Exactly a hundred years ago today, the First World War ended. Some 10 million soldiers and 6 million civilians had been killed by the time the guns fell silent.
On previous anniversaries, I have written about the soldiers who fought and died in this war. Today, though, it seems more appropriate to commemorate those for whom the pain did not end on that 11th day of November in , for whom the pain never ended. For many their wounds healed, leaving only scars to carry to the grave.
As Robert Graves wrote in the opening lines of his poem Recalling War , written some twenty years after the war ended,. Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean, The track aches only when the rain reminds. But some men were so badly mutilated that they could never lead a normal life again.
The German artist Otto Dix turned his unflinching gaze on these smashed men, forcefully reminding his viewers of their shattered existence and challenging them challenging us all not to turn away. But turn away they — we — did, forcing these men to eke out an existence on the edges of society, like this match seller drawn by Dix.
I give here my modest efforts at translation. In the street Cars On the cobbles, like hard rattles Taxis flying by Red, their backs smoking Heavy lorries Houses trembling. Tram lines under trolley wheels Screeching … On the pavements Passersby moving, moving The city screams The city: Paris.
