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Title: From Paris to Barcelona Author: Rirette Maîtrejean Date: 1959 Language: en Topics: Paris, Barcelona, love, prison, Victor Serge Source: Retrieved on 10th September 2021 from https://forgottenanarchism.wordpress.com/2015/03/23/from-paris-to-barcelona-rirette-maitrejean/ Notes: Published in Témoins.
He had arrived one day from Brussels, where he was our correspondent for
the small anarchist newspaper I was taking care of since Libertad’s
death. He was only 20. He was handsome as a god: a face of a very pure
oval, a high forehead, a straight nose with quivering nostrils, a thin
and sensitive mouth, with a slightly distant smile; on all of this, an
expression of great detachment, continuously contradicted by a constant
need to work, to discuss, to write.
Almost straight away we made a habit of meeting almost every day, in
libraries, along the embankments he loved, at the Luxemburg near the
pond of the MĂ©dicis Fountain, or at my place, in my small home rue de la
Seine. In the warm season, we often took the bateau-mouche to
Saint-Cloud, a few books or translation and correction work under our
arms.
Then, one grey autumn day, as we were reading and commenting François
Villon together, in my silent home, love came… from this moment on my
life was completely transfigured.
We were both full of enthusiasm, and we worked with much bravery to
animate the small newspaper which was in our care: he at the redaction,
and I mainly at administration, and even at housework tasks which often
presented formidable difficulties.
Several months passed by in this manner, quite peacefully. Then came the
awful torment that was to be called the case of the “tragic bandits”, in
which we were both taken away, each in a different prison. Even the
dangers of the formidable accusation seemed less terrible, less hard to
face than being apart. But he was n exceptionally serene soul, and,
during the five long years of his imprisonment, he never complained even
once. He needed paper, quills, books, many books. He knew I was very
poor, but it was as if he had no material needs at all. He never asked
for anything.
The last day of the trial – when I was freed – he wrote me, as soon as
he was back in prison: “Do not worry for me, my sweet friend, I will
stand all of this very well. I am so happy that you are out of this. It
will soon be springtime. Enjoy Paris, enjoy life. Keep me only your
tenderness and I will be happy.”
At the Melun central prison, where he was transferred, he was soon
admitted in the printing workshop, where he learnt typography. We were
in the middle of the great war, the prisoners’ food was dreadful, and
three times he had to be moved to the infirmary where they were treated
slightly better. He made the best of this forced leisure to learn
German, Spanish and Esperanto. He worked ceaselessly, studying, reading,
translating, writing. From the Santé prison and the Melun central
prison, I received 528 letters, every single one numbered for control,
every one more tender, more affectionate and braver than the other.
As soon as he arrived in Melun, the question of our relationship was
raised. We were not married, and from the moment he had been convicted,
we were no longer allowed to write to each other, and I was not allowed
to visit him. We decided to marry, but we needed the authorisation from
the Home Office for this. When it finally reached us, and when the
marriage was announced, I went to Melun. The ceremony took place with
his two witnesses – prison wardens – and mine -some journalist friends.
Then, we were left alone in a small council office, for about an hour.
It had been around two years since we had last been close to one
another. And our emotion was so great we could hardly speak. Hands
joined, eyes blurry with tenderness, we uttered a few meaningless
sentences, while our hearts were so full of each other.
Alas! After the five years, we did not find each other again: he was
deported, as a foreigner, and he chose the Spanish border. In Barcelona,
where I joined him, I could not find the means to support my two
children, and I had to leave for Paris. At that time, I found him still
resigned ad brave as per usual. He had been hired as a typographer and
had joined the – revolutionary – union where he immediately took part in
the already great agitation among Spanish militants.
When the Russian revolution broke out, he couldn’t resist: he felt like
he had to go there, be on the ground, take part, give of himself. He
came back to France thanks to some consulate indulgence, and I had to
help him struggle to find a way to leave. We only managed to have him
put in a concentration camp, where he spent another two years. After
that, he managed to be part of a transport of hostages leaving for
Russia.
The life he led there, he told in his Memories of a Revolutionary.
Everyone has been able to follow him through his work, which I deem of
such great importance, but of which it is not my place to write. But all
along this incredible journey, we never left each other, morally
speaking. I have his letters from everywhere – Russia, germany, Austria,
Silesia, and, finally, Mexico. I followed him thus through his travels
and adventures, with the same tenderness, the same inalterable
friendship. I had at some point planned also to leave for Mexico, tired
of this abominable life under the occupation. He encouraged me ad
promised to help me to land on my feet over there. Circumstances did not
allow it, but we both delighted in the idea.
It was at lunchtime that I learnt, on the radio, the news of his sudden
death, by a heart attack. And I can easily say that it was one of the
greatest sorrows in my life.