“Paper was rationed during the war, you know. That’s one reason these letters are so …” Louise’s words dissolved to silence before she exclaimed: “I still can’t believe these letters exist!”
Was it too much to believe the Universe conspired to make things so? I felt awe that Kim kept Marcel’s letters all those years; that Kathy knew Dixie, the finder of people; that Dixie’s friend knew Louise; that Louise could read Marcel’s writing.
Louise confirmed the “Feast Day” Marcel mentioned was the same thing as a Name Day. After our call ended, I looked up St. Marcel’s Day. It had been January 16, the day before he had written the letter.
Within an hour, I emailed the next scan to Louise. Within two days, she would translate three more letters.
The first of the three had been written January 18, 1943—the same day as the last paragraphs of the previous letter. It was the only postcard among Kim’s batch, and the return address included Werk 40, Workshop 40, which identified where within the massive Daimler complex Marcel worked. Two adhesive-backed stamps, which had once been affixed next to the preprinted mossy green stamp with Hitler’s profile, had been ripped away, leaving scars of glue and paper fiber. Marcel’s writing was careful and vertical. Lines of bruise-blue ink extended to the edge of the paper. A large red “Ae” had been stamped over the Berchères-la-Maingot address. Marcel’s signature was partly obscured by a cancellation stamp from Eure-et-Loir, which meant the postcard had at least made it from the Frankfurt censor office into France.
The next letter had been written ten days later, January 28, which was two days after Marcel’s thirty-first birthday. He would spend his thirty-second birthday in Berlin, too. He would turn thirty-three before the war ground to an end. Grid lines covered the thin paper, and a perforated edge made it appear it had been ripped from a notepad. Marcel’s writing aligned to every other grid line, neat and orderly. He must have had problems with his pen again since a string of thick letters followed barely visible words. That frustrating pattern—inky thick, barely visible—repeated across the letter. Yet Marcel should have considered himself lucky to have a pen at all. Pens were sometimes confiscated. In some camps, ink was forbidden.
The third letter was undated, but it had been written on the same grid-covered, perforated paper, so I guessed it might have been written around the same time. It did not include a greeting, so it was not even an entire letter. I guessed it was the last page of a multi-sheet letter. Unlike the January 28 letter, Marcel had written on every grid line. Handwriting filled the sheet.
Letters Seven, Eight, and Nine
Marienfelde, Germany
January 18, 1943
My darling,
I’m sending you this card to wish you a happy birthday, and also to give you some news. I’m fine except that I don’t have any more of my stuff. I hope that you will receive my letter that I sent you by express mail. I’ve given you all the instructions that you need to send me my things. I just have the clothes that I had on when I took off from the Gare de l’Est. Don’t let that worry you. It still hurts though to see all the good things I had disappear like that in five minutes.
My little wolf, I leave you for today. Your big guy who kisses you very tenderly, and also his daughters and Grandma.
Marcel
January 28, 1943
My little darling,
Today the morale went back up; I just received your first letter. You cannot imagine how good it feels. I was counting the hours, and finally it’s here and I can’t stop reading it. It is not surprising that you did not receive my first letter because it was mailed from the camp. Don’t worry, until now I’ve written you on the run, but now I’ll write you twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, by air mail, they say that it goes faster. When it comes to the bombing, you can be reassured. I didn’t get anything, it was just my things that were destroyed.
Until now, I have just touched up an old suit for work. There’s one guy who was given an old tuxedo. As far as the tobacco goes, send me as much as possible. Ask Mignard for some. Today I got a letter from Emile. He was flabbergasted to learn that I am here, and to learn what happened to me afterwards. I haven’t smoked for four days. Until now that’s the hardest. Now that I have some news, I feel better. Tomorrow I’ll write another letter. In the mean time kiss my little rascals for me; for you lots of big kisses from your big guy who thinks of you and who loves you.
Marcel
(No Date)
I treat myself to some joe at the canteen, and it’s the start of the day. Then at a quarter to nine, another hop at the canteen to drink another coffee. Then back there at noon for soup time; we’re done eating in five minutes because we have no bread and nothing to drink. The main utensil that we must not forget is the spoon. No need for a fork to eat at the canteen because everything is boiled. At 12:30, back to work until 6:00. I don’t have to tell you that at 6 o’clock, we have to eat fast and hurry to buy things because the stores close at 7:00 and we can’t let the tickets go to waste. The worst is that we are in a weird location, and I’ve only seen it twice in the daytime, because in the morning we leave when it’s still dark, and when we go back in the evening it’s night time, a night, a dark night like I’ve never seen. Then return to the camp in the mud, and since the fire we’ve been 22 in a room without lockers, without anything. Starting tonight we are in a new barracks part of a plant next to Daimler; it’s at Fritz Werner. So that’s bad because we’re 50 meters from the plant. Fortunately there’s a good shelter. My little darling, when I ask you for tobacco, don’t find that too odd; just think, last night I bought a little Italian cigar for 15 francs; can you picture that? Well, anyway, anything you can send, even if you have to buy it in the black market. You understand why I want to make the most of it. If you have to be an idiot here, and go back as poor as before, what’s the use? It isn’t by working that I’ll get rich. Next Monday I’ll send you 50 marks. The only thing is, it’s going to take at least a month before you get it. Well, you know, it’s a weird life that we live here. And more and more people keep coming; they don’t know where to put them. And with the lack of space and the fact that our barracks burned, it’s even worse. Well, I hope that it will not last much longer, according to the news. For distraction, a beer once in a while, and that’s all because I’ve never seen such a miserable country; it’s nothing compared to Berchères. I’m going to end my letter. I assume that my little girls are good, and is Lily still afraid of the pig? Pretty soon, she will not be afraid anymore because if he isn’t dead yet, he will probably be soon. It’s 10, I just had my coffee, and I’m going to go to bed in our new room. Like the others, the beds don’t have any box springs, they have boards. Tomorrow our ribs will be vertical. My little darling, I always picture you having to manage by yourself. I can’t wait for it to end. In the meantime, I send you my best kisses, also to my little girls who will write to me soon, I hope. While waiting for my tobacco, I kiss you all with all my heart. Your big guy who misses you so much, my little loved one. Lots of kisses.
Marcel
Chapter Twenty-Six
White Bear Lake, Minnesota
Late August 2012
Aaron’s eyes softened as I read the translations to him. “You know where the tuxedo came from, don’t you?” he asked.
I slowly nodded. The garment, I guessed, had been packed inside a suitcase processed at some extermination camp. “Who would bring a tuxedo to a camp?”
“A maître d’ or a sommelier,” Aaron offered. “He probably hoped to provide his high-end service wherever it was he had been told he was being ‘resettled.’”
I threw out additional options: a musician, a conductor, a butler.
Then Aaron slowly added another: a groom.
After emailing each translation, Louise called me on the phone. I was grateful for the opportunity to ask questions.
“What is Gare de l’Est?” I asked. Seeing those words made me recall Marcel had mentioned Gare de l’Est in one of th
e original five letters, too.
“That’s the station in Paris for trains arriving or departing to the east,” she explained. My heart swelled for the small mercy: leaving from a train station meant Marcel might have been able to say a proper goodbye—unlike the Italians in Wolfgang’s article who showed up for work and by the end of the day were on their way to Germany.
Three times per week, “special trains” transported workers from Paris. Train station platforms would be crowded with friends and family seeing their fathers, sons, and brothers off. As the trains departed, the men often sang “La Marseillaise.” Which sound, I wondered, was the last one the people on the platform heard as the train carried their loved one away? Singing? Or the sound of steam pistons and grinding wheels? The train trip to Germany could last for days, and “strict precautions were taken to prevent them from escaping during the journey.”
“I was unsure of a phrase: Fritz Warma,” Louise said in an apologetic tone. I speculated Marcel had written “Fritz Werner,” which was a street near the Daimler plant. His remark, “so that’s bad,” probably referred to the fact bombing targets would be dangerously close. I felt surprised Marcel could be as candid about food and accommodations as he was. Certain topics were forbidden to write about. Prisoners were not allowed to complain.
I thought about Marcel’s request for “anything you can send.” I suspected he was selling things on the black market. And why not? Everything in camp had value, even rotten vegetables and kitchen waste.
I had only been in contact with Louise for days, but an easy, warm rapport made it seem I had known her my entire life. When I told her I would love to meet her in person, she eagerly agreed, and we arranged to have lunch the following Monday, Labor Day. By that time, she would translate three more letters.
The first of the three had been written August 8. I presumed it had been written in 1943. Familiar brushstrokes of blue and red covered the page. The dark brown writing ink was watered down in places in a way that made me think of how even the murkiest lake water can be translucent right before it hits a pebbled shore. A narrow rectangle of paper was missing from one edge, as though fingers had held the letter so long and often that a chunk of paper had finally given way.
The second of the three letters had been written a week later, August 15. The paper was similar in size and color, and the blue and red stripes were accompanied by a third gray chemical brushstroke. Thin, scratchy writing covered the first half of the letter; thick writing filled the second half. A censor had scribbled their mark in pencil along the top edge.
I understood why I had passed on these letters when I made my selection at the antique store a decade earlier. The handwriting was not remarkable. Stains covered the papers. The pages did not hint they contained words of love. These letters did not beckon: buy me, take me home, transform me into something beautiful.
The blue stripe on the third letter, written two weeks later, was wider and thicker than any other. Marcel’s handwriting was not in the usual neat horizontal lines, which elicited an immediate swell of anxiety. I knew these loops and curves; the haphazard writing seemed to reflect some dangerous change.
Letters Ten, Eleven, and Twelve
Marienfelde, Germany
August 8 (1943)
Today no news. Surprising for a Sunday. Kisses
7:30, during a depressing weather
My dear little wife,
There we are, another Sunday has gone by. I just finished eating, and I’m smoking my last cigarette. As far as tobacco, I’m counting on the package that I will receive tomorrow, maybe. My letter might be short, but all I have to tell you about is what I did today. I’m in a dorm where all the guys are from Renault. And they just received a box with 100 books which are real neat. I thought a lot about you, talk about a great library; too bad to put that in such hands. Around 9:00 I got up and had a cup of coffee. Then sweeping of the room. Afterwards, bathing, etc. and I hurried to the dining hall for the noon meal. After returning I went to drink a beer with Bernard, and rain surprised us on the way. Since I received some potato meal, I got the urge to make some pancakes. Talk about a chore, with such lousy stuff. Well, they turned out good anyway. Then I started to read. [Name illegible] bugged me to play a game of Belotte. One game and it was over. With the rain that kept falling, we all had the blues. And also to see the buddies preparing their suitcases for Tuesday. So what did I do? I started packing my suitcases too. It kept me busy for a while and it gives an illusion. Then I prepared the food, tomato salad, green beans, all that eaten with vinegar, and to end with, each one got a big pancake. And the rain is still falling. So you see, I filled my day very well anyway. I still have my shirt sleeve to sew, then I’ll go to bed with a book. The trains are still running full blast, and the evacuation is continuing. My little darling, all I have left to do tonight is to ask you to kiss my little ones very tenderly for me, and Mom also. Your big guy who loves you kisses you with all his strength and with all his heart. And now for all of you lots of kisses and good night from your absent Marcel.
August 15 (1943)
7:00 PM
My little darling,
There goes another August 15. This afternoon, I waited for Moutardier until 3 o’clock. We went for a little walk in the country. Now it’s 7, I just came back. I ironed two handkerchiefs and a shirt. What can I tell you, it’s the Sunday occupation, if you want to be a little clean. Only now I don’t have any more soap, and my laundry is not very white; for what I have to do, it’s good enough. You would have laughed. This afternoon, with Moutardier, I picked cigarette butts; I haven’t smoked for four days. The worst is with the buddies in the room; otherwise I could do without. I assure you that I’m anxious to get my package. I believe that, except for my suitcase, I’ve never been so impatient to receive a package. Let me tell you the menu that I prepared tonight: tomato salad with potatoes cooked in their skin, and an oatmeal cake made with condensed milk without sugar. It will do as long as your belly is full. What I would like to eat is fruits, especially since we see them in all the gardens. But since we had green apples, I made applesauce because we never could have eaten them like that. That took all the sugar and that’s why I did not have any left for the cake. Tonight I’m going to go to bed early, because last night we went downstairs again from 2 to 3. Now that it’s a full moon, it promises to be something. That’s it for today. Kiss my little girls for me. Your big guy who adores you and who hopes to hold you in his arms soon. Lots of kisses from your Marcel.
August 30 (1943)
At the hotel of the drafty winds.
My little darling,
First of all, I have to tell you that today I am happy. I got your letter of August 10 and the package I was awaiting for so long. It is complete, although a little bit damaged, but nothing is lost. It so happens that today I bought 20 cigarettes for 200 fr. Now let’s get to our new situation. A week ago we were all jolly and today we are down in the dumps once more. After many goings-on that I cannot tell you about here. This is how we spend our time. First off, we are about 60 in an old kitchen that is our lodging now. We bed down on straw. Do you picture it? Good thing that it isn’t too cold. We don’t have any light, that’s why my letter is messy. I’m writing outside. I have my suitcase on my lap, and I’m hurrying because it will soon be dark. Today at the shop we were given some workclothes, and you’d laugh because they’re workclothes for women. I have a little windbreaker with removable sleeves and American pants without a fly. All we need now is breasts because there are darts to push up the breasts.
Nothing new about leaves. They say it might be by the middle of September. Because of the events, it’s total bedlam; orders contradict themselves at any time. Good thing I have my stuff; just a few things left in the shack. They’re going to put up some tents for us until they rebuild the barracks. It will be beautiful! Well, my little treasure, don’t worry about your old man. I cannot write anymore, and the buddies are shaking the bench. I’m going to end my lett
er because I still have to write to Pierrot and to Moutardier who are bawling me out because they haven’t heard from me and they are worried. The Post Office wasn’t working for a few days, and I was saving my writing paper for you. Kiss my dear little girls for me, and for you, from your big guy who adores you, lots of kisses.
Marcel
Chapter Twenty-Seven
White Bear Lake, Minnesota
September 2012
I wanted to be certain the three letters had been written in 1943, so I consulted a moon phase calendar to confirm the moon had been full on August 15. I chuckled at the things that had become downright normal: checking moon phases, sending letters and emails in a language I still could not speak, dipping my fingers into watered-down ink, scouring bombing records.
“He did love his cigarettes, didn’t he?” Louise mused after emailing over the last translation. I smiled, adoring the shared affection for the he we talked so easily about. In another forty-eight years, Marcel’s favorite bad habit would ravage his lungs and take his life. But for today—just for today—I was happy he found cigarettes to buy.
It was Monday morning, Labor Day. Louise fretted about how we would find each other at the restaurant, so she provided a description of herself: five feet tall with dark brown hair. “Dyeing my hair is the one luxury I allow myself,” she said without apology.
Hours later, we greeted each other with cheek kisses and a long embrace. It looked as though Louise had taken great care to get ready, so I complimented her put-together appearance. “I don’t have too much makeup on, do I?” she asked as we trailed the hostess through the nearly empty restaurant. “I would hate to look like a Madame, you know,” she whispered with a little laugh.
I had gleaned fragments of Louise’s life story during various conversations, but I was eager to hear how the pieces fit together into a whole. She began by telling me she was born in Paris in 1925 to Jewish-Polish immigrants. Her parents worked hard “to be French,” Louise explained, then corrected herself: “To be Parisian.”
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