Raising a pig
1943–1944: La Blachette, Vernoux d'Ardèche

Hunger and, in winter, cold, were our constant companions. Hunger caused us terrible suffering—especially in winter when, combined with the miserable cold, it became all-consuming. It was possible, more or less, to surmount the cold by covering our feet with strawlined clogs; by huddling close to animals for body heat, for their warm breath; or simply by stomping in place. But the quintessential hunger is a relentless gnawing: it suffuses the brain—it nauseates to the core. This hunger is diabolical—it gnawed at our entrails until we could think of nothing else.

The farmstead attempted to raise a pig on field herbs, chestnuts and scraps; given the dearth of feed, the pig turned out to be mean and lean, with lovely ballerina legs—a kind of racing pig who could really move and, more than once, attempted to bite us.

Having stolen some eggs, we came up with the clever idea of boiling them in the pig's slop. We thus learned the hard way that eggs take on the taste of that in which they are cooked. This became our one and only attempt at clever improvisations and, from then on, I, for my part, ate eggs raw. Our dog, a foundling we named "Blackie," thought "eggs à la slop" were very tasty.