Finding the Holocaust at the Flea Market (Part Two)

[continued from previous post, regarding papers I accidentally bought at a Paris flea market that detail the betrayal of Dr. Salzberger by his landlords, the Lavergnes, during the Holocaust]

THEIR VERBATIM ACCOUNTS
Most of the papers in the bundle fall into two categories: statements from Dr. Salzberger about what happened and what goods he was trying to recuperate, and statements from the Lavergnes as well as Erich Kahnt, the Nazi who was sleeping with Georgette.

For the most part, Dr. Salzberger's statements are tragic in their banality. Other than a few brief references to his suffering or the deportation of his sister-in-law, he mainly focuses on writing detailed lists of what was taken from him, and what he is trying to get back. Having survived World War II, imprisonment in a German prisoner of war camp, the loss of virtually everything he owns, and the likely death of his sister-in-law, the enormity of it all is seemingly too much for his fragile psyche to take. Perhaps, by obsessing about missing rugs, broken windowpanes, and cut electrical wires, he can lose himself in the obsessive minutiae and put off confronting the horrifying reality of the war and its aftermath for some time.

It is in reading the Lavergnes' statements that the archetypes of wartime Parisians really come out. Madame Lavergne was a true Nazi sympathizer, often stating to her husband that “the Germans are every bit as good as the French,” and referring to her daughter's Nazi lover as “her son-in-law.”

Monsieur Lavergne was, or at least claimed to be, on the side of the Allies. According to him, he would get in frequent fights with his wife, so he'd leave, go up to their “chambre de bonne,”and listed to the British news on the radio. He claimed not to know until quite late that his daughter Georgette was sleeping with a Nazi. However, he did still benefit personally from his wife's denunciation of Salzberger, and dealt heavily in the black market.

Georgette seems not to have taken sides on the war, other than deciding to sleep with the Nazi in the first place.

Amazingly, other than Salzberger himself, the Nazi Erich Kahnt probably garners the most sympathy in his statement. The one and a half pages of his statement outline how he met Georgette in 1940, was separated from her when he was sent to the Russian front in 1941, then, suffering from “two frozen feet and kidney sickness,” returned to Paris in 1942 and was reunited with his lover. He tells of how he avoided being detained at the time of the Liberation in 1944, remained there incognito at his own risk, and how he scoured the city in search of Georgette. In his statement, he writes that “When I learned Georgette had been arrested, I again felt, for one distraught moment, the deep feelings I had for this person who had given me the strength to stay in Paris, and to await her freedom, despite this perpetual anxiety.”

LOOSE THREADS
Unfortunately, just as suddenly as this fascinating story came to my attention, the narrative comes to an uncertain end. Based on these documents alone, it is impossible to find out if Helene survived the concentration camps, what happened to Melchior (the documents say both were arrested by the Gestapo but that only Helene was sent to the camps), what became of the Lavergnes, and whether or not Salzberger ever got his belongings returned to him.

In one bit of good news: also in my bundle of documents was a postcard sent from Haifa, Israel just ten months after Israel gained its independence, bearing one of the first stamps ever issued by Israel, addressed to “Mr. And Mrs. Salzberger” at the old Boulevard Sebastopol” address.

The documents provide tantalizing clues (there are case numbers listed that are tied to Salzberger's legal and criminal filings), but despite some frenzied research in our final days in Paris, I was unable to make any progress.

While the cast of characters and the first half of the story have now been plucked out of the obscurity of lost history, the end of the story remains unknown.

POSTSCRIPT
Some people spend their whole lives combing flea markets seeking discoveries like this one. Admittedly, the papers I found are not the equivalent to finding an initial draft of the Declaration of Independence hidden in an old picture frame, or a lost Edgar Allan Poe manuscript behind an old bookcase. Still, these documents, with their brevity, clear clues for future research, and compelling anecdotes and cast of characters, would certainly be compelling to collectors of World War II and Holocaust history.

Still, I could not bring myself to sell the documents. Somehow, that just seemed like taking advantage of Dr. Salzberger's suffering for a second time, just like the Lavergnes did initially. More than a half century later, I wanted to reinforce what Salzberger did in pursuing his betrayers. To share the facts, not to hide them.

While still in France, I contacted the US Holocaust Memorial Museum, and described the documents I had found. They responded with great interest. Just two weeks after returning to the States, I met with Museum Archivist (surprisingly younger than me, and Catholic!), and her interest in the documents only grew when she had actually seen them. She mentioned that the Museum plans an exhibition on Vichy France sometime around 2011, and that my documents could be of interest to the curators who will assemble that exhibit. I signed the documents over to the Museum that same day.

In return, I received a CD with the scanned images of all the documents I donated (that is how I could post some of them here), plus high-quality printouts of the documents. And, as I found out when I first started looking into the possibility of donating the documents, we also get to deduct from our taxes the anticipated value of the documents. This is why Sara has to take it easy on me, and not give me too hard of a time about spending too much time and money at flea markets.

However, much more importantly, these documents, and this fascinating history, will no longer languish tucked in a plastic sleeve, tossed in an old cardboard box, at a French flea market. They will be available to researchers and possibly even the relatives of those involved in the events themselves. I am proud that in my own infinitesimal way, I have helped make sure that we “never forget” the Holocaust.

Josh

Finding the Holocaust at the Flea Market (Part One)

One of my favorite things to do in the whole world is to go to a Parisian flea market. The huge flea market north of Paris (which gave flea markets their name) is great, but the best markets are generally the more casual and less organized “brocantes” (temporary/itinerant flea market) or “vide-greniers” (literally, “attic emptiers,” like a community yard sale).

When a “brocante” to be held just a block away from our apartment, I thought “What great news!” Little did I realize that I would buy something there that would, in its small way, both make history and somewhat reduce Sara's resistance to my flea market purchases.

VIEUX PAPIERS
For as long as I have been going to Parisian flea markets, I've “specialized” in “vieux papiers,” literally “old papers.” These can consist of old letters, engravings, etchings, watercolors, maps, pages from books, bills, propaganda, magazine ads—you name it. I love them for several reasons—they're not fragile (like glass or ceramics), they're easy to get home and store (dozens of pages can fit in one flat portfolio), you can cover your walls with them (100 knickknacks are clutter, 100 framed “old papers” are décor), they're cheap (most vendors don't know what they have), and they're omnipresent (2,000 years of French history creates a lot of paper).

At the brocante near our apartment, I found a best-case scenario—a vendor with a large stand full of diverse merchandise, with a little pile of “old papers” off to one side. Among the papers, I found one bundle of papers in a plastic sleeve that piqued my interest. It included a decades-old book cover from my favorite French book store, an old shopping bag from my favorite department store, vintage versions of the market bags that fruit and coffee vendors might give Sara on one of her market trips today, and the like. You always get better prices at flea markets by bundling several items, so instead of picking out the couple of items I liked best, I just asked the price for the entire bundle. I think it was about ten euros, or $15.

I brought the bundle home, but put off looking more closely at the papers until the right before I went to bed at 3AM. Bleary-eyed, I pawed through the pile, knowing already that I got a good deal, when I came across a smaller bundle of papers I hadn't noticed earlier. As I looked more closely at these dozen pages, my heart came fully up in my throat.

The documents, all World War II-era, told the story of a French Jew who had survived the Holocaust, and his fight for justice towards those who had betrayed him.

DISCOVERY
Once I started reading, I couldn't stop. If it were not for the fact that the sad story was actual historical reality, I would say it had a compelling cast of characters. But since it is all true, I will just say that the individuals involved are all archetypes for the different ways those living in France during the war reacted to its circumstances.

First, there is the author of most of the documents, Doctor Nathan Salzberger. He lived and had his offices on Boulevard Sebastopol, not far from where the Centre Pompidou stands today. From the documents, it seems like he served in the French army as a doctor, but was captured at some point, and was held in a military prison in Germany before being released to live in southern France.

At some point, probably after his capture, Nathan's brother Melchior and his wife Helene come to live in Dr. Salzberger's apartment. They live there unperturbed for some time, but later take refuge in the apartment's seventh floor “chambre de bonne.” (Most French apartments come with a tiny “chambre de bonne,” or “maid's room,” on the seventh floor. These rooms date from pre-elevator days, and are still seldom accessible by elevator, so despite having good views they are usually cheap to rent. Today, most Parisians rent these rooms out, have their elder teen or adult children live in them, or just use them for storage.)

THE WICKED LAVERGNES
Having now met all the “good” individuals in this drama, it is time to meet the “bad” ones. Like most buildings, the Salzbergers' building had a live-in concierge named Amelie Suzanne Lavergne, who lived with her husband Georges. The Lavergne's adult daughter, Georgette, lived elsewhere in Paris but was a frequent visitor. Georgette was also sleeping with a Nazi solidier named Erich Kahnt.

In early 1943, the Lavergne's denounced Dr. Salzberger, in absentia, as a Jew. The Nazis came and emptied his apartment and office of all of the doctor's furniture and belongings, though the Lavergne's ended up with some of the best pieces. By denouncing Salzberger, they also were then able to rent out his old apartment, which they did. (I am assuming that Salzberger, as a prisoner of war, could not or did not have to pay rent, so by having him evicted, the Lavergnes were able to profit directly.)

Standing in the way of their moneymaking scheme, however, were Salzberger's brother and sister-in-law, who were still hiding out in the “maid's room” at the time. The documents detail how Madame Lavergne told the Nazis about the two Jews living upstairs, how she accompanied them up to the sixth floor, and how, when the Nazis almost stopped short and decided to leave, she urged them to keep going. They walked up the few extra steps, broke down the door, and arrested Melchior and Helene. Helene was then sent to the temporary prison camp of Drancy, a way station on the trip to the concentration camps. According to Dr. Salzberger's handwritten testimony, “her poor physical state left no hope of her survival.”

The Lavergnes remind me of the Thenardiers, the amoral innkeepers in Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. They would do anything to make a quick buck, including turning on each other when the moment was right (as we will see later).

One anecdote from the documents demonstrates the depth of the Lavergnes' depravity. At some point following Dr. Salzberger's release from the military prison, but just prior to the Lavergne's betrayal of his brother and sister-in-law, Melchior and Helene entrust the Laverges with a suitcase to sent to Dr. Salzberger in the south of France. In a report written after the war's end, Salzberger outlines the suitcase's original contents in meticulous detail: “a blue suit, a blue gabardine overcoat, three shirts, three pairs of long underwear, five pairs of socks, two pairs of shoes, six ties, one scarf, twelve collars, and a hat.” However, when the suitcase arrived in the south of France, Salzberger was shocked to open the bag and find a used German suit on top of the rest of the suitcase's disappointing new contents: carrots and turnips. The Lavergnes had taken the suitcase from Melchior, promised to send it to Dr. Salzberger, then stole its contents. They replaced the missing clothes with the vegetables (likely rotting) to mask the missing weight, and one of Nazi Erick Kahnt's old suits on top to lend the appearance that the suitcase was full of the promised clothes.

[to be continued in Part Two]

Serendipity Knocks

[Note: I can't guarantee this, but I think this will be my last blog entry "from the archives." I think any future blogs from me will be about our current life in DC, and not about our Paris year.]

Some words are just great. Take serendipity, or "the making of fortunate discoveries by accident."

I will always associate the concept of "serendipity" with Paris. One very literal reason is that on Sara's and my engagement trip to Paris in 2005, we splurged and had a grotesquely overpriced drink at the renowned Hemingway Bar at the Ritz. The cocktail consists of one part calvados (French apple brandy), two parts apple juice, and seven parts champagne, with a sprig of mint. The cocktail is called a Serendipiti. [sic].

The other, bigger picture reason that I associate serendipity with Paris is that I can not imagine a more serendipitous city than Paris. "Stuff" just happens there, but not the bad stuff.

Frankly, this blog could have been called "His and Hers Serendipity," because many of our posts deal with the very fortunate and very accidental discoveries of our year in Paris. But on an even more micro level than we discussed in the blog, you can get a sense of the inherent serendipity of Paris through the tiny coincidences captured through my photography.

I've talked a bit in past blogs about my love of photography. Only one thing makes me as excited, happy, passionate, interested, proud, and maddened like photography. OK, maybe there's one other trigger for these same feelings, but I'm married to her...

So much of photography is being at the right place at the right time. It's all about location, location, location. It looks like I'll get a chance to exhibit my photos at Tryst coffeehouse here in Adams Morgan this fall, and I'm thinking of calling the exhibit "Fish in a Barrel: A Year of Paris Photography," just because Paris is just such a great place for serendipitous photography.

I'm including some of my favorite such photos here. I hope you like them.

Photography is a bit like fishing, in that you always remember "the one that got away." To crib a bit from Langston Hughes, what happens to the serendipity that got away? Well, it doesn't dry up like a raisin in the sun, it just irritates the royal crap out of you. One example is in this photo: just moments after I snapped this photo (does one still "snap" photos in the era where cameras no longer "snap"?), the model very clearly and deliberately gave me the finger. It would have made for a great photo, but frankly, she caught me so flatfooted that it never even occurred to me to take a picture.

Another example occurred while I was setting up this photo:
A guy walked onto the street and past the romantic couple. I was waiting for him to walk by me and out of the shot, so I could take the picture. But, unexpectedly, once he walked past the couple, he took a hard left, went under the scaffolding you see in the picture, and...proceeded to urinate. It would have been a great "tale of two cities"/"best of times, worst of times" photos, but frankly, at the time, I was just irritated him at holding up my taking a photo of the couple.

I guess, if nothing else, our year abroad taught us that serendipity giveth, and serendipity taketh away.



Josh

You Oughta Be in Pictures

It is often said that Washington is Hollywood for ugly people. Well, clearly Hollywood's standards have slipped, because I've (potentially) made my way into two movies in the past six months.

Admittedly, only one of them was a Hollywood picture. The other was filmed in Paris. (The French would likely say that Hollywood is Paris for ugly people...)

What I learned in both cases is that being an extra is a lot like jury duty, except that you actually WANT to be be called. You sit in a room with all the other “average joes,” sharing war stories, bragging about past successes (one guy I sat with in the US was still bragging about serving as the “stand in” for Tom Skerritt in “Picket Fences” in the early 1990s), and waiting for your name to be called. But unlike in jury duty, where you hope your neighbor will get picked, at a casting call, you convince yourself that “Everthing Could Change!” if you get called.

MY FRENCH FILM DEBUT
In the waning days of our time in Paris, I saw in an ad in FUSAC (France USA Contacts, a print equivalent of Craigslist for Anglophone Parisians) that a casting company was seeking thirtysomething Anglophone men (English accent preferred) for a film. I e-mailed to indicate my interest, then...nothing. Weeks later, I got a call asking if I could be on site for filming at 6AM the next day! Now I am not a man who takes the concept of 6AM lightly, but who can say “no” to the limelight?

I showed up in a suit, my required “wardrobe,” at the site of the filming, the Institute for Human Paleontology, which it turned out was just a ten-minute walk from our apartment. The building itself was fantastic, with excellent, crazy, but borderline offensive bas-relief sculptures of the transition from apes to early man.

After checking in with make-up (“You don't need any”) and wardrobe (“The suit you brought is fine”), I finally found out more about the film. It would be filmed half in English and half in French, and the director would be Nicolas Saada, a well-known French film critic and screenwriter, making his directorial debut. The plot would involve a luggage handler (and thief) at Charles DeGaulle Airport who gets caught red-handed, and is then drafted by the French secret services into working with them. The film will either be called “The Spy” or “A Simple Spy.” (Check out its Internet Movie Database web page here: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1149592/)

[CAPTION: No pictures were allowed on set, so this picture was taken on the sly. Sorry it's so dark. Guillaume Canet is the guy at the far right of the picture.]

The film stars:
- Guillaume Canet (a very big star of French cinema, he also won “best director” at the French Oscars last year)
- Stephen Rea (the guy who gets the big surprise at the end of “The Crying Game,” for which he was nominated for the Best Actor Oscar)
- Archie Panjabi (who played the star's sister in “Bend It Like Beckham”)

[CAPTION: The guy with the bushy hair, with his profile towards us, on the right is the director, Nicolas Saada. This is the room where we filmed, with a big London map on the wall.]

It turns out I would be playing an agent (or maybe just a bureaucrat) with MI5, the rough British equivalent to the FBI. Both scenes I was in took place in an office at the Paleontology building, tricked out to resemble an MI5 headquarters “war room.” In one scene, Rea (my boss) would be talking to Canet, and in another, Panjabi would be talking to an arrested suspect. This was great news for me and my half-dozen fellow “agents,” since we would actually be in scenes with the movie's stars.

Over the three days of filming, time was split up three ways. About 80% of the time, we were sitting around in a basement room that was set up as a “holding cell” for us, waiting to be called for filming (eight ex-pat male Brits, one very popular attractive young blond woman, and I, sharing war stories about past brushes with near-fame). About 18% of the time, we waited on the set for filming to start. The final 2% of the time was spent filming the same scenes over and over again from slightly different angles. It was the opposite of glamorous and exciting.

Perhaps the best part of the whole experience (in addition to the roughly $450 we earned over the 2.5 days) was...lunch. Each day, the entire cast and crew would adjourn for a two-hour lunch that was served in a large wedding-style tent a few blocks away. This being France, the meal included four courses and two wines, all served family style. Everyone, from the stars to the director to the extras and the crew, ate together. The food was hot, gourmet, and very tasty, and the company was excellent. The whole meal experience was extremely French.

There was not much Hollywood-style gossip that came from the shooting. Stephen Rea informed us that an entire tree goes into making a box of tissues. And it was interesting to watching the interaction between Canet and Saada. Since this was Saada's directorial debut, and since he had spent his life in the world of cinema, he was very deliberative, shooting every scene multiple times, and engaging in ongoing conversation with the crew and all the actors (including the extras!) about our motivations. Canet, a huge young star who had won the “best director” award at the French Oscars just months before, clearly did not relish being a guinea pig for Saada. He frequently announced that “that's good, let's move on,” and in general acted like the worst stereotype of a sulky French artiste.

POSTSCRIPT: MY US FILM DEBUT
Months later, back in the US, awaiting the supposed Fall 2008 release of my film debut, I assumed my film career was over. But lo and behold, I saw an ad on a local neighborhood listserv that extras were needed for a big Hollywood film. I showed up to the casting call, more of a cattle call, with probably 1,000 people in a long line at a downtown Hyatt. The line moved quickly, I had my photo taken, filled out a form, and assumed I would never hear from them again.

I was surprised when, a month later, I got a call telling me that I was needed to play a commuter, and that I should show up at the Rosslyn Metro the next day. Perhaps not surprisingly, the US film shoot was less interesting than the Paris shoot. Basically, we sat around in the holding room at what DC folks will recognize as the “Our Lady of Exxon” church (a church located over a gas station), waiting to be called for filming. Then, when filming, we just kept walking into the Rosslyn station and taking the escalator down, over and over and over again.

[CAPTION: Again, we weren't supposed to be taking pictures, so excuse the odd framing of my surreptitious shot. I believe this is Katy Mixon, a minor star in the movie.]

Admittedly, the work was on what will be a bigger film (“State of Play,” starring Russell Crowe, Ben Affleck, Jason Bateman, Helen Mirren, Jeff Daniels, etc.; see http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0473705/), but the experience was a let-down. Even lunch was disappointing: an Asian buffet served over Sterno heaters. And only $60 for a day's “work.” Toto, we're not in Paris any more...

Josh

Mystery History Revealed

Paris' moveable feast is perhaps most lavishly set with dishes rich in history and tourism. How delectable, then, to have discovered an additional tasty treat—a tiny but fascinating moment from Paris' history, undiscovered despite its setting not far from ground zero of Parisian tourism.
One day, while strolling along the Seine from Notre Dame west towards the Musee d'Orsay, I noticed a historical plaque that, like the lyrical four-leaf clover, I had overlooked before. Mounted at knee height, on the wall separating the sidewalk from the drop down to the quais alongside the Seine, the plaque read as follows:

Here
On Feburary 15, 1950
Robert S. White
of Cambridge, Mass, U.S.A.
A Student at the National School
of Living Eastern Languages
31 Years Old
(1918-1950)
Generously sacrificed his life
while attempting to save a woman
in danger in the river.
IN MEMORIAM.

Above the inscription, the plaque bore the crests of the “Harvard College Class of 1940” and the “Lt. Commander , U.S. Naval Reserve.”

The plaque could not be in a more prominent, well-trafficked, and touristy location: on the quai des Grands Augustins, just feet from the Pont Saint Michel, directly in front of both Notre Dame Cathedral and the dragon-stomping Saint Michel fountain. Perhaps the plaque's odd height, a necessity of its placement on a short, riverside wall, contributed to the fact that I had never seen it before. A quick, subsequent search of the internet, and a variety of tourist texts, revealed no references to the plaque, or to the incident it commemorates.

Plus, the text of the plaque raised several questions in and of itself. What was White doing in Paris? What was the woman doing in the river? And, based on the plaque's text, given that it says “attempting to save,” are we to assume the woman in question drowned as well?

My curiosity piqued, I headed off to the Bibliotheque Historique de la Ville de Paris, the Paris library dedicated to the history of Paris, which was conveniently located a block up from my office.

I knew I was on to something special when first one, then two, then three reference librarians were caught flatfooted, then fascinated, by the photo I had brought with me of the White plaque. They fanned out, checked a variety of sources, but all they could find was a listing for the plaque in a book that comprehensively compiled the texts of the city's various historic signs.

Eventually, one of the librarians said I should check original source materials, and pointed me towards the library's newspaper archives. She suggested that I start with “France Soir,” which she said would be more likely to feature “faits divers” (“offbeat stories”) like the one we were researching (the equivalent of the New York Post , for example).

Sure enough, there they were: two articles on White drowning, a long feature two days after the incident on February 17, 1950, and a shorter update on February 18.

The article on the 17th gave the story full tabloid-like treatment. Under an all-caps header reading “THE DRAMA OF THE SAINT MICHEL BRIDGE,” the largest headline stated “'Robert Shaw White, a great guy.'” (it sounds much better in French: “un chic type”). The third-level headline finally got into the crux of the matter: “[This is] The unanimous opinion in the Latin Quarter, after the tragic death of the young American who drowned trying to save the little flower girl.”

The rest of the article, and the subsequent day's follow-up, sketched out for readers a set of characters that seemed to come straight from Central Casting.

THE HARVARD GRAD
First was Robert Shaw White himself. He was 31 years old at the time of his death, the son of a recently deceased professor at the “Universite d'Harward” [sic], and a student of Polish and Russian. Upon arrival in Paris, he moved into Room 22 at the Hotel Universe, a residence from which France Soir states “he never went out.” However, elsewhere in the same article, France Soir quotes “Louis, the barman at the establishment he [White] frequents” as stating “When I heard the news yesterday afternoon, I closed the door, turned out the lights, then I took refuge in the back room and I wept.”

“W. Schiller,” the France Soir reporter, describes the combined testimonies of White's French and American friends as a virtual “panegyric” (definition: “a formal eulogistic composition intended as a public compliment; elaborate praise or laudation; an encomium”), but Schiller's article also fills this purpose quite well.

The night of the events in question, White told his friends he could not sleep, and that he was “going to have a last drink somewhere by the banks of the Seine, which I love so much.”

“His fate was set,” stated Schiller, in a bit of purple prose.

“Walking peacefully, around 11:45PM,” by the Saint Michel Bridge, White heard a woman's cries. He thought he saw a “black fist” emerge briefly from the water, so he took off his shoes and his jacket (where his ID papers would later be found) and dove into the Seine. He resurfaced twice, and sailors who had also heard the woman's cries held out a pole for him to grab. “He could have grabbed it and saved himself,” writes the reporter, “But he refused it both times.”

[Caption: The scene of the crime.]

“Two fates, totally distinct at their origin, came together in death,” concluded Schiller.

THE FLOWER GIRL
Perhaps this is the time to introduce the second player in our cast of characters: Raymonde Stibirtine, age 35. “The little flower vendor of Saint-Germain-des-Pres” was the mother of six children, all of whom were “entrusted to Public Assistance.” According to Schiller, “Every day, at lunch, and again in the evening, she would leave her single room on the rue Saint-Sauveur to go sell small bouquets of pansies and violets in the restaurants at Les Halles and along the quais.”

[Caption: the location of the former "Rotisserie Perigourdine" restaurant.]

At about 11:50PM, Stibirtine left either the “Rotisserie Perigourdine” restaurant at 2 place Saint Michel, or the “L'Ecluse” bar at 15 quai des Grands Augustins (accounts differed), in the midst of an argument. What happened next? Schiller states “Only the 'bums' who live under the bridge, in summer as in winter, could say—they were the only witnesses.”

[Caption: Adjacent to the scene of the crime, where the "bums" would have lived.]

Schiller's downbeat assessment of the odds of finding out what happened begs the question: what about the person with whom Stibirtine was arguing? This brings our third character into play. In Schiller's otherwise sadly glowing portrayal of Stibirtine, he states that her life was dominated by two vices: “alcohol and her lover, George Cochard, known as 'Jojo the Handsome Brute.'” (Ironically, in the song “Jojo the Handsome Brute,” a popular bar tune of the time, it is “Jojo” who is murdered, in his case by a jealous suitor.)

According to Schiller, Cochard, age 42, had been together with Stibirtine for three years. He did not work, instead “following her, step by step” and “every bouquet she sold automatically transformed itself into bad red wine for him.”

Following the fateful night, Inspectors Toussaint and Muller of the Twelfth Police Brigade interrogated Cochard for 48 hours straight, “without interruption.” During that interrogation, Cochard stated “We argued violently, then we went down on the banks of the Seine. All of a sudden, for the most pointless of reasons, crazy with anger, I slapped [Stibirtine] with tremendous force. She lost her balance and fell into the river.”

[Caption: The scene of the crime, with modern lovebirds, seen from afar.]

All Cochard had to say in his own defense was that “She has hit me in the past.”
Perhaps it is the romantic in me, or the inherent romance of Paris, but I wonder—what would have happened if White and Stibirtine had met in life, instead of in death?

Josh

REFERENCES
“Le drame du Pont Saint-Michel: “Robert Shaw White, un chic type!”, W. Schiller, France Soir, February 17, 1950.

“La fleuriste du pont Saint-Michel avait ete jetee a l'eau par son amant,” no author listed, France Soir, February 18, 1950.

Tipsy Train, Take Two

Sorry, readers, the service which send out our blog via e-mail was out of order, so when I posted a new blog entry today, it didn't go out to you.

To see that message, go to http://hisandhersparigi.blogspot.com/and just scroll down past this message until you see the photo and the "Tipsy Train" title.

Enjoy!
Josh

Tipsy Train

Fret not, dear readers, the blog lives on! To paraphrase Mark Twain, the rumors of its demise were greatly exaggerated. We plan on continuing to write periodically about our “we resume the previously scheduled program, already in progress” old/new existence here in DC. And we're hanging on to the “hisandhersparigi” name, just out of convenience, a synonym for laziness. Once in a while, though, I'll dig into the archives and haul out anecdotes from our time in Paris that still bear retelling, even months later. Today's entry is a funny story “from the Paris vaults.”

In late January, I surprised Sara with tickets to visit Annecy in the Alps. I'd visited Annecy (a lovely lakeside town, with a ring of mountains visible just beyond the lake) ten years earlier, but the fog was so thick that day that you couldn't see the lake, let alone the mountains. I wanted a second chance to see Annecy's beauty, Sara and I hadn't been anywhere near the Alps yet, so off we went. One of the little things I like best about Sara is that she's a good travel food planner. She thinks ahead, realizes that travel takes time, and that the food you get can while traveling is usually crappy and bad for you. So, regardless of whether we're traveling by plane, train, or car, she always packs excellent travel picnics.

In France, these picnics almost always included wine. I have to admit, even after all these years, it's still hard for me to check my puritanical American instincts at the door, so the idea of popping a wine bottle in the airport or on a train still makes me nervous. Not nervous enough to not do it, of course...

So, there we were, with our Alpine sausage, cheese, bread, and, yes, wine spread out across a little table on the train. A conductor passed by, saw what we were doing, slowed down a bit...then just kept going. About fifteen minutes later, he came back, and walked right up to us.

He said, “When I walked by earlier, I noticed that you had plastic cups.”

The cups were still on the table, so there was no point in denying things. “Yes,” I said.

“Well,” he continued, “my colleague and I brought a bottle with us, but since the restaurant car is on strike, we have no glasses. Since we see you have extras, would you mind giving us two?”

Realizing immediately that I suddenly had the upper hand, I joked “Sure, in exchange for two round trip train tickets.”

He laughed, and said that he didn't think that would be possible. So I counter-offered: “We'll do it for two glasses of whatever you're drinking.”

Looking me in the eye to see if I was serious (which clearly I was), he hesitated, and then motioned me to follow him. I told Sara I'd be right back, then followed the conductor the length of two train cars before he pulled out his janitor-worthy keyring and unlocked a nondescript door. He walked into a narrow cabin that was seemingly like a teacher's lounge, but for conductors. His colleague did a big-time double-take when he saw that his co-worker had brought back not just the needed cups, but also me. In hushed tones, our deal was explained, as was my special status as a French-speaking American.

The set-up apparently passed muster, because the bottle emerged from the fridge—a square bottle of store-brand muscat. I put out four glasses, but three were poured, and the conversation began. Over the next half hour, we talked about how much of an idiot Bush was (as common as discussing the weather in France), the train wreck (pun intended) of the President Sarkozy/Carla Bruni romance, whether or not a woman could be a good US president, US perception of the previous year's French suburban riots, Corsica, the importance of quality cooking ingredients, and Southwestern wine recommendations.

Periodically, one or the other of the two conductors would leave the room, presumably to undertake some unavoidable conductor task. Over the course of the conversation, we made quick work of the bottle of sweet, strong (double normal wine alcohol concentrations), cheap wine. When the wine dried up, so did our conversation, so I shook the gentlemen's hands and excused myself so I could return to check on Sara.

When I got back to Sara, she was both amused and amazed by my story. Since her dad worked for the railroad, her mind immediately turned to the safety implications of drinking conductors. But, lest you think that the conductors and I were the only tipsy ones on the train, since Sara is not a conductor, when left alone with the wine from our picnic, she had ended up polishing off the rest of our bottle while I was gone.

As we got off the train, I couldn't help thinking that this was the immaculate “snapshot of France” anecdote. It featured wine, rulebreaking (maybe by Sara and I, definitely by the conductors), social action (the strike by the restaurant car that triggered the whole incident), deep and wide-ranging conversation, and quality transportation options. Oh, and fashion, since you can't properly picture this situation without realizing that recently the French government paid fashion designer Christian Lacroix to redesign train conductor uniforms.

Somehow, this incident just wouldn't have been the same in the US. Monosyllabic awkward conversation over Night Train (pun intended) with a polyester-clad Amtrak employee just lacks...a certain je ne sais quoi.

Josh

Voila: Finally, photos!

Greetings Everyone,

At long and merciful last, I have finished putting together the official photo album from our year in Paris. Check it out at:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/7531775@N04/collections/72157604937826054/

You'll see three subsets: one with "artsy" photos, one with "people" pictures, and one with "touristy" photos. Pick your preference. (Note: if you don't see the "people" pix, let me know, I'll need to "authorize" Flickr to show them to you...)

I know that there's a lot of photos, but we were there for over a year. Flickr makes them easy to scan, in any case. And to put everything into perspective, I took a total of 11,851 photos, which I narrowed down to 2,689 "Best of" pictures, and then 712 "BOBO" (Best of Best of) photos, which you'll see on the site.

I'm proudest of the Artsy photos, most people like the People pictures most, but I hope you enjoy them all!

Thanks,
Josh

Home Again

There was one moment last week when I was borderline obnoxious about our time in Paris. I was waiting patiently in line at the Safeway, reading a magazine to pass the time, as the grocery clerk slowly helped the person in front of me, and a woman said, "I love your grocery bag, where did you get it?" I then tilted my head slightly, explaining in that smugly apologetic voice, "oh, I'm sorry, I got it in Paris. It was a gift from my husband." What can I say, I couldn’t help myself?

We've been home about three weeks and the transition is going remarkably well. I really didn't know how I would feel. As I took one last look around our Paris apartment, I thought, "This chapter has been really good. I hope I don't crash hard."

I was nervous about feeling overwhelmed. I was nervous about thinking I didn't really belong anywhere. I was nervous about the state of our apartment after three sets of renters. I was even nervous about return conversations with dear friends—would it be "normal"?

As it turns out, my worry was unnecessary. Our apartment was perfect (except for the actual, live bird that Josh had to chase out the first night). Adams Morgan is the same as it ever was and its been nice to bump into people at the grocery store and gym. I was especially silly to worry about how it would be reconnecting with friends—in more cases than not, we've said something to the effect of, "Huh, it hardly seems like any time has past." Maybe life is more like a soap opera than not—you can miss out on a whole bunch of episodes, but for the most part, the story line stays the same.

But I still dare to think that I’m not entirely the same-in good ways, I hope. I was told the other day at the office that "You've been in Europe too long" after I said, "Don't worry about the emails—get to them when you can. I'll tell you if they are actually urgent."

In another case, I was going to deal with the Sprint Store (a sure recipe for disaster), but I found that employing some of my well-honed French customer service tricks (learned from Polly Platt's book "French or Foe") were exactly what the Cellphone Clerk needed to hear. In France, you don’t expect customer service. They don't really need your business—ever. You can get helped and you can even get really amazing service by flipping roles a bit. Basically, I learned that by saying some version of: "Excuse me for bothering you. I know you are very busy, but I have a problem and I am hoping that you might be able to help me." I usually got exactly what I needed, if not more. Such was the case at the Sprint Store where a clerk actually worked with me for 45 minutes and solved my actually complicated tech issues. And, believe it or not, after 15 minutes, she even smiled.

I am hoping desperately to keep the slightly cooler temper and resistance to stress that I discovered in Paris. I suppose with a real schedule and a life that simply is busier, it will be a challenge, but that is my hope.

It hasn't all been roses in our return. There was that one moment, as we were dragging the 8^th suitcase up the stairs to our apartment, where I thought, "I'm just not sure about this returning home business." But thankfully, it really was only one moment and we did celebrate our homecoming that evening with dinner at The Diner—our beloved Adams Morgan spot. Somehow an American burger, fries and a milkshake can make you forget, even for a moment, some of the pleasures of France.

I also really miss some things and some Paris friends. I especially miss good bread (even if my hips don't). I also miss the variety of vegetable and meat that were common place on the rue Mouffetard. Last week I went to three stores searching for leeks and turnips—two things that even the equivalent of a convenience store would have in France. Josh's quest (on my behalf) since return has been to locate crème fraiche, with limited success. What was about $1 in Paris, is not nearly $4.00 here and it can only be found at specialty stores. But at least tiny Smart cars have arrived in America.

I also miss the cross-cultural part of conversations in France, which virtually ensured that I walked away from every conversation with a deeper knowledge of France.

But I am also relishing a few truly American things. Its mostly the little things. I'm thrilled to speak English again. I'm even happy to hear Spanish again on the streets. I love watching Meet the Press and the Evening News and voting in the DC Primary was especially exciting, even if my preferred candidate came in second. I love being able to read the headlines effortlessly on the morning newspaper. I am happy to have NPR on the radio again. I am happy to be on the same time or only an hour apart from those I regularly talk to on the phone.

I am also really happy in my new job. It’s at a small nonprofit called Miriam's Kitchen (http://www.miriamskitchen.org/) and it feels good to be working to make DC a better place. It is a real joy to be in the American philanthropic scene again, which I truly think is the gold standard. I am also thrilled to be back our apartment and maybe have a few more square feet than we had in our Paris flat. We had our first dinner party on Friday with Jess and Chris and it was so much fun to break out our DC kitchen tools, while having Paris cooking knowledge to add. For Valentines Day, Josh and I went to the Shakespeare Theatre and I was reminded how much I love the theater and how DC has an amazing theater scene.

As we went through customs in Philly, I was oddly moved when the agent said "Welcome home." I guess he reminded me in a real way that "Yes, I am an American and this is happily my home." But its always easier to say goodbye when you know its simply, "Goodbye for now." And I knew that as our plane took off, I would be back, just as Josh has always known he would return back to Paris. Maybe I can even imagine and hope that when next we pass through Charles de Gaulle in Paris, the agent says some version of "Welcome Back."

sPg

La Derniere Fois

Sitting in the midst of suitcases, bags and a growing "donation" box, the reality of moving back has firmly arrived. I will say, this week has been punctuated by emotions ranging from denial to anxiety about airline luggage regulations to honest glee at the notion of seeing familiar faces to concern over reverse culture shock to excitement about a new job.

To be honest, at times its been a bit harder to process than I had anticipated. In the end, however, the call of home is still the most powerful emotion. France still has magic for me, but its become a bit ordinary—a sure sign it is time to leave. I haven't craved a pastry or even steak tartare for some time.

When I'm not obsessing over luggage or some new emotional swing, though, we are also attempting to do things for "la derniere fois" or "the last time". This week, we've eaten at three of our favorite restaurants, visited the Louvre, walked along the Seine, had several goodbye lunches with people, went shopping, had our last meal at home (cheese, boudin blanc, rillettes, and a good bottle of wine) and still carved out some time for sleeping and packing.

One of the most special moments of this last week, however, was my last cooking lesson (for now) with Iris. Over our last few gatherings, Iris and I were making a list of a few French recipes that I hadn't yet cooked, but the one that intrigued me and I didn't feel like I could leave without knowing was Pot-au-Feu—essentially a boiled pot of meat and vegetables that is elevated to a place of honor at the French table.

Iris sent me a shopping list which included: three marrow bones, "1 kilo plat de cote avec les os, 600 Gr de jarret de boeuf, 600 Gr de gite-gite en un seul morceau." I will say, it felt like a final exam at the butcher. With the exception of the marrow bones, which I had heard about but had not yet purchased, I wasn't familiar with a single ingredient. The list was essentially a mixture of beef that is fairly inexpensive and is at its best after several hours of cooking (think French pot roast).

My butcher seemed happy to help, knew exactly what I needed and I felt like it was a final French victory for me. The day with Iris was lovely and our Pot-au-Feu was really tasty. Throughout the day, we talked of cooking techniques, laughed a lot and she even gave me her mother's Poule-au-pot recipe, which was essentially like the beef dish, but for chicken. I made the chicken dish on Sunday for some friends and I can honestly say I leave with two more French standards in my repertoire.

But aside from a few last French recipes, I've also taken some time to ponder this question of returning. In one of the rare moments of honest anxiety about returning home, I went so far as to look up on the Internet, "How to cope with reverse culture shock." Wikipedia even has a fairly extensive section on the various stages of adjustment and coping strategies. The one part that I found particularly fascinating and odd though was "Culture shock manifests itself in different ways. Some symptoms include changes in diet and sleeping patterns and an increased need of hygiene." Increased need of hygiene? It almost begs for a French joke, but I suppose only time will tell if upon return to DC, I find myself needing to shower excessively.

But for now, there is certainly no time for excess showering. Bags need to be packed and a small but important list of last minute tourism still awaits. Josh and I plan on spending our last day doing "the death march", which most of our visitors experienced to some degree their first day here. It’s the tour that goes from our apartment, to the Mosque for tea, to Notre Dame, to ice cream at Berthillon to a pass by the old city wall—and a few other stops if our legs still can keep going. It’s the trek we did on January 12, 2007 and it feels exactly right to use it as a book end on February 1, 2008.

And so, this is my last post from here. Thank you for giving us a forum to rant, brag, process and report on our adventures. I suspect there will be at least an entry or two upon our return, if I can find time between my many showers and the reality of life that awaits. I also know Josh has a few last posts up his sleeve, so if you aren't bored with us, there are a few more chapters in the wings. But for now, this is Sara Gibson signing off from Paris.

A bientot,

sPg