In Lyon in July, the air was as hot and stagnant as if it had solidified.
On the playground of Guillotière Street Primary School, the scorching sun distorted the outlines of distant buildings.
Principal Jean Weille stood on the playground, feeling his stiff collar about to cut into his neck.
In front of him were dozens of students who had been temporarily called back.
Their small faces were filled with confusion and uneasiness, as they huddled on the playground, whispering.
Beside him was a small, temporarily built stone pile, containing some firewood and old newspapers.
Jean Weille's mind echoed with the words of Mr. Alphonse Delaroche, the district superintendent, from two days prior.
——————————
"Understand the situation, Weille! Mr. Jules Ferry's prestige is at its peak! He is the undisputed 'helmsman' of the Third Republic!
It is under his iron fist that we have completely driven those stubborn church forces out of the education sector. That is why there are so many 'vacancies' and opportunities now!
To get attention from above, you must take practical action! Do you want to remain a mere primary school principal forever?"
These words made Jean Weille feel a choking sensation in his chest.
He was not without ambition, but...
He spoke with difficulty:
"Mr. Delaroche, I understand what you mean. Some of Mr. Sorel's recent remarks are indeed contrary to the Republic. But doing this... isn't it too absurd? It's not the eighteenth century anymore, and Mr. Sorel isn't Voltaire..."
Alphonse Delaroche's face showed annoyance:
"Weille, my friend, you worry too much. Isn't Deputy Minister Rohan's stance clear enough?
Lionel Sorel's works will be removed from the new semester's 'French Reader'. What we are doing is just taking a step ahead.
We must be good at understanding the unspoken meanings of important figures, only then can we seize opportunities instead of being abandoned by the times!"
He leaned forward slightly, his tone becoming more oppressive:
"If you find it difficult. Principal George Avelon of Louvaconsong Street School, or Principal Alix of La Pérolière district public primary school, they both have a deep understanding of 'progress'. It is because I appreciate your ability that I am entrusting this important task to you."
George Avelon... that guy who always competed with him for the district's excellent teacher quotas.
Jean Weille could almost see the smug look on his face if he were to receive this task.
He thought of his meager salary, and of the "vacancies" and "opportunities" hinted at by Mr. Delaroche...
He took a deep breath, and finally nodded:
"I understand, Mr. Delaroche. I will handle this matter."
"Excellent!"
Mr. Delaroche's face broke into a smile again, and he patted his shoulder,
"I knew you were a sensible man."
As Jean Weille left the district superintendent's office and closed the heavy door, he seemed to hear a faint sneer from behind him.
He shook his head, it was probably his imagination.
——————————
At this moment, Jean Weille cast aside his jumbled thoughts, cleared his throat, and tried to make his voice sound firm and strong:
"Students! Quiet!"
The children gradually quieted down, a pair of clear yet bewildered eyes looking at him.
Jean Weille waved his arms, trying to stir up emotion:
"Today we've called everyone back for an activity with special educational significance!"
But the effect was poor, the children still looked dispirited.
Jean Weille could only bite the bullet and continue:
"We are in a great era, an era of flourishing French Republic! The Republic nurtures us, educates us, hoping that we will become loyal and patriotic citizens!"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the children's faces, finding them more confused than anything.
He could only raise his voice higher:
"However, some people, after enjoying the glory of the Republic, have forgotten their roots! This person is Lionel Sorel!"
A small stir arose among the children.
The name Lionel Sorel was not unfamiliar to them.
Jean Weille gritted his teeth and, with a heavy heart, continued:
"His works were once selected for our 'French Reader'.
But now, we must clearly recognize that a person who is not patriotic, his words are not worthy of being a model for our learning!
Unworthy of remaining in the textbooks that symbolize the future hope of our France!"
He signaled to a school janitor nearby to start distributing the 'French Readers' they had brought.
The children passively took the textbooks, exchanging glances.
Jean Weille took a deep breath and shouted loudly:
"Now, listen to my command! Tear out the essay 'My Uncle Jules' from your textbooks!"
The children's eyes widened, they hesitated, their movements slow.
Some children bowed their heads, caressing the covers of their textbooks; others secretly looked at their classmates around them.
Jean Weille urged:
"Hurry up!"
Then he personally lit the firewood in the stone pile.
The flame was small at first, then, with the help of the old newspapers, it began to rise, crackling.
Jean Weille raised his fist and led the chant:
"Only patriots can be in textbooks!"
He expected to see an enthusiastic response from the children, but the reality was a splash of cold water.
Most of the children just looked at him timidly, then at the burning fire, clutching their textbooks without moving.
The anticipated unified shouts did not appear; only his somewhat abrupt voice echoed on the playground.
The scene became very awkward, and Jean Weille felt beads of sweat run down his forehead.
He walked up to a well-behaved boy and said in a gentle tone:
"Pierre, you are a good child, listen to the principal, tear it out."
Pierre looked up, his eyes a little red, and choked out:
"But... but... the teacher used to say in class that Mr. Sorel was our role model... He said 'My Uncle Jules' was written very well, and told us to... to be like Little Joseph, to always be kind..."
Pierre's words seemed to flip a switch.
Another boy also began to sob:
"I like 'My Uncle Jules'... Joseph finally gave his uncle ten coppers, he was a good boy..."
"I... I don't want to tear it either..." another tiny voice said.
The children's emotions seemed to ignite, fear, grievance, and confusion mixed together, and crying rose one after another.
After all, they were just children, unable to understand the complex definitions of "national interest" and "patriots" from the principal's mouth.
They only remembered their teachers' past teachings, and the simple emotions conveyed in the stories.
At this moment, to make them personally destroy a text they loved and shout those frightening slogans, their inner resistance and confusion were imaginable.
The playground instantly descended into chaos, with the children's cries, Jean Weille's commands, and the crackling of the burning flames...
Jean Weille looked at the crying little faces before him, his heart wavered and filled with guilt.
But then he caught sight of a pair of eyes intently watching him from behind the window of the teaching building.
Wavering and guilt were quickly replaced by the anger of being trapped.
No! Not like this! The task must be completed!
Mr. Delaroche is still watching!
This will be in the newspapers tomorrow...
His face darkened, he lost his last shred of patience, and his voice became severe and cold:
"Stop crying! All of you be quiet!"
The crying subsided, intimidated by the sudden reprimand, leaving only suppressed sobs.
Jean Weille's tone was unequivocal:
"This is an order! Now, immediately, tear out 'My Uncle Jules'! Then line up and throw it into the fire! Anyone who disobeys will fail their conduct evaluation next semester!"
Under the principal's stern gaze, the children became frightened.
They timidly, with stiff movements, turned to the lesson of "My Uncle Jules," and the sound of tearing paper began to be heard sporadically and discontinuously.
Pierre, with tears in his eyes, tore off those pages.
Under Jean Weille's urging, he threw the crumpled pages into the bonfire.
Other children followed him, throwing their copies of "My Uncle Jules" into the bonfire as well.
The paper, upon meeting the fire, quickly curled, blackened, and turned to ash, rising with the heat waves.
Jean Weille commanded again:
"Chant the slogan! — 'Only patriots can be in textbooks!'"
The children were forced to follow, their voices uneven, choked with tears, completely lacking any spirit.
Jean Weille covertly glanced towards the teaching building window again, only to find that the eyes were no longer there.
However, he did not feel relieved; instead, a chill crawled up his spine to his neck...
(End of Chapter)