Marcelle and Jacques Schoettel.

Year 1940.

During this winter 39-40, the temperature sometimes drops to minus 20C in the East of France. The wine freezes in barrels and, in the newspapers of that time, I remember seeing the photographs of soldiers who, near a traveling kitchen, are cutting up blocks of wine with an axe, near a burst barrel.

On New Year's Day, war has been declared for four months and practically nothing has happened. The inaction is starting to weigh on our soldiers; it is not good for their morale. The Commandment creates the “Theatre at the Army” that makes it possible for some artists (demobilized for the occasion) to come and perform for the regiments, far enough from the lines of fire however. To support the morale, as much that of the soldiers as that of the public, the radio dishes up slogans such as “We will overcome because we are the strongest” and invites us to part from our old-fashioned possessions by repeating: “with your old scrap we will forge victorious steel!” There are even posters that can be seen a bit everywhere, like this poster that says: “be silent, be wary, enemy ears are listening.”

Finally, coming from the military zone, arrive the first people on leave. Admittedly, they cannot be said to be in low spirits, above all they are wondering when and how all of this will finish. When they are on the line, the patrols, the earthworks and the mine laying occupy them but when they return to rest, except for playing soccer (already) or cards, carving canes or engraving quarters and mess tins, there is not a great deal to do. That is fine for a while but one wearies of it fairly quickly. After a few days spent in their family they set out again towards their regiments, not always in the best of spirits, one must admit.

In Mont de Marsan life goes on without great changes. We still find everything in the stores, there is no restriction of any kind. War? It is far, very far from here, for the moment. We hear about it on the radio, read about it in the newspapers, see some colourful images of it in the current events at the cinema. In short, for many people at that moment it is only a subject for conversation. As far as I am concerned, I quite like my work as secretary typist. All day long I type records for the district court and, sometimes, for the high court. The latter, I must say, are rather rare because, at the time, except for some arson cases or poisoning attempt, I do not remember having seen a file about any blood crime. During my free time I sometimes go to the cinema where at the time are shown “Snow White and the 7 dwarves”, “Robin Hood”, the first colour films that I ever watch. I also play football and Rugby, for a youth group.

In April, with the spring thaw, things are finally moving. On April 9, Hitler launches his troops to the conquest of Denmark and Norway in order to ensure the continuity of his supply in Swedish iron that travels via the Norwegian port of Narvik. A joint Anglo-French operation tries, with unquestionable though limited success, to oppose it, which allows Paul Raynaud, our chief of Government, to claim on the radio “we have cut the road of iron to Germany. ” Alas, if this hasty assertion makes it possible for the French morale to improve a little, the illusion is soon to be dissipated since on May 10, the news bursts like a thunderclap. Hitler attacked Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg.

From May 10 to June 25, 1940

I remember very well this May 10. Spring is really here, a bright sun in a beautiful blue sky. What a contrast with the thunderclap that the radio is echoing, all day long. The German armies started invading Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg, preceded by air raids and the parachuting of units. Indeed people’s faces expressions are grave but there is no panic. The French trust their army and their British allies. And then, weren’t they told time and time again that “We will overcome because we are the strongest”. However, concern will succeed to gravity. Panzers sweep everything on their passage, backed up by the “stukas” (dive-bombing plane). Belgium, whose neutrality comes to be violated once again, requires the assistance of France, which sends its troops.

On May 13, after having crossed Luxembourg and the Ardennes, the panzers of Guderian and Rommel are in Sedan; that means that the Maginot line is bypassed round the West and that the road to Paris will be more difficult to defend. And then once again we hear about refugees, Belgians, then inhabitants of the Ardennes and North. Like everyone, I read the newspapers, I listen to the radio, I think that it is not possible that our army be defeated, I do not want to believe it. In 1914 there was the battle of the Marne that stopped the Germans, why wouldn’t there be another miracle of the Marne?

In Mont of Marsan nothing has changed. It is true that, compared to the front line, we are at the other end of France, but people are very worried. The days go by, the news is increasingly bad. The news bulletins on the radio are all preceded by this passage of the Marseillaise: “Aux armes citoyens ! ” repeated several times without the words and these six notes: “sol, sol, sol, mi do re” end up resounding like a knell in my adolescent heart. The grave voices of the announcers make us follow the striking progression of the German armoured tanks that, after having crossed the Meuse, forge ahead full West in direction of the sea and, via Amiens and Abbeville reach the English Channel on May 25, 15 days only after the beginning of their offensive. The Germans call this the Blitzkrieg (lightning war) and indeed it deserves its name.

Alas, in that whole business, the Anglo-French division that fights in Belgium cannot retreat any more, but, fortunately, will be for the most part saved thanks to the Dynamo operation, put together by the English Admiralty with the assistance of the RAF. A multitude of English boats (small and large), and also French ships, from May 25 to June 2, will take on board some 350,000 men on the beaches of Dunkirk, Malo-les-bains and Bray-Dunes, in spite of the bombardments and shelling of the Luftwaffe and the German army that encircles them. The gear however (tanks, guns, trucks and various provisioning) rendered useless will remain on the spot.

We are in June. After a short respite Panzers set out again towards the South. The military official statements tell us that our troops are folding back on “positions prepared in advance” but, more and more, doubt leads to pessimism. Some refugees manage to make it to our South West and what they say they went through does not improve the general feeling: disorder, incredible confusion on the roads encumbered with children, cars, trucks, and all under the ceaseless attacks of Stukas which dive bomb, in an apocalyptic howl, releasing bombs then shelling at close range.

Now everything goes very quickly. There will be no miracle of the Marne. The government leaves Paris for Bordeaux on June 10. On June 14, Paris is declared “open city” and nothing anymore prevents the Germans from entering it.

We are petrified, shocked and voiceless. A feeling of powerlessness mixed with shame submerges us. How could a great nation like France be humiliated to this point, in one month? Sure there are a few units which continue, often successfully, to oppose the German advance, but they are isolated cases, no coordinated operation can be carried out anymore. We understand it from the tone of the radio speakers; it is the rout. On June 16, Marshal Pétain, who has become chief of the government following the resignation of Paul Raynaud, tells us on the radio: “We must cease the combat.” With the Schoettel children, we listen to his address, we all have tears in our eyes and Jacques says to me: “What will become of us, Alsatians?” Very quickly, the Armistice is signed on June 24. Alone, England continues heroically to fight. The Germans are at the doors of Bordeaux. On the 25th they are in Mont de Marsan and then at the Franco-Spanish border.

The first Germans I see are motorcyclists driving two sidecars; they are wearing helmets and boots and very ample grey-green waterproof overalls. They are very young (hardly over twenty I suppose.) The sidecars passengers have at their disposal a machine-gun, the pilots are armed with a machine pistol carried over the shoulder. On their helmets they carry the two flashes, which will sadly become famous, of the SS and are part of the advanced recognition of a division of infantry.

As soon as the next day, an important detachment of this division settles in the Bosquet barracks and, in the streets, we see them parade impeccably (one must concede) while singing. They received the order of their commandment to behave particularly “Korrectly” with the population and indeed, I cannot recall any incident at the time.

As the stores are still well supplied, they buy non-stop but they pay (many already have French money). Jewelry and lingerie stores, pastry, wine and liquor retails, are taken by storm.

The Armistice is thus signed and the hostilities, in theory, have ceased. However, the last occupants of the Maginot line who got trapped (which line, finally, will have been useless), will surrender only on June 30. I hear about a French general, gone to London, and who, on June 18, launched a call to resist. Personally, I did not hear this call because the Germans, for a long time already, scramble the BBC. Much later, I will learn that this general’s name is de Gaulle.

More than 1,500,000 French soldiers are made prisoner.

From June 25 to December 31, 1940

T

Very quickly, the German army takes possession of the entire town of Mont de Marsan, an important city for them since it is located exactly on the line of demarcation (Demarkation Linie) which, starting from the Swiss border at the height of the Geneva Lake, passes by Chalon sur Saone, Moulins, Bourges, Vierzon, south of Tours, Poitiers, Angouleme, Langon, Mont de Marsan and Orthez, reaching the Spanish border at Saint Jean Pied de Port, thus dividing France into two zones that take the names of Free Zone and Occupied Zone.

The Free Zone will be administered, from Vichy, by the French state with at its head the Marshal Pétain who will try (at least during a certain time) to preserve pretence of autonomy and freedom, although subjected to the very hard requirements of the Armistice. The Occupied Zone, on the other hand, is entirely subjected to the German authority that will soon settle in and start to exercise its power.

First of all, Alsace and Lorraine, as in 1870 are annexed by Germany and thus cease being French. This deeply shocks our Schoettel friends. The whole family cries hot tears when they hear that, very quickly, like all the other Alsatians evacuated in 1939, they will have to return to Mulhouse, which is not Mulhouse any longer , but Mulhausen, once the damage caused by the war is repaired and the means of transport are set up. For Marcelle, Jacques, Pierrot and their parents, it is a wrench and, for me, a true heartbreak. We have so many things in common, we are so much attached to one another.

June has not ended that the Germans already set up their Feldkommandantur that will replace the French authority in the city, and have installed, on the road from Mont de Marsan to the Free Zone, a military-guarded roadblock that blocks the way of anyone who isn’t in possession of an “Ausweiss” (Pass). I live at the edge of the road that, at the exit of Mont de Marsan, leads to the Free Zone in Villeneuve de Marsan, 15 km from my place. The German roadblock is at approximately 300 meters from my house, at the level of the crossing of the railroad Mont of Marsan - Roquefort about which I spoke previously, and it is this railway, from now on prohibited to any rail traffic, which signifies the line of demarcation. This railway runs over an embankment, I point out, and thus it presents, in places, underground passages to allow the drainage of rainwater. These passages will prove quite useful, as we will see later.

The military presence is reinforced. The Germans requisition the most beautiful hotels, the most beautiful residences. They know where to go, they are well informed, and have been for long. On this subject, here is an anecdote: during the summer 1938, in the park of the Pépinière in Mont de Marsan a fair organized by the city and the tradesmen had taken place. The Richy bookshop (the largest of the city and where one could find, at the time, everything related to the press, the radio and music) had its stand, certainly one of most popular of the fair and which had immense success with the local youth, since it made use of the very popular Charles Trenet and of his songs, in particular « je chante », « y’a d’la joie », « boum », « mam’zelle Clio » and many other still. At the Richy stand a mime performed, the perfect clone of Trenet, tall, thin, fair, curly-haired, same blue eyes, shiny teeth, even the funny small round hat with the raised edges resting at the back of the head, the same bright smile, and who mimed the singer to perfection. Indeed, he did not sing, it was a disc that played (lip-synchronization already existed) but the illusion was perfect. Each day I went to listen to him and I was not the only one. We were many to admire his act. How big was the locals’ surprise when, with the first elements of the German army they recognized, under the uniform of Oberleutnant, the mime of the Richy stand! Undoubtedly in 1938 he had been sent in reconnaissance in France, just in case.

The curfew is established; civilians are no longer authorized to get about after 9 p.m., except for very rare exceptions. The contraveners, stopped by the many patrols, are brought, either to the Kommandantur to polish the soldiers’ boots, or to the barracks to peel potatoes in the army kitchens. They are only released at 6 a.m. the next morning.

The weapons held by the civilians must be handed to the Kommandantur but, in spite of the terrible sanctions promised for the contraveners, some will take the risk to bury their rifles, duly greased, in places known of them alone. The curfew and weapons ban is announced on yellow posters, printed in black, placarded all over the place.

During July and August, food becomes rare; sugar, butter, noodles, meat, coffee, chocolate and potatoes become difficult to find and one speaks more and more about the impending setting up of ration cards. Oranges and bananas completely disappeared, all the ports of the Atlantic, Channel and the North Sea being closed to commercial traffic. Petrol also becomes very rare, (sparingly) reserved for the emergency services - doctors and firemen in particular, the other (rare) car owners must leave them in the garage, or else transform them into true monsters by adding imposing vertical cylinders, installed in front of the vehicle, enabling them to use the fuel-like gases resulting from the combustion in vacuum of charcoal. It is the famous principle of the '' Gazogène '' which carriers and taxis will have to use in order to subsist.

In my work, little change; the Kommandantur however requires that the civil prisoners imprisoned for “anti-French acts” be released… fortunately, they are not very many.

Each day, below the Court windows, I see, I hear the “abteilungen” sections passing by, SS companies which, bare headed, in uniform track suits and singing in several voices, without the least cacophony, are off to play sport, in the nearby Argenté stadium. It must be acknowledged that their discipline, their martial look, is imposing and we are even starting to understand why we were beaten. Among these soldiers, there is no vague approximation but only extreme rigueur. Something new for us French people, we very quickly see the arrival of the first female staff in the headquarters and German data transmission units, women soldiers whom we soon baptize “the grey mice” because of their uniform which is grey and not “feldgrau” like that of the men.

During August the Schoettels are advised to keep themselves ready to go back home at the beginning of the following month, since a convoy of repatriates is to be formed in station of Mont de Marsan. Reluctantly, they make their luggage. They still want to believe that a miracle will prevent them from leaving. Jacques will be 13 years old; he does not consider for a moment that the war, which continues with England, can last long enough for him to be forced to take part in it, since he is now considered a German subject.

In the beginning of July we hear of the tragedy of Mers el Kebir, in Algeria close to Oran. The French squadron of the Atlantic, normally based in Brest and Lorient, escaped from the Germans before the Armistice and took refuge in this port. In theory, according to the Armistice’s terms, Germany does not require that this fleet be handed to them. The English Prime Minister, Winston Churchill does not have any trust in the word of the Germans (understandably) and he gave the order to the English fleet, under the commandment of the admiral Somerville, to have this squadron (which counts, among others, 2 already old battleships, Bretagne and Provence and 2 more recent cruisers, Strasbourg and Dunkerque) rejoin the English fleet, or else to have it destroyed. The French admiral, Gensoul, obeying orders from Vichy, refused to yield to the English ultimatum and its ships were either destroyed or very seriously damaged. Hundreds of French sailors died for nothing. There is no doubt that many among them while dying, will have cursed their chiefs. I do not suspect, reading this news, that, a little more than 2 years later, in North Africa, at the time of the Anglo-American landing of November 8, 1942, I will find myself in the same position as these sailors. I will come back to this later.

Obviously the press and the radio, entirely under German orders, relate the tragedy with great details and, it goes without saying that, in the affair, the Germans give themselves the best role, stressing the English deceit and forgetting their own ignominy. But to tell the truth, this propaganda does not mislead anyone and the general feeling is that the French fleet should have rejoined England instead of stupidly letting it be destroyed. Apart from some rare exceptions no one holds a grudge against the English; on the contrary we understand that they alone bear the weight of war and we know well that, in spite of the Armistice, the enemy is, and remains, Germany. The Battle of Britain rages on and, in fact, the boastings of Goering, chief of the Luftwaffe, do not prevent the French from thinking, with good reason, that the RAF does much better than simply “holding out”.

We see appear the first red poster printed in black. The first of a long series alas, it announces that, following an attack made in Paris against a German officer, a number of hostages were shot.

At the beginning of September, the time has arrived for the Schoettels to leave. They leave by foot, they have with them only some bags (20 kg of luggage for each person) they walk to the station where I accompany them. We are sad, very sad. We feel that a page of our life is being turned. There I remember having said to Jacques, on this day “Alsace will be French again, Jackie and I would like to be of those who will make it free.” Just a wish from my part? Or premonition, perhaps?

The train is here; it does not consist of livestock wagons but of old 3rd class coaches, with wooden benches and one door per compartment, with no central or side corridor. They date from at least before the previous war. On the quay, a multitude of Alsatians, also accompanied by many friends, gather under the notices of the two posted destinations: Mulhausen and Kolmar (the annexation is a done thing). There, there are a good 400 people, at least, that German soldiers, talking loud and with a severe look, make line up with their “schnell” (quickly.) Things are not left to linger on. The typical German rigueur.

The sky is gray, reflecting our hearts. Last hugging, last tearing, last “goodbye”, last blown kisses while they board the compartment that is allotted to them. A long heartbreaking whistle and the convoy shakes gently. Those who, like me, accompanied somebody, lower their head, their eyes filled with tears. They left! What will their destiny be? I have just lost my big, my best friends. There’s nothing left for me to do than await the letter that Jackie must send me when he arrives and gives me his new address. I leave the station slowly like one leaves a cemetery.

The summer is slowly coming to an end. I am 17 years old, at this age the lust for life is always the strongest. Once again, my work takes all my attention and my leisure primarily consists in going from time to time to the cinema, to see some French or American films authorized by the German censorship. (delete gap here)

The latter also imposes the projection of a number of German films and we become familiar with the names of actors such as Emil Janings or Zarah Leander. During the sessions, a great share is left to the current events. They are, of course, centered on the war. In a pompous tone, the commentator insists heavily on the invincibility of the German forces, on their extremely impressive successes, on the massive attacks of the bombers Dornier and Heinkel that, each time with practically no losses, crush London, Coventry, Bristol, and other English cities under their bombs. Besides, the slogan, repeated many times, as much by Radio Paris (where the sinister Jean Harold Paquis officiates and who will be shot at the Liberation) as at the cinema, is: “England, like Carthage, will be destroyed.” Hardly anyone believes it and this rather makes us laugh, though it is better to abstain from it since, being wary of the French insubordinate spirit, the Germans require that, during the projection of the current events the lights remain lit in the room to discourage the potential troublemakers.

One of the consequences of the defeat is that the majority of men between 21 and 40 years old are in prison camps in Germany, thus the activity of the city suffers, though everything continues to work, somehow or other. Some factories goes on functioning, thanks to female labour, on the other hand the commercial sector collapses, the shortage starts to be cruelly felt in many areas and queuing in front of stores is starting. The Germans having seized most of our productions, as much industrial as agricultural, the rationing cards make their appearance.

From now on bread, milk, butter, pasta, coffee, oil, sugar, meat, cheese, potatoes, beans, chocolate, cigarettes, all are subject to quotas, even fabrics and leather, and the quantities allotted to each person vary according to the age and the nature of the work that one is supposed to be doing. First of all, J1 (Jeunes 1= Young 1), for them the accent is put on milk, sugar and pasta. Their age ranges from 0 to 4 years. Then J2, from 5 to 12 years, who are eligible to everything but in limited quantity. J3, from 13 to 18 years, same thing but in greater quantity. Then, category A (Adult), from 19 to 60 years who are entitled to everything, plus the cigarettes, with a special category T (labourer) for those whose work implies an important expense of energy and who, in addition to category A are entitled to a surplus of, primarily, bread and meat. Lastly, there is the V category (elders) who, after 60 years, are only entitled to ‘survival’ rations, which are far from enough!

All this is obviously only theory since, many times, the shortage is such that the tickets cannot be honored. I remember that, being J3, I was entitled to 300 grams of bread per day but that, very often, my mother took from her ration to add a little to mine! Very quickly, for lack of supply, there is no sign of butter which left place to a so-called margarine in which fabrication entered more suet (from ox or sheep) than vegetable fat. Chocolate too, very quickly disappears. As for coffee, it is now a disgusting beverage in the composition of which enters an important quantity of roasted acorns for a few ounces of real coffee.

I must say that, in the countryside, since we have a garden, we manage to have quite a few vegetables and, from the neighborhood farms, we can buy eggs, milk, potatoes, beans, sometimes a chicken or a rabbit, but at an already high price. It is not the black market yet, but it feels like it. Downtown on the other hand, in Bordeaux (where your grand-mother lives - at the time she is not quite 12 years old and is thus J2) - the supply is much more difficult and, when there is a shortage of potatoes (which is very rapidly the case) it is necessary to fall back on Swedish turnips (a kind of large turnip that is used mainly for feeding animals) and, other turnips, all of which are just as low in energy as they are repugnant, whatever the mode of preparation.

Personally, although I started smoking around 16 (I smoked my first cigarette, a Naja (a Turkish mild tobacco) while working in Biscarosse, at the base of Hourtiquets) I am not entitled to a ration of cigarettes and, even if I were, I could only get cigarettes of bad dark tobacco, the only ones that one could usually buy with a ticket. Before the restrictions I smoked, from time to time, a Gitane Vizier, made of Oriental tobacco. In Occupied Zone, these cannot be found any more, the Germans, very keen, having kept them for themselves. However I heard that in Villeneuve de Marsan, in Free Zone, 15 km from home, they can be found, although to enter the Free Zone an Ausweiss is needed.

As fortune would have it, at the beginning of the autumn, my work as a Court clerk and the fact that I live at the frontier - I live within less than 1 km of the line of demarcation – has me provided with a permanent Ausweiss that enables me to cross the line of demarcation at its point of passage at the road of Villeneuve. I must admit that, at the beginning, the Kommandantur is not too fastidious and grants rather easily the renowned Ausweiss.

Since I do not work on Saturdays, I cycle to Villeneuve (a town of approximately 3000 to 4000 inhabitants) where I hope I can buy my Gitanes Vizier. At the barrier of the Line of Demarcation there is, for the moment, only a light guard of a dozen soldiers under the orders of an “unteroffizier” (warrant officer) and there is one sole sentinel on duty, who is periodically relieved and who, shoulder arms, paces up and down in front of the closed barrier. As for the warrant officer, he controls the Ausweiss of those who, just like me, turn up to cross to the other side; he proceeds with a rapid search of their clothing to make sure that nothing prohibited is taken across and asks the question that I will be asked many times: “Nicht letters?” (No letters?). Indeed, all exchange of correspondences between the two zones is strictly prohibited. Sole the famous pre-printed “Inter Zones cards” are authorized, which are designed for us to give news of the health of the family only by filling the “blanks” left in the pre printed message of the form. These cards will take some time to arrive at their destination or will be destroyed by the German censor should the sender have deemed necessary to add something aside the provided “blanks”. Therefore, after this body search (rather rudimentary, at the beginning), I am authorized to cross the barrier. Two kilometers further is the French guardroom, at the time held by a unit of the 18th Regiment of infantry. It should be said that, within the framework of the convention of the Armistice, the French State was authorized to keep an army of 100 000 men only equipped with light armament (no tanks, no artillery, no aviation) as well as an army, better equipped, in North Africa. At this post guard, the chief asks for my identity and enquires my reason for coming to the Free Zone. He also asks me how things are in the Occupied Zone. Some of the soldiers took part in the battles and were lucky not to have been made prisoner; the oldest await their demobilization. The others are 20-year-old youth who, recently incorporated, did not take part in the combat.

On my way back, supplied with a few packs of Vizier, I once again pass the French post without any problem and without being the least searched and I arrive at the German guard where I show my cigarettes in passing, the warrant officer makes me understand that I can keep them but again he searches me while asking again: “Nicht letters?” I will quickly become a familiar face at the German station and, gradually, I end up being known to all the sentinels and warrant officers (the personnel of the station changes every 15 days but, every 15 days they are the same ones that return.) Now I happen to frequently chat a little with them when they are not in service. I remember well one of them, a “gefreiter” (corporal) named Kurt who told me that, before being soldier, he worked for a Konditorei (a confectionery) in Berlin; a scar ran down his cheek and onto the left wing of his nose, a memory of Dunkirk he said to me, an English or French bullet that more than brushed past him. I must say that there was something pleasant about him and, sometimes, he offered me a Juno or an Eckstein to smoke (their troop cigarettes made of Eastern tobacco, a little green for my taste).

The warrant officers give me to read the journals edited by their propaganda service, among others, a review of the Luftwaffe called "Der Adler"

(The Eagle) that, while the Battle of Britain is in full swing, magnifies the feats of their fighter pilots. Among them, the names of Galland and above all

Marseille resound painfully in my ears because they are names of French origin and are most certainly descendants of Protestants who had fled

France after Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes, that, since Henri IV, had authorized them to practice their religion.

I also leaf through the magazine "Signal", just as full of "great battle deeds" of their Wehrmacht, also, of course large color photos of

Hitler admiring conquered Paris, from the esplanade of Palace

Chaillot, then meeting General Franco in Hendaye and finally shaking hands with Marshal Pétain at Montoire. In short, I am now well known to the border guards and my

crossing the line of demarcation is greatly facilitated: no more body search, or only perfectly symbolic ones.

Autumn is now well advanced. For Hitler, the Battle of Britain did not have the anticipated result and, thanks to the courage and heroism of a handful of

young pilots to whom the free world owes a great deal, the RAF remains in control of the English air space. Radio Paris remains silent, but thanks to Radio Sottens (Switzerland) and, above all for us in the South West, Radio Andorra that we pick more easily, we are kept informed.

There are no celebrations for November 11: Verboten! (Forbidden). Nevertheless, the radio and newspapers relate how in Paris some students who wanted to overrule the ban, at the Arc de Triomphe

, were harshly made to disperse.

Christmas is fast approaching. Father Christmas will be very poor and besides, there will be few who will celebrate Christmas. Moreover, because of the curfew, "midnight mass" will take place at 6pm on December 23. Sad Christmas, sad New Year Day.

A catastrophic year has ended. What's in store for 1941? Still no news of Schoettel, now gone for more than 3 months.