Surrender

June 19, 1940, Bordeaux.

The rain had fallen all night and hadn't stopped by morning. Rainwater trickled down the old drainpipes, forming puddles on the gravel road. Some people ran through the puddles, splashing muddy water onto those waiting by the roadside, but no one moved.

At 78 Bursk Street, there was an unassuming two-story building. There was no sign or marker at the entrance, only two men in plain clothes standing there, getting soaked in the rain, their eyes fixed on the street corner.

The curtains in the upstairs room were drawn tightly shut.

Seven people sat on either side of the long table. Documents were spread out on the table, the ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts, and the air was thick with the smell of tobacco and anxiety. No one spoke; only the sound of raindrops tapping on the windowpane, one after another, like a urging.

The oldest man was seated at the head of the table. Eighty-four years old, with completely white hair and a face full of wrinkles, but his back was ramrod straight. Philippe Pétain. Marshal of France. Hero of Verdun. He had just become Prime Minister of France three days earlier.

There was a glass of water in front of him, but he didn't touch it.

Two men sat to his right. One was Maxim Weygand, Commander-in-Chief, seventy-three years old, with the characteristic sternness of a soldier. The other was Pierre Laval, sixty years old, former Prime Minister, with an unsettling glint in his eyes.

On the left is Paul Baudouin, the Foreign Minister, who is reading a newly delivered telegram.

The door opened. A secretary came in, placed another document in front of Pétain, and then left.

Pétain glanced at it and looked up.

"The Germans have agreed," he said, his voice old but clear. "Compiègne. Tomorrow at three o'clock in the afternoon."

No one spoke in the room.

Compiègne. That name is like a stone, smashed into everyone's heart.

On November 11, 1918, also in Compiègne, in that very place, the Germans signed the surrender document. It took place in Marshal Foch's special train carriage. That carriage later became a museum, located in the center of the Compiègne Forest, open to the public.

Twenty-two years later, the French will go to the same place to sign another armistice agreement.

Wei Gang was the first to speak. His voice was harsh, like a stone striking another stone: "Who's going?"

Silence again.

Pétain looked at him: "You."

Wei Gang didn't move. He had known this would be the answer. He was the Commander-in-Chief; he should go. But he also knew that twenty-two years ago, it was he who, in that very carriage, read out the Allied armistice terms to the Germans.

At that time he was Foch's adjutant. Now he is the Commander-in-Chief of France.

"Who else?" he asked.

Baudouin opened a list and began to read: "Léon Noël, Ambassador, in charge of legal terms. Jean Bergeret, Air Force General. Maurice Leruc, Vice Admiral."

Four people. A commander-in-chief, an ambassador, an air force general, and a vice admiral. No politicians, no cabinet members. Pétain wouldn't go, Laval wouldn't go. Those who went were military personnel, technocrats, people who could be discarded if necessary.

After listening, Wei Gang nodded. He stood up, walked to the window, and pulled open a gap in the curtains.

It was still raining outside. The streets were deserted, with only the occasional pedestrian running by, head down and shoulders hunched. In the distance, the clock tower of Bordeaux was faintly visible through the rain and mist.

He recalled 1918. The weather was fine that day, sunny and bright. When the Germans arrived, their faces were expressionless. They signed the papers and left. Foch stood at the carriage door, watching them leave, and said only one sentence: "Now, it's our turn."

Twenty-two years later, it was their turn.

He lowered the curtains and turned around.

"Is there anything else you need to tell me?" he asked.

Pétain looked at him, and something flickered in his cloudy eyes. Perhaps it was reluctance, perhaps guilt, or perhaps just exhaustion.

"Try your best," Pétain said, "but don't get your hopes up."

June 21, 1940, 2:50 p.m., Compiègne Forest.

The rain stopped. But the sky was still gray, hanging low, like a soaked rag.

Three black sedans drove along the forest road and were stopped about 100 meters from the open space. Several German soldiers stepped forward, opened the car doors, and said in broken French, "Please get out of the cars. Walk over."

Wei Gang was the first to get off the car. He glanced at the German soldiers but didn't say anything. The others followed: Noel, Bergére, Leluck, and several secretaries and translators.

They started walking forward.

The forest was quiet. There were no birdsong, no wind, only the rustling of the gravel path underfoot. On both sides stood tall oak trees, all over a hundred years old, their intertwined branches blocking out most of the sky.

After walking for about five minutes, the view suddenly opened up before me.

An open space. Railway tracks are laid on the open space, and a train carriage is parked on the tracks.

Wei Gang stopped in his tracks.

He recognized that carriage. Dark green walls, brass handrails, arched ceiling. It was it. Twenty-two years ago, he stood at the door of this carriage, watching the Germans go in, watching them sign, watching them come out.

It's still in the same place. Not a millimeter has it moved.

Two German officers stood at the carriage door, wearing white gloves and crisp uniforms, their faces expressionless. Along both sides of the carriage, every ten paces stood a German soldier, helmet in hand, rifle in hand, standing like statues.

Several people were still standing in the open space. Wei Gang recognized a few of them. The short one in the light gray uniform was Hitler. He stood at the front, his hands behind his back, his chin slightly raised, watching them approach.

Beside him stood Göring, his obese frame encased in his air force uniform, a smug look on his face. Next to him was Ribbentrop, the Foreign Minister, tall and thin, his face expressionless. Then there were Hess, Keitel, Raeder, and Brauchitsch. All the important figures of Germany were present.

Wei Gang continued walking forward. His steps were steady, but each step was heavier than the last.

He stopped at the carriage door.

Hitler looked at him, a faint smile playing on his lips. That smile held the arrogance of a conqueror, but also something deeper—twenty-two years had passed, and he had finally waited for this day.

Wei Gang didn't look at him. He was looking at the door of that carriage.

The door opened.

The interior of the carriage is exactly the same as it was 22 years ago.

In the center stands a long table, its surface covered with a green velvet cloth. A row of chairs sits on one side, and another on the other. Twenty-two years ago, the Germans sat on one side, and the French on the other. Today, the positions have reversed.

Wei Gang sat down in the row with the French representatives. Bergérez was to his left, Noël to his right, and Leluck next to Noël. Across from him, the German representatives were taking their seats.

Hitler did not sit. He stood in the middle of the carriage, his hands behind his back, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the Frenchmen one by one. There was no anger, no hatred in his gaze, only a cold, condescending scrutiny.

Finally, his gaze settled on Wei Gang's face.

"General Weigang," Hitler began. His voice wasn't loud, but in the cramped carriage, every word was as clear as a nail, "We meet again."

Wei Gang remained silent.

Hitler continued to look at him, and that faint smile reappeared on his lips.

"Twenty-two years ago, you were here, reading the armistice terms to the German delegation," he said. "Today, you're here, listening to us read them. History is interesting, isn't it?"

The carriage was deathly silent.

Wei Gang's face didn't move. But his fingers, the fingers of his hands resting on the table, trembled slightly.

Hitler turned and walked toward the carriage door. At the door, he stopped, glanced back at the carriage and at the people sitting at the tables, and then walked out.

The door closed.

Only the German and French representatives remained in the carriage.

Field Marshal Keitel sat in the very center of the row of German representatives. He was Hitler's Chief of the Supreme Command of the Wehrmacht and was representing Germany in the negotiations today. On the table in front of him lay a thick document with a black eagle emblem on the cover.

He opened the document and began to read.

German, quickly, without any pauses. A translator was simultaneously translating into French. The clauses flowed from the translator's lips, one by one, like a machine, devoid of emotion:

"First, France shall cease all hostilities..."

"...Article Two: The French army shall be completely disarmed and disbanded except for those necessary to maintain domestic order..."

"...Thirdly, Germany occupies northern France and the Atlantic coast..."

"...Article Four, the costs of occupation shall be borne by the French government..."

"...Article 5, all political refugees in Germany must be returned to Germany..."

"...Article Six: The French naval fleet must assemble and disarm at designated ports..."

Wei Gang listened intently, word by word. He noticed one thing: France had not been completely occupied. The south and west were left untouched and continued to be ruled by the French government.

Why?

He recalled pre-war intelligence, and the speculation that Germany didn't want a prolonged occupation. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps Hitler needed someone to rule France so he could focus on dealing with Britain.

The translator continued reading. Wei Gang continued listening and taking notes.

"...Article Seventeen: All French citizens who refuse to return home and continue fighting abroad will not be protected by the armistice agreement..."

These words made Wei Gang's brow furrow. Those who refused to return home and continued fighting abroad. De Gaulle. Those who went to England. They were abandoned.

Keitel finished reading. He closed the document, looked up, and gazed at the French representatives.

"These are Germany's conditions," he said. "You have twenty-four hours to consider them."

Wei Gang spoke up, his voice flat: "We need to discuss this."

Keitel nodded: "Of course." He stood up and led the German representatives out of the carriage.

The door closed. Only four Frenchmen remained in the carriage.

Wei Gang looked at the other three. Bergére's face was pale, Le Luck was wiping the sweat from his forehead, and Noel was staring blankly at the table.

"Tell me about it," Wei Gang said.

Noel spoke first. He was a diplomat, intimately familiar with legal texts. His voice was soft, but every word was clear:

"This is a complete surrender agreement. It's not an armistice, it's a surrender. The Germans used the term 'armistice' to allow the French government to continue existing so that it could manage the country for them."

He paused, then pointed to the terms on the document:

"First, disarmament. This means we no longer have an army. The 100,000-strong order maintenance force doesn't even qualify as police."

"Second, the occupied territories. They took the richest places: Paris, Lyon, and the entire Atlantic coast. What they left us were agricultural areas."

"Third, occupation fees. We have to pay to support their troops. This is even worse than paying reparations after defeat."

"Fourth, return the German refugees. All the Jews and anti-Nazis who fled to France must be handed over."

He finished speaking and looked at Wei Gang.

Wei Gang didn't speak. He looked out the window. The carriage window was small, only revealing a small patch of sky. The sky was still gray, just like when they arrived.

Bergeré spoke up: "What can we fight for?"

Wei Gang shook his head: "We're not allowed to argue about anything. Did you hear what Ketter said? Twenty-four hours—sign or don't sign. There's no room for negotiation."

Leluck asked, "What if we don't sign?"

No one answered.

What will happen if we don't sign? The Germans will keep fighting. Paris has fallen, the north has been occupied, how long can the remaining troops hold out? A week? Two weeks? Or even less?

Moreover, what would the Germans do if we didn't sign? A complete occupation? Turning France into another Poland?

Wei Gang stood up and walked to the car window. His face was reflected in the glass—a 73-year-old face, full of wrinkles and weariness.

He recalled twenty-two years earlier. He was forty then, standing in the same spot, watching the Germans sign. Foch had told him, "Be merciful. We won, but the winners must also learn to forgive."

Now, he is over seventy years old and is going to sign the surrender document here.

He turned around.

"We have no choice," he said. "We sign."

June 22, 1940, 6:50 p.m.

The same carriage.

This time, Hitler did not come. Keitel sat in the middle of the row of German representatives, with the same document in front of him. The French representatives sat opposite him.

Keitel opened the file and pushed it in front of Wei Gang.

"Please sign," he said.

Wei Gang picked up his pen.

The pen was heavy and cold. His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the handle. The carriage was utterly quiet; so quiet that you could hear the scratching of the pen tip across the paper.

He signed his name: M. Weygand.

Then pass it on to Noël, Bergére, and Le Luck. Sign them one by one.

After signing the last person's document, Keitel put it away, glanced at it, and nodded.

"The ceasefire agreement," he said, "will take effect at 12:35 a.m. on June 25."

He stood up, nodded to the French representatives, and then got out of the carriage.

The door was open. Only four Frenchmen remained in the carriage.

Wei Gang sat there, motionless. He looked at the pen on the table, at the copy of the document, and at the gray sky outside the window.

Noel said softly, "It's over."

Wei Gang stood up.

He stepped out of the carriage. Outside, the German soldiers still stood there, like statues. In the distance, the black sedans were still waiting. Further away, at the edge of the forest, several people in civilian clothes stood there—reporters.

He walked down the steps and headed towards the car.

He stopped at the car door and looked back.

That dark green carriage is still there. Twenty-two years ago, he stood there, watching the Germans leave. Today, he has left, and the Germans stand there watching.

He recalled Foch's words: "Be kind."

He now knows that kindness is something only the winners have the right to say. The losers have no right to speak of it.

He got into the car.

The car door closed. The car started and slowly drove away from the open space, away from the carriage, away from the forest.

The forest was quiet. The oak trees were still the same oak trees, unchanged for a hundred years.

Only history has changed.

June 25, 1940, 12:35 a.m.

The armistice agreement officially came into effect.

From that moment on, France was no longer France. It became two Frances: the occupied zone, ruled by the Germans; and the free zone, ruled by Pétain's Vichy government.

From that moment on, the French army was no longer an army. More than a million soldiers were disarmed and imprisoned in prisoner-of-war camps. Officers had a choice: go home or be imprisoned.

From this moment on, France was no longer an independent country.

It became a vassal state of Germany.

That night, many people in Paris couldn't sleep.

Someone stood by the window, looking at the empty streets, thinking of those who would never return.

Someone sat in the dark, smoking one cigarette after another, thinking of nothing.

Some people packed their bags, preparing to flee south to that so-called "free zone".

Someone hid in the attic, turned on the radio, and tuned to a British station. On that station, a French general named de Gaulle was speaking. He said France hadn't lost. He said the fighting would continue. He said someone would return.

That night, in the Compiègne Forest, the dark green carriage still stood in the same spot. Moonlight shone on the carriage, on the rails, and on the hundred-year-old oak trees.

The carriage was completely empty.

But if you go inside, if you look closely in the moonlight, you'll see a few faint marks on the table. Those are the marks left by two pens, one from twenty-two years ago and the other from this day.

Boulevard Voltaire, 11th arrondissement of Paris.

Madeline, the bakery owner, was placing the last few baguettes into the window. She moved slowly, not because she was tired, but because she didn't know who to show them to quickly. There weren't many people on the street. And even if there were, they wouldn't have money to buy bread.

The radio was always on behind the counter. Everyone had their radios on these past few days, waiting to hear something. Even though it was all bad news, it was better than knowing nothing at all.

"...The French government has just released an important statement..."

Madeline stopped making bread and stood there, motionless.

"...Marshal Philippe Pétain addressed the nation..."

Her husband came out of the kitchen, his hands still covered in flour. The two of them stood behind the counter, listening to the aged voice coming from the radio.

"...I declare to the French people that we must cease fighting..."

Madeline slowly covered her mouth with her hand.

"...I have already requested an armistice from Germany..."

A scream suddenly rang out from the street.

Madeline looked out the shop window. A woman stood across the street, covering her face with her hands and screaming. The sound was so shrill it didn't seem human; it was like the neck of some wild animal being snapped. A man stood next to her, trying to help her up, but she pushed him away.

"No—" the woman cried, "No—no—no—"

Then she crouched down, squatted on the sidewalk, buried her face in her knees, and her shoulders shook violently. There was no sound, only trembling.

Madeline stood there, looking at the woman. She found herself trembling too.

The voice on the radio continued. The old voice was saying something about "alleviating the suffering of the French people," and about "making this painful decision."

Her husband reached out and turned off the radio.

The shop was deathly silent.

The woman's sobbing drifted in from the street, muffled, as if it came from a great distance.

Madeline looked out the shop window. The sun was shining brightly, illuminating the sidewalk and the huddled, dark figure. She suddenly thought: How could something like this happen on such a beautiful day?

That same afternoon, in the 6th arrondissement of Paris, on Boulevard Saint-Germain.

There were about a dozen people sitting in the outdoor seating area of ​​"Les Demos Café." This was much fewer than usual. At this time of year, the place would usually be packed with people—tourists, students, writers, and idle folks—drinking coffee, chatting, and watching the people come and go on the street.

Now all those dozen or so people are looking in the same direction: at the radio in the coffee shop.

The boss stood at the door, clutching a rag in his hand until his knuckles turned white.

The radio stopped playing.

No one moved.

A well-dressed old gentleman slowly stood up. He was probably seventy years old, wearing a three-piece suit, and leaning on a silver-tipped cane. He stood there, looking at the street, at the drawn shutters, at the empty shops, for a long time.

Then he raised the cane and, with all his might, smashed it down on a chair next to him.

The chair tipped over, and one of its legs broke.

He threw his cane on the ground, turned and walked away. He walked very slowly, his back hunched, as if he had aged ten years in an instant.

No one stopped him. No one spoke.

A young woman began to cry. She cried softly, covering her mouth with a handkerchief, her shoulders heaving. The man sitting next to her, perhaps her husband, reached out to put his arm around her, but his hand froze in mid-air before he withdrew it.

A middle-aged man stood up and walked towards the bar.

"A glass of brandy, please," he said.

The boss didn't move.

"I said, I'd like a glass of brandy."

The shopkeeper slowly turned around, took a bottle of wine from the shelf, poured a glass, and pushed it onto the table. The glass overflowed, the wine flowing down the side of the glass onto the table and onto the floor.

The middle-aged man picked up his glass and downed it in one gulp. He put the glass back on the table, turned, and walked out.

He walked a few steps, then stopped, stood in the middle of the street, looked up at the gray sky, and roared.

The sound didn't sound human. It sounded like a wild animal. Like a wild animal that had been caged for too long, finally finding its chance to roar.

Then he continued walking. He walked away.

The streets quieted down again.

Only the young woman's sobs continued to echo intermittently.

That same evening, in the 17th arrondissement of Paris, at Place de Clichy.

A group of young people stood in the center of the square. There were about twenty or thirty of them, all around twenty years old. Some were in civilian clothes, some were still wearing their military uniforms, and some were in Boy Scout uniforms.

They formed a circle, with a person standing in the middle. The person was holding up a piece of paper and reading something.

"...German troops have entered the outskirts of Paris...The government has declared an armistice...We have been abandoned..."

Someone shouted, "Then what are we waiting for?"

Someone shouted, "Let's fight them!"

Someone shouted, "What are you competing for? What are you using to compete?"

The argument grew louder and louder.

A young man in military uniform rushed out of the crowd and ran towards a military truck parked on the side of the street. He climbed onto the truck bed, dragged out a bundle of rifles, and threw them on the ground.

"There are guns!" he shouted. "Who's coming with me?"

The crowd fell silent for a moment.

Then people slowly backed away. One step, two steps, three steps. More and more people backed away.

The young man in military uniform stood there, watching the people retreating, with something indescribable in his eyes.

Disappointment? Anger? Despair? Perhaps all of the above.

"You..." he began, his voice trembling.

An older man stepped forward and patted him on the shoulder.

"Son," he said, "it's no use. Didn't you see those Germans in the street? A whole division is coming at you, what are you going to use to stop them?"

The young man in military uniform shook off his hand.

"So we're just going to do nothing?" he shouted. "Just wait? Wait for them to come?"

He stood there, looking at the people, at the bowed heads, at the averted gazes. Then he kicked the bundle of rifles aside, turned, and ran.

I ran across the square, ran past the street corner, and disappeared into the twilight.

The remaining people slowly dispersed.

The square was empty except for the bundle of rifles still lying in place, and a pile of cigarette butts.

That night, it rained all over Paris.

It wasn't real rain. It was rain without sound. It was the silent tears behind a thousand, ten thousand windows.

On Boulevard Saint-Michel, an old man sat motionless on the stone steps of his front door. He had been sitting there for three hours. A neighbor came out and urged him to go back inside, but he didn't speak, only shook his head. The neighbor sighed, placed a glass of water beside him, and then went home.

The old man sat there, looking towards the street corner. Two blocks down that street was his son's school. His son was nineteen years old and had enlisted a month ago, going to the front lines. There had been no further news of him.

In a small apartment in Montmartre, a woman stood by the window, cradling a baby. The baby was crying, but she didn't hear it. She simply watched the unfamiliar shadows outside. The shadows, dressed in gray uniforms, moved past under the streetlights, one after another, like an endless procession.

Her husband is also at the front lines. There's been no news from him either.

In a basement room in the Latin Quarter, several students sat together. A radio sat on the table, turned off. No one spoke.

Finally, someone spoke up: "De Gaulle. Did you hear that? That general named de Gaulle, he's in London. He said he wants to continue fighting."

Another person said, "That was a broadcast by the British. Fake news."

The first person said, "What if it's true?"

silence.

The third person spoke softly: "So what if it is? We're in Paris. They're in London. Across the sea. Across the Germans."

Silence again.

The student who had said "what if it's true" stood up, walked to the window, opened it a crack, and looked outside. The street was deserted, save for the occasional passing German patrol.

"Maybe one day," he said, "they'll come back."

The churches in Paris were packed with people.

It's not about going to Mass. It's about sitting.

The Church of Saint-Sulpice, Notre-Dame Cathedral, and the Church of the Madeleine—every church was packed with people. Some sat on pews, heads bowed, silent. Others knelt before icons, their lips moving, seemingly in prayer. Still others simply stood, in corners, gazing at the stained-glass windows.

Notre Dame was especially crowded.

The enormous church was packed with hundreds of people, but there was not a sound. The only sounds were the occasional cough and the faint hum of a pipe organ in the distance.

A woman knelt in the front row, her hands clasped together, her face buried in her palms. She had been kneeling there for three hours. Those around her couldn't see her face, only that her shoulders were trembling slightly.

An old man stood beside a pillar, clutching a string of prayer beads in his hand. His eyes were fixed on the cross above the altar, his lips moved, but no sound came out. The beads turned slowly in his hand, one by one.

A young soldier sat in the last row. He was in uniform, but the epaulets were torn off. He looked down at his hands. His hands were on his knees, clenched into fists, so tightly that his knuckles were white.

The organ suddenly made a sound.

Everyone looked up.

The sound was short and soft, like a sigh. And then it was gone.

The crowd lowered their heads again.

Outside the church, the moon rose. Moonlight shone on the spire of Notre Dame, on the gargoyles, and on the Seine.

Across the river, the golden dome of Les Invalides gleamed dimly in the moonlight. Napoleon's coffin still lies inside that building. One hundred and twenty years ago, Napoleon conquered Europe. One hundred and twenty years later, his country was conquered.

How will history record this day?

On the morning of June 25, 1940, the day the armistice officially took effect, some strange slogans appeared on the streets of Paris.

I don't know who put them up, or when. Overnight, they appeared on walls, utility poles, and subway station entrances.

The slogan was very simple. It only had a few words:

"Someone is still fighting."

"De Gaulle in London."

"France is not dead."

Some slogans were quickly torn down by the Germans. Some were painted over by the French police. Some were left unattended, stuck on the gray walls like tiny clusters of flames.

Passersby will stop to take a look, then quickly walk away. But after they've walked away, some will turn back for another look.

That afternoon, a young woman stood in an alley, looking at a flyer on the wall. The flyer was simple, handwritten, with crooked handwriting. It contained only one sentence:

"The flame of resistance should not be extinguished."

She looked at it for a while, then reached out, peeled off the flyer, folded it, and put it in her pocket.

Footsteps echoed from the alleyway entrance. A German patrol.

She didn't run. She kept walking, out of the alley, brushing past the men in gray uniforms. Her face was expressionless, and she walked quickly.

That night, many people found a small note in their homes.

I don't know who slipped them under the door. I don't know who wrote them. But all the notes had the same sentence:

"Someone is waiting. Waiting for that day."

Paris surrendered. But Paris did not die.