Vichy is known today for its thermal waters, cosmetics and distinctive hexagonal mint sweets, but the name remains inseparable from one of the darkest episodes in modern French history. On 10 July 1940, at 6.55pm, the city’s opera house became the setting for a decisive assault on the French Republic. Only 80 parliamentarians voted against granting full powers to Marshal Philippe Pétain, establishing an authoritarian government that collaborated with Nazi Germany. More than eight decades later, the city is seeking to confront rather than conceal that history, presenting Vichy as a warning about the vulnerability of democratic institutions in periods of political turmoil.
“The 10th of July 1940, everyone was aware that a totalitarian regime was being created. And that shows that fragility which, in this very complex period we are going through, can be very useful,” said Frédéric Aguilera, Vichy’s centre-right mayor. He argues that democratic institutions endure only so long as citizens are prepared to defend them. The city, he insists, should not be treated as synonymous with the regime that operated there, but should instead be understood as a place where the consequences of democratic disengagement became starkly visible.
Vichy was selected as the seat of government for practical reasons rather than because of any particular political or social inclination within the city. Its hotels, palaces, telephone network and other infrastructure made it suitable for accommodating the government apparatus. Aguilera notes that Pétain had originally asked the Nazis for Versailles, but that request was rejected. For four years, however, Vichy became the geographical shorthand for France’s collaboration with Nazi Germany, leaving a legacy that the city has struggled to separate from its own identity.
The tone surrounding that history has changed. During commemorations marking 82 years since the city’s liberation, Vichy sought to confront its past more directly. Aguilera argues that the focus should move beyond blaming the city and towards acknowledging the wider French responsibility for collaboration. “The problem is no longer that the city is associated with that problem, but that the city is used as a scapegoat to avoid accepting that a large part of France collaborated and that this has still not been accepted,” he said.
That willingness to revisit the past is also reflected in culture. A premiere screening of Notre salut, directed by Emmanuel Marre and filmed in Vichy, explores the experience of the director’s great-grandfather, a civil servant under the Vichy regime. Rather than portraying collaboration simply as an act of monstrous individuals, the film examines institutional accommodation, petty ambition and conformity. Its central warning is that even a limited erosion of “Liberty, Equality or Fraternity” can make institutions considerably more dangerous.
The historical record offers little comfort to those who regard democratic collapse as impossible. After France’s defeat in 1940, the country was divided into two zones. Nazi forces controlled the northern half and the Atlantic coast, while the remainder, including the colonies, remained under French authority. The new government established itself in Vichy and replaced the republican motto with “Work, family, homeland”. A small number joined the Resistance, others actively collaborated, while the majority adapted to the new order, partly comforted by the belief that accommodation had prevented another war.
That accommodation had devastating consequences. Two years later, on 26 August, a major round-up began in what was described as free France under the Vichy regime, leading to the deportation of around 10,000 Jews. Historian Alexandre Doulut, an expert on the crime committed with the complicity of the French regime, warns that periods of economic and social difficulty can create conditions for the resurgence of the far right. His conclusion is cautious but pointed. There may be no immediate reason for alarm, he says, but there is every reason to remain vigilant.
For Aguilera, the significance of Vichy lies precisely in this uncomfortable history. He wants the term “Vichy regime” replaced by “French State”, arguing that the former risks allowing France to distance itself from responsibility. The 80 parliamentarians commemorated at the city’s opera house remain a reminder of what happened when the Third Republic was dismantled by an overwhelming parliamentary majority.
“The 10th of July” therefore matters as much as the liberation itself, Aguilera argues, because it marks the moment when the Third Republic was buried through an extreme-right political project. In an era when democratic institutions are again being tested in the United States and parts of Europe, Vichy’s message is deliberately unsettling. Democracy may appear permanent, but its survival depends on people continuing to defend it.
