Memories of Notre Dame

Memories of Notre Dame

Yesterday we got home from our weekend trip, and fell to the couches to recover.  Soon, a familiar building came in view on the TV screen, and to our horror, smoke rose from the spire.  We sat and watched as the eight hundred year old Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, France, burned.  It looked like it must be totally destroyed, but after an hour or so, the French firefighters managed to staunch the blaze.  Today, Notre Dame still stands; damaged, smoke stained, roofless, but remaining on the Parisian skyline.  It will be repaired.

I have one direct memory of Notre Dame.  As a thirteen-year old, my family travelled to Paris.  Parisians are known for their “haughtiness;” unwilling to hear the fractured eighth grade French of an American boy.  I loved the city, but was frustrated with my inability to communicate. We went into the Cathedral, awed at the reach of the ceiling and the incredible faith in the labors of centuries. Gothic architecture draws the view, and the soul to heaven; Notre Dame is one of the great examples.

As we stepped out of Notre Dame, I asked a homeless man for directions.  He turned to me, and despite my middle school French, worked through a conversation on where we wanted to go, how to get there, and the debt he felt France owed to Americans.  “Vive l’Americans” he cried, thanking me at thirteen, for saving France in World War II. I pointed to my parents, who really were part of that effort, and he thanked them as well.

It was in World War II that my family had it’s other connection to the Cathedral.  My mother was a British “spy,” working for the Special Operations Executive (SOE) a branch of British intelligence.  She had finished her education in Belgium, and could speak French like a native.  Her job was to go into Nazi occupied territories, contact the Resistance cells, and arrange for sabotage or other operations.  She was flown in on small, one propeller planes called Lysanders; they could land on short fields, even farm fields, and quickly drop off, pickup and get back into the sky.

On one of my mother’s missions, she was sent to occupied Paris to connect with the Underground there. Mom, with a degree in English Literature from the University of London, was excited that her Underground contact was Sylvia Beach, the famous proprietor of the “Shakespeare and Company.”  The “bookstore” was so much more than just a place to buy books; it was the meeting place in the 1920’s for the prominent young authors of the time:  Hemingway, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Pound and others all gathered for discussions there.

Mom stayed with Sylvia Beach during her time in Paris.  She also did some shopping and some site seeing, and of course, as a good Roman Catholic, stopped to light a candle in the Notre Dame Cathedral.  As she told the story:

I was halfway (through my Rosary) when I was aware of a figure entering the pew.  He sat quite close to me and he had on a German uniform.  Am I now going to be arrested I thought – terrified of course. “Hail Mary, please help me in my hour of need.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a long slender hand come out of his pocket.  He was a Luftwaffe officer – a sigh of relief –seldom did one get picked up by a Luftwaffe officer.  In his hand was an ivory rosary and he began his prayers.  I was compelled to look at him, he was blonde and handsome, and he turned and smiled.  I smiled back.  There we were, both praying to the same God and both of us, without a doubt, would have killed each other in a minute. (from the private writing of Babs Dahlman.)

Mom left the Cathedral, and proceeded with her mission.  A German troop train was destroyed.

Notre Dame Cathedral has eight hundred years of such stories; it has touched millions of lives, one soul at a time.  A new chapter will now be written, as the Cathedral again rises up to draw those minds and souls to the heavens.