The General's Niece

by Paige Bowers

  Although some questioned the Economic and Social Council’s usefulness, Geneviève believed it was a place where important questions were studied seriously by representatives from civil society. As challenging as working with the council seemed to her at first, she saw that it was a place where you could discuss issues and propose solutions that could result in legislation.

  Her desire to achieve a law against poverty and social exclusion became even more challenging as Bernard’s health continued to deteriorate. Although he didn’t want her to walk away from her responsibilities to ATD, he became unhappy every time she left him. She tried to compromise. One day she divided her time between his neurological appointments and a hearing in the Senate about social affairs. A colleague attended the first part of the hearing so she could make the doctor’s visit. The doctor’s prognosis was grim, and her children took Bernard home while Geneviève went to the Senate alone for the second half of the day.

  On July 14, 1994, Bernard died in her arms at the age of eighty-three. He wanted to be buried in his village in Savoy, where there was a small church they could use for the service. Family and friends came to pay their respects. ATD volunteers came too, showing their devotion to Geneviève, who had been so devoted to them. Once again Geneviève remained upbeat on the surface after her husband’s death.

  “She was always very happy, despite the private thoughts she only shared with those who were closest to her,” said Germaine Tillion.

  On the inside seventy-three-year-old Geneviève was weary, and for a period of time it was difficult for her to press on in the name of ATD without Bernard at her side. “All that I could do and undertake in this movement, I did because Bernard and I were profoundly in agreement with each other,” she said.

  But she worked through the painful emotions associated with a life without Bernard and continued to work with ATD, taking the bus from her home to its headquarters a few days a week. Tardieu greeted her every day before they went through the mail together and then discussed the day’s agenda. Geneviève assumed responsibility for evaluating all public policies on poverty for the Economic and Social Council.

  “It was a huge undertaking because she wanted to show that the different public policies were good, but they were not organized and conceived in a way where the whole thing would make sense and work in coherent way,” Tardieu said. “At some point, you could have legislation that was contradictory. For example, a social worker could tell a woman that she needed to leave her husband to have access to housing, but someone else would tell that same woman that she should get back together with her husband to get her children back.”

  Two months after Jacques Chirac was elected president, he met with Geneviève, who handed him a petition with 150,000 signatures that called for a law against social exclusion. It would require societal debate, and ATD wanted the government’s involvement.

  Geneviève’s proposal faced challenges. Some felt it was full of good intentions. Others thought they knew better than she did about how to present the report, so they made changes that she did not approve. She and her team revised their work over Chinese takeout and kept pushing even when their morale flagged. When it came time to approve the report so that it could be presented as a law, no one did. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to help the poor, it’s that they didn’t want to make them a priority. They also didn’t like that Geneviève used the voice of the poor in her text, but she would not back down on this. She said if you took their voices out, you negated all the work that had been done.

  The section members said they needed more time and offered to take up the vote again after the summer. But she knew that if they waited until fall, they would not be coordinated with the government’s calendar. She was determined to win them over.

  But then she broke her elbow and had to be hospitalized.

  Geneviève left the hospital on the day the council was set to meet again about her report. Again she refused to back down on any point. There was silence among the members, who knew they needed to decide whether to support her. She began to read her report, which needed to be approved paragraph by paragraph. When she reached the end of it, a member said, “Madame de Gaulle is right. It is necessary to use the words of the people in this text. For me, there is no doubt, we have to vote for this opinion because it’s our reason for being on this council.”

  In her youth Geneviève de Gaulle Anthonioz had given voice to a part of France that wanted to embrace its better self as it cast off its oppressors. After the war she had protected the interests of fellow detainees like herself and shared their story with the world. Now, in the twilight of her life, she faced one last battle, this time in the name of the poor, and she would give it everything that she had left.

  Epilogue

  Geneviève de Gaulle Anthonioz never considered herself a hero or a saint, though she was called both of those things in her lifetime. She was a discreet woman who believed in doing the right thing without fuss or fanfare. Although she was never one to call attention to herself, Geneviève drew on her intellect, storytelling flair, and famous maiden name when she needed to bring awareness to important causes. Being a de Gaulle opened doors, and she was determined to use that privilege for the benefit of other people, whether they were her fellow resistance workers; the women of Ravensbrück, both during and after their captivity; or the poorest and neediest citizens of France.

  After her journey into the Noisy-le-Grand slum in October 1958, she became one of France’s fiercest antipoverty crusaders as president of ATD Quart Monde, and her efforts and advocacy were instrumental in getting a comprehensive law against poverty and exclusion passed in 1998.

  “It was unbelievable to think that [ATD] could last 60 years and have an impact on the United Nations and be in certain countries,” said Geneviève Tardieu, her former assistant. “But Geneviève had the intuition that something very valuable was starting here, even though everything seemed to indicate otherwise.”

  Geneviève de Gaulle Anthonioz put her credibility on the line when she decided that working for the poor—and Father Joseph—was her calling, and she immersed herself in their world to get them the help they needed. Through her efforts she empowered the poor to speak up for their interests and be heard by powerful people, regardless of their place in the political spectrum.

  But she was also a modest woman, who, as Tardieu said, “wanted to make sure that people didn’t feel like they were standing next to a monument,” a clear reference to the grandeur associated with the de Gaulle name.

  “Although she could be demanding, she never wanted to intimidate, or impose her personality,” Tardieu added. “It was very gratifying to work with her because she worked so hard and appreciated everyone around her. When you were with her, you knew you were working on the side of right.”

  Geneviève continued her work with ADIR, turning the group from one focused on postwar aid to one devoted to broader social problems, their continuing need to testify about their experiences with concentration camps, and their aging population. The women of ADIR became de facto guardians of national memory and were courted to speak at schools and in front of other groups. André Malraux said of them, “When the last among you has died, something will be lacking in the voice of France.”

  By 1980 France was among the nations struggling with high unemployment due to the oil crises and recession that had begun in the previous decade. National immigration policy had become more restrictive since the mid-1970s as French citizens became fearful that migrants were stealing their jobs. The far-right National Front began making inroads in key local elections as a result, and other political parties responded with policies that reflected this groundswell of fear.

  Geneviève de Gaulle Anthonioz had become the nation’s moral authority. Prior to the 1981 presidential election, she said: “In a period of economic difficulty, it is too easy to make the French accept that migrants are stealing their jobs or exploit their fears in a way that leads to violence. A country ca
nnot play this way and pretend to be a champion of human rights.”

  Her words still ring true in a world that has once again become engulfed in partisan strife, right-wing nationalism, economic challenges, and racial and ethnic hatreds. Where she could have turned away from problems, she turned toward them in the spirit of love and understanding.

  Geneviève de Gaulle Anthonioz’s final years were marked by the joy of spending time with her loved ones (she became the grandmother of eleven). She captured her memories of Ravensbrück in a powerful, sixty-page memoir, The Dawn of Hope, and her recollections of her antipoverty crusades in The Secret of Hope. She and her three closest friends from the resistance sat for an American documentarian who captured their wartime exploits and resulting friendship in an hour-long film. Taken together these works sum up some of her grandest achievements and have inspired countless letters from schoolchildren all over France, who are stirred by her bravery and compassion.

  In 1997 she became the first woman in the country to be awarded the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. She accepted the award from French president Jacques Chirac at Élysée Palace in front of what she called her three families: her own family, fellow resistance fighters, and the poor she came to represent. She died of Parkinson’s disease on Valentine’s Day 2002 at the age of eighty-one. After a simple funeral she was buried next to her husband, Bernard, in Savoy. A public ceremony followed in Paris at Notre Dame Cathedral.

  Obituaries hailed her as a resister for all of her life, a woman of crystal and steel, a saint, a heroine, the only woman who could make Charles de Gaulle cry, and a grande dame who gave voice to the voiceless.

  To all of that she might have argued she was only doing the right thing all along.

  Schools and streets have been named for this delicate woman who refused to let her size get in the way of her accomplishments, and postage stamps have been made in her likeness. But in the end Geneviève de Gaulle Anthonioz was symbolically interred among the country’s historic greats in the Panthéon, some seventy years after her release from a concentration camp. Her family was proud of the honor but didn’t want to separate her from her beloved Bernard. They gathered up some soil from her resting place, placed it in an urn and then a coffin, which now rests in the grand Left Bank mausoleum.

  In May 2015 she was hailed at the Panthéon alongside fellow resisters Jean Zay, Pierre Brossolette, and her dear friend Germaine Tillion. In a grand ceremony the French were reminded that they should not be indifferent but should fight for justice, just as these four did. Just four months earlier the Charlie Hebdo killings had shaken the nation and the world. In response to the killings, the French noted that they had dealt with Nazism before, so they could deal with radical Islam. At the Panthéon ceremony French president François Hollande stood to the left of four flag-draped caskets and called on the country to meet its problems head-on, to fight, and to say no when it was necessary.

  He added: “Faced with indifference, each generation has a duty of vigilance, resistance. And each individual has the choice to act. Everything starts with a choice, even if you rarely know far in advance where it may lead. . . . Like yesterday, in the tragedy of the war, when men and women of all opinions, of all backgrounds, of all ages, decided to do something. They did it because they chose to do it. And in turn, we must make choices that meet the challenges of today.”

  Geneviève may not have known where her path would lead when she joined her uncle’s fight in 1940, but throughout her life she remained true to her core ideals.

  Acknowledgments

  Former French premier Georges Clemenceau once said that “the last word goes to those who never surrender.” A veritable army of people stood by me as I fought to get these last words right.

  In Paris I am tremendously grateful for the assistance of Franck Veyron at the Bibliothèque de Documentation Internationale Contemporaine, Philippe Mezzasalma at the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, and Patricia Gillet at the Archives Nationales. Their answers, assistance, and insights were incredibly valuable to me as I began sorting through Geneviève de Gaulle Anthonioz’s archival holdings. I would also like to thank Mme Anthonioz’s daughter, Isabelle Gaggini, for her generosity and good humor as I strove to tell the best story possible about her late mother. She graciously connected me with friends and family members who took time out of their busy schedules to share stories about General de Gaulle’s favorite niece. Without Isabelle’s help many parts of this book could not have been written. I am additionally grateful to the following formidable women for their time, tales, and trouble: Michèle Moët-Agniel and Anise Postel-Vinay, who shared their stories of resistance in wartime France; historian Claire Andrieu, who supplied me with the exact background reading I needed; filmmaker Caroline Glorion, who talked to me about Geneviève’s postwar life and engagement; and ATD Quart Monde’s Geneviève Tardieu, who told me about how this so-called little de Gaulle was able to give a voice to the voiceless. Geneviève Tardieu also graciously provided feedback on what I wrote about Mme Anthonioz’s years with ATD.

  At Getty Images I would like to thank Peter Kersten for his assistance in finding archival photos of Geneviève de Gaulle and her family. At the National World War II Museum in New Orleans, I would like to thank Toni Kiser for her help with additional photos from wartime France.

  I have been delighted to work on this project with my editor, Lisa Reardon, and the amazing people at Chicago Review Press. Their support of this book has meant the world to me, and I am grateful that we could tell Geneviève de Gaulle’s story together. Lisa’s insightful comments helped shape this book into the one you are holding now, and her patience and kindness were a godsend to this first-time author. Additional thanks are due to the fabulous Ellen Hornor, for her eagle-eyed edits; Natalya Balnova, for a beautiful cover design; Mary Kravenas, for her marketing savvy; and Caitlin Eck, for her publicity flair. Of course I would not be working with this marvelous team if it hadn’t been for my fantastic agents, Jane Dystel and Miriam Goderich at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret LLC. Once upon a time, Jane plucked me out of a slush pile so quickly it made my head spin. Her and Miriam’s support of me, for better or for worse, has meant the world, and I am so very grateful to have them in my corner.

  Bottomless thanks are also in order to the friends and colleagues who cheered me on and supported me throughout this process: Julie Baggenstoss, Kathy and Matt Bedette, Andrea Billups, Gaedig Bonabesse, Hamilton Cain, Fiona Gibb, Amy Haimerl, Meredith Hindley, Hollea Holliday, Jeffrey Kluger, Bill Lascher, Peter Lioubin, Mindy Marques, Benjamin F. Martin Jr., Terra Elan McVoy, Katie Newingham, Daphne Nikolopoulos, Doug Ortego, Jill Rothenberg, Keith Smith, and the Veit family. A special word of thanks goes out to Michelle Havich, a longtime first reader of mine and very dear friend who knows when it’s time to get me away from a manuscript and in front of a Duran Duran concert. We are, indeed, Girls on Film.

  Much love and gratitude is in order to my family, who constantly reminded me that I could do it. First there is my mother, Pat Bowers, who gave me my love of words and books. I’ve never seen her without a book in her hand and had always hoped to write one of the histories she so adores. Then there are my in-laws, the Diecks and Dafler families, who helped us so much throughout the manuscript process. My husband, Jeffrey Diecks, has been beyond supportive, reading first drafts, providing much-needed suggestions, and listening to my tales again and again (and again and again). He is my rock, my love, and a marvelous partner, and I do not know what I would do without him. Last but not least there is my daughter, Avery, who spent her fifth-grade year without a mother present for countless field trips and other special school engagements. She sailed through it, and I am incredibly proud of her. She is my pride, joy, and entire heart.

  I love you, Avery Lane.

  Before I go I’d be remiss if I didn’t also thank my dog, Murray, a marvelous eighty-pound yellow Lab who sat at—and on—my feet as I worked to bring this book to completion. Among good pups he is the best of th
e best.

  Notes

  Prologue

  “When people speak of resistance in France” (and the entire dialogue that follows this): Michèle Moët-Agniel and Anise Postel-Vinay, author interview, January 9, 2016, Paris.

  The best way to sidestep a conversational minefield: Historian Robert O. Paxton explored this topic in Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order, 1940–1944 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1972), 38–45. Philip Nord in France 1940: Defending the Republic (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2015) wrote that while several historians estimate that 2 percent of France’s population were resisters, there was a broader “society of rescue” that makes that figure larger than has been assumed. Furthermore, Nord wrote that this larger resistance fed off popular support for a liberated—and new—France. Ronald C. Rosbottom explored the quandaries of defining the nature and extent of resistance in chapter 6 of his When Paris Went Dark: The City of Light Under German Occupation, 1940–1944 (New York: Little, Brown, 2015). John F. Sweets illustrated how the French were “reacting to conditions of extraordinary stress” in Choices in Vichy France: The French Under Nazi Occupation (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). Sweets argued that there may never be a satisfactory statistical representation of resistance in France and that we should go beyond the issue of precise headcounts and focus more on an appreciation of the period’s atmosphere. Robert Gildea’s Fighters in the Shadows: A New History of the French Resistance (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2015) balanced the challenges of representing the resistance in French history with the voices of those who fought to liberate France from the Nazis in World War II. All these historians explored the notion of myth in the resistance narrative, some citing Marcel Ophüls’s documentary film The Sorrow and the Pity (1969) as part of the basis for their skepticism. At any rate, the resistance is a topic that’s often polarizing and subject to rich debate.