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There were any number of antics that would put my father right on the edge of “losing it”, as they say. In fact it was that particular spot we all watched and waited for both in fear and fascination. One particular instance when we pushed the envelope of mischief comes to mind. As I noted earlier, our three bedrooms faced the street and had a balcony which ran the length but only my room had the sliding door to reach the balcony. By way of a quick historical backdrop, the issue du jour that grabbed every one’s attention, even little ecolier students like ourselves, was the “Algerian question” and whether it would remain a colony as French Algeria or would France decide to grant independence. Throughout Paris there was a certain sense of high-alert as there were any number of manifestations or strikes and solidarity marches for one side or the other. At one point there were event tanks lined up at the Place de la Concorde. Bombs were being detonated throughout Paris and in addition, General De Gaulle remained in the cross hairs as an active target of the OAS (Organisation Armée Secrète) the secret paramilitary organization supporting continued French presence in Algeria. If you are familiar with the book/movie “The Day of the Jackal” that should put the events into some context for you but I would recommend a far better read “A Savage War of Peace.” In school parlance, ground zero for cultural and linguist innovations, OAS stood for something much closer to home Organization Anti-Surveillant or the “Organization against School Supervisors,” the other interpretation simply being On A Soif or “We’re thirsty.” When we left school at the end of the day your friendly paramilitary troopers would often be seen at many of the major intersections with their machine guns at the ready. They looked tough and mean and undoubtedly had an itchy trigger finger. They were not your friendly crossing guards with a yellow jacket and holding a stop sign. In retrospect, all of this, tanks, bombs, para’s at the ready, could just as well have been a throwback to the ’40s. It’s what makes Paris so interesting.
So how did the Algerian question link up with three innocent little American boys? Let me start with describing projectiles known then as bombe Algerienne or Algerian bombs (sign of the times.) I am not totally sure how we obtained our supplies but most school kids had their own personal stash – a student black market and I suspect there must have been an active trading scheme for these projectiles in and out of school yard. The projectiles were individually wrapped packets about a little bigger than a Hershey Kiss and contained a minute amount of powder and finely crushed rocks which when thrown against the pavement or car, as an example, would explode with a very nice loud bang.
So how did the Algerian question link up with three innocent little American boys? Let me start with describing projectiles known then as bombe Algerienne or Algerian bombs (sign of the times.) I am not totally sure how we obtained our supplies but most school kids had their own personal stash – a student black market and I suspect there must have been an active trading scheme for these projectiles in and out of school yard. The projectiles were individually wrapped packets about a little bigger than a Hershey Kiss and contained a minute amount of powder and finely crushed rocks which when thrown against the pavement or car, as an example, would explode with a very nice loud bang.
It was a quiet Saturday afternoon when the special operations team put their plan into action. For a while we amused ourselves and worked on perfecting our aim by throwing the “bombs” in front of unsuspecting elderly people (that meant anyone above 30 most likely) who were usually carrying grocery bags and making their way down rue Perronet unaware of teenage Ninjas. The results, predictably and dearly hoped for, would be a strong reaction, a scream, shaking a fist at someone, then looking around for the culprits who by then were out of sight shielded by the balcony wall. Our attacks were fast and efficient and I like to think that the successful surgical military strikes we read about today were copied in large part from our early street tactics. Not at all inconceivable.
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I can only imagine what would have happened had the feet looked in my hiding place under the family car. He would have undoubtedly dragged me out by my feet or my ears and I would have been hauled off to the Gendarmerie on the Avenue du Roule where our Belgian nanny always warned I would end up. There a DOSSIER would have been started in my very own name, fingerprinted and photographed and my bombes put away as evidence. I would have been taken to a dank, windowless interrogation room with a single light bulb where two men in stained white shirts with sleeves rolled up, cigarettes glued to their lips and the pervasive smell of garlic sausage lingering over my face would take turns questioning me closely. I would be shown pictures of suspects some looking like little toughs others as if they were about to cry; I would be pressed for information, who did I report to, how did I communicate with other operatives, who recruited me and how was I recruited and on and on trying to sweat out a confession. Finally, I would have given in and demanded my dinner before giving up my brothers in arms; it was getting late after all and there was school the next day. I would be eventually released and never allowed to do anything fun ever again in my life that is, until the next hair brained scheme came along.
Many years later, I made discrete inquiries and yes my dossier still existed and was considered “active.”