Merci, Simca Mille

An Automotive Memory

By Roger Boylan


Like Rebecca in Hitchcock’s film (and Daphne Du Maurier’s novel) of that name, last night I dreamed I went home again. I often have this dream.

But instead of a Manderley-like mansion on the Cornish coast, I’m revisiting a small house in suburban Geneva, where I spent my childhood and youth. And unlike Rebecca, my house dreams are banal affairs, usually just replays of reality plus upsurges of obscure longing, or the gentle nibbling of imminent failure. In the dream the house itself, as in life, is half-hidden behind its tumbledown fence and fruit trees and willows and silver birches (on whose branches one winter a family of great horned owls, driven down from the mountains by the cold, came to perch, and perch again in my dreams), with a glimpse over the treetops and neighboring farmhouse roof of the snow-covered Jura mountains, in France. Also as in life is my mother’s small French car, a sky-blue Simca 1000 (“Mille”), sitting in the graveled drive, or inside the single-car-wide garage. The wooden garage doors, slumping then on their rusted hinges, slump at a slightly steeper angle in my dream version.

A ’67 Mille; the lady is not my mother.

The ’67 Simca was the successor to the valiant Renault Dauphine of yore that had taken my parents and me to Yugoslavia in the summer of ’61 (read here) The Mille was the car in which I learned to drive, and it became my first car when I came of age and my mother graduated to a Peugeot 304.

A 304 and a Mille neck and neck in a 1973 French movie

I liked the Simca Mille from the start. It was about Dauphine-sized but boasted such refinements as a removable rear seat, a then-voguish linear speedometer, chrome side trim, red-and-cream naugahyde seats, and coat hooks above the rear doors.

It was sprightly enough, with a 944-cc engine in the rear that made 50 hp at 5200 rpm and could impel the little box along at the dizzying speed of 135 km/h (83mph)–and even a theoretical 140, with a tailwind, as I discovered to my intoxicated delight on the autobahn between Vienna and Salzburg , as such lesser local fauna as Steyr-Puch 500s obligingly yielded the fast lane.

A Steyr-Puch 500, or Fiat Cinquecento made under license in Austria

That exploit occurred when I was en route home to Geneva from Budapest, and happy to be heading west. I made the eastbound trip at a time when Hungary was behind the barrier of minefields and barbed wire and sinister lies known as the Iron Curtain. To go there at all then(1969) was a daring escapade, but I’d inherited my parents’ bloody-mindedness, and I was of an age to drive.

Switzerland and Austria, threaded as they were even then by magnificent autoroutes and autobahnen, were no sweat. The Simca hummed happily along, except when one of the frequent Alpine crosswinds blew and the car exhibited an urgent desire to hop laterally into the next lane, or into a ditch. The steering was heavy, not being power-assisted, of course; but overall the little car was easy to control, and it had a superb Porsche-sourced (so they said) four-on-the floor that squeezed the most out of the tiny engine. So I managed to avoid incidents, even in traffic-congested and polizei-teeming Vienna, the West’s last glittering showcase, beyond which the autobahn and rolling fields of Austrian Burgenland dwindled into a potholed two-lane road that did no good to the Simca’s suspension and led past looming watchtowers and fields sown with tripwires and mines (Achtung: Minen!) to the Hegyeshalom frontier post and Hungary.

The Communist world came on strong. I’d already waited three hours by the time the customs officials got around to inspecting the Simca, looking in vain for my luggage in the engine compartment at the rear and finding it in the removable rear seat, which they tackled grimly, muttering in Magyar. I was coldly interrogated by more delegates of faceless internationalism from other Iron Curtain countries: the USSR, Poland, and the DDR, some in uniform, some in bulky gray Commie-civvies. (It was barely a year since the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia, and the proletarian faithful had closed ranks.) As darkness fell, the strobe lights on the watchtowers went into action, rotating slowly from left to right, right to left, left to right, inspecting the lower depths for telltale signs of wretched escape. Uniformed guards paced, expressionless. Pungent cigarettes were chain-smoked by one and all. Equally pungent slivovicz or schnapps was passed around (not to me). Occasionally a Hungarian official would bustle over and yell something at me in his native tongue or in one of the many other languages I couldn’t understand. Finally the Mille and I were released from bondage at eleven-thirty at night and drove off into the midnight Magyar steppe and found shelter in a town called Gyor that was dark and silent and smelled of the cheap gasoline that fueled the GAZ trucks and Pobeda cars one saw on the roads in the daylight. (No one traveled by night; the roads were rough and poorly lit, and roadside assistance was a thing of the future and/or the capitalist West.)

A Pobeda

Of the Hungarian countryside, however, I recall an excess of color and jolliness, and buxom peasant girls, and wine-soaked harvest festivals; but my memories may have gotten mixed up with the photos in an old Communist Youth magazine. Certainly Budapest itself was fine, although ringed with cheap apartment blocks, a whited sepulchre athwart the bluish Danube. Still: The view from the hills of Buda was magnificent. The city’s boulevards, even then, were handsome enough and evocative, vaguely, of Paris, or at least Vienna. The aromas from the few food shops were enticing, and exotic, and paprika-redolent; and the locals were surprisingly friendly. Things were cheap; but things were few. After three days I was willing to leave, hopeless capitalist that I was, and am. And my Simca and I had a tailwind to catch, somewhere on the forested autobahn west of Vienna and east of Salzburg.

COPYRIGHT – All Rights Reserved

Author: Brendan Moore

Brendan Moore is a Principal Consultant with Cedar Point Consulting , a management consulting practice based in the Washington, DC area. He also manages Autosavant Consulting, a separate practice within Cedar Point Consulting. where he advises businesses connected to the auto industry. Cedar Point Consulting can be found at

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  1. What a great little travelogue! This is a good glimpse at the Europe of the past, Communists and all.

  2. This reminds me what a lot of character little cars used to have a few years ago. I wonder if the Czech Skoda of that era was inspired by the Mille? I always think it is ironic that Chrysler Corporation ended up owning two of Europe’s best rear-engined cars, the Simca 1000 and the British Hillman Imp, and failed to replace either of them.

  3. We had a Peugeot 304 Cabrio when I was growing up in the Netherlands. No idea why my parents bought a convertible as it was hardly ever warm enough to put the top down, but they wanted it for summer holiday trips, they said. It was a sturdy little car, if not exactly breathtaking in performance. It looked good, though.

  4. I was in some of the Eastern Bloc countires in the Seventies, and, I have to tell you, Communism overall was generally drab, grey, and lifeless. This permeated every aspect of society – clothing, cars, buildings, art, etc. So glad it’s gone.

  5. In hungary at that time if you had a Skoda, you were somebody with connections. If you had a Tatra or a Zil, you were a party official. Regular people didn’t have cars for the most part, although some trades people had trucks and some farmer had trucks (or tractors) that many of them drove into the towns around them. Petrol stations were always running out of fuel, and the communist-made vehciles broke down all the time. No mercy shown from any quarter if you owned a crappy private car that yo9u had to save years for, get on a list for, and all to buy a loud, judderrung pile of Red Communist automobile nuts and bolts. I was there, it sucked,and only occasionally could you get a West German magazine snuggled in so u=you could at least look at phoyos of nice cars, if nothing else, eh? Like being in car hell with the the poliburo being the DEVIL,

  6. I’ll tell you what’s weird about your first car where I live: Here in CA, as in some other states, the plate goes with the car when you sell a car. So as long as the car stays in CA, you can always recognize your old car when you see it somewhere because it will have the same license plate as the one it had when you owned it.

    It’s strange to see your old car driven by someone else, you know, it’s like seeing your old girlfriend; you wonder how she’s getting along, if her current significant other is treating her well, and of course, you can see that she’s getting older. It also makes some memories come back in that instant you see the car ahead of you in traffic or parked on a street somewhere. It’s kind of a strange feeling that dredges up a lot of different emotions for me.

    My first car was a car that is now considered a classic car and therefore I still see that car I owned over 30 years ago on the road around where I live. It’s infrequent, because the guy that owns it now only takes it out on sunny weekends, but still, when it happens, it’s very effective in taking me back to that time in my life.

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