Can you believe it? You've been on holidays for 13 days ! Are you getting bored?

If so, here is a grammar debate that can keep you busy.

"Each other" or "one another"? That is the question.

To help you answer, the British Council is a reliable website:

https://learnenglish.britishcouncil.org/fr/english-grammar/pronouns/reciprocal-pronouns-each-other-and-one-another

Do their exercise, submit your answers and see whether you've grasped their explanations.

On Monday ! Surprise !!! The canteen was displaying a whole range of spices with explanations that I hope you have read. Every day the cook offers us the opportunity to taste something new, recipes imported from countries all over the world : India, Great-Britain, Australia.

I will not taste all the dishes, but the fish and chips and the hummus have been a delight. Thanks to all the kitchen team for their commitment in this taste-buds-and-mind-opening week. 

I'm looking forward to Thursday's and Friday's lunches !

A quiz about Autumn in France !

http://www.frenchmoments.eu/autumn-in-france-quiz/

Welcome everyone!

It's time to meet new friends, new teachers and maybe a new school altogether. I wish you all lots of fun and academic success.

http://www.hahastop.com/pictures/Welcome_Back_To_School_Students.htm

This short story was written by Marie. She didn't give it a title.

A young and tall girl, with a dark skin, walking on a road. She is alone. She is alone, but she is happy. The hot wind in her face, she thinks about her discussion with Russel. For the first time, the old man talks to her as a woman. It’s his gift for Maya’s 17^th birthday.  He wants to tell her who she is.

This is an old man with a strange look. On his face, we see the passing of time, but he is still a beautiful man. His dark eyes are cheerful like a young boy, and when he smiles we can see some wrinkles around his mouth. Sometimes, he sings in a strange language, a pretty sound for Maya but also incomprehensible.

She arrives in the entrance of the village, a long road separating the village into two parts. On the right, there is the police station, the church, and some houses, on the left, a pub and many houses. Russel lives behind the church in a little hut, made of wood and metal sheet. It’s not very pretty, but he is happy. Inside, there is the minimum: a sofa which is also a bed, a little table with some chairs, a radio and a kitchenette.

You know, darling, when I was young, life was not so easy. In the reservation, we weren’t free like now, the government was hard with us, Native Americans says Russel when I was in his little house. I agree with him with a head movement, and he continues to tell his story. At 10, they sent me to a school and to a boarding school. My friend of the tribe and I, we were educated to be like white Americans! They cut my hair, and obliged me to wear shoes… After looking at me, he added: For you, little girl, it’s nothing but at the time and for me, it’s was incomprehensible!

Daddy Russ’, I just don’t understand… Why have they done that? It’s insane… Our family is proud of his origin and all the history of the Indians! So why did Americans want to destroy us?

Oh, little girl, you have no idea… After this strange sentence, Russel moved under the hut. The young lady followed him, silently.

 *

The little city is calm, it’s the end of the day and the sun goes down. We can only hear the sound of a dog, seeing a cat. The old man walk, follow by Maya, asking many questions but he still stay impassible.

When they arrive at the end of the village, he stop and just say: It’s for that, my little girl, they want that.

This landscape, impressive by his greatness was the place of many troubles… You know, the Indians were the first inhabitants of the country. However, the new inhabitants want to colonize our area. After many and many fights, they took the power, and decided to control us, they put us in reservation ! Now we live here, and we try again and again to be accepted. But little girl, I’m never gonna leave that.

In front of them, a lot of huge mountains stand. The height is not the same, but they are majestic. Around, there is nothing, maybe some tree. The last rays of the sunlight light their face, an happy and peaceful face. We can read on their eyes, the determination of saving this origin.

*http://www.huffingtonpost.com/paul-ratner/rare-old-photos-of-native_b_5123162.html

The end of term was very artistic at Chagall High School !

Some students from the "Maison des Lycéens" launched a mural project. Any students could add their touch. At first they were shy, but then many of them expressed themselves on the white wall of the common room, and the result is stunning.

And indeed this mural now belongs to all of us. Thank you so much.

Thank you all for making our high school beautiful and lively !

Today the annual ceremony in memory of Charles de Gaulle's call to arms on June 18th 1940.

On that occasion two students of our school read texts in front of a large audience: veterans,  military officials, the lord mayor, members of an organisation for the remembrance of the Resistance Movement and many anonymous people who think this movement played a role that should be remembered. 

Eléa and Nathan were asked to read as they were the departmental winners of the National Competition on the Resistance and Deportation.

Let's congratulate them here because they spoke with seriousness, gravity and eloquence and took part in the competition with great commitment.

Here I want to congratulate 7 students from 1 L1 and L2 who entered a difficult competition organised by Paper Planes Publishers. Students could write on their own or in pairs and had to write a short-story, a poem or a non-fiction essay. They worked on their texts from November to March, sometimes starting all over again when they were not satisfied. They heard my tips, edited their texts, sometimes even during their holidays. This was a huge work and they deserve your applause. I will publish their works throughout the summer. 

Here is the first short-story:

The Heartbreaker

by Madeleine.

The wind was blowing on the quiet city of Riga. Snowflakes gently danced down from the dark night sky, Christmas lights shone from everywhere as the delightful smell of gingerbread perfumed the air.

Escaping from outside’s aching cold, I entered a small inn where a blazing fire was burning in the hearth.

I made my way to the bar, ordered a coffee then looked around: apart from three men playing cards by the fire, the waitress and an old man sitting at the other end of the bar, the café was empty. 

It was when I started sipping my drink that I overheard the conversation…

“He was barely fourteen.” the landlady told the old man.

It was none of my business, but I came out to blurt: “Who?”

 “Oskar, the boy from the orphanage.” The man answered, looking blindly at his glass.

I nodded and turned back to my coffee. For sure it was none of my business; I didn’t know that Oskar boy anyways.

“He died of a broken heart, I think.  Such a pity.” The landlady kept on while wiping the counter.

 “I assume you mean a heart attack?” I interrupted her one more time.

She looked at me as if I had said the most unimaginable thing on earth and grinned back down to her work.

However, the old man started:

 “It happened a few days ago. On Christmas Eve…”

There was no sound in the orphanage that evening, the children were all sleeping safely and soundly dreaming about the upcoming day, apart from one boy, Oskar.

He was sitting on the cold floor by the window, looking at the tremendous snowfield that stretched endlessly before his eyes; his square five-bedded room was empty.  He was holding an old crumpled piece of paper in his hand, on which stood the only words that made his stranger’s past: Lūdzu, piedodiet man. Please forgive me.

Who had even given him this? Who had once been able to care enough to write it?

Stuck in the Absurd, and in between four yellow walls.

Throb.

Maybe his mother had written it, he liked to think; it would make sense if it was her, but he couldn’t even remember her face.  Now she was… they were all gone?

“Have you ever had that feeling of loving someone, who doesn’t love you back?”

The man asked me, breaking his narrative.

I looked at him and felt a smile in a corner of my lips: “I guess everyone once did. It’s no big deal.”

 “Well Oskar had lived on with that feeling, though quite unsure of whom he actually loved.” He continued, ignoring my answer.

That night, he ran away from the establishment. He ran to Riga, crossing those fields of snow. He rushed through the capital’s streets in the winter night, with only his old shoes and poor coat on his back to keep him warm. He had time to wander in the whole city; he had time to see everything. Some said that though he looked quite lost, he seemed happy.

But how could they know?

With snow in his boots and red cold-sored cheeks, he stopped on a freezing bench to look at the star-sprinkled sky; and never stood up again.

Throb.   

The next day he was found lying still and cold there, his fist tightened around the small piece of paper.

 The man marked a pause.

“Froze to death in my opinion.” I smirked.

The landlady looked, horrified, her jaw dropping, but the old man… he slowly stood up. I might have gone too far. I had definitely gone too far.

 “Is it your reaction?” he asked

It came as a blow, my cheeks turning red and burning hot.

“Well then, after all it’s your opinion. May you or may you not live on with it.” He added before walking away and disappearing in the dark street.

                                                                ***                     

However, as strange as it may seem, I decided to make my way to the orphanage the next day.

 An old lady, worn out by time welcomed me. She was not, in any way, the dreadful, unpleasant orphanage woman we hear about in stories, I thought as she guided me to Oskar’s room. If I hadn’t been told, I would never have thought that children were actually living in this place: silent and drowsy, the rooms were only equipped with a few beds and a table, a sad place.

His own private space was in a corner in one of these rooms, near the window. How had he possibly been able to spend such a long time there, with loneliness devouring his heart?

“He didn’t speak much, but his look meant everything. He had big black velvet eyes, a bit like yours, sir.”

I nodded, a sudden wave of discomfort traversing my whole body, so I turned around to chase the feeling away and asked:

 “No family? Relatives?”

 “There are stories we are asked to keep untold...” she replied, glancing back at me.

Of course I wasn’t satisfied with her answer, but I was only a stranger to that story after all.

I was about to leave the room when the old lady stopped me.

“Ten years ago, a young woman brought him. The child’s father had left her and she had no money”

My heart throbbed, I shivered.

Her last words managed to knock me down:

“Her name was Anja Z…”

 My legs felt so weak t I had to sit down. The lady grabbed my arm and helped me to a chair.

I started shaking, my head miserably aching.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Anja.” I whispered.

Fourteen years ago.

“Yes, but she passed away right after.”

I held my head into my hands, my eyes squeezed shut. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“You knew her?” she asked.

I collapsed on my chair, my eyes blindly looking out by the window, remembering.

“I will never let you down”.

But I had.

And I had broken two hearts.