It's wartime. It's winter. It's night. It's very, very cold. Transfixed, squashed in a broom cupboard, I spy on my father. He is sitting on a suitcase. His head, his torso, his arms, are stuffed in the oven part of the large wooden stove, the only warm place in the house. He's writing, keeping warm, a pocket torch the only source of light in the dark. Each time he comes to the end of a page, he takes it in his left hand and removing only his arm from the oven, the rest of his body still hidden, he uses it to keep the weak fire going in the oven. After what must be about an hour, he leaves, having burnt everything he had written. As soon as he leaves, I slip, frozen, into my bed. I stink of cleaning stuff, I bite into my teddy bear to stifle my nervous laughter. Papa recommences every evening. Me too. So how can they expect me to be normal ?
Distribution
the author reads his play
proposed by : Vera Feyder, president of the radio commission of Sacd
Production
Coproduction: Sacd, Festival d'Avignon
Lecture enregistrée et diffusée en différé par France Bleu