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463 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 20, 2005
I finally finished Lutetia. The book lingered in my hands for quite a long time. While its lack of narrative fluidity certainly played a role, this delay was due more to my own busy schedule than to the book itself.
Lutetia focuses on how the Second World War was reflected in one of the era’s most prominent hotels. The war is observed and narrated through the eyes of one of the hotel’s employees. The Lutetia first opens its doors to artists and writers, then to enemy soldiers, and finally to prisoners returning from concentration camps. Because the events do not unfold on an active front where guns and cannons are firing, you do not experience the direct physical devastation of war. Instead, you witness what war does to civilian lives.
While reading, I mentally cast Jean Reno as the main character, Edouard Kiefer. Not with the leather jacket, beanie, and round glasses we remember from Léon, but rather in a suit, white shirt, and tie—an image that felt far more suited to the atmosphere of this novel. Just as silent and withdrawn as he was in Léon. So much so that this solitary man boasts of his loneliness, saying: “Being alone is not a prison, not even a boundary; on the contrary, it is an achievement.”
Countless things have been said and written about war. Yet I do not think I have ever read anything better about war—or against it—than this:
“War—do not speak to me of war. I see no trace of nobility in it. Patriotic butchery is neither clean nor honorable, except perhaps in newspaper editorial offices… There is nothing to be salvaged from war, from real war… There is no beautiful way to get oneself killed in war… I went as a soldier and returned as a caveman… War has marked our lives forever…”
After all, the Second World War was less a war than a genocide—an act of shame against humanity (and then again, which war is not?). The author expresses this reality with the following words: “Now even children… What were we to call a regime that waged war on children as well?”
If we are talking about men running at each other in madness, weapons in hand, there is at least something one can attempt to grasp—absurd, ugly, and meaningless as it may be. People are dying for something they believe in. And if they are not of sound mind and do not even know what they are dying for, their loss is not counted as such by the world. But the rounding up of people because of certain characteristics, their murder in gas chambers, the killing of small children, the torture of human beings—this cannot be accepted or explained. This is not war. It is brutality, it is massacre, but it is not war.
Perhaps this is why war poetry has never moved me deeply. What could possibly be more important than human life? People should live with understanding, with love and tolerance—not for money or pieces of land. Blonde hair or blue eyes are not important—no longer. What can a person truly claim as superiority, other than their own labor? Dark skin or blue eyes are nothing more than adaptations that once made survival easier—nothing else.
Just as harsh conditions teach people many things beyond the obvious, books that depict such conditions do the same. In one chapter of the book, there is a conversation between a “victim” returning from exile and the doctor tasked with examining him. What the exile says to the doctor are words I often feel like shouting in people’s faces even today. Some things never change:
“Doctor, if you do not enjoy doing this job, then do not do it. But if you are going to do it, then do it properly. You asked me whether I had ever been ill—so clearly you saw nothing, heard nothing. Like every one of my companions, I am a disease catalogue all by myself. I even have illnesses you have never heard of. And you brushed me off. Do you see my hands? With these great craftsman’s hands, I made tables and chairs in the camp, because the Nazis ordered it. There was not the slightest flaw in what I made. It was good work. Because once a task is accepted, it must be done well. There, as here. Do you understand, doctor? Very well—are we starting the examination again, or should I go see someone else?”
And finally, the book touches on something I have never understood and never will: indifference. I have never been able to accept—and do not wish to accept—the mentality of “let the snake that doesn’t touch me live a thousand years.” Things I could not explain even if I wrote pages upon pages are expressed in just a few lines:
“When they came for the Communists,
I said nothing, for I was not a Communist.
When they came for the trade unionists,
I said nothing, for I was not a trade unionist.
When they came for the Jews,
I said nothing, for I was not a Catholic.
When they came for me,
there was no one left to say anything.”