She knows Alfred so well.
These are not empty words.
If she doesn’t leave Germany, he will vanish from her life.
It is the only blackmail she can understand.
He, too, promises to meet her in the South of France.
But how will you manage it?
I have contacts, he tells her.
How to believe him?
She can’t anymore.
She doesn’t want to leave her life behind.
She was born here.
Why must she face up to yet more suffering?
She would rather die than leave.
She seriously considers it.
Her father asks to see her.
He takes her hand, feebly.
And repeats: please, you must leave.
A tear escapes his eye.
This is the first time she has seen her father weep.
The world wavers on his face.
Charlotte takes out her handkerchief to dry the tear.
Albert suddenly thinks of Franziska.
This scene reminds him of their first meeting.
When she took his handkerchief to blow his nose.
While he was in the middle of an operation, close to the battlefield.
The two scenes resonate within him.
Mother and daughter reunited by a single gesture.
And he realizes that it is the end of the movement.
With this gesture, Charlotte is agreeing to leave.
9
There are ways and means of leaving the country.
Paula asks the grandparents to write fake letters.
Saying that the grandmother is about to die.
She is very sick, and wants to see her granddaughter again.
Armed with this proof, Charlotte goes to the French Consulate.
And obtains a short-stay visa.
So her papers are now in order.
She moves through her final hours like an automaton.
She stands motionless facing her suitcase.
A very small suitcase, because this is supposed to be a short trip.
She can take so little with her.
She is forced to choose between her memories.
Which books should she take?
Which drawing?
Finally she decides to take one of Paula’s records.
A version of Carmen that she loves so much.
A reminder of happier days.
Alone, she goes to the cemetery to say goodbye to her mother.
For months, she believed that she had become an angel.
She imagined her in the sky above Berlin.
Flying on wings of desire.
It’s all over now.
Charlotte is facing reality.
The sky is empty.
And her mother’s body is decomposing here.
Her bones locked away in this tomb.
Does she remember the warmth, at least?
When her mother used to take her in her arms.
And sing to her.
No, nothing now seems ever to have existed.
Except her first memories, in this very place.
When she read her name on her aunt’s grave.
Charlotte, the first Charlotte.
And now the two sisters are forever reunited.
She puts a white rose on each headstone.
And leaves.
…
Standing in front of her father, she weeps.
He is too weak to accompany her to the station.
They comfort each other with the word soon.
Soon, they will see each other again.
Soon, everything will be all right.
Her father is so reserved.
Tenderness makes him uneasy.
But today, he keeps breathing in his daughter.
As if he wanted to hold on to a treasure.
And hide it for as long as possible inside him.
Charlotte kisses her father for a long time.
And leaves her mark on him.
Not lipstick.
Just the imprint of her lips, pressed so hard against him.
10
Policemen patrol the station platform.
Charlotte, standing with Paula and Alfred, must hide her feelings.
An outpouring of emotion would attract attention.
The three of them would be interrogated.
Why is this girl crying so much?
She’s only leaving for a week, isn’t she?
So no, she must not endanger their plan.
She must remain dignified and calm.
As she casually tears out her own heart.
Charlotte wants to scream with pain.
But it’s impossible.
She is leaving everything behind.
Her father, Paula, her mother’s tomb.
She is leaving her memories, her life, her childhood.
But most of all, she is leaving him.
Her great, her only love.
This man who is everything to her.
Her lover and her soul.
Alfred has trouble concealing his emotion.
Usually so chatty, he is silent today.
What he feels is too new to be defined.
The smoke from the train envelops the scene in mist.
More than ever, the platform resembles a shore.
The perfect backdrop for the final moment.
Alfred puts his mouth close to Charlotte’s ear.
She thinks he’s going to say: I love you.
But no.
He whispers something more important.
A phrase she will think about constantly.
Which will become the essence of her obsession.
May you never forget that I believe in you.
Part Six
1
Charlotte watches the platform shrink to nothing.
Head poking through the window, face whipped by the wind.
Inside the carriage, a cold voice speaks.
Please close the window, miss.
Charlotte obeys and sits in her seat.
She holds back the tears as the landscape speeds past.
Some of the passengers speak to her, and she answers briefly.
Does all she can to drive the conversation toward a dead end.
They must think her impolite, even arrogant.
But who cares what they think.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
At the French border, her papers are checked.
She is interrogated about the reasons for her trip.
I’m going to visit my sick grandma.
The customs officer smiles at her.
It’s not difficult to play the nice Aryan girl.
Inside the skin of that character, everything is wonderful.
She lives in a world where no one ever spits on her.
Barbara’s world.
A world where people love you, favor you, honor you.
They even wish her good luck.
The train arrives in Paris.
For a few seconds, she basks in the wonder.
The wonder of that name: Paris.
The promise of France.
But she has to run so she won’t miss her connection.
She jumps aboard the train just in time.
Again, people try to talk to her.
But she signals to them that she doesn’t understand.
That is the advantage of being in a foreign country.
As soon as people know you don’t speak the language.
They give up trying to speak to you.
She is fascinated by the beauty of the fields the train passes.
There are more colors in this country, she thinks.
She knows many painters have followed this path.
To find the light in the South of France.
That spellbinding yellow light.
Will she feel the same sensation?
With a black v
eil hanging constantly before her eyes.
Her stomach is starting to ache.
She is surprised by her body’s awakening.
If she is hungry, that means everything she’s experiencing is real.
The woman next to her gives her an apple.
Starving, she devours it.
She even eats the core.
The woman is surprised.
She was not expecting such an appetite.
She is almost scared of Charlotte now.
Just because she ate an apple too fast.
On arriving in Nice, Charlotte inquires at the counter.
She shows her sheet of paper: Villefranche-sur-Mer.
They point to a bus, and she sits down near the front.
She is afraid of getting lost, of getting off at the wrong stop.
She shows her sheet of paper to the bus driver.
Thirty minutes later, he signals to her that she has arrived.
She climbs off the bus, saying a word in French: merci.
Once she is alone, she repeats it to herself: merci.
She likes the feeling of speaking another language.
Especially as her own language is ruined.
Exile is not only a question of place.
That merci is a form of shelter.
Once again, she asks a woman for directions.
This one knows all about Ottilie Moore’s house.
Like everyone around here, presumably.
The rich American lady is famous in this region.
She provides a home for many orphans.
She gives them dance and circus classes.
All Charlotte has to do is take this winding road.
She can’t miss the house.
It’s hot, and the path is steep.
This is the final stage of a very long journey.
Soon, she will kiss her grandparents.
She wasn’t able to tell them what day she was arriving.
They will be surprised by her appearance.
She hasn’t seen them in so long.
Have they changed much?
But, above all, it is they who will not recognize her.
When they left, she was a teenager, and now she’s a young woman.
Despite her sorrow, she is intensely excited.
…
Finally she arrives at the Ermitage.
It is a magnificent abode, perched on a hill.
With a garden that looks like paradise.
Behind the foliage, she sees children running.
She hears their laughter too.
Charlotte is not yet capable of ringing the bell at the gate.
It is a new life that awaits her here.
All she need do is walk a few yards.
And she will find herself in the unknown.
Something holds her back.
It is a force behind her.
She almost has the impression that her name is being called.
The force turns her around.
And she discovers the majestic sparkle of the Mediterranean.
Charlotte has never seen anything so beautiful in her life.
2
A few minutes later, she is in the garden.
Surrounded by children celebrating her arrival.
Ottilie Moore asks them to calm down.
They must let Charlotte rest: she is exhausted.
Vittoria Bravi, the cook, makes some lemonade.
In the middle of all this warmth, the grandparents stand immobile.
The grandmother has tears in her eyes.
Charlotte feels as if she’s been sucked into the whirlwind that encircles her.
She is not used to answering so many questions.
Did she have a good trip?
How does she feel?
How are her parents?
How is Germany?
She stammers that she doesn’t know.
She has barely spoken a word in the last two days.
And besides, she is so lacking in confidence.
Being watched like this makes her very anxious.
And there is something else that bothers her.
She feels guilty that she is there.
Ottilie senses this unease.
Come, Charlotte, I’ll show you to your room.
They leave the garden, watched by surprised faces.
She’s still as melancholy as ever, the grandfather concludes.
Before adding: just like her mother.
The grandmother glares at him.
She does not want to hear those words.
She does not want to grasp their implication.
And yet, he is right.
She was struck by it too.
Charlotte’s resemblance to Franziska is incredible.
In the features of her face, of course, but also in her attitude.
They share the same sadness.
What should be a source of joy no longer is.
In fact, it’s the beginning of fear.
3
Charlotte sleeps for a long time.
And wakes up in the middle of the night.
Barefoot, she walks through the garden on that first night.
Wearing a white nightgown, with a sensation of freedom.
The sky is pale blue, almost yellowish, with stars.
She touches the trunks of trees, inhales the scents of flowers.
Then she lies down in the grass.
In the immensity of the sky, she sees Alfred’s face.
With clouds in his mouth.
And she lets herself be overwhelmed by desire.
Days pass, and Charlotte still doesn’t talk much.
The others find her very reserved.
The children nickname her: the silent one.
They would like to play with her.
For now, she only agrees to draw them.
Ottilie thinks she has an exceptional talent.
She even says: we have a genius in the house.
The American lady is constantly encouraging her to paint.
She will buy her drawings, to help her make a living from her work.
She will make arrangements to find paper for her, in spite of the war.
This woman’s generosity seems limitless.
In the photographs of her that remain, she is always smiling.
And there is a hint of extravagance in her expression.
They remember her, in Villefranche-sur-Mer.
In 1968, her incredible home was demolished.
To make way for one of those so-called prestige apartment buildings.
The garden was partly replaced by a swimming pool.
Only the two tall pine trees survived.
With the swing between them.
Around the apartment building now, there is a high wall.
To prevent intruders entering.
Intruders and French writers fascinated by Charlotte Salomon.
How to get in?
It’s impossible.
This place, once so welcoming, is now inaccessible.
A man, seeing me standing there idiotically, offers to help me.
We speak a bit, and I ask him his name.
It is Michel Veziano.
He seems unsurprised when I explain to him the aim of my research.
He tells me a European came here on the same quest.
Yes, that is the word he uses: European.
Three or four years ago, roughly.
So I am not the only one in search of Charlotte.
We form a small and scattered sect.
Exhausted disciples saved by Michel.
I am not sure if this is reassuring or unbearable.
What was the other man’s name?
Michel does not remember.
Did he really exist?
I would like to know everyone who loves Charlotte.
At this point in my reflections, the security gate opens.
A woman in a car comes out.
; I quickly leave Michel to go see her.
Hello madame, I’m a writer …
She knows who Ottilie Moore was, because she has lived here since 1968.
As I am about to start asking her questions, she becomes angry.
No, you can’t stay here!
And anyway, the security guard won’t let you in!
Go away, you have no business here!
She is a sour, frightened, stupid old woman.
I speak to her softly.
I would just like to walk in the garden for five minutes.
I show her a book with old photographs in it.
She refuses to look at it.
Go away, go away, or I’ll call the security guard!
I don’t understand.
Why is she so hostile?
I decide to give up.
It’s not all that important.
Nothing remains of the past here, after all.
Thanks to this woman, though, I was able to taste a little bit of 1943.
What a strange coincidence.
Because it is here that hatred will soon strike at Charlotte.
4
Charlotte spends hours hoping that Alfred will turn up.
She is forever imagining her beloved’s arrival.
Like a god appearing out of the blue.
But he doesn’t come.
To bring him to life, she reconstructs their conversations.
Word for word: she has forgotten nothing.
Her precision is the heart’s memory.
Who can know Charlotte’s despair?
She is a young woman alone with her demon.
Sometimes she smiles at people, so they will leave her in peace.
Ottilie Moore worries especially about the grandmother.
She was so happy before.
Often laughing, curious about everything.
She asks Charlotte to cheer her up.
It’s like asking the grayness to light up the blackness.
Grandmother and granddaughter understand each other.
Their hearts beat in the same way.
As if they’d been wrapped up in cloth.
Struggling, muffled, making no noise inside the body.
Guiltily, the way survivors do everything.
They walk by the sea.
The sound of the waves allows them not to speak.
Better to stay silent, anyway.
The news is getting ever more tragic.
Germany has just invaded Poland.
France and England have declared war.
The grandmother sits on a bench.
She is finding it hard to breathe.
For years, she has fought to stay alive.
Since the deaths of her daughters, every day is a battle.
But it has become pointless.
The war will destroy everything.
They call Dr Moridis.
An eminent local figure.
Charlotte Page 9