No Way Out: The Irish in Wartime France 1939-1945 by Isadore Ryan
Mercier Press £19.99 pp351
The cover of Isadore Ryan’s book suggests a pacy, historical thriller might lie within. It looks like a film poster, with “No Way Out” emblazoned across a monochrome photograph of a cobbled street looking towards the Eiffel Tower. Nazi insignia flags draped along a wall give an atmospheric effect. Instead of a Thomas Keneally-style tale, however, readers get the product of some exhaustive research by Ryan into the lives of Irish people living in France during the Second World War.
One of the most interesting revelations is that Ireland’s diplomatic representative in Paris, Gerald O’Kelly de Gallagh, sold booze from his wine business to Hermann Göring. There were far worse crimes and misdemeanours carried out in occupied France, and O’Kelly did claim, after France was liberated, that he never sold “the good stuff” to the Nazis.
By contrast, Killarney-born Janie McCarthy was awarded the Croix de Guerre for her work with resistance networks in sending reports to London during the occupation. When not dodging the Germans, McCarthy taught English in Paris. Dubliner Robert Vernon played a valuable role as a radio operator for a resistance network in the south of France. On the other side of the conflict, Michael Farmer and Dennis Corr are the only known Irish residents in France who ended up in court after the liberation. Corr, from Dundalk, and his French wife were said to have shown collaborationist tendencies while living in Biarritz. He was eventually found guilty of damaging national defence, sentenced to six months’ imprisonment and fined 3,000 francs.
Farmer sounds like a character from an F Scott Fitzgerald novel. A handsome fellow, originally from Cork, he was left $9m by an elderly American lady who had “wished to adopt him as a son”. There followed some deluded dabbling in the film industry, a tempestuous marriage to Hollywood star Gloria Swanson, and alleged consorting with the Nazis. After the war Farmer convinced French authorities that he had done nothing more than partake in debauched drinking sessions with the local gestapo and charges against him were dropped.
Ryan highlights the role the Catholic church played in occupied France, especially St Joseph’s on the Avenue Hoche run by Irish Passionists, and a convent on Rue Murillo. Irish people were guaranteed food and a bed for the night, while St Joseph’s played a crucial part in getting downed airmen out of the country.
Among those stranded in France was the disinherited Irish nationalist Lord Ashbourne, who ended up housebound and surrounded by his favourite Irish paraphernalia, such as a Celtic cross and a flag of the Red Hand of Ulster. He died in 1942, and was laid out in a kilt with a “Sinn Fein ring on the collar of his shirt”. It was Ashbourne’s mentally ill sister Violet Gibson who tried to assassinate Mussolini in Rome in 1926, but her bullet merely grazed Il Duce’s nose.
This is a worthy book, properly indexed and with an impressive bibliography, but too much of the writing lacks flair. It can tend to feel like a long list of tiny factual details. Of course the writer can work only with what’s in the archives, and Ryan admits that among the Irish residents in France “examples of fully committed members of the armed resistance are hard to come by”. Meanwhile, the two collaborators’ contributions to the German war effort “can confidently be estimated at virtually nil”. Disheartening words to find at the beginning of a book on a specialist subject.
This does not diminish the stories collected here which are linked together — Farmer, aside — by penury, making them all the more moving. That Ireland had little heft, diplomatically or financially, to alleviate its citizens’ circumstances was to be expected. While revelations about Irish diplomats spending time on the golf course or at the racetrack cleave to the stereotype of the work ethic of the ambassadorial classes, it is disturbing to learn about Irish passports being issued so casually and liberally.
At one point it was mooted that 200 Jewish families in an internment camp at Vittel be granted Irish entry visas, and that a ship be chartered to bring Jewish children to Palestine. Both ideas came to nothing; not helped, as Ryan says, by “the cautious approach of Irish officialdom”. Ultimately the Irish in wartime France is a footnote in history, but it reminds us of where Ireland feared to tread in 1939-1945.
To call Ian Nairn a great architectural writer is too restrictive; he was a great writer who happened to write about buildings and places. If your preconception of writing on architecture is one of fusty, jargonistic, dandruff-dull prose, then Nairn brushes off any shouldered burden that may concern a reader. With brisk pen and plenty of shoe leather, he does all the work. It’s a given now that any publication by Notting Hill Editions is pleasing to the eye (this one features a warm and affectionate introduction by Paris resident Andrew Hussey). What gives this title extra sheen is that it has been out of print since 1968, with originals fetching £50. Cities change, but the quality of Nairn’s writing will always hold. He will take you to unexpected places, make you look at the familiar anew, or at least poke you into thinking about them again (For example, Nairn describes the basilica of Sacré-Coeur as “a waste of talent”.) But as he says, “this book is not an invitation to argument but to discovery… go and decide for yourself”.
* Article first appeared in The Irish Times
These mixes for NTS by Belfast’s finest, David Holmes, are sublime. I have them on loop these days.
Cinematic, eclectic, discrete but always engaging – great music to write to, create etc
The Italian soundtrack selection is a mother of all bombs mix. I’ve spun it three times in a row.
It’s a rare thing to find a mix with the voices of Jonathan Meades and Ian Nairn too…
There must be something to it surely: in the week when I had my essay on the inspirational, non-clubbable writer and broadcaster published in The Irish Times, I had a peruse of a second-hand bookshop only to find, side by side, original copies of Nairn’s London and Nairn’s Paris.
For the princely sum of £4 (in the inside cover of Paris is another marking for 20p).
I’ve added pictures below, comparing them with my facsimile of London, well thumbed as you can see and with some ale markings, and the new edition of Paris, published with typical elan by Notting Hill Editions. Just look at Nairn’s face on those covers – the child-like, goofy grin is nothing but endearing; he’s like a portly John Turturro.
I shall run Nairn’s BBC travelogues again this weekend (with some Guinness West Indies Porter, which I’m sure he would slap his lips in satisfaction with) as a small gesture to his ghost, if indeed he was tapping my shoulder to go into that bookshop. ‘Look here mate…’, I hear him saying.
The Nairn films are infinitely watchable in spite of their low-budget, dated (happily, in this instance), and cobbled together feel. He has a strange, melancholic relationship with the camera; I find him as compelling to watch on screen as, say, Richard Burton or Marlon Brando. At times I imagine he might start riffing towards a Shakespearean soliloquy as he shuffles around Halifax.
Anyway, I shall finish with this, because I have just uncapped another porter: despite his documented drift into darkness in his personal life and an unhealthy relationship with the booze, Nairn makes me laugh hard, and often, in his writing. (Whatever people think about him looking through a glass darkly, my instinct is that he lived his life the way he wanted to, and if that meant living until 53 or 83 years of age, I imagine Nairn would have thought, ‘well, so bloody what’.)
Here he is describing a pub, one of his true passions, The King’s Arms on the Fulham Road:
…once again I hear his ghost: ‘And nooooowwww look at it! It makes me burn!’
Fads will come and go.
Ian Nairn will remain. Raise a glass, chin chin.
This hefty slab of a book mainly consists of 1200 images from the invaluable Historic England archive, yet it is the details from Philip Davies’s impressive introduction that slap the reader in the face. Reading Davies’s excellent summation of the six decades covered in ‘Lost England 1870-1930’ one encounters some sociological insights that we should be eternally grateful we left behind.
Despite the country being one of the richest in the world thanks to the industrialisation of its cities and large towns, the resulting rapid urbanisation of the same places saw millions living in complete squalor. The lack of decent housing for the drivers of the Industrial Revolution, the working classes, was part of their continued degradation that locked them out from having any stake in the millions of profit being generated. Of course we are well aware nowadays of this exploitation of the labouring masses by the ruling classes, and there were a small number of philanthropic business families. Nevertheless, details outlined by Davies of how wealthy society disregarded their fellow brothers and sisters a centenary or so ago stick in the craw.
For example: cellar houses were commonplace in northern industrial cities; basement dwellings built beneath squalid terraced houses. In the 1860s one fifth of Liverpool’s population lived in cellar houses, eight or nine people in a single unventilated basement, and the city’s Chief Medical Officer of Health noted that ‘fluid matter’ from communal privies on the ground floor oozed into the cellar. It got worse. Thirty years on many cellar houses were closed, but with no provision for replacement housing. This caused such a squeeze for homes across northern cities that many houses in Leeds, Manchester, and seaports created ‘penny hangs’ in their cellars. Anyone staying overnight would drape their bodies over a rope suspended breast high between cellar walls until dawn, when the ends were unfastened and everyone would collapse on to a piss-flooded floor.
This is just a tiny snapshot of the turmoil that was part of extraordinary change experienced by England in the sixty years covered in this book. And if the social record of the country during this time is bleak, then its beauty can be found in the remarkable photographs featured here.’Lost England’ is a follow on from ‘Lost London’, covering the regions of the North West, the Midlands, East England etc and once again the pictures are poignant, elegiac, yet stirring. Look at the mighty civic buildings: the town halls, the libraries, the post offices; see the railways once the envy of the world; why did we ever forgo the elegant and timeless beauty of shopping arcades for banal American-style shopping malls? So much of the Victorian and Edwardian age was beautiful and this book will make you wonder why we let much of it slip through our hands, or tumbled it with the very same hands. As Davies writes, ‘Embrace the past with remembrance, but the future with optimism. Look back, but don’t stare.’
Lost England 1870-1930 by Philip Davies (Atlantic Publishing) £45
* Article first appeared in the Times Literary Supplement
Since Muhammad Ali’s passing in June, the image that springs to my mind when thinking about him is no longer the iconic Neil Leifer shot from 1965 of Ali towering over a vanquished Sonny Liston on the canvas, admonishing the recumbent fighter “Git up sucka; git up and fight!” Nor is it the photo generally considered the greatest in sports photography, again taken by Leifer, a year later. The picture is from above the ring, and shows Cleveland Williams (who was still carrying a bullet in his body going into the fight after a police shooting the year before) floored in the third, flat on his back on the square canvas. Ali is walking back to his corner, his arms raised in a victory many aficionados say was perfection personified (he sent Williams to the canvas four times). The perfect shot for the perfect fight. But it’s not that one, nor is it Flip Schulke’s famous underwater photograph of Ali eternally poised with his dukes ready for launch.
Instead, my mind’s eye conjures an image taken by Peter Angelo Simon in 1974. It shows Ali from behind, in black and white, doing his early-morning roadwork; pounding the Pennsylvania gravel in a grey tracksuit and heavy black boots. We see his breath cutting through the stillness of the new morning air, while a shaft of sunlight cuts across the middle of the frame. It’s a photograph that will never run out of road for me anyhow.
Now Ali is no longer of this earth, I can only think of this picture in a cosmological context, where he is being called back to where he started from; a cosmic ray bouncing back to that great ball of energy at the centre of our universe. Indulging the celestial metaphor once more, I always feel that if you had labelled Ali a meteorite, he would have slapped you down saying a meteorite was too small-time – he was the asteroid! Either way, aren’t we fortunate he shot through our universe?
But Ali was just a man (even if the distinction of super- is unconditionally prefixed to him). Just like the rest of us, he would bleed, hurt, cry, laugh and eventually die. We get a welcome new glimpse of his human side in Muhammad Ali Fighter’s Heaven 1974 (Reel Art Press), the cover of which is Simon’s astral image. The book is the fruits of two days shooting for Simon at Ali’s remote training camp, as the artist formerly known as Cassius Clay prepared to take on George Foreman in Zaire in a month’s time. Simon recalls that he and Ali had an unspoken agreement: “he’d do his thing and I’d do mine”.
What’s striking in most photographs of Muhammad Ali where he is surrounded by all sorts of people is that they are always smiling, even if he is not. It’s as if Ali swallowed life whole and transmitted only its joy through himself to anyone within his orbit.
“If there’s a secret to my fights,” Ali once said, “it’s how I prepare.” This collection of photographs gives us a privileged window into both the brutality and humanity that this preparation entailed.
If boxing is taking something of a standing count from mainstream consciousness nowadays, then jazz has showered and shaved, checked out of the hotel, and slunk off into defeated obscurity. It might be hard to fathom, but there was a time when jazz was the absolute symbol of hep, as we can see in Jazz Festival, which is based on Jim Marshall’s photography at Monterey and Newport in the 1960s. The greats are here: Coltrane, Miles, Satch, Nina and some unexpected figures too: Kim Novak, Steve McQueen, Joan Baez. This large book is an eye-catching testament to an age of effortless cool – sharp suits, smoked edges, sounds rising to the stratosphere – and features a foreword from famous sax player (and sometime president of the United States) Bill Clinton. The historian Nat Hentoff places jazz of that era in its proper cultural context – an integrated scene that maintained its dignity in the maelstrom of the civil rights struggle.
Hentoff references Cambridge University’s Tim Blanning who laid out in his book The Triumph of Music the idea that black musicians readied America for the civil rights movement. He’s right: straight-no-chaser. Just like Muhammad Ali, jazz changed white American attitudes and America changed for the better, eventually.
Someone we think of as the embodiment of American values is Bruce Springsteen and – unlike jazz and boxing – it feels like he has never had anything but praise and approbation during his career. However, Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band 1975 (also by Reel Art Press) documents a time when “The Boss” was struggling to break into the mainstream of American culture; at one point back then it seemed touch and go. Following two critically acclaimed albums, a lo-fi Boss is captured in these gritty portraits trying to piece together what would become his breakout album Born To Run.
With his trusted band in tow, we see a stripped-back Bruce: unadorned, living out of a bag, and from meal to meal probably. It’s also touching to see “The Big Man”, the late Clarence Clemons so full of life in these early photos, as well as a very lithe Steven Van Zandt, who is as well known for his role in The Sopranos these days as for cutting licks with Springsteen. The book is a snapshot in time of Bruce and his band living the life that he so painstakingly crafted into his music, and we are lucky to have this perspective. One suspects that “The Boss” has carried these pictures around in his head in the 40 years since they were taken; it’s probably why he’s “Mr Integrity” for so many of us.
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