Delirium, Cherry Blossoms, and Penicillin
An Excerpt From My Memoirs
The end of the war was marked by celebrations everywhere. We were given flags of all nations and taken on a long afternoon ramble.
On the way, another child lectured me on the comparative wickedness of Europe’s police forces. “The French Police? They are terrible! The Italian Police? Worse! The Dutch? Even worse!” And so on.
We climbed to the top of a hill and lay down stiffly, allowing ourselves the exhilarating sensation of rolling down at full speed. But my flag tore in the process, and a sense of discomfort replaced the initial elation of a day begun with joyful shouts of “La Guerre est Finie. La Guerre est Finie!” (The war is over. The war is over!)
My mother came to visit and took me out to a tea shop in Montreux. She allowed me to gorge myself with chocolate éclairs and strawberry tarts with cream, then we went, like lovers, for a romantic afternoon cruise on a paddle-steamer on Lake Leman.