Free And the Show Went On: Cultural Life in Nazi-Occupied Paris by Alan Riding Page A

from the Lutetia, the old Prison du Cherche-Midi, so convenient for the Gestapo and so feared by its enemies, has been demolished and replaced by the kind of glass-and-steel anonymity that has no history.
    Around my office in the 6th arrondissement, the memories are even fresher. On my own street, rue Monsieur-le-Prince, the early resistance group known as the Musée de l’Homme network held meetings at No. 30. One block away, a German-language bookstore catering to the Wehrmacht once stood on the place de la Sorbonne.That square was also home to Jean Galtier-Boissière, a satirist who kept the sharpest and wittiest journal of the occupation. To the north, on the rue du Sommerard, a plaque outside a primary school remembers those pupils who were “deported from 1942 to 1944 because they were born as Jews, innocent victims of Nazi barbarity with the active complicity of the government of Vichy.” Running past the square is the boulevard Saint-Michel, still pockmarked from intense fighting during the insurrection of Paris. Nearby, the French Senate was the Luftwaffe headquarters and, behind it, the last tank battle in the city was fought in the Luxembourg Gardens. On many a wall, plaques record where young fighters died. And every year on August 25, the anniversary of the liberation, these fallen are remembered with bouquets of flowers. I often stop to look at the unfamilar names on these plaques, and I sometimes ask myself if France’s renowned artists and intellectuals served the country as loyally. But I also try not to forget the words of Anthony Eden, Britain’s wartime foreign secretary: “If one hasn’t been through the horrors of an occupation by a foreign power, you have no right to pronounce upon what a country does which has been through all that.”

· CHAPTER 5 ·
Paris by Night
    BY THE SPRING OF 1941, Parisians had adjusted surprisingly well to the occupation, fortunately perhaps, since it was also evident that no one was hurrying to their rescue. The United States was reluctant to enter the war. The Soviet Union had a nonaggression pact with Germany. And while Britain had held off a German invasion in the summer of 1940 to the surprise of most of the French, “plucky little England” still posed no threat to the Reich. Indeed, German and Vichy propaganda had been skillfully reminding the French that Britain was their historic enemy. And, it was noted, there were fresh reasons to distrust la perfide Albion: the perception that Britain had sacrificed France to save its own forces at Dunkirk; Churchill’s decision to bomb French navy vessels moored at Mers el-Kébir in Algeria; and Britain’s support for a failed Gaullist attempt to take over Vichy-run Senegal in September 1940.
    The beneficiary, by default, was Pétain, who at this stage appeared to most French people to be the only alternative to supporting either the Germans or the British. The problem was that the marshal himselfcould do nothing to change the lives of Parisians. In fact, he never set foot in Paris between June 1940 and April 1944, four months before the city’s liberation. The reality was that the Germans were in charge, and most Parisians chose to make the best of things. And this meant seeking distraction wherever they could.
    The 1930s had generated an extraordinary array of music halls, cabarets, nightclubs and bordellos, and almost all had reopened by Christmas 1940. In many of them, notably music halls, it was also possible for Parisians to enjoy themselves without having German uniforms beside them. The reason was simple: stand-up comics and chansonniers performed their numbers in French, often peppered with argot, which few German soldiers could understand. Naturally, given the risk of being denounced, direct criticism of the occupation forces was unwise, but that made the double entendre all the funnier. One song, for instance, punned on the word occupation , which also means “job” in French:
With us our biggest problem