We originally created this recipe to share on our fellow blogger’s Brendon the Smiling Chef‘s beautiful site, where he elaborates delicious recipes in Sydney, Australia. In turn, Brendon will soon share one of his favorite dishes with us!
I took my gun and vanished.
This song gives me the chills as I drive through the green pastures surrounding our cottage. Slowing down on the curvy road, the trunks of pine-trees turn to gold with sunrise. It could almost be the set of an old Hollywood movie, like the ones you see at the Universal Studios train ride. Vibrations rhythmically bounce around me inside the car as Leonard Cohen’s version of The Partisan takes my mind back in time with its descending steps of bass notes and arpeggio motif on guitar strings. His voice is dark like the deep of these woods.
she died without a whisper.
It’s an English version of La Complainte du Partisan, a French resistance song from the second World War. At the time the Germans occupied the country, thousands of Jews, resistants, Communists… found shelter and hid in these very hills I drive by, these sleepy farms and villages like Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, where they survived thanks to the wilderness and the local villagers.
the frontiers are my prison
The song conjures so many images and feelings, things that I would rather not think about but that cannot be forgotten. I ask myself what it would have been like to be here 70 years ago, to be on the run from the Nazis and the collaborators. I can feel that the relationship to memory here is somewhat different. The soil was wounded in its flesh. The trees and walls and windows and fences would have stories to tell. Terrible stories. Beautiful stories too. It is an odd thing to wander around the silent remnants of anonymous, faceless crimes and rescues.
Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we’ll come from the shadows.