In
Honor Of The 145th Anniversary Of The Paris Commune-On The
Barricades- Theresa Dubois’ Journey.
She had heard that they needed help over on Rue Martin, that
the barricade work there had gone slowly and that if that barricade was
breeched before completion then the whole northern front of Paris was in
danger, was in danger from either the gruesome Germans, or worse, the
vanquished Theirs government if it ever got its act together and tried retake
Paris, retake their Commune, with or without German help. So she, Theresa
Dubois, all of sixteen, all of sound working- class background, all of
bright-eyed idealism and all of, well, all of fetching, fetching in
non-revolutionary times when more than one stout-hearted working class gallant
would take dead-aim at that fetching manner of hers. But these were
revolutionary times, or Theresa acted on that premise and attempted, foolishly
attempted, to hide that beauty beneath shabby boys clothing and unkempt hair.
And nobody, no man young or old, at the
Rue Moulin barricade tried to do more that out- do each other in showing
one Theresa Dubois what a great barricade builder he was.
But revolutionary fervor, revolutionary elan, and
revolutionary idealism would all go for naught if that Rue Martin intersection
did not hold and so Theresa and her younger sister, Louise, also dressed in
boys clothing slipped away to the other desperate location. Along the way, along the fifteen or twenty
blocks it would take to reach Rue Martin before dark the sisters talked, mostly
sisterly talked, girl talk in low voices about this or that young man who did,
or did not, measure up on the barricade work at Rue Moulin but also as they
drew nearer about what they expected, what they hoped for once they had secured
their Commune. That got them to thinking about the new schools that were being
talked about, the new schools where girls, girls like them, would be encouraged
to learn, book learn, or trade learn as the case might be, and about the right
to vote for women that seemed unbelievable just the previous year, and about
having time to just sit along the Seine and daydream. [They also talked about
whether the new government, or the doctors assigned to the problem, would be
able to find a way so they didn’t have to deal with their “period” a cause of painful
troubles for both girls. They weren’t sure that the government would be able to
do anything about it. In any case they both agreed that they were too modest to
ask anybody to anything about it even if they could.]
Upon reaching the Rue Moulin fortifications they were
appalled by the sloppy and incomplete work previously done there. They immediately,
with all the fervor of young revolution, went hither and yon to move the
several young men who were dallying around the spot to get moving. And
something in the manner of the young women (or the age- old sight of two women,
young and fetching, in a man’s world) got the men moving.
Now barricades, at least in Paris, at least since the
revolution of ’89 of blessed memory were something of an art form, something
that in the best cases not only protected what they were intended to protect
against unwanted intruders from whatever source but were hospitable as well.
And so the sisters, Theresa in the lead, set about showing the young how to
make their “new home” a new home. Logs and paving stones out front, varies
wires, pickets, and ropes to retard any offensive advance from the opponent and
behind overhangings to protect against all weathers. And then the furnishings
(the young men had foolishly thrown many chairs helter-skelter on the pilings
and were sitting on stumps) to make the place reasonable to while away the
sentry duty hours.
When dusk settled in they stopped for the evening and one of
the young men made some stew, which they all ate greedily. While sitting around
the campfire that night to keep warm, Theresa noticed a young man, Laurent, a
young man who had done much work strengthening the barricades once the two
sisters took charge, was looking in her direction. And she flushed, was looking
back…
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