French poilu of the Great War. The names of the fallen sons of St Denis took up

three sides of the plinth beneath the figure. The bronze had darkened with the

years, but the great eagle of victory that was perched, wings outstretched, on

the soldier’s shoulder gleamed golden with fresh polish. The Mayor had seen to

that. The plinth’s fourth side was more than sufficient for the dead of the

Second World War, and the subsequent conflicts in Vietnam and Algeria. There

were no names from Bruno’s own brief experience of war in the Balkans. He always

felt relieved by that, even as he marvelled that a Commune as small as St Denis

could have lost over two hundred young men in the slaughterhouse of 1914–1918.

The schoolchildren of the town were lined up on each side of the memorial, the

infants of the Maternelle in front sucking their thumbs and holding each other’s

hands. Behind them, the slightly older ones in jeans and T-shirts were still

young enough to be fascinated by this spectacle. Across from them, however, some

of the teenagers of the Collčge slouched, affecting sneers and a touch of

bafflement that the new Europe they were inheriting could yet indulge in such

antiquated celebrations of national pride. But Bruno noticed that most of the

teenagers stood quietly, aware that they were in the presence of all that

remained of their grandfathers and great-grandfathers, a list of names on a

plinth that said something of their heritage and of the great mystery of war,

and something of what France might one day again demand of her sons.

Jean-Pierre and Bachelot, who might not have spoken for fifty years but who knew

the ritual of this annual moment, marched forward and lowered their flags in

salute to the bronze soldier and his eagle. Montsouris dipped his red flag and

Marie-Louise lowered hers so far it touched the ground. Belatedly, unsure of

their timing, Karim and the English Monsieur Jackson followed suit. The Mayor

walked solemnly forward and ascended the small dais that Bruno had placed before

the memorial.

‘Français et Françaises,’ he declaimed, addressing the small crowd. ‘Frenchmen

and Frenchwomen, and the representatives of our brave allies. We are here to

celebrate a day of victory that has also become a day of peace, the eighth of

May that marks the end of Nazism and the beginning of Europe’s reconciliation

and her long, happy years of tranquillity. That peace was bought by the bravery

of our sons of St Denis whose names are inscribed here, and by the old men and

women who stand before you and who never bowed their heads to the rule of the

invader. Whenever France has stood in mortal peril, the sons and daughters of St

Denis have stood ready to answer the call, for France, and for the Liberty,

Equality and Fraternity and the Rights of Man for which she stands.’

He stopped and nodded at Sylvie from the bakery. She pushed forward her small

daughter, who carried the floral wreath. The little girl, in red skirt, blue top

and long white socks, walked hesitantly towards the Mayor and offered him the

wreath, looking quite alarmed as he bent to kiss her on both cheeks. The Mayor

took the wreath and walked slowly to the memorial, leant it against the

soldier’s bronze leg, stood back, and called out, ‘Vive la France, Vive la

Republique.’

And with that Jean-Pierre and Bachelot, both old enough to be feeling the strain

of the heavy flags, hauled them to an upright position of salute, and the band

began to play Le Chant des Partisans, the old Resistance anthem. Tears began to

roll down the cheeks of the two men, and old Marie-Louise broke down in sobs so

that her flag wavered and all the children, even the teenagers, looked sobered,

even touched, by this evidence of some great, unknowable trial that these old

people had lived through.

As the music faded away, the flags of the three allies – Soviet, British and

American – were marched forward and raised in salute. Then came the surprise, a

theatrical coup engineered by Bruno that he had arranged with the Mayor. This

was a way for the old English enemy, who had fought France for a thousand years

before being her ally for a brief century, to take her place on the day of

victory.

Bruno watched as Monsieur Jackson’s grandson, a lad of thirteen or so, marched

forward from his place in the town band where he played the trumpet, his hand on

a shiny brass bugle that was slung from a red sash around his shoulders. He

reached the memorial, turned to salute the Mayor and, as the silent crowd

exchanged glances at this novel addition to the ceremony, raised the bugle to

his lips. As Bruno heard the first two long and haunting notes of the Last Post,

tears came to his eyes. Through them he could see the shoulders of Monsieur

Jackson shaking and the British flag trembled in his hands. The Mayor wiped away

a tear as the last pure peals of the bugle died away, and the crowd remained

absolutely silent until the boy put his bugle smartly to his side. Then, they

exploded into applause and, as Karim went up and shook the boy’s hand, his Stars

and Stripes flag swirling briefly to tangle with the British and French flags,

Bruno was aware of a sudden flare of camera flashes.