Direct action in the novel: Vanessa Schneider and Monica Sabolo

Je ne savais pas encore que les années Action directe étaient faites de ce qui me constitute: le secret, le silence et l'écho de la violence.

Monica Sabolo, La vie clandestine

I didn't yet know that the years of direct action consisted of what defines me: mystery, silence, and the echo of violence.

Sur les photographs, Nathalie Ménigon a frange à la Sophie Marceau, a visage gracieux mais insaisissable. Joëlle Aubron sourit, cigarette between the lèvres, elle dégage une énergie frontale, un je-ne-sais-quoi de buté. Elles ressemblent à n'importe quelle young fille des années 80. Étudiantes en lettres, vendeuses, employées de bureau, ouvrières, volontaires, rêveuses, moins affranchies qu'elles ne le paraissent. Et dans le même temps elles sont la mort, affichée comme un avertissement: dans notre monde s'en dissimule un autre, dangereux, effroyablement proche, au visage juvénile.

Monica Sabolo, La vie clandestine

In the photographs, Nathalie Ménigon sports a fringe reminiscent of Sophie Marceau, a graceful yet elusive face. Joëlle Aubron smiles with a cigarette between her lips, radiating a direct energy, a certain stubbornness. Both look like any other young girl in the 80s. They are literature students, saleswomen, office workers, factory workers—strong-willed, dreamy, and less liberated than they might appear. And yet, at the same time, they are death, plastered across the map as a warning: hidden within our world is another, dangerous, frighteningly close world with a youthful face.

Do you have anything to do with the maintenant, petite conne? You don't have anything to say before you know it? Leftovers concentrated.

This is what is available to the tirer. Jean-Marc has access to the same person who is available to discuss the political assassination. Les actions militaires se faisaient sur la base du volontariat. Joëlle n'avait pas rejoint AD for faire de la figuration. Elle n'avait pas quitté les squats et leurs fumeurs de shit pour se contenter d'écouter les fréquences de la police et louer des bagnoles sous de fausses identités. Elle n'avait pas rompu avec ses amis d'enfance, ses soeurs et ses parents, ses anciens camarades de lutte, pour imprimer des tracts clandestins et se déguiser en bourgeoise à faire le guet devant des bureaux de poste à braquer. Elle voulait faire partie de this avant-garde qui avait choisi de prendre les armes. Il n'était plus question de revenir en arrière.

Vanessa Schneider, The fille de Deauville

You're not going to chicken out now, you little slut? You're not just going to give up after doing all that? Stay focused.

She was the one who had asked to be shot. Jean-Marc had always said he wouldn't force anyone when they first started discussing political assassinations. Military actions were voluntary. Joëlle hadn't joined Action Directe to make a name for herself. She hadn't left the squats and her stoner friends to spend her time just listening to police radio and renting cars under false identities. She hadn't broken with her childhood friends, sisters, and parents, her former comrades, to print clandestine leaflets and disguise herself as a bourgeois woman guarding post offices that were about to be robbed. She wanted to be part of this vanguard that had chosen to take up arms. There was no turning back.

The son's côté, Luigi Pareno sauta dans a voiture pour foncer sur Paris afin de parvenir avant elle à la gare Saint-Lazare. Dans la précipitation, il avait oublié d'enlever le tablier blanc qui entravait sa conduite. The car arrives in just a few days when the car is ready to go on the sidewalk. When the train was surgical, it was sent to the air by Catherine Deneuve. The transpirait à large gouttes, ce qui le contraignit à rester à distance. The girl is probably attending, but she can't wait to see her fair repérer. Elle était sur ses gardes, beaucoup moins sereine que dans le train. Elle fit plusieurs fois le tour de la gare, s'engouffra finalement dans le métro, mais exécuta quelques coups de sécurité en faisant brusquement marche arrière pour s'assurer qu'elle n'était pas suivie. Pareno dut laisser filer. Celle qu'ils appelleraient désormais « la fille de Deauville » connaissait son métier.

Vanessa Schneider, The fille de Deauville

Luigi Pareno, for his part, jumped into a car and drove to Paris to arrive at the Saint-Lazare station before her. In his haste, he had forgotten to remove the white apron that was hindering him while driving. When he arrived, he threw it away, along with the car, which he had hastily parked on the sidewalk in front of the station. When he saw her get off the train, he couldn't help but notice a touch of Catherine Deneuve about her. He was sweating profusely, which forced him to keep his distance. The girl was probably expected; he couldn't afford to be spotted. She was on her guard and much less composed than she had been on the train. She circled the station several times and finally ran into the metro, but made some safety maneuvers, suddenly reversing to make sure she wasn't being followed. Pareno had to let her go. The woman they would henceforth call "the girl from Deauville" knew what she was doing.

Debut des années 80, Joëlle gardait un goût amer au fond de la gorge et ce n'était pas celui de la cocaïne dont elle se badigeonnait allègrement les gencives dès que l'occasion se présentait. This amertume-là était parée des pigments du dépit et de la colorère. The movement of the squats ensures the sense of engagement. Joëlle avait vu l'individualisme before insidieusement le pas sur le collective. Have a poignée de camarades, elle commença à envisager des actions plus radicales. The fallait pas compter sur les squatteurs pour mettre à bas le système, ils se ramollissaient comme glace au soleil.

Vanessa Schneider, The fille de Deauville

Joëlle had a bitter taste in her throat from the early 80s, and it wasn't the cocaine she'd smeared on her gums at every opportunity. That bitterness was laced with the pigments of anger and resentment. The squatters' movement had lost its sense of commitment. Joëlle had watched as individualism gradually gained the upper hand over the collective. With a handful of comrades, she began to consider more radical actions. You couldn't rely on the squatters to bring down the system; they were becoming as soft as ice in the sun.

Joëlle aurait aimé naître quelques années plus tôt, avoir 20 ans en mai 68 et monter sur les barricades, trainer ses baskets dans les usines occupées, tractor dans les amphis, se frotter avec la flicaille le soir venu. Elle avait le sentiment rageant d'être arrivée trop tard. Les aînés avaient vécu le meilleur, l'époque de all les possibles: faire la révolution, mettre à bas l'État tortionnaire, donner le pouvoir au people. Puis ils s'étaient lassés sans voir que tout était à portée de main, qu'il s'en serait fallu d'un rien pour renverser les nervis impérialistes. Les trotskos, les maos, les gauchos de toutes obédiences avaient baissé les bras. Ils avaient volé les rêves des ouvriers, trahi la confiance des pauvres. Ils s'étaient fatigués avant même d'avoir véritablement commencé à agir. Ils pactisaient avec la social-démocratie, ils entraient dans les lieux de pouvoir comme des rats affamés, monnayaient leurs diplomas et leur habileté à établir stratégies et tactiques contre des emplois sûrs et grassement rémunérés. Ils prenaient des salaries échange d'un return au calme et à l'ordre. Ils avaient déserté les luttes, on ne les voyait plus aux côtés des opprimés, des immigrés et des proscrits, dans les squats et les taudis, pas davantage aux portes des usines. On the retrouvait occupant les hauts postes à l'université, à la tête des journaux et même dans les grands groupes industriels. Ils faisaient de l'argent quand eux apprenaient à se servir d'un fusil d'assaut.

Leur indécence lui donnait envie de Gerber. Ils s'étaient révélés pires que ceux qu'ils avaient combattus, plus cyniques que les bourgeois contre lesquels ils avaient prétendu se dresser, car au moins, du côté des milices d'État, on ne jouait pas à faire semblant. Joëlle était convaincue que si elle était arrivée plus tôt dans la lutte, si des gens comme elle, prêts à tout, vaient été là, ils auraient pu empêcher cette dérive, la funeste déréliction, la lâcheté collective des chefs de 68.

Vanessa Schneider, The fille de Deauville

Joëlle wished she had been born a few years earlier, been twenty in May '68, and taken to the barricades, dragged her sneakers through occupied factories, campaigned for her views in lecture halls, and clashed with the police in the evenings. She had the nagging feeling that she had arrived too late. The older generation had experienced the best, the time of all possibilities: to make revolution, to bring down the torture state, to give power to the people. Then they had grown weary and had refused to see that everything was within reach, that only a tiny bit was missing to overthrow the imperialist henchmen. The Trotskyists, Maoists, and leftists of all stripes had sat idly by. They had stolen the dreams of the workers and abused the trust of the poor. They had grown weary before they had even truly begun to act. They made pacts with the social democrats, swarming like hungry rats into the corridors of power, trading their degrees and their ability to develop strategies and tactics for secure, high-paying jobs. They accepted salaries in exchange for maintaining peace and order. They had withdrawn from the struggles and were no longer seen alongside the oppressed, immigrants, and outcasts in occupied houses and slums or at factory gates. They could be found in high-ranking positions at universities, at the helm of newspapers, and even in large industrial corporations. They earned money while learning how to operate an assault rifle.

Their indecency made her nauseous. They had proven themselves worse than those they had fought against, more cynical than the citizens they had supposedly risen up against, because at least on the side of state power, it wasn't just a pretense. Joëlle was convinced that if she had joined the fight earlier, if people like her, prepared for anything, had been there, they could have prevented this drift, this fatal delirium, this collective cowardice of the leaders of '68.

With the tournant de la rigueur in 1983, a part of the gauche déchantait. Mitterrand has his own face, he is not available to the people, he remembers Jean-Marc. Augmentation du prix du tobacco, de l'alcool, de l'essence, baisse de la durée des indemnités chômage, ça tapait dans all les sens. The cohort of mécontents enflait en même temps que le taux de chômage. The barre des deux millions de sans-emploi serait bientôt franchie. C'était le moment idéal pour enrôler les déçus. This is also available from this deuxième génération d'immigrés qui ne parvenait pas à trouver sa place en France, ces laissez-pour-compte, parqués dans des cités ghettos, exclus du marché du travail, victims of racisme quotidien. Personne n'avait vu venir leur colère, ni anticipé à quel point ils étaient capable of mobilization. The part of the Banlieues de Lyon and available marches in Paris, 60,000 girls and garçons who are autoproclaimed "Beurs". The company is largely unprofitable.

Vanessa Schneider, The fille de Deauville

With the shift to austerity in 1983, a segment of the left became disillusioned. Mitterrand had shown his true colors; he didn't give a damn about the people, Jean-Marc rejoiced. Prices for tobacco, alcohol, and gasoline were increased, unemployment benefits were shortened—one thing led to another. The cohort of the disaffected grew along with the unemployment rate. Soon, the two million mark for unemployed would be surpassed. This was the perfect time to recruit the disillusioned. And then there was the second generation of immigrants who couldn't find their place in France, these left behind, crammed into ghettos, excluded from the job market, and victims of everyday racism. No one had seen their anger coming or anticipated the mobilization they were capable of. They had set out from the suburbs of Lyon and marched to Paris, 60.000 girls and boys who called themselves "Beurs." The society developed cracks, but they did not benefit from them.

C'est durant l'hiver 1990, bien longtemps après que l'on eut déposé le bac dans la rue, ses parois constellées de moisture, qu'un souvenir issu d'un lieu secret éclata à la surface de la conscience de Monica. À la façon d'une bulle remontée lentement, très lentement, du fond de la mer, des images d'un quotidien dérobé éclatèrent soudain, avec une douceur mortelle. Come a deflagration étouffée, an aquarium s'éclaira dans la nuit, the poissons glissant in les algues, and the main d'Yves S sous sa chemise de nuit.

Monica Sabolo, Tout cella n'a rien à voir avec moi

In the winter of 1990, long after the tub with its moldy walls had been placed on the street, a memory of a secret place surfaced in Monica's consciousness. Like a bubble rising slowly, very slowly, from the ocean floor, images from a stolen everyday life suddenly burst with deadly gentleness. Like a muffled explosion, an aquarium lit up in the night, fish glided through the algae, and Yves S.'s hand slipped beneath her nightgown.

À la maison, the ambiance is étrange, quelque chose glisse, là aussi. An imperceptible movement may be inéluctable, pareil à celui des plaques océaniques. C'est l'époque des dîners spectaculaires, de l'argent, toujours plus abondant, des fêtes déguisées dans a new apartment, au cœur de la vieille ville, near the Parc des Bastions, où les invitations ne cessent de me répéter, a coupe de champagne à la main, quelle chance j'ai d'avoir une famille aussi extraordinaire. Pendant les dîners, des hommes bronzés en chemise de coton parlent de la France, du mandat "catastrophique" de François Mitterrand, qu'ils prononcent "Mittrrand" en appuyant sur les r. Ils m'évoquent Bernard Tapie, who has his eyes on the television, on Antenne 2, in the émissions intitulées "Vive la crisis", or "La saga des faiseurs de fric", and qu'il affirme avoir rencontré, à plusieurs reprises, ce qui visiblement impressionne ses amis. My mother's voice is loud, and also from Alain Delon or Jean-Marie Le Pen, a horizontal voice on the little dent carnivores. Encore aujourd'hui, when surgit ce sourire sur un plateau télé, this fente sensuelle, authoritaire, qui s'étire sur leur visage, je sens thisté chose, dans mon ventre, de l'ordre de la menace.

Alors que j'entre dans l'adolescence, et que croît le danger, le péril du rapprochement des corps, mon père, lui, est au sommet de son assurance, de son charisme, hermétique au doute. Il a toujours l'air de savoir ce qu'il fait, ce qu'il dit, mais aussi ce que font les autres, les erreurs qu'ils commettent. Mitterrand is planted on the whole line, like Bernard Tapie pourrait mieux faire, s'enrichir plus encore – les moyens de this réussite, en revanche, ne sont jamais évoqués, et encore moins l'idée qu'il puisse s'agir de détruire des entreprises, de licencier des hommes. La misère, le chômage, cela n'existe pas dans notre maison.

Monica Sabolo, La vie clandestine

At home, the atmosphere is strange; something is shifting here too. An imperceptible but unstoppable movement, similar to that of the oceanic plates. It's the phase of spectacular dinners, ever-increasing sums of money, and costume parties in a new apartment in the heart of the old town, near the Parc des Bastions, where guests, champagne in hand, repeatedly tell me how lucky I am to have such an extraordinary family. During these dinners, tanned men in cotton shirts talk about France, the "disastrous" term of François Mitterrand, whom they pronounce "Mittrrand," and in doing so, r They roll. They tell me about Bernard Tapie, whom my father sees on television on Antenne 2 in programs titled "Long Live the Crisis" or "The Saga of the Money Makers," and whom he claims to have met several times, which obviously impresses his friends. My father has the same smile as him, and also as Alain Delon or Jean-Marie Le Pen—a horizontal smile with very small, flesh-eating teeth. Even today, when that smile appears on a television screen, that sensual, authoritative slit that stretches across their face, I feel something in my gut that feels like a threat.

As I enter puberty and the danger grows, the danger of physical intimacy, my father is at the height of his self-confidence, his charisma, beyond reproach. He always seems to know what he is doing, what he is saying, but also what others are doing and what mistakes they are making. Mitterrand is failing completely; even Bernard Tapie could do better, become even richer—the paths to this success, however, are never mentioned, let alone the idea that it might involve destroying companies and laying off people. Misery and unemployment are unknown in our house.

The way I arrive, my friend, on the phone, I ask you to see the difference between vérité and véracité. Nous avons ri, en résumant les choses à notre façon: véracité, recherche de l'exactitude des faits, vérité, recherche de la réalité profonde des êtres et des choses. Nous avons décidé, de manière péremptoire et très personnelle, que la recherche de la véracité était une manière petite-bourgeoise d'envisager la vie, en alignant les faits directement observables, tandis que celle de la vérité sous-entendait l'acceptation du mystère, d'un sens qui se dérobe, quelque chose de plus grand que nous, que l'on ne peut qu'effleurer. The véracité était une mule, besogneuse et bornée, and the vérité un cheval majestueux, mais indomptable. The ensemble, couchée in the black, sur ce lit où Nathalie Ménigon s'est couchée avant me, que je dois descendre de la mule pour me hisser sur un cheval, or peut-être simplement le regarder galoper au loin.

Monica Sabolo, La vie clandestine

The day before my arrival, my brother asked me on the phone if I knew the difference between truth and veracity. We laughed and summarized things in our own way: veracity, the pursuit of the correctness of facts; truth, the pursuit of the deeper reality of beings and things. We decided, in a peremptory and very personal way, that the search for veracity was a petit-bourgeois way of looking at life by stringing together directly observable facts, whereas the search for truth implied the acceptance of the mystery, a meaning that eludes us, something greater than ourselves that we can only glimpse. Veracity was a mule, hardworking and narrow-minded, and truth a majestic but untamed horse. It seems to me, lying in the dark on this bed in which Nathalie Ménigon has lain down in front of me, that I must dismount from the mule to swing myself onto a horse, or perhaps just to see it galloping in the distance.

This instant, the main thing is to pose the creux of the poitrine and appuie sur son cœur. Elle reste là, immobile. Elle inspire profondément, comme si on lui avait donné a coup, or qu'une douleur se réveillait, entre ses côtes. The face is pale, the main thing is that it is lying flat, and I realize that it is just in lingerie. La douleur, la rage, le chagrin, Françoise Besse, les cinq enfants. Le stressaillement, la violence, l'incertitude, la volonté de vivre, celle de se souvenir, et celle d'oublier. Tout est là mais nous ne pouvons ni le thunder, ni le recevoir, ni le formuler, ni l'entendre.

Nathalie Ménigon s'éloigne, made a break, she returned verses moi. « Y'ai pensé, aux enfants. I'm imagining that my children will come back to me today. Que j'étais désolée pour la souffrance. » Elle sits a moment of silence in the environment of the piece, replaces the jacket in balance on the bra. Nathalie inspires new. « Avant, j'avais cherché leur âge. Ils étaient plus âgés que mon frère quand maman est morte. Je pensais qu'ils s'en sortiraient. »

Monica Sabolo, La vie clandestine

At that moment, her hand lands on her chest and presses against her heart. She stands motionless. She takes a deep breath, as if she's been struck or as if a pain is awakening between her ribs. Her face is pale, her hand too, flat against her chest, and I realize that everything is there, right beneath it. The pain, the anger, the grief, Françoise Besse, the five children. The twitching, the violence, the uncertainty, the will to live, the will to remember, and the will to forget. It's all there, but we can neither give it nor receive it, neither articulate it nor hear it.

Nathalie Ménigon steps away, pauses, and turns to me. “I’ve been thinking about the children. I’ve been imagining what I would say to them if I met them one day. That I’m sorry they’re suffering.” She stands silently in the middle of the room for a moment, balancing her jacket on her arm again. Annelyse, who has just come in with her car keys, doesn’t move. Nathalie takes another breath. “Before that, I looked up how old they are. They were older than my brother when Mom died. I thought they would make it.”