1941 January 21 | Off to Congo

Then – Cameroon,  Free France

Allez, he will understand, nod, stamp the damn thing or give us some safe-conduct. And then wave us through on our merry way. With a hop, skip and a bow. Stop all your worrying! 

It is that simple. It is always that simple with Suzanne. 

Yes, François’ passport could not be more expired: since more than a year. And issued by a country whose very status is rather confused at the moment. As it often is. Just a bit more nowadays, like so many others. Belgium has surrendered, it is not really collaborating, nor really fighting. Yes, there are volunteers in the RAF, there are pictures in the newspapers. But King Leopold III has actually signed the surrender on his own initiative and was still in his Bruxelles palace. But, above all, Belgium lacks a De Gaulle to overlooks facts and make a reality from a vision. 

Belgium was, like so much of Europe, just an empty word, a legal void, for their purpose. 

Yes, there was no-one left to give them a valid alien residency pass. François is Belgian, and, well, we are at war since a year and half ago. It used to be an administrative formality, an oddity even. But, with his employers, the CEM, headquartered in Paris on the wrong side of oceans, the Demarcation Line, trenches and U-Boats, it has become a phantasm. And the legal status of their foreign surveyor, his wife and 2 kids, living on the outer rim of Cameroon was probably not on top of their agenda. And if it did, she doubted that the new local authorities, the self-styled Free French administration, are likely to take exception from affidavits signed in Gross Paris, Frankreich. 

There may be some difficulties, indeed, but if you really thought about it, it was only a problem on paper, and common sense would prevail. It always did. 

Suzanne never doubts her own good faith. People in general, and administrations in particular, have a natural tendency to make things complicated. Sure, it may be necessary for anyone else, to deter the unworthy. But, fortunately for them, she is patient enough to help them understand. For example, to her ab-so-lu-te surprise, her wedding to François makes her also Belgian. It is twaddle and flimflam, she is obviously French, she shrugs, and tchips for emphasis. And French women have their own passports since 1937. Not in Belgium? They always wait a few years before copying French ideas, just in case they failed. Which they did. Sometimes. 

What a misunderstanding anyway, Mr High Commissioner of the Free French Cameroon! She sighs. You probably have better things to do with all of your worries. My father, Chief Inspector Penotet, told me it was always the case. 

Oh, the CEM, François employers? Yes, still managed from Paris, by Henri de Bussierre, as before the War. No, no news since June 1940. We sometimes imagine him closing the 1940 accounts this January, huddled with the other shareholders, 152 bd Haussmann, metro Miromesnil, quivering in a record winter, their heating rationed. And to maintain this legal fiction, they all cycled to the office, dodging German military police. Their annual reports will mention countries which could as well be on Planet Mars, like here, today, in Free France. 

So, beyond this measly paperwork, Sir, imagine getting instructions, not even a single glimpse of a prospect, not to mention a pay-rise from a ghost company. 

Suzanne is warming up to the act, arguing now with herself. Why Belgian Congo? Well, we import food and supplies from there, don’t we? And the local administration, as you know, and whatever you want to name it, has declared for the Allies from day one. It simply calmly ignored the collapse of the fatherland and the confused instructions from Brussels. And my husband is Belgian. So, I am sure you see how it solves all of your questions. And so we could take one issue off your busy schedule. 

Yes, that should do it. We can now cross the border, she congratulates herself. 

Next, François’s expertise should be a way in, wherever we end up in Congo. And, if it does not, well, he has been draughtsman, electrician, so he is already forward to the next career? But there will always be new buildings, new concessions, new areas to map or even explore. They could live in a tent, in a hut, in a bungalow. Even in a suburban semidetached. He has one name, Union Minière du Haut Katanga, no contacts, no job offer, but no doubt at all. It will work itself out.

The moment to leave is now. Why? Only they know. Is it the looming famine, the rationing, tax increases, or anything other? Their secret. 

And yet, so there, the decision.

One last visual check of the trunks, suitcases, kids and husband: all ready and accounted for raring to go, off to Where François Used to Live When He Was Young. That will do, it is as much as they know in these last days of January 1941. Any country is just an island by itself, existing in shreds of information and rumours. If that. Travelling is a leap of faith. The luggage is layered in strata of urgency, with, at its core, a kernel of suitcases and bags they could carry, if necessary. 

Adaptable, alert, hopeful. The trekboer caravan must goes on.

Bangbel is now far to the East, beyond the horizon, with their hut over the river, the sampling trenches, Kombo, the villagers and the hippos. 

François took one last picture of the mud-bungalow, the garden, the palm-trees and the heart-stopping views. With the Amah, the Nanny, and the kids, Claude and Fran. Signing off their life for the last 4 years. Boy died: he will stay in Bangbel forever. 

Fon Kombo, the Chief, has been, well, Kombo to the last day. 

One last annual festival, complete with Baya dancers, performers from other tribes, and Kombo’s latest bride; the third. On the occasion, François’s team proudly stood out, suited, booted and hatted, showing off their Sunday’s best. Before leaving, he had taken each of them in pictures, to their slight puzzlement. 

A few days ago, they chugged down the 500 kms to Yaoundé and the CEM head office. 

All the colleagues are here to wave them off. 

It is not every day that it is the last day. 

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You read part 32 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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