One Hundred Twenty-One Days Read Online Free PDF Page A

Normandy and that we also owned an apartment on Rue d’Artois, where Papa had worked and which Mama was renting out. It’s really nice of him to be so interested in us.
    I have leave for Christmas, so I’m going to spend the holidays with Mama and Thérèse.
    Christmas
    I got up early this morning and decided to take stock of my feelings in this diary.
    I have to revisit what happened with Robert in March. He needed a lot of support, both morally and, I think, spiritually. I admit, I really enjoyed our conversations. But I didn’t expect him to ask me to marry him. Naturally, I refused. He asked me why, like a child, and I answered that we were too different.
    I haven’t even told Mama about it. I know Papa would never have agreed for me to marry a Jew, Papa who, along with Cousin Paul and a few others, founded the League of the French Homeland during the affair with that man Dreyfus.
    Wednesday the 27th
    I returned to the hospital today. Lots of work, as if the Germans wanted to celebrate Christmas by killing as many of our men as possible. Yet there’s talk of a truce here and there. I didn’t have time to talk to him.
    January 2, 1917
    Today I had to try to comfort two wounded men who were crying because they were thinking about their fiancées. “I’m a monster,” one was saying, “She won’t want me anymore,” the other was saying, “No one will want me,” said the first, all of this in sobs.
    I hope their fiancées will think of the sacrifice they have made for our country and will love them for their moral greatness. I asked to pray with them, but one told me that while he would be grateful if I could pray for him, he could never pray again. The other, who works in an automobile factory in civilian life, turned his back and pretended to sleep.
    The weather is so misty and sad.
    January 5, 1917
    Lieutenant Mortsauf has finished writing his dissertation. Cousin Paul will come get it tomorrow. In the meantime, I wrote out the dedication in beautiful lettering, for which he thoughtfully put:
    “To the Polytechnicians Who Died on the
    Field of Honor in a Just War”
    with all those pretty capital letters.
    He told me he was very satisfied with what he had done, and I’m sure it’s true, given how happy he seemed.
    January 8, 1917
    So much work. I couldn’t even stop to eat at midday.
    No time to write again this evening.
    January 9, 1917
    He’s still working in his yellow notebooks. Paul told him he’ll probably win a prize for his dissertation. He also told me Paul was his Saint Christopher. I didn’t really understand what he meant by that.
    When I congratulated him for the glorious prize he was goingto receive, he answered:
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    (…) You’ll be a Man, my son!
    Thursday, February 1st
    Today I begin a new notebook, the third for this diary I’ve been keeping in secret since Papa’s death. I was so young then!
    I haven’t had very much time to write. I’ve often stayed late in the evening to talk to the men, who also need moral support. I’ve talked to Christian the most. We told each other what we like—I told him I like flowers. He told me he likes dogs. I really prefer cats, and I told him so. He told me that his dream, before the war, was to have a house with three dogs and six children, six boys. I told him I’d really like to have a little girl.
    He’s going on a few days’ leave to defend his dissertation. I would’ve liked to go but I didn’t dare say so; after all, it’s not the place for a young lady, and I couldn’t imagine asking permission to leave the hospital for that.
    So much snow again this year.
    Thursday, March 1st, 1917
    At least we haven’t had a February 29th this year. A year already, I remember the numbers: 29 and 479, which are prime numbers, Robert had shouted to everyone in the room, as if to announce some good news. “But why 479?” one of the patients had asked, while the