When I inquired which was the oldest record, Nadine pointed to an Humbert Chevalier who had been born in 1662.
Nadine was three years younger than Agnès. She also wore wire-rim glasses and had short hair, though hers was a rich auburn. Months later, I would receive a giddy email from Nadine punctuated with a dozen exclamation points. She had just found four more generations of relatives, which meant she was able to trace her family back more than 450 years.
As Agnès rerolled the wallpaper, Nadine gestured for us to sit down. A couch had been shoved along one wall to accommodate the long dining table. An armoire, which I presumed held a television, sat along the other wall. A sliding glass door opened to a patio where Agnès carefully tended potted flowers and fresh herbs.
A pewter figurine sat next to my plate. It was a fox, with pointy ears and a cowl of fur that curled around its neck. Its elongated body, designed to be a knife rest, ended in a bushy tail. One leg on Aaron’s knife rest was broken. Other animals—a cat, rabbit, deer, dog—had missing parts, too. It appeared Agnès and Nadine set the table with their best and finest, even though their best and finest was chipped and had broken parts. It made me even more honored to be welcomed into their home.
Jean-Noël poured a dash of Crème de Cassis, a blackcurrant liqueur, into glasses followed by white wine. The traditional apéritif was called Kir. We lifted our glasses. Aaron and I did not understand the toast, but their broad smiles left no doubt this was a celebration.
Agnès emerged from her galley kitchen with bowls of sauces for the vegetables. As she passed the dishes around the table, Nadine seemed to chide Agnès for the shirt she had on. It was a short-sleeve, off-white knit shirt with thin horizontal stripes. Later, we would learn Agnès had intended to change out of it before we arrived. Agnès looked at Nadine and tugged at a seam as if to say, this old thing?
“C’est Chanel,” Agnès said. “Non, non, Yves Saint Laurent,” she added as she burst into laughter. Agnès twisted her torso, raised her chin, replaced the laugher with a stone-face pose, and pulled her shoulders back as if she had on a couture ball gown. “C’est Givenchy,” she proclaimed before bursting into laughter again. I swiveled to look at Nadine. Her whole body jiggled as she tried to hold in laughter. I adored the familiar ease between the sisters.
Despite the language barrier, I was surprised how easy it was to communicate. Like the day I first heard Edith Piaf sing, emotion—love, laughter, joy—transcended language. Charades filled in some of the remaining holes; Sébastien filled in everything else.
As we nibbled on the vegetables, they asked questions: Had we enjoyed Paris? What sights had we seen? Agnès inquired whether we met Denise, Eliane, and Marcel. I confirmed we met Denise. I told them it had been a nice visit. I wanted to exclaim the visit had been amazing, but I was cautious not to say more than necessary.
Through Sébastien, Agnès asked if we had seen many photos. I nodded, but assured her I would be thrilled to see more. She grabbed a thick stack of photos from an end table. She pushed plates aside and began setting them down one by one in rapid fashion: Mon frère. My brother. Ma tante. My aunt. Mon oncle. My uncle. Ma cousine. My cousin.
Decades-old images of Agnès or Nadine in Berchères followed images of family gatherings in Paris. Photos of Suzanne, Denise, or Eliane as young girls followed images of them as adults. New and old mingled together as if it were impossible to untangle past from present.
My breath caught when Agnès set down a tiny photo of Suzanne and Denise on a beach. They appeared to be in their late teens, and the smiling duo had their arms wrapped around each other so tight it seemed impossible to rip one from the other. It made the fact their grandchildren had barely heard of each other feel like an even bigger loss.
In another image, taken sometime in the 1970s, Suzanne stood in a kitchen, her mouth open mid-laugh. Her hair was clipped to one side in the style she had worn since she was a girl. Unlike other images, this one was in color. Perhaps it was how the photo developing chemicals discolored over the decades, but Suzanne’s hair was not the auburn Natacha described. In this image, her hair was vibrant red. The bright color seemed to match her joie de vivre.
The previous day, Valentine said Suzanne died after a “brain attack.” During the privacy of dinner, I asked Aaron what that meant. Was that a stroke? An aneurysm? He was unsure, but whatever happened happened suddenly, and it devastated the family. Valentine even acknowledged Marcel was never the same after losing Suzanne.
One photo included Marcel’s younger brother, Pierre. Pierre had been sent to work in Germany, too. My heart ached at the enormity of that revelation. Three men in their family had been gone during the war: Marcel, Pierre, and Renée’s brother, André. Remarkably, all three returned.
After I returned home, I reread Marcel’s letters and realized he had mentioned both Pierre and André. In February 1943, Marcel had written he was “waiting for news from Pierre,” then, nine months later, he noted he was “looking for permission to go see Pierre.” And in May 1944, Marcel had written, “They told us that we could take our leave in Germany. I’ll wait a little while and maybe I’ll go visit André.” But whether Marcel was able to visit his brother or brother-in-law, along with information about where Pierre or André had been, seemed to be lost to history.
Anytime a photo showed the property in Berchères-la-Maingot—even if it only showed a corner of the barn, part of the plum tree, a section of rock wall, or a vine that meandered up the cottage’s stucco wall—Agnès pointed to be sure I noticed.
Agnès placed another photo on the table. She set it down carefully, as though she knew it was special. Indeed, it took my breath away. It was as if everyone left the room and the only thing that existed was this precious little black-and-white photo from Berchères-la-Maingot. Suzanne, Marcel, Denise, and the son Marcel were piled together onto one wooden lounge chair on the grassy yard in front of the cottage. Suzanne reclined in the back, her head rested on the lounge chair’s long back. She was seventeen or eighteen and wore a short-sleeved, patterned dress. She looked directly at the camera with an expression that combined a smile with a hint of surprise, as if the person who snapped the photo had just called her name. Marcel sat in front of Suzanne, leaning back onto her. He wore a white T-shirt, dark shorts, knee-high socks, and sandals. The tendon on the underside of his knee stood out from his long, thin legs like a bracket. Marcel looked straight ahead. Smooth dark hair swept over the top of his head. One wayward lock fell onto his forehead. Denise, who was fifteen or sixteen, sat in front of Marcel and leaned back so her head rested on his chest. Denise looked at the camera with a smile that revealed utter contentment. Marcel the son, who appeared to be two or so years old, sat on top of the pile, looking down at his sister. His blond hair ruffled in the wind. I marveled at the way their bodies draped together into a jumble of knees and elbows. It seemed impossible one small wooden chair could bear the weight of all that love.
Suzanne in front of cottage in Berchères-la-Maingot, sometime between 1950–1954
As I slowly handed the photo back to Agnès, I couldn’t help but wonder: When Marcel huddled inside a bomb shelter, when his stomach growled with emptiness, when the Daimler factory floor rumbled with machines of war, could he imagine he would live to experience this moment of simple, all-consuming joy?
I corrected myself. Maybe I had that backward. Maybe it was precisely the thought of a moment like this that fueled his strength to live.
Agnès brought out platters with the second course: cured meats, sausages, pâté, and shaved ham rolled into perfect, pencil-like cylinders.
Aaron and I asked questions: What did Eugénie want to do once she was done with school? Study law, maybe become a doctor. What were Louis and Alexandra studying? Bio-chemistry. The pride Agnès and Michel had for their children was palpable, and they struck me as the kind of parents who would do anything to help their children succeed. But more than anything, it seemed they wanted their children to be happy. Through
out the afternoon, the room filled with laughter as they joked with each other. As they joked with us.
The third course was chicken with mustard sauce, fish with lemon sauce, green beans, and French fries. Agnès had told us she would make lunch, but I had not expected a feast. I felt overwhelmed at both the abundance—and the effort—that had gone into preparing this meal.
“Would you like to see the letters?” I asked after dishes had been cleared.
Sébastien translated.
“Oui! Yes!” Nadine said as she practically bounced out of her chair.
I handed one thick envelope to Nadine, another to Agnès. They slid the prints out of the envelope, wide-eyed and transfixed. The room was silent as everyone watched them leaf through the pages. I had Sébastien explain the envelope held copies of the five letters they had already seen, plus the twelve more that had been in California.
Nadine said she would keep them forever with her genealogy records.
A few moments later, both Nadine and Agnès slipped the pages back into the envelopes, then set the envelopes aside. I looked at the discarded envelopes, then at them, bewildered. Weren’t they thrilled to see these letters? Didn’t they want to read what Marcel had written? I did not want to be rude, so I did not say anything. But, their disinterest was crushing and confusing, especially because when I had Sébastien tell them about the woman in Roseville, they seemed overjoyed to learn about the additional letters.
Weeks later, Agnès would send an emotional email letting me know she finally read Marcel’s letters. She had waited until she could read them in private because she did not want her husband or children to see her cry. As soon as I read the email, I understood why she and Nadine set the letters aside. Reading Marcel’s words was far more emotional than I could have anticipated. Agnès explained it made her angry to learn how much her grandfather suffered. I choked back tears as I read that she wished she could rewind time; she regretted not asking Marcel to talk about his time in Germany while he was alive.
I inquired whether Eugénie, Louis, and Jean-Noël had learned about STO in history class. Sébastien translated the question, and after a pause, they slowly shook their heads. Eugénie and Louis still did not seem to understand why Marcel had been in Germany, and for a few more minutes they talked among themselves. Sébastien whispered to Aaron and me that he had never heard of STO before either.
Agnès stood up, and a moment later a dinner-plate-size rock landed on the table in front of me. The deep whump made me jump. “Berchères,” Agnès said. The rock was an off-white of bleached bone with mottled spots of amber, rust, and gray. Faceted planes and razor-sharp edges made it look as though it had just been chipped from a quarry wall.
I looked up. “Berchères,” she said again as she gestured to the rock.
We simultaneously turned to Sébastien. They talked, then he explained: “That came from a wall in Berchères.” Agnès said something else to Sébastien, and he added, “after the cottage came down.” The rock, it turned out, had been part of the wall that extended between the cottage and the garden.
After the war, Marcel, Renée, and the girls had moved back to Montreuil. Marcel returned to work at the tool-making shop; the girls resumed school in the city. But they returned to Berchères on weekends and during summers. As the girls grew, they brought their husbands, then their children, then their grandchildren.
The sale of the land was one of the core issues that created the rift in the family, I had learned before our trip. Not everyone wanted to sell. Yet dividing, or sharing, between multiple generations scattered across the country seemed impossible. Selling seemed an inevitable heartbreak. This chunk of rock—an astonishing artifact to see in this Parisian apartment—seemed to provide a tangible connection to all that had been lost.
“We are going there tomorrow,” I announced with restraint. “Valentine is driving.” I felt it was only fair to disclose our plans. Agnès bristled as Sébastien translated our announcement. Aaron moved his leg against mine, as if to remind me not to say anything more.
In clipped words, Agnès said something to Sébastien, who translated. “The cottage isn’t there. There isn’t anything to see.” At Agnès’s insistence, Sébastien explained one of the things that still hurt: Marcel had planted a tree for each of his grandchildren, and those trees had been chopped down.
I wanted to redirect the conversation to something positive, so I asked if they wanted to see the font. They agreed, though it was still unclear if they knew what they were about to see. While my laptop was booting up, Natacha and her boys burst through the front door. In unison, everyone seemed to warn us her boys were chaos.
A fresh round of greetings went through the room, and within moments, Nathan crawled into Nadine’s lap. He clutched a pewter knife-rest figurine in each hand. The animals began to battle. I smiled. Perhaps Nathan was the reason for the broken legs and missing ears.
I opened FontLab’s Preview Panel and began typing names: Nadine, Agnès, Ethan, Nathan. Natacha pointed out favorite glyphs as I typed. When I said I hoped to name the font “Marcel,” she shared the news with her mom and aunt. “They are happy to hear that,” Natacha affirmed. Months later, Natacha would send me an email letting me know that between the font and everything her family learned about Marcel from his letters, it was as if I had brought Marcel back to life.
I handed out pages printed with the lyrics of “La Marseillaise.” I wanted them to see the swooping M, the ll, and line after line of the font in use. Nadine drew the sheet of paper near to take a closer look.
The hair on my arms stood on end as I heard her sing the first note. Others joined. By the next line, everyone was singing “La Marseillaise.” The chorus filled my ears, filled my heart. I swiveled and looked at Aaron as my hand moved to cover my mouth. I thought of the countless nights those lyrics filled my computer screen, the hours spent detailing individual letters, the rounds and rounds of laser prints still stacked in my office, marked with a red pen where spaces or curves needed yet more attention. Never had I imagined I would hear Marcel’s family sing that anthem. Never had I imagined those words would bring me to tears.
Aux armes, citoyens! To arms, citizens!
Formez vos bataillons! Form your battalions!
Marchons! Marchons! March! March!
Qu’un sang impur Let impure blood
Abreuve nos sillons! Water our furrows!
At the anthem’s conclusion, I leaned to my left and gave Nadine a hug. She had no way to know the enormity of that moment.
Agnès retreated to the kitchen and brought out plates piled with cheeses—Camembert, chèvre, Roquefort, Comté—accompanied by bowls of green salads and bread. I had Sébastien inform Agnès that from now on, Aaron and I were going to come over every single Sunday. She seemed confused, then burst into laughter and swung her arms wide as if to say: you are welcome any time.
After another hour joking and laughing about tattoos, travel, food, and culture, Agnès emerged from the kitchen with desserts. Not one: four, including an ice cream cake that had eight enormous hubcap-like meringues around the edge. I would have thought it impossible, but within a half hour, our group of fifteen devoured all four.
Nadine began to sing again. Ethan was curled in her lap, and she seemed to be singing just to him. Unlike the boisterous chorus of “La Marseillaise,” this lullaby had tender phrasing and a sweet melody. Before long, the room filled again with song. As I looked around, others sat with bodies and arms draped together. The affection in the room was palpable, and as I watched and listened, I tried to commit the scene to memory.
I wanted to stay here forever. But it was time to leave. Aaron and I had been there five and a half hours.
Aaron and I thanked Agnès, Michel, and Nadine for their remarkable generosity. As we kissed and hugged goodbye, I did not know when or if I might see them again, but I had no doubt we would be lifelong friends. And even though I had not heard many stories about Marcel and Renée, the closeness, the jo
y, and the family’s laughter provided as much insight into their legacy as any story they could have shared.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Berchères-la-Maingot, France
October 29, 2012
Valentine rolled her car to the curb outside the Robinson RER station and offered a friendly wave. Aaron crawled into the passenger seat; I hopped in the back with Tiffanie. As I relaxed into the seat, my heart filled with wonder and gratitude. This was really happening! We were really going to Berchères-la-Maingot.
After twists and turns through Robinson, Valentine merged onto the motorway heading southwest. As the trappings of Paris’s suburbs gave way to vast open land, Valentine inquired about our visit with Agnès and Nadine. I told her we had a lovely time. I did not disclose that my cheeks still ached from laughing, that Agnès spoiled us with a five-course meal, or that hearing Nadine lead a chorus of “La Marseillaise” had brought me to tears. I did, however, mention that Agnès and Nadine had inquired about Denise’s health, and that they were pleased to hear she was well.
The drive to Berchères-la-Maingot was only an hour. At first, we filled time with small talk about culture and travel, but as each mile rolled past, I felt the urgent need to hear more stories about Marcel.
Valentine had been on a ski trip in the Alps when she received a message from Renée imploring her to return home, she quietly stated. That had been twenty years earlier: January 1992. Valentine’s eyes remained glued to the motorway, but as she began to tell us about Marcel’s death, her voice began to tremble.
Valentine brought a small bag of Marcel’s favorite honey-flavored candy to the hospital, she told us. But his body had already started to shut down. An oxygen mask made it impossible for him to enjoy the candy, and Valentine’s gift remained unopened on his bedside table.
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