Marcel's Letters

by Carolyn Porter

  Everything was coming together nicely. Everything except that swastika.

  “I forgot to do the map,” I whispered as I snapped my fingers. I removed a mirror that hung near our front door, unfolded a large map of France, and wrapped the paper over the mirror as if it were a present. I positioned little flags near Berchères-la-Maingot and Montreuil so our guests could easily locate the cities. As I rehung the map-wrapped mirror on the wall, the city of Amiens caught my eye and I recalled Marcel’s note: “There’s a guy from Amiens who has some tricks to get food.”

  I returned to my office to put away the scissors and tape, then slumped into my chair and opened the scan of the March 12, 1944 letter. I stared at the tiny blue handwriting that went to the edge of each page, the thick painted stripe, the odd-looking swastika. And I asked Marcel again: Why, why, why did you draw that?

  As I stared at his crooked, overlapping lines, another question popped into my mind: Why are you odd-looking?

  I took a deep breath before tapping eight letters into a search engine: s-w-a-s-t-i-k-a. My heart lurched as my computer monitor blossomed with a hundred thumbnail-size swastikas. I recoiled and rolled my chair backward, distancing myself from the ugly sea of red and black.

  As I stared at the hate-filled symbols, the corners of my mouth slowly—involuntarily—began to curl into a smile.

  It was then I heard Marcel for the first, the only, time.

  “Good girl,” he said.

  Maybe it was not Marcel; the words were in English, after all. But the voice wasn’t mine, either. The two words sounded both intimately near, as if someone had whispered directly into my ear, and like some celestial message that had carried from a million miles away.

  I stepped into the living room, mouth agape. “What?” Aaron asked as he noticed my stunned grin. Hoover got up and walked to me, tail wagging. He must have sensed my revelry, too.

  Marcel might have seen a swastika every morning as he walked under the arched entryway of the Marienfelde factory complex. The overlapping lines would have been emblazoned on flags, uniforms, armbands, coins, currency. For all I knew, swastikas could have been painted onto the tanks that rolled across Daimler’s factory floor. Marcel might not have been able to get out from underneath the symbol’s dark shadow no matter how hard he tried.

  Marcel would have known with absolute clarity what a swastika looked like.

  Moments earlier, when I looked at the screen filled with red and black, I realized Marcel’s swastika did not face right like a Nazi swastika. His faced left. Marcel’s swastika was backward, and it was impossible to believe it was backward by accident.

  “Marcel wasn’t saying ‘for the class and by the will of God,’” I said as an astonished laugh burst out of my lungs. “He was saying the opposite.” It seemed it was an anti-Nazi message hidden in plain sight. A fearless fuck you. I wanted to pop open one of the bottles of Champagne, throw my middle fingers in the air, and yell the thing Marcel could not: Fuck! You! Nazis!

  Maybe, as I had for so long, the German censors had only noticed an odd, hand-drawn mark. If they had noticed it was backward, Marcel’s letter might have been confiscated and destroyed. Marcel might have been beaten—or killed—for desecrating their symbol. It was astonishing to realize the risk he took by drawing that backward little mark.

  For more than a year, the mere presence of that symbol had created doubts that nibbled at my certainty of Marcel’s allegiance. Discovering it was backward meant he was finally—and fully—exonerated. Completely, utterly exonerated. Relief filled every cell of my body.

  Saturday morning was consumed with cleaning and last-minute errands. A sign placed in front of our home directed guests to enter through the kitchen door, since three long tables spanned the combined length of our dining room and front entryway and blocked the front door from the inside. After draping the tables with the rented cloths, I set out the letters, which had been tucked into the clear plastic menu covers next to their translation. The framed photos of Marcel and Renée, along with freestanding cards with historic information about STO, the Vichy regime, and Daimler’s collaboration, were set between the letters. Additional notes provided clarifying information for specific passages, such as DCA being the equivalent of anti-aircraft artillery. And I made a special sign to set next to the March 12, 1944 letter noting that the swastika was backward.

  As I stepped into the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, Aaron was carefully rearranging a tray with sliced meat so his pre-party thievery could not be detected. Part of a fresh, crusty baguette, slathered with mustard, lay nearby.

  I took one last walk through the house to ensure everything was in order, then coaxed Hoover into the basement. He would be unhappy about having a houseful of visitors he could not greet, but we could not take the chance he might sneak out unnoticed as guests entered or exited. For several minutes, Hoover butted his head against the basement door in protest.

  Promptly at 3:00, I watched my Uncle Allen and Aunt Barb walk up our driveway. The increased shuffle in my eighty-seven-year-old uncle’s steps was alarming. He had always been the healthiest, most active person I knew, but in recent years, five full inches of height had disappeared from his hunched frame.

  Sixty-nine years earlier, in the summer of 1943, Allen returned to his parents’ home after completing basic training. He took one surprised look at his mother’s rounded belly and blurted, “What happened?”

  Allen still burst into laughter whenever he told that story. My father was what happened.

  Allen fought in the Battle of the Bulge, was awarded a Bronze Star for clearing a minefield while under enemy fire, and walked through Buchenwald not long after the camp had been liberated. But, like so many other veterans, Allen rarely talked about what he witnessed. Barb only learned about his Bronze Star when she found his medal in their basement.

  I felt a lingering worry about how Allen might react to the letters since Marcel could have built one of the tanks Allen faced. But I invited him because I thought he might relate to the random circumstances that determined one’s fate, the deep yearning for faraway family, and the friendships that provided sustenance during the darkest days. And I hoped Allen might be touched for another reason: after the war he had three daughters.

  Aaron and I greeted Allen and Barb with hugs, and I smiled as my happy-go-lucky uncle said “hellllooooooo” in a familiar, drawn-out way that lasted three full seconds. Within minutes, other guests arrived. Before long, our home was full.

  One friend did not even make it through the first table of letters before she began to weep. Another admitted she had to stop reading halfway through. A few hopscotched from letter to letter. Most guests, though, read every single word. Several people remarked on Marcel’s expressiveness, and how they could feel the depth of his love.

  Guests were astonished to learn men like Marcel had been forced to go to Germany. They asked questions about the camp, about STO, about Daimler’s collaboration. Others barraged me with questions about our forthcoming meetings with the family. Graphic design and Type Tuesday friends asked to see the font, so I showed test pages printed with the lyrics of “La Marseillaise.” But I was careful not to give the font much attention. I wanted Marcel to be the star.

  I was chatting with a friend from college when Louise quietly walked in. Her diminutive size—contrasted by several of our taller-than-average friends—made her look as though she was a lost child wandering through a forest.

  “I have something for you,” I said as I gave her a gentle hug.

  “You do?” she asked, her voice lilting. “For me?”

  I nodded and pointed behind her. “It’s in the kitchen.”

  As we walked around the kitchen island, a pyramid of brightly colored meringues caught her eye. “You have macarons!”

  “And French wine,” Aaron added as he introduced himself and gave Louise a hug.

  I reached into the refrigerator and retrieved a white rose corsage embellished with loops of blu
e, white, and red ribbon. “The colors of the French flag. Just for you,” I said. A close-lipped smile spread across her face. Her eyes twinkled. She seemed to grow a half-inch taller. “For everything you did to give Marcel a voice.”

  “It was my honor,” she whispered. Louise had told me several times that translating Marcel’s letters was one of the most meaningful—most important—things she had ever done.

  I walked with Louise to the three long tables and pointed out the original five letters; she had not seen those since they were the ones Tom had translated. She began reading them, but people were eager to meet her, and before long she was enveloped in their attention.

  Hours later, after the last guest left, after we tossed or packed away what little food remained, after we corralled a counter’s worth of stray Champagne and wine glasses, Aaron lay on the couch and I collapsed into the living room chair. My legs were tired. My jaw was tired. Every ounce of energy was depleted.

  Since Aaron and I had been in different rooms most of the afternoon and evening—he had been in the kitchen while I mingled in the living room, then I manned the kitchen while he made the rounds—we compared notes about conversations we had and comments we overheard. I told him about the moment I found Louise and Allen sitting close, his body curved into hers so he could hear her with the ear that was not ruined by the war. As I watched them, I could not help but envision them as younger versions of themselves: Louise dancing after Paris had been liberated, my happy-go-lucky uncle standing straight and tall in army fatigues.

  Throughout the afternoon, people remarked how much love they felt—not only in Marcel’s letters, but in our home. Most seemed to understand how—why—Marcel’s letters had consumed more than a year of my time. It filled my heart to spend the day surrounded by our closest friends, and they seemed to revel in being part of the celebration.

  I attempted to force myself out of the chair to finish cleaning the kitchen, but it was impossible to move. The Champagne glasses and the serving platters would have to wait until the morning to be washed and put away.

  “I’ll take the tablecloths back Monday morning when the rental place reopens,” I said to Aaron. Work was slower than it had been in months, and I looked forward to two quiet weeks. I could take time to pack, maybe buy some new clothes. I could refine the font and figure out how to present it to the family. I could catch up on much-needed sleep.

  Unfortunately, none of those things would happen.

  A Monday morning phone call would change everything.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  White Bear Lake, Minnesota

  October 2012

  Two days after the open house, twelve days before our flight to Paris, I was quietly working in my office when our home phone rang. I rarely answered our home phone during business hours, but my ears perked up when a man with a British accent began to leave a message on the answering machine. I could not make sense of his first words, but as my brain processed the next phrase—a question about Marcel’s letters—I launched out of my chair, ran to the kitchen, and ripped the phone out of its cradle.

  The man, Henry, asked whether I heard his message. A jumble of words fell out of my mouth that included “yes” and “no” and “whodidyousayyouareagain?”

  Henry, a Paris-based UK reporter, stated he had questions about the article that ran in that day’s newspaper.

  “What article?” I stammered. “What paper?”

  A newspaper in Brittany had run an article about Marcel’s letters, Henry explained. I tried to make sense of that information. Brittany was in the northwest of France, two hundred miles from any location connected to Marcel. How would a newspaper in Brittany even know about these letters?

  Henry began asking questions, but I stopped him. I wanted to know what was in the original article. It was an interview with the son Marcel, Henry said. My brain scrambled to make sense of that, too, since I had not had any direct communication with Marcel.

  Henry began by confirming basic facts: my age, where I lived, where I acquired the letters, how Marcel’s family had been found. When Henry asked what Marcel had written, I apologized and explained the legal issues that prevented me from sharing his words. I was suddenly grateful I had sought legal advice.

  In reality, I was bursting to tell Henry everything: Wolfgang found handwritten records of his two entries into camp! Marcel had been sent to Spandau! The swastika was backward! But I did not. I could not tell Henry those things either; the family deserved to learn those things from me first. Privately.

  Henry did not ask why I purchased Marcel’s letters, and I did not tell him about the font. It seemed too complicated to explain why anyone would design a font based on handwriting they could not read, or how anyone could work on a font for a decade but still not be done. Henry ultimately labeled me a “letter collector,” which was true enough, technically.

  As the call drew to a close, Henry asked whether it was true I was about to travel to Paris to meet the family. My mouth went dry. The only people who knew we would be away were clients, and friends and family who had come to the open house. Now everyone knew we were going to Paris? It felt as if the announcement was an invitation for burglars to empty our home while we were away.

  After I hung up the phone, I cradled my forehead in my hands. Did I disclose anything I should not have? Did my answers make sense? Why did the article have to come out now?

  Henry emailed a link to the article. It was, of course, in French. I recognized a smattering of words: Daimler, Berlin, STO, Stillwater, Minnesota, my name. A photo accompanying the article showed Marcel proudly holding a photocopy of one of his father’s letters. For a few minutes, I stared at Marcel’s features. He seemed to have his mother’s smile, his mother’s nose. Straight hair swept over his head from left to right, the same way his father had worn his hair. Copies of Marcel’s other letters lay on a table beside him. It was disorienting to see the familiar cursive in an entirely unfamiliar setting. It was as if time had bent to allow the letters to be both here and there.

  I paged Aaron at work, then sent frantic emails to Tom and Louise, asking if one of them could translate the newspaper article. Tom called immediately and provided an on-the-fly translation. Within hours, Louise provided a more formal written transcript.

  “Letters sent from the United States 70 years later,” the headline proclaimed. “Marcel Heuzé, prisoner of STO, in 1944, wondered why some of his letters were not arriving where they were meant to … Amazing thing, however, they were found and bought in a second hand store by an American woman, in the United States. And they arrived to the Heuzé children, in Carnoët …”

  Carnoët. My mind raced to identify the gauzy familiarity in that word.

  “‘We were flabbergasted,’ admits Marcel, the son, born in 1949. This former private detective, tired of the Paris suburbs and who came to the Carnoët countryside in order to live a peaceful retirement, has yet to get over it.”

  That was it! I laughed and scolded myself for the missed opportunity: Carnoët had been one of the five cities listed for Marcel Heuzé in the French phone book.

  “I started to see him as an old friend,” the article quoted me as saying. “This led me to wonder how his letters ended up in a small antique store halfway around the world.” It felt surreal and bewildering to read quotes attributed to me since I had not talked to the reporter. It took a moment to realize why the words sounded familiar: they had been taken from the letter I had written Denise.

  “Marcel, the son, has a little idea of his own about this mystery,” the article continued. “‘I think those mails were censored by the Germans (one of them is marked with a swastika). The Americans must have gotten them after they entered Berlin. A soldier must have taken them and sold them after he returned home.’”

  “No, no,” I whispered.

  The core facts in the article were correct: Marcel sent the letters from Marienfelde, I bought the letters in Stillwater, I contacted the family. But the speculati
on that a soldier brought the letters to the States made my heart lurch, and I berated myself for not disclosing everything I knew in my initial letter to Denise. In an effort to be kind, it seemed, I had made a mess of everything.

  I sent messages to Natacha and Tiffanie asking if they knew about the article. Natacha did not. Tiffanie had only learned about it hours earlier. Anger began to smolder. Why did the article have to run now? There were so many things to discuss when I met with the family—including if, how, and when to go public with our story. We’ll be there in less than two weeks, for Chrissakes!

  The next day, Tiffanie sent an email informing me the biggest television channel in France wanted to film our meeting. She sounded excited about the possibility. It made me want to throw up. What if Denise wanted to share private details of Marcel’s time in Germany but wasn’t willing to do so on camera? How could I summarize the last year into a tidy, ten-second sound bite? How could we talk about the swastika, or discuss how the letters might have ended up at the flea market, with a camera crew in the room? What if the producer demanded to know why I was not returning the originals? How could I answer that without exposing the rift in the family? What about Denise’s health? Or the language barrier? How could we laugh or cry—or let whatever emotion was going to happen, happen—without it looking orchestrated?

  “Please, please,” I begged Tiffanie, “I am not comfortable with that.”

  On Tuesday evening, Kathy and Dixie came to our home for a private viewing of Marcel’s letters. We could have done it after our trip, but Aaron and I wanted them to partake in some sliver of the pre-trip celebration. As Kathy and Dixie savored each letter, they commented on Marcel’s descriptions of food or housing, sighed at tender phrases to Renée, or chuckled at his insatiable desire for tobacco.

  Kathy asked about our trip: Was I going to show the font? Which family members were we going to meet? Who would translate? I told her I planned to bring both my laptop and printed samples showing the font. Tiffanie would translate when we met at Denise’s apartment. Tiffanie’s mother, Valentine, and her uncle, Philippe, would be there; she believed Eliane and Marcel would be there, too.