Some French citizens understood STO workers had been pawns sacrificed by their own government. Others considered STO workers willing collaborators whose labor contributed to the war’s brutal continuation. Yet others believed they could have, or should have, worked harder to avoid deportation. The absence of any clear or definitive label, it seemed, made it easy for STO workers to become footnotes in the war’s history.
In the late 1980s, as Daimler prepared to celebrate its 100th anniversary, their use of wartime forced labor received media attention. After months of skewering press, Daimler donated twenty million deutschemarks to the Jewish Claims Conference for the care of aging concentration camp workers. The donation came with a stipulation: it did not constitute recognition of legal liability. And the donation did not provide for any other category of forced laborers.
In 2000, after years of legal wrangling, a foundation was established to take broad “political and moral responsibility … for the wrongs committed in the name of National Socialism.” The German government, along with companies including Bayer, DaimlerChrysler, Deutsche Bank, and Volkswagen, donated 4.4 billion euros to pay reparations to any surviving forced laborer. For their participation, corporations received immunity from any future legal action.
Wolfgang, I would learn, worked to help many former Daimler-Benz forced laborers find evidence to support their claims.
It was impossible not to feel cynical about the delays, the legal protections, the tax-deductible donations. By the time the foundation was funded, the youngest forced laborers—those who had been teenagers during the war—would have been in their late eighties or nineties. Most, like Marcel, had already died.
I told Valentine, Philippe, and Tiffanie I had been in touch with an archivist at Daimler. When I mentioned Daimler had requested copies of Marcel’s letters, Valentine bristled as visibly as if I had raked a wire brush over her arm. Marcel carried feelings of guilt his entire life about his time at Daimler, she said. The notion anyone might have been harmed by anything he did was a burden he had never been able to shed.
“For the rest of his life,” she added, “he did not trust Germans.”
I had promised Wolfgang I would let him know whether the family would give Daimler copies of Marcel’s letters. With this new information, I knew what my email to him would have to say.
“How did they end up with the cottage in Berchères-la-Maingot?” I asked after a few moments of silence. “Was family in the area?”
“No,” Valentine said. No one knew how Berchères, specifically, had been chosen, though the location was considered one of the best in the country. The rich farmland provided the possibility of growing food. Food meant the possibility of survival.
Once war was imminent, Renée’s aunt Valentine, who lived in New York, sent money so they could buy the cottage. Valentine had been named in honor of that aunt.
“When they arrived in Berchères, they called Renée ‘The Parisian,’” Tiffanie said, though I could not determine if the name had been a term of endearment or a label that identified her as an outsider. Renée was the first woman in Berchères to wear pants. At first, I envisioned billowing, high-waist silk trousers immortalized by Katherine Hepburn and Lauren Bacall. But I corrected myself. Renée probably wore pants because of the practical requirements of her dire new responsibilities: growing food, tending animals, procuring supplies, protecting the girls. “She taught sewing lessons to the women in Berchères. In return, they taught her how to care for the animals and tend the garden,” Tiffanie said.
Suzanne, Denise, and Eliane, 1939
Renée had to be vigilant about every resource. Cooking oil, which had an official price of fifty francs per liter, sold for twenty times that—1,000 francs—on the black market. That amount equaled a month’s salary. When Renée noted the slow disappearance of her cooking oil, she tried to determine where it was going. Or, more accurately, who was stealing it. Late one night she discovered the culprit: a rat. It dipped its tail into the oil, then licked its tail like the outside of a straw. Valentine laughed as she told us the story, but an oil-siphoning rat was the least of Renée’s worries.
Once, when food was precariously low, Renée snuck out under the cover of night and stole beans from a neighbor’s field. Stealing from a neighbor seemed particularly risky. Being labeled a thief could have made her an outcast, and being an outcast in a small community could have been a death sentence. The morning after her thievery, Renée watched the neighbor’s wife march up to her cottage. Her crime, it seemed, had been discovered. Instead, the neighbor’s wife invited Renée to help with the upcoming harvest. She would be paid for her labor, the woman said. She would be paid in beans.
At times, Renée and the girls subsisted on nothing more than rutabagas and goat milk, two foods, we would learn, Suzanne refused to eat once she was an adult.
One morning, Renée discovered a German soldier inside her barn. She marched out to confront him, interrupting him mid-shave. The thought of Renée confronting the soldier made my heart lurch, but I speculated she did it because confronting him in the barn was a better option than risking a confrontation inside the cottage, in front of the girls. I hoped, for Renée’s sake, that facing an enemy with whorls of soap across his face made him appear slightly less terrifying. He had deserted, he apparently explained. He intended to walk back to his family.
On another occasion, Renée and the girls encountered a German soldier while walking through the village. He ordered them to stop. They complied. Lily called him a “dirty Boche.” The insult had been said quietly. But he heard it. And he couldn’t unhear it.
He lifted his rifle and aimed it at them.
Throughout the afternoon, I wished there had been a way for Denise to participate more easily in our conversation. Valentine or Philippe translated questions about photos, clarified details of stories, or asked about dates or places, but when they told us about the German soldier raising his rifle, I was grateful we were not speaking the same language. I did not want Denise to relive that moment.
Lily was much too young to understand the gravity of her insult, and I imagined Renée pushing Lily behind her body, staring at the German with an expression that combined a resolve to protect her girls while also pleading for their lives. When the soldier realized the insult came from a tiny waif of a girl he lowered his rifle and allowed them to continue on their way. I nearly cried in relief.
The late summer of 1944 was particularly treacherous as the Allies and Germans fought for control of the area. Soldiers from either side could have raided Renée’s garden, stolen their goat, kicked down the cottage door. Any night, bombs could have rained down from the sky.
At some point, mid-August I guessed, Germans overran Berchères. Renée and the girls abandoned the cottage and hid in the woods. I was unsurprised to learn that had happened; Marcel had even written, “If sometime you see that it’s getting close to home, don’t panic, hide what’s the most precious, do all you can not to go too far away; you know what I used to tell you when we went to the woods … Sometimes it’s better to be afraid of the animals for a while in order to save one’s skin.”
As I pictured Renée huddling with the girls, trying to keep them calm while keeping alert for any sight or sound of danger, I felt immeasurable admiration for her bravery and tenacity.
In one of Tiffanie’s earliest emails, she mentioned she believed Denise had—or once had—some of Marcel’s letters, so I asked whether she had found any. She shook her head and said they still hoped to find them while they packed up Denise’s apartment. I asked whether the letters they thought Denise had might, in fact, be the same ones I had. She did not think so. No one remembered the painted blue and red stripes.
I asked if I could show them the font. As the computer booted up, I handed them pages printed with the lyrics of “La Marseillaise” and explained how Marcel’s beautiful swash M had inspired the entire project.
It was unclear how much, if anything, they knew about fon
ts, so I opened the Preview Panel, rotated the laptop so it faced them, and typed in each of their names. As they watched letters combined into words, smiles indicated they finally understood what my “police” project was. As I typed Denise’s name, I hoped she could still see her father in these glyphs—despite the thousand tweaks and revisions.
They commented on individual letters, and asked questions about what I intended to do with the font. When I told them I hoped to name the font “Marcel,” they were quick to provide their blessing. In fact, they said they would be proud to see it bear his name.
“Did Tiffanie talk with you about custody of the letters?” I asked as I looked at Valentine and Philippe. It was the topic I fretted bringing up the most. But I could not leave without addressing it.
They nodded and concurred that choosing one person in the family to be the designated caretaker was a problem. I expressed my hope that someday Marcel’s letters would find a home at some museum or archive in France.
Philippe remarked he could not imagine anyone else going through the trouble of tracking the family down. He knew I had protected Marcel’s letters for a decade and assured me copies were enough. Then, in a moment that nearly brought me to tears, Valentine said she felt my deep connection to the letters. It was more than that, she clarified; she believed Marcel’s letters had found me.
“The letters,” Valentine quietly said, “they are yours.”
For a few moments—as the enormity of Valentine’s statement sank in—I was too stunned to move.
I extracted photos of Kathy, Tom, Dixie, Kim, and Louise from my shoulder bag. I passed the photos around and explained how each person fit into the story. Valentine, in particular, seemed touched to learn an entire team of people cared about Marcel.
“You’re meeting with Suzanne’s daughters tomorrow, yes?”
I looked at Valentine and nodded. The depth and location of emotional land mines were still unclear, so I did not offer more information.
“When do you fly home?” she inquired.
“Tuesday. The flight is what? 11:30?” Aaron nodded and shrugged, confirming my answer was close enough.
“Do you have plans for Monday?”
“We’re going to Les Invalides.” My shoulders sank; I was certain I had butchered the pronunciation. Aaron had hoped to see the Army Museum’s vast collection of military artifacts earlier in the week, but we ran out of time. He was delighted when he learned the museum would be open Monday.
“I was going to offer to take you to Berchères on Monday,” Valentine said. “If you would be interested,” she added.
Had I had heard that correctly? My heart seemed to stop beating as I processed her words: Berchères … Monday … Interested?
“We could drive out Monday morning. It’s an hour away, near Chartres.” She made sure we understood the cottage was no longer there, and cautioned there might not be much to see.
Images of the land, the forest, the pond, and the cherry trees flashed in my mind.
In Minnesota, it is polite to decline three times when somebody offers to do a favor; everyone knows the steps to this ridiculous, passive-aggressive polka. On this trip, I failed with the language and stumbled with simple things like cheek kisses, so I did not know the appropriate way to answer Valentine. Should I say “No” to be polite? What if saying “No” once closed the door on her offer? I could not take that chance. Before I could stop the words from flying out of my mouth I blurted, “Yes, yes, that would be amazing.”
“Okay, we’ll go on Monday,” Valentine said with a nod.
I swiveled and locked eyes with Aaron. I had not consulted whether it would be okay with him, but if need be, I decided I would buy him a plane ticket back to Paris just to tour Les Invalides.
Valentine and Aaron discussed logistics for Monday morning as I listened in disbelief.
We were going to Berchères-la-Maingot.
“We should leave,” Aaron whispered to Valentine.
Denise had a gentle smile on her face, but she looked tired. I looked back at Aaron, and offered a nod, grateful for his vigilance. We had been there three and a half hours.
By the time I got my things in order, Denise stood to say goodbye. We kissed cheeks, and for a couple of seconds we locked eyes. “Merci beaucoup, Madame,” she said, clear and slow as I clenched my jaw to hold back tears. I wished I had words to express the mountain of gratitude I felt. Seeing photos, hearing stories, and securing confirmation that Marcel and Renée had been deeply loved was beyond what I could express. But as Denise and I looked at each other, I believe she knew.
“À bientôt” was the only thing I knew how to say. I will see you again. Deep down, though, I understood it was probably untrue.
Valentine, Philippe, Tiffanie, and Louna walked us out. Aaron and I said a temporary goodbye to Valentine and Tiffanie, then Philippe drove us to the train station. Philippe would not join us on Monday, but I knew we would remain in touch.
After slumping into facing seats aboard the RER, Aaron and I let out long, simultaneous exhales.
“That …” Aaron said, followed by a long pause, “was amazing.”
As the train rattled back to the center of Paris, I looked out the window at the bright blue, cloudless sky and realized the day’s biggest surprise. It was not hearing stories about Marcel. It was not even seeing photos of him. It was learning about Renée. She was no longer someone who fulfilled Marcel’s requests for cigarettes and passed along hugs to his daughters. She was remarkable in her own right: tiny, beautiful, fierce, fearless. Without getting to know and understand who she had been, I realized I would have only ever known half of Marcel.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Villemomble, France
October 28, 2012
We did not have to be anywhere for hours, so for the first time since Aaron and I watched the sunrise from the Esplanade, the two of us were still. “I could get used to this,” I said as I wriggled even lower into the apartment’s couch. Mugs of coffee and a plate of golden pastries sat on the table between us.
I still felt buoyed from the previous day’s visit. In my mind’s eye, I could still see photos of Marcel, Renée, and the girls. My ears still echoed with Denise’s slow and deliberate enunciation of “Enchantée, Madame.” And I could feel the weight of the threading die as if it still lay in my palm.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For what?”
“For everything. For your patience.” Aaron seemed surprised, so I added, “You’ve spent a lot of time listening to me talk about another man’s love letters.”
He squinted and offered a mock scowl. “Yeah, an older man.”
By 11:30, we were dressed and ready to leave. The forecast was clear, but I was unwilling to take chances. On the way out the door, I grabbed the apartment’s umbrella.
Agnès did not live near a Métro station, so I had prearranged a taxi to drive us to Villemomble, one of Paris’s eastern suburbs. A half hour later, as we exited the taxi outside Agnès’s tall apartment building, Agnès’s son Jean-Noël and his longtime girlfriend, Mereym, claimed us at the curb.
Inside the building, we were directed down a hall where Agnès and Nadine waited. After kisses and introductions, they gestured for us to step into Agnès’s living room. A long dining table had been carefully set with wine glasses and scarlet-red stoneware plates. Bowls placed along the table’s spine overflowed with sliced peppers, olives, crispy vegetables, and cornichons.
Everyone shuttled through a line to greet us, and I tried to make sense of who was who: Agnès’s husband, Michel; Agnès’s daughter, Eugénie; Agnès’s twenty-two-year-old son, Louis, and his friend, Alexandra; Jean-Noël and Mereym, the two who had claimed us at the curb. Natacha and her boys would arrive later, we were told; they had an obligation with her fiancé’s family. Agnès’s son Sébastien and Nadine’s son Guillaume were absent, too. One worked in St. Tropez, the other in Australia.
Lastly, we met the translator, Sébastien. For
some reason, I expected Sébastien to be an old man. But he was a twenty-year-old computer-programming student wearing thick hipster glasses. Sébastien had studied at Iowa State University and spent months in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area. Throughout the afternoon, Aaron and I chuckled whenever Sébastien said something in English with the comically long vowels characteristic of a Midwestern accent.
Agnès held her hands up flat to indicate we should remain precisely where we stood.
“They want to show you something,” Sébastien said as Agnès retrieved a thick roll of wallpaper from a desk in the corner of the room. Wide stripes of pink, purple, and blue covered the roll. My mind raced to find any reason Agnès would want to show me pastel wallpaper. I looked to Sébastien. He shrugged.
With Nadine and Michel’s assistance, Agnès began to carefully unroll the paper. The treasure it held revealed itself like a sacred scroll.
“Notre famille,” she said. Our family. The paper’s smooth, white back side held hundreds of names and dates. Every name and number had been written by hand in careful, vertical cursive. Ruler-straight lines extended from one generation to the next; the handwritten loops and lines entwined like rows of intricate lace.
By the time the paper was fully unrolled, it extended diagonally across the entire room. The amount of work the scroll represented was astonishing, and they beamed with pride. This, I realized, is what allowed Dixie to find the family.
Agnès and Nadine had documented six generations of ancestors for Marcel and Renée, which meant eleven generations were mapped on that roll of paper. This was not a family tree. This was an entire forest.
I asked if I could take a photo. When I pointed the camera in Agnès’s direction, she stood tall and held one end of the wallpaper roll high in front of her. Agnès was fifty-six, the oldest of Suzanne’s four children. Warm brown eyes shone behind wire-rim glasses. Her short hair was strawberry blond.
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