Canadian woman, pleasant enough, who seemed somewhat vague and abstracted.  I learnt that I would not be going into the Typing Pool but straight into an office in the Aircraft Section.  I also learnt the terms of my engagement:  I would receive an expatriation allowance, as well as an allowance for my mother, since she was a dependent, and the salary was way above anything I could earn in England.

I met my new bosses, a Frenchman and an Italian, Monsieur Woirin and General Tenti.  The head of the Section was an Englishman, Mr. Bloss.  M. Woirin  was a French air force  pilot who during the war had fought with the Resistance, and been based in London with General de Gaulle.  He was quirky and manic, often jumping through the windows into our ground floor office, which made me laugh. He had many amusing stories of his time in London, especially the time when he met Mrs. So and so in the ‘Tub’.  

He dictated to me for hours on end  (fortunately I could get most of it in longhand), until one day General Tenti remarked that we “should be put in a cockpit together.”  General Tenti, on the other hand, did very little, and spent most of his time on the phone, chatting up his girl friends. 

I was still in a state of euphoria and  happily  spent hours typing up the work given to me by M. Woirin.  It was only later on that I learnt that none of the girls wanted to work for him, and  that his previous secretary had left in tears.  Luckily I was mostly amused by his eccentricities and I was to find out that he was a very kind man.  He was also a devout Catholic.

The temporary headquarters was a ramshackle building, already falling to pieces, with pieces of straw sticking out of the walls.  There was an old tattered carpet in the main entrance hall, and one day I saw M. Woirin,  running as usual, go flying as he caught his foot in one of the holes.  He called me “a true Christian” as I did not laugh at him.  In truth, I felt much too concerned to laugh.

There was a cafetaria  where we could have lunch, and here I became initiated into the French way of life.  There were starters, small delicious salads, hors d’oeuvres or crudités, then a meat or fish dish, often a grilled steak with ‘frites’ and a tossed green salad, and a sweet, crème caramel, or a pastry or fruit. There were small bottles of wine, red or white.  It was good, simple French cooking and it tasted delicious to me.  We always had two hours for lunch, and this was a sacrosanct tradition in France.  So unlike a quick lunch and a soggy sandwich in London.

We were due to move into a new building in the Porte Dauphine at the end of the year, but I loved that old building and remember those first few months with great affection.

My mother, too, seemed happy to be in Paris.  She had always liked the French and felt at home with them.  She had, after all, experienced much kindness from them when I was born.

A little time had elapsed when I was asked to go and see the Personnel Officer again.  She told me that I would need to obtain an ID card so that I could work in France.  I duly visited the Town Hall as I was directed and presented the official with my Aliens Certificate.  He looked at it and he slowly shook his head.  This would not do, he explained to me.  I needed an official Passport in order to obtain an ID card.

I was shattered.  What was I to do?   My world came crashing down around me, as all my hopes and dreams were dashed to the ground.  It seemed that my mother and I would have to return to England.

     (.....  till I end my song)


                                           MOVE TO PARIS

I replied to the Daily Telegraph advertisement and shortly after I was invited to go for a shorthand and typing test.  My shorthand was not much improved, as I rarely used it, so I was disappointed, but not surprised, to learn that I had failed the shorthand though I had passed the typing test.  That seemed to be the end of the matter.

However, a few weeks later I received a letter from the Personnel Officer at NATO offering me a job as a shorthand typist.  Overjoyed by this, I wrote back explaining my stateless situation and that I only possessed an Aliens Certificate.  I also told her that my mother was dependent on me and so would be accompanying me to Paris.  I  received a reply confirming the appointment and asking me how soon  I would be able to start.

I gave in my three months’ notice to ICI.  Peggy, of course, was delighted by my news and wished me well, as well as my other few friends.  We only had to give a month’s notice to our Jewish landlady in Hampstead. For some reason, usually very pleasant, she had recently become quite unfriendly, possibly because of a dispute we had had over paying the milkman, and this news did not please her at all.  On our last morning in the flat, I had taken all our luggage down to the taxi and was just closing the door when she darted out holding my sunhat, remarking tartly that she hoped “the sun would not go to my head.”  It cast a momentary cloud over my mood.

We had decided that I would go first to Paris and that my mother would follow me a week later.

It was July, 1959, and I was on my own in Paris!   I stayed in a small hotel on the Place Trocadero which  had been booked for us by NATO.  The NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organisation) Headquarters were not far away at the Palais de Chaillot.  I was not due to report to them for a week, the idea being that I would try and find somewhere for us to live during that time.

It was summer and the sun was shining.  I walked the streets of Paris, taking in the newness of it all, the tall buildings with their uniform limestone façades and shuttered windows.  Most Parisians took their annual holiday ‘en masse’ in July, so very few of the shops were open - the bakers, the dairies, some of the cafés - and the streets were largely empty.  I felt carefree and relaxed, as though I were on holiday myself in this beautiful city.

  I walked along by the river Seine, exploring the ‘bouquinistes’ which lined the pavements. These were secondhand bookstalls selling used and antiquarian books, postcards and old prints, fascinating for any booklover like myself.  (There was no tunnel then running along by the Seine.)   I explored the little antique shops on the Left Bank, peering into the dim interiors which looked like theatre sets. I found familiar landmarks which I had read about, the Boulevard St-Germain, the cafés Flore, Les Deux Magots.  I sat outside the cafés in the sunshine and indulged in my favourite pursuit of watching the world go by.

The French people were so different:  they were sharp and quick, extravert, lively and loquacious, I could hardly understand them.  My own spoken French was still halting and slow.  I learnt a new word:  ‘énervé’, which meant irritable or stressed out.  Many French people seemed to be in a constant state of ‘énervement,’ taxi drivers in particular, who would rant and shout, hoot their horns (this had not yet been banned by law), fling up their arms – “que je suis énervé!”  they would exclaim.  No wonder they all suffered from liver problems, their major health complaint.

I loved it all.  I was totally happy.

Then my mother arrived.  I had managed to find a ‘pension’ where we could stay, it was in a leafy suburb in the 16^th arrondissement, which was a fashionable area of Paris, and not too far from NATO.  It was an old house with a large, shady garden, run by a kindly, middle aged woman called Mme Lapérouse, who seemed to be permanently worried.  She had a Downs syndrome daughter.  She gave us our breakfast and an evening meal, and we settled down into this new environment for a month or so.

I presented myself at the NATO headquarters with some trepidation.  NATO at that time was housed in a temporary building annexed to the Palais de Chaillot.  It was beautifully situated overlooking the river Seine and facing the Eiffel Tower.  I met Katie Goddard, the Personnel Officer, a pleasant Canadian woman who seemed somewhat abstracted.  I learnt that I would not be going into the Typing Pool but straight into an office in the Aircraft Section.  I felt pleased by this, not realizing that it put me at a disadvantage since I would not meet the other girls who would show me the ropes and become friends.

I was still on cloud nine and everything was a thrill to me.  I met my new bosses, Monsieur Woirin and General Tenti.  The head of the Section was an Englishman, Mr. Bloss.  M. Woirin  was a French air force  pilot who during the war had fought with the Resistance, and been based in London with General de Gaulle.  He was  quite manic, often jumping through the windows into our ground floor office, which made me laugh. He told us stories of his time in London,  and of how he met Mrs. Jones in the ‘Tub’.   He dictated to me for hours on end (fortunately I could get most of it in longhand), until one day General Tenti remarked that we “should be put in a cockpit together.”  General Tenti, on the other hand, did very little, and spent most of his time on the phone, chatting up his girl friends. 

I was quite happy to spend hours typing up the work given to me by M. Woirin.  It was only later I realised that none of the girls wanted to work for him, and learnt that his previous secretary had left in tears.  Fortunately I was merely amused by his eccentricities and I was later to find out that he was a very kind man.  He was also a devout Catholic.

The temporary headquarters was a ramshackle building, already falling to pieces, with straw coming out of the walls.  There was an old tattered carpet in the main entrance hall, and one day I saw M. Woirin, running as usual, go flying as he caught his foot in one of the holes.  He called me “a true Christian” as I did not laugh at him.  In truth, I felt much too concerned to laugh.

There was a cafetaria  where we would have our lunch, and here I was initiated into the French way of life.  There were starters, small delicious salads, hors d’oeuvres or crudités, then a meat dish, often a grilled steak with ‘frites’ and a tossed green salad, and a sweet, crème caramel, or a pastry or fruit. These things have become commonplace to us now, but then they were all new and different. There were small bottles of wine, red or white.  It was good, simple French cooking and it tasted delicious to me.  We always had two hours for lunch, and this was a sacrosanct tradition.  It was very different from a half hour lunch and a soggy sandwich in London.

We were due to move into a new building in the Porte Dauphine at the end of the year, but I loved that old building and remember those first few months with great affection.

My mother, too, seemed happy to be in Paris.  She had always liked the French and felt at home with them.  She had, after all, experienced much kindness from them when I was born.

I had been in NATO for a little while when I was asked to go and see Katie Goddard.  She told me that I would need to obtain an ID card so that I could work in France.  I duly visited the Town Hall as I was directed and presented the official with my Aliens Certificate.  He looked at it and he slowly shook his head.  This would not do, he explained to me.  I needed an official Passport in order to obtain an ID card.

I was devastated.  What was I to do?  It seemed that all my hopes and dreams were to be dashed to the ground, and that my mother and I would have to return to England.