File:Erica (Thorp) de Berry to Thorp family, 25 March 1918 (2a439fc4-216f-4af8-810b-ccfd814ae0d3).jpg

Manuscript letter

Archives Number: 1006/004.006.002-006#016

Sitoo’s 21st
birthday, 1918!
Dearest Family,
Such a strange, strange last 36 hours with some of the same dazed bewilderment of those first 1914 days here!
By the time you get this the whole story of the famous “piece à longue portée”, its explanation and perhaps its capture will be common talk, and “la lutte acharnée de la Somme” will have swayed more decisively one way or the other; — but it’s all still in the making for us and personne n’en sait rien de sûr — —
The “bombardment of Paris” (page 2) has stopped for the day, and for several hours rumors have been afloat that le “240” has been destroyed. Probably at 7 punctually tomorrow we shall know.
I was at Presles when it all began. The night before, i.e. Friday the 22nd, we had had an air-raid drill just before bed, going thro’ the manoeuvres to be followed when the Siren sounds. (For now at Presles we have a Siren, too, so have plenty of time to get the children down before the (??) arrive en route to Paris.) The plan is for each child to jump into his shoes and capuchon, (lately we’ve been putting them to bed without completely undressing,) each grand (page 3) to carry or lead his special petit, and all line up in the middle of the dortoir. A Sister then leads with a lamp, (we can have no electricity because it shows outside) and all march quietly downstairs, across the courtyard, and into the big cellar of the chateau next door which is much safer than our refectoire. It is deep [crossed out: and] warm, thick-walled and electric-lit, and blankets spread over straw make fine temporary beds.
Well, all thro’ supper, as usual, we talked of nothing but les Boches, two of the Soeurs having a firm(?) “pressentiment” that they would come that night. At nine, a Sister and I went up to listen to far-distant guns on the front, and (page 4) hardly had we stepped into the courtyard than “toot-toot-toot” went the Siren, (a factory whistle, at Presles.) Up we ran for the children, out they jumped, quietly and swiftly following directions in spite of sleet-sodden minds, down ^the long stairs^ we tramped and out into the ^bright^ moonlight of the court, little ones borne aloft, bigger ones stumbling over lacets — [crossed out all] 63 little, pearl-capped gnomes, ^trudging^ thro’ the gate in the wall, around the rhododendron curve of the ^broad^ chateau avenue, and into our cave of refuge. We have got it down to such a fine point now that in five minutes from the time the alerte sounded we were in the cave. (page 5)Narrow, labyrinthine passages lined with shelf upon shelf of champagne bottles [crossed out: with] covered with the proper amount of dust, lead(sic) with a fairly large coal-cellar — at least, there is a heap of it at one end. At the other are shelves and straw, upon which all settle comfortably down. It really is a rare sight — all those blinking eyes staring at the one light tous petits curled up in arms or in an inextricable mass on the paille, grands crouched in corners or on pieces of kindling serving as temporary fauteuils, and Sisters and institutrices chatting in a corner [crossed out: and] or(?) mounting every few minutes for news from dehors. If the wait is long, the children grow “either very much more (page 6) sleepy or very much less. In the latter case, there begins a wild squirming and kicking, suffocated cries from the bottom of the heap, “O la la! il me donne un coup de pied! aië! aië! etc. Or else les grands font le cinema(?) a bit, and all sing. ^with strident joviality^ (We’re long past the praying stage now!)
On Friday it lasted only an hour or so, and nary a plane did we see or hear, and only far distant coups de canon. [crossed out: But] You can’t imagine what a heavenly night it was, — summer warmth and shining, moonlit peace across the broad sweep of lawn that stretches from the chateau terrace to a distant (page 7)duck-pond and giant larches. It is like some beautiful operatic setting for Tristan, and to associate anything of horror or ugliness with such a scene is beyond one’s imaginative power.
Monsieur Potron himself is still in Paris, so the house is closed, but a cheery band of domestiques — gardener (??), under “(gardener) etc. with wives and children, all join us on these [crossed out: cheery] occasions and we chat merrily and jocosely without a let-up during all the weary hours of waiting for something to happen, or not to happen. The wit of the under-gardener is so rare that (page 8) the next time I’m going armed with a notebook. I wish I could give you the repartee as it flashes back and forth, our Mother Superior, being a prime wit herself, holding her own in fine style. Meanwhile, distant frogs “squack” in the shrouded pond, a sleepy “dindon” clucks drowsily — and still we wait and listen and strain our eyes in the moonlight for ^perhaps^ hours more. [crossed out: Then] At last comes the Siren and “ça y est!” — we stumble sleepily back to bed. So much for the nocturnal program, far pleasanter than a similar indoor one at Paris.
Can you imagine our (page 9) amazement, as we were starting in classes at 9 on Sat. A.M. to hear the Siren in broad daylight!! — Nobody could believe their [crossed out: eyes](?) ears, but automatically we “descendaient -ed” the children. This time our forces were swelled by a whole school of petites filles from across the street, who were modestly segregated in a special wine-corridor. (It all looks exactly like the Craigie House dungeon on a large scale, having the added charm of an unexpected emergency exit — a steep iron ladder ^to a door^ giving suddenly upon the sunlit terrace.) Again (page 10) we waited [crossed out: in vain] expectantly for something to happen, and again nothing of ^moment^ did, except for a shining, silvery avion haut haut in the clouds which passed quietly over our heads — probably a français, we thought, and as we now realize, actually so. From time to time simple, mysteriously isolated coups de canon— and then silence again. No barrage fire, no untrailleuse, no bombs. Total mystification!! —
Finally, at dinner-time we brought the children up, and spent the P.M. in close formation, as it were, quietly in court and class-room, ready to (page 11) descend at grande vitesse if anything warranted it. And still the solitary booms and nothing more.
I tried to telephone to Paris, but it was “défendu” till the end of the alerte, and when that finally came at 4.30, no one ^at Presles^ was any the wiser. After an hour’s struggle, I got the Sauveurs’ (I had been going there to supper that evening) but Hortense(?) could tell me nothing beyond the mystery of simple bombs dropping apparently from the clouds at regular intervals. She said that all kinds of rumors were afloat — “camouflaged (page 12) Zeppelins,” ^invisible^ (??) etc etc. as yet, no one had guessed the truth.
At 9 that night, we went thro’ the whole performance once more, and were greeted en route to mass of a Palm Sunday morning with the familiar voice of our dear old friend. This time we didn’t even go down into the cave. I came up on the noon train, and the compartments were full of chattering tongues, exchanging “cave” experiences and surmises. For the first time there I heard the suggestion of its [crossed out: having been] being a long-distance bombardment, —but absolutely scoffed at the idea.
However, at Paris with (page 13) news & newspapers at last came the truth.
The others had gone off on a ^combination^ picnic-business trip, so I heard details only from (??) and maids. The bombardment had been going on as regularly as clock work all day and the day before — every 15 minutes ^or so^ one heard distant booms till the 4:30 berloque. The first day, metros had stopped and stores closed, but now “business as usual” is the cry. We had another alerte at 1 last night, but nothing happened, and all one’s mind is on the Somme. How magnificent the British are — and oh, how one longs to be a man —
(page 14) My sympathies go out to all the waiting boys at home who aren’t yet here in this crises(sic) of history — How unbearable it must be —
Dearest Family, don’t worry a second about me. The danger seems so much less than in air-raids even — and it can’t last long this long-distance shelling. Just think of my almost uncanny good luck in being here. If I only could share it — the feeling of it with all of you —
A heartful of love every minute
from your Bun.
If it keeps on day after day Mr. Jacacci is going to move the Presles & other colonies southward. People with children are leaving Paris in great numbers —
[Written down the left side of this last page:]
I’m sending some journaux of these first days. Keep them safe for me, won’t you, for the future.

• Keywords: long archives; henry w. longfellow family papers (long 27930); erica (thorp) de berry; document; correspondence; henry wadsworth longfellow family papers (1006); war; world war i; paris; france; places; Erica Thorp deBerry Papers (1006/004.006); (LONG-SeriesName); Outgoing (1006/004.006.002); (LONG-SubseriesName); 1918 (1006/004.006.002-006); (LONG-FileUnitName)