Name: François Bonnefoy
Age: 14
Country of Origin: France
Occupation: baker's assistant
Reason for coming to the US of A: His mother brought him over after his father died—she heard that an honest woman could make a good living in the New World.
Year of Arrival: 1911
Hetalia!
April 7, 1911
Mon cher journal,
I have recently received this blank book from my dearest maman, and I was told to write what happens in my days in it. I must admit, I am a bit confused by this directive, but I suppose I shall do as I was ordered. It would be best if I introduced myself, non?
My name is François Bonnefoy. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, and I am fourteen years old. I suppose I am fairly tall, and I am assuredly quite trim. I live in the town of Dijon, France, just east of the source of the Seine river, with my dearest maman and papa. I work in a bakery just down the street from our own home, and it is a very nice occupation. It always smells so delectable there, and I greatly enjoy it. I do nothing more than sweep up the floor and generally keep the shop clean, but perhaps when I grow older I can start learning how to bake. My favorite flower is the rose, and my favorite color is red. I can think of little more of interest about myself, and Maman is calling me to come help with the housework, so adieu for now!
—François
Hetalia!
April 12, 1911
Mon cher journal,
Papa is sick. It was raining yesterday, and he forgot his umbrella at home, so he was forced to walk back all the way from work in the rain. He's been coughing heavily and he has a high fever. With only my income and Maman's, it's not enough to purchase medicine for him.
It is thus far not very bad, and I pray it stays that way.
—François
Hetalia!
April 17, 1911
Mon cher journal,
Papa is getting worse. He cannot keep food down and his fever refuses to break. He is sweating constantly and Maman says he is dehydrated. I asked her what it meant and she said that he does not have enough liquid in his body.
We still do not have enough money to purchase medicine.
Please, Dieu, do not take Papa. Please, I am begging you, let him have some more time on Earth with me and Maman. Let his fever break. Let him eat without his stomach rejecting it. Please. I don't think either myself or Maman could take it if he…
I cannot even bring myself to write the word.
I am praying that it does not happen.
—François
Hetalia!
April 23, 1911
Mon cher journal,
I cannot believe it.
Papa…he…
I cannot write it. That will only make it more real, and I do not want to make it real.
Maman says we must do something. Papa is…was…the main person who made money in our household, and now that he…
Well, now that…that, we need to find another way to make a living. Maman is talking about the New World—she says that anyone can make a living there, including an honest woman.
I am not sure that I wish to leave my home, especially so soon after…
But if that is what we have to do, then I will do it. I will work hard and I will not complain, in order to keep Maman's spirits up. We cannot have her falling into despair.
—François
Hetalia!
May 3, 1911
Mon cher journal,
It is settled. We are going to the New World, or Amérique as it is called.
I shall not complain. I shall do my best in the New World, and Maman and I will make our happiness there.
We are leaving in a few weeks.
I will miss France terribly.
—François
Hetalia!
May 15, 1911
Mon cher journal,
Our travel plans are settled. We shall travel by foot to Paris, where we will take a river-boat down to the port, and from there a steamship across the Atlantic.
I suppose this is really happening.
—François
Hetalia!
May 20, 1911
Mon cher journal,
We are about a week into our journey to Paris, and my feet ache.
I am too tired to write more. Au revoir, journal.
—François
Hetalia!
May 28, 1911
Mon cher journal,
We have arrived in Paris. It is simply splendid!
I am still exhausted. We step on the river-boat tomorrow, and from there it is a few days' journey to the port, then three months' journey across the Atlantic.
I am not looking forward to three months spent in an enclosed space.
—François
Hetalia!
June 1, 1911
Mon cher journal,
We are on the steamship now. It was chaos getting on, and it is somewhat chaos now. Maman and I have a space in steerage class on the ship, and there are so many people down here! It is very noisy, and I am hoping that this noise will not continue into the night—it will be very difficult to sleep, and I do not wish to miss three months' worth of rest simply because people will not shut up.
The other passengers have been telling stories about what they've heard of the New World. From what I've been able to gather, it is Heaven on Earth.
Three months in this ship. I admit that I am less than enthusiastic, but we shall see how it goes.
—François
Hetalia!
June 15, 1911
Mon cher journal,
It goes horribly. Ugh. The food they throw us is not fit for pigs, the noise is incessant, and the smell—
It does not bear mentioning. Neither does the motion of the boat, which induces a terrible nausea in me.
Au revoir, mon journal. Perhaps I shall write again sometime when I do not feel like vomiting.
—François
Hetalia!
July 1, 1911
Mon cher journal,
Ugh. That is all.
—François
Hetalia!
July 31, 1911
Mon cher journal,
It…it is Papa's birthday today.
I shall not cry, for I do not wish to render these words illegible. But…I miss him terribly, and I miss our own hometown nearly as much. Alas for the cobbled streets of Dijon…
I miss the bakery. It always smelled so wonderful, most unlike this hellhole of a ship.
I miss our home, with its bright kitchen where Maman could almost always be found.
Papa…I miss you. I wish…I wish that…that you were here. But…it is impossible. One cannot bring back those who have passed into Dieu's arms. And…perhaps it was Dieu's will that Papa passed, for without that, neither Maman nor myself would be on our way to the New World.
I am terribly homesick, and I find myself wishing that none of this had ever happened.
—François
Hetalia!
August 17, 1911
Mon cher journal,
I have heard that we will be arriving in Amérique in a few weeks. I am terribly impatient to see this fabled New World.
—François
Hetalia!
September 3, 1911
Mon cher journal,
We have passed through Ellis Island. It was…I suppose "exciting" might fit. Perhaps a better word would be "awful," or even "terrifying."
They—the people there—questioned me in that horrible Anglais, which I could not understand, so I stared at them like they had three heads and they brushed me off and sent me along.
There did happen one odd thing. Another of the many people being interrogated attempted to speak to me, still using that awful Anglais. I, of course, responded in my native Français, to which he muttered something which was probably uncomplimentary. I was terribly confused by the whole conversation (if one could call it that), but resolved to brush it off.
Once the questioning stopped, I was reunited with Maman, and we set off into the busy streets of New York City. Maman said that we were searching for the…brownstone, I think it was called…where she had procured for us an apartment. There were many, many stairs leading up to it.
At least we are in a city once more. I have missed the feeling of cobblestones under my feet.
—François
Hetalia!
September 15, 1911
Mon cher journal,
Lately, life has been…steady. I have procured a job in another bakery (it is almost as fabulous as the bakery back home), and Maman has found a job making clothes. I have made friends with a few of our neighbors—a German boy named Gilbert and a Spanish boy named Antonio. Gilbert is much older than Antonio and I, but we do not mind. The language barrier makes it a bit difficult, but we have all been picking up a lot of English, and even bits and pieces of each others' languages, so it is not as troublesome as it might be.
Cher journal, do you remember the person who bothered me at Ellis Island? He and his father live to our left. I have tried to talk to him a few times, but he has always snorted and pushed me away. He really has no friends, but he does not seem lonely…I wonder why this could be?
Anyway, one of the little Italians from across the hall seems to be quite fond of Antonio—he may deny it all he likes, but I know the signs of l'amour~! It is the elder, and he is called Lovino. He is quite the grouch—his little brother Feliciano is much cuter—but Antonio seems fond of him as well.
They are both boys, though, so I am not certain it is possible.
Enough of moping over others' troubles. I myself am doing very well here in the New World, and English is not as difficult as I thought it might be. I suppose the word to describe this might be "happiness."
—François
Hetalia!
Author's Notes again~
Translations (I don't speak French—everything I know I've picked up from reading fanfiction, which is a bit sad, but there you go—so please correct me on my mistakes):
Mon cher journal: My dear journal (yes, journal is journal in French)
Maman: mother
Papa: father
adieu: goodbye
non: no
Dieu: God
Amérique: America (did you know? The word for "America" in French is feminine.)
au revoir: farewell
Anglais: English
Français: French
l'amour: love
Human names: No new ones. France's mom is Gaul, his name is spelled François because that's the French spelling, you should know the rest…
A couple extra notes: THIS IS THE EARLY NINETEEN HUNDREDS. Everything is the characters' opinions as I think they would be, considering the time period and such. Nothing is meant to be offensive. This goes for the previous chapter, too, and any chapters that may or may not follow.
Hetalia is not mine, the premise is not mine, the scene breaks are not mine. EVERYTHING ELSE IS MINE, ALL MINE, BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA /shot
Hope you enjoyed~! Reviews are love, constructive criticism lets me know how to write better, and flames will be used to warm my freezing toes.