You've Come a Long Way Baby

It was a chilly early evening, but we were bundled up well. Amelia and I had easily navigated a quick trip on the 42 bus past the Christmas lights in Dupont Circle. I "explained" to Amelia that we were on our way to meet a very special person that evening. We were going to meet a long-time friend who also is a big reason why DC became my second home so quickly. And to top it all off, we were going to have a "fancy night", which is why she was in a dress (and a snowsuit). Yes, we were going to pass the evening with my dear friend Becky at the Ritz.

Becky, who normally lives in San Francisco (but hails from Logansport, Indiana) was my first roommate in the DC area when I arrived here in 1998. Back then, she was the only person in town that I could claim to know and even at that, she was still in London for the first few weeks I was here on the East Coast.  

This past week, Becky was in town for business and invited Amelia, Josh and I to spend time with her at the Ritz Club.  She assured me it would be super-easy to bring Amelia, and there would be tasty snacks and beverages, which lured Josh and I. Our location is even more delicious though when you consider that Becky and I met in high school Debate Camp and nearly the entirety of our early friendship was spent in Chesterton, Logansport, or some small high school somewhere else in Indiana at debate tournaments.(for some great vintage pictures of Becky and me, see the end of this blog post.)  In fact, one of our earliest ongoing arguments involved the GATT Treaty (yes, we were that well-read as high schoolers).  We have also been known to visit a truck stop if it was the only place in town to get a decent coffee.

So last night, Amelia and I swung into the lobby of the Ritz—me pushing the stroller—grateful for the door being opened by the well-dressed doorman.  Becky arrived a few minutes later, and gazed at Amelia with the eyes of an old friend. She was grateful to see and meet my young daughter, but she is also someone who could also see the story that brought us to that moment together. In some ways, we were so far from those early days of our friendship, but in the most important ways, we were still the same "well-spoken" small town girls who dreamed of the big world out there, wondering which dream we were going to tackle first. Because Becky also has a young, beautiful three-year-old daughter (Hi Maddie!), she could understand the hopes that a small-town-turned-city girl can offer to her daughter from the earliest days.

I've now been in DC long enough that I am now rarely enamored with "fancy" places, but sometimes I have glimpses of my current life and I have to pinch myself. I'm still a Hoosier at heart. I'm not so removed from my roots that I take the opportunities a big city offers lightly. I still giggle when I think that my daughter will know how to fish and which fork to use at a nice restaurant. I still wish that my grandmother and my Uncle Dan could have lived long enough to see this life, strange it may be, that I've carved out. And I’m grateful that my family has been able to so easily accept this "Sara" that is still entirely Chesterton, but is also just as much DC or Paris; Flannery's and the Ritz; American-made cars and the 42 bus. I'm still all of those things and my hope for Amelia is that she is able to take the world that we give her and make it fit her like a glove whatever size or shape that glove might be.

Wishing on a star for Amelia,

sPg

Glimpses

Last week someone warned me, "The days are long but the years are short" and I think that even feels right in these few weeks. Our little Amelia has been with us for 5 weeks now. In many ways, it feels like she literally arrived yesterday, but then I can also recall enough early morning feedings to reassure myself that in fact, she has been here for over 35 days.

So, a few glimpses from these days to share.

18^th and Columbia Rockstar—One of my favorite moments since Amelia's arrival happened last night. We were strolling home after a quick dinner out and as we approached the intersection by our house, we bumped into the Sitar Gang (from the Sitar Arts Center, where Josh and I met when I worked there and he was on the board), heading home after dinner (presumably) at Mixtec. Of course, we are always excited to run into dear Sitar friends on the street, and there is usually some sort of low level excitement when we happen to bump into one another, but this was something entirely different. For many, it was the first time they had met Amelia, and it was so fun to share such excitement on the streets of Adams Morgan.

We actually caused enough of a scene that random strangers stopped to see what the small crowd was peering at. We heard one man say as he walked away, "oh, so there's a baby in there." I know that Amelia isn't the first or only baby in Adams Morgan, but those ladies sure did make us feel like it for just a few minutes last night!

Strolling—Our new cool stroller arrived last week and we have put some miles on since its arrival! Even if Amelia is squeaking in slight discontent, once we start moving, she's either happily entertained or rocked to sleep, usually within a block. By my rough math, we've already put on about 8 miles or so. We also have had tremendous luck figuring out how to take the bus with the stroller too! I can actually get myself, Amelia and the stroller on and off the bus without any trouble, which is a huge relief.

Kindness of Strangers—Gratefully, the warmth that I felt when I was pregnant has more than continued since Amelia's arrival. Random strangers have offered seats on the bus, helped me on and off the bus, and inquired about our little girl—all of this without touching her (which I do appreciate in the midst of flu/cold season). People seem to respect reasonable boundaries that a newborn requires but also are just simply sweet with their questions. One woman said, "Thank you for giving me some baby time" as she got off the bus—and all I did was sit next to her.

The birds—Now that I think I spend about 20 hours a day feeding my little barracuda, I now have time to literally watch the birds. Thankfully, I had the foresight to buy Josh a birdfeeder for his birthday. Last week, the birds found it and I will admit that I enjoyed hours of bird watching from my couch this week. It sounds silly, but I had forgotten how peaceful it can be to just sit still.

Thanksgiving—Thanksgiving was wonderful. We celebrated with Josh, Bobi (my mother-in-law), and Craig and Mario (our two wonderful neighbors). Foodwise, we mostly ordered out, but mixed in a few homemade family favorites—potato pancakes, stuffing and cranberry sauce. I enjoyed a delightful glass of champagne, and laughed because it was clear our holidays have lost some of their "order". Josh was changing Amelia, Bobi was also nowhere to be found, Mario had ducked next door to get cranberries and Craig and I were left alone at the table with plates of food but no other dining companions. We weren't sure what to do, but then Craig said, "Well I'm from a big family. I learned that you eat when there is food in front of you." I said, "That makes sense to me" as I hoped that maybe a diaper change and a quick start to my meal would mean I might enjoy a few moments of eating without an infant also needing to eat.

The Other Woman—Amelia officially met the other woman in Josh's life: the Lovely Lucero, who cuts Josh's hair every 21 days. It was a big day for Josh and Amelia, as you can imagine.  (Lucero and Amelia share a birthday, by the way.)  And after the haircut, Josh "allowed" Amelia and I to join him at Moby Dick's for his mandatory post-haircut kebab!

Damp clothing—Sometimes I think, "Between Amelia's snarfing and near diaper misses and my own 'milk factory', will I ever not be damp again???"

That smile—It gets me every time. It doesn't matter if its 4AM or noon. Our little girl has started to smile just a nudge more often and its the one time when I feel like time stops.

Back to begging for another smile,

sPg

Adams Morgan's Newest Resident

[The pictures for this blog are from an even more ambitious outing we took a couple of days after the one I describe in the blog.  Here we are at the 14th and U Farmer's Market--admittedly just outside Adams Morgan.]

It's no secret that Josh and I love Adams Morgan and consider ourselves a real part of the community—both for better and for worse. In fact, back on October 30, after my water broke and as we went to catch a cab to Sibley Hospital, it felt somehow appropriate that Adams Morgan was in full swing (at 1:30AM).

As such, it seems exactly appropriate that we are introducing our little one to the neighborhood quite early in her life.  A couple of days back, I decided it was time that Amelia and I went out to say hello to Adams Morgan.  We started, as one might expect, at Tryst. I had a Dirty Chai (decaf) and Amelia slept. We sat at table, Amelia all snuggled in her sling and I enjoyed just being part of the neighborhood. Surprisingly, we didn't see anyone we knew (but I suppose it was 4pm..not high traffic time) and they were unusually speedy with their service.

[The arrival of Amelia has not diminished Josh's love of a tasty pastry.  Here he's enjoying his favorite part of the 14th and U market, the pumpkin whoopie pies.]

Afterwards, I was still feeling energetic and Amelia was still snoozing, so we ventured further. This time we went to Little Shop of Flowers to say hello to Shefika and thank her for the beautiful orchid that she had sent home with Josh when he very sweetly bought flowers from her last weekend. She was charmed by our little one and at first insisted that we take a flower (but I said we would come back another time).

Lastly, I decided we needed a few groceries. Our beloved Harris Teeter seemed just a little too far away, so we picked up a few essentials and even managed to avoid bad service. Finally, we walked back home down Columbia Road.

[The cider stand at the market was out of smaller bottles, so I made do.  Note at left, the cellophane from Josh's pumpkin whoopie pie (see earlier photo), still clutched in his photo-taking hand.]

It feels like a huge accomplishment to be out and about with Amelia. Who would have ever thought that a walk in our neighborhood would feel as exciting as a trip to the moon? I also loved that as we walked, I knew that within a few blocks there were lots of people who honestly care that we have a little one. Columbia Road, 18^th Street, Tryst, the Sitar Center, Jubilee Jumpstart (our future daycare), many restaurants, Harris Teeter, our gym…this is our little world and now Amelia is part of it;. We've also already expanded our Adams Morgan geography. We have already taken a few walks through the parks that are just beyond our door, but which we had mostly ignored until now.I can already imagine Amelia enjoying the swings and meeting other neighborhood kids.

I didn't really imagine what my life would be like when I had children, but I do know that this world isn't what I had in mind. Adams Morgan is mixed up, colorful, crazy and still…oddly enough…home.

I hope Amelia feels the same way.

[Amelia, zonked, after the market trip.]

Loving our mixed up Mayberry,

sPg

The Arrival

Today was supposed to be "Coco's" due date. Statistically, even still, she probably could have been a few days away from arriving. But she's here already and these last two weeks with her have left me thrilled, exhausted, content, in tears and profoundly grateful. Our little one arrived on her own schedule, after a rain front moved in and a few days before the full moon that I thought would bring about labor.

We really thought we had more time. In fact, the weekend our little one arrived is also the weekend we had jam packed with projects ranging from laundry (which my parents gratefully ended up doing the first night we were in the hospital) to a much needed haircut for me (which ended up happening two weeks later) to putting boxes of various electrical cords away (happened a week later) to getting that prenatal massage I had promised myself (still pending) to a birthday party for Josh (oh well, there's always 2010). But, proving that little ones don't care about our plans, she came early and we are thrilled.

 [Sara, as pregnant as she'd ever get, after her water broke and right before heading to the hospital.]

Labor started after a wonderful dinner with Josh on October 30 at Obelisk to celebrate his 37^th birthday. After returning home and falling asleep, my water broke just after midnight and I remember thinking "Is this really happening?" Before telling Josh that I thought our little one would be arriving in shorter order than we had thought, I remember going to the bathroom and taking a moment to take it all in, before telling Josh that we might need to head to the hospital soon.

[Josh, after Sara's water broke.]

Labor proceeded smoothly and sixteen and a half hours later, our little girl was born. Saying her name for the first time was a powerful moment, even if I think I was still in shock after the rigors of labor.

And now we're now firmly in the world of new parenthood. Sometimes I feel like I am just stuck in one giant (if pleasant) cliché. We don't get enough sleep, we are absolutely charmed by our little one, we keep saying "She's so cute", we worry needlessly if she is eating enough, we take a lot of photos of our sleeping girl, we talk a lot about diapers and we pretty much walk around with a happy if slightly dazed look. The new "normal" of sleep has been an adjustment, but  because the last weeks of pregnancy kept me up late and often, it has been reasonably acceptable.

She's only been with us two weeks, but she's already happily turned our world upside down. I've casually described this new life as one "where Tuesday night and Saturday night look basically the same".

So, where do we go from here? I guess we'll see. I have already learned that I can function well on much less sleep than I ever imagined. I can only guess what her lessons will be for me next week.

Off to spend another two hours just watching her sleep,

sPg

Tossing the Clock

[Please note: Sara wrote the blog below well before Amelia was born.  She told me on the 27th that it was set, and all I had to do was add the pictures and post it.  That didn't happen in the four days before Amelia showed up, or in the week since.  I guess we see which Gibson parent will be teaching the little one efficiency and time management.  - Josh]

I have gotten much better at waiting and patience, but I’ll admit, it’s never been my strong suit. I also have an incredibly short attention span for any physical ailments. I’m (in)famous for saying that after three days of any illness I am entirely bored. So, at this stage of pregnancy, the challenges are obvious.

I wonder when she is coming. I wonder when my body will return to even remotely recognizable proportions. I wonder when I will stop being driven slightly mad by a nonstop desire to scratch (the newest of pregnancy related surprises). I wonder what part of our To Do list will be left undone if she comes early. I wonder if any of the fun things I’ve scheduled for the next week (Josh’s birthday dinner, a massage, a haircut and book club) will come to pass. I wonder when turning over in bed will not feel like a feat that I feel I deserve applause for. I wonder when I will be able to go 37 minutes without thinking about the bathroom. I wonder if Josh’s prediction of November 19th or my prediction of November 4th will be accurate.

This weekend we put her room together. For the first time in my life, I enjoyed folding and putting away clothes (normally my least favorite task in all of chore-dom). I found myself relishing the big questions like “Is this a 0-3 or 3-6 month sleeper?” Josh put the crib together. I also started to get excited—like I can’t wait to meet her and want to meet her RIGHT NOW excited. Ironically, as I was thinking this, she was moving around so much that I literally could tell you her every move. The notion of “meeting” someone you’ve been this close to is fascinating.

This morning as I walked into work, one of Miriam’s guest said, “About time?” and I said, “Absolutely—anytime. I’m ready.”

In that moment I had a small realization. It isn’t about me. In fact, it will never really be about me again. This is just the beginning of it all. It isn’t about when I’m ready for her to be born, walk, talk, date, drive, graduate or do any other thing she will do. She is her own little person, with her own little clock.

So, I’ve recommitted to enjoying the ride. Its fun to know that people care so much that its rare that a phone call doesn’t get answered or returned. I appreciate how easily I can get a seat on even the most crowded of buses. I value the random conversations I get to have around children, parenting and even labor.

I also know that I will never have these moments with her again—where she is a part of me in such a delicate and miraculous way. To rush through this would be like wanting to rush through any other phase—and some of the best advice we’ve received has been to enjoy every minute for the unique minute that it is.

So, don’t mind my scratching and I apologize to anyone who is stuck behind me on a sidewalk or a stair case. I’m relishing this whole pregnancy thing…trust me.

Tossing away my clock,
sPg

Pregnancy and the City

It's an interesting thing to be so obviously pregnant in a city. We live in a place where public transportation is the norm, sidewalk conversations are how we do business and I literally bump into people all the time. Sometimes it’s irritating, but oftentimes, it is sweet, funny and all together unexpected. Here are a few snippets from life as a pregnant woman in DC.

The bus—I love the bus and ride it regularly. The Metro is a 15-minute walk away, but the bus doubles as a "poor man’s taxi". In fact, my beloved H1 bus picks me up one block from my house and drops me off one block from my office—not bad for $1.35! The bus is also a traveling community. I can tell time by the woman with the red coat. If she's at Q Street, then I'm on time. If she's not there, I'm late. And then there is the woman who wears the same decorative blue dress every day in the summer. I knew it was time for fall when she arrived one day wearing a red version of the same dress. But there is also a courtesy on the bus because we see each other too often. Now that climbing up bus stairs is a little tougher, the bus driver always lowers the bus for me. The woman with the red jacket commented about how well I look (and she knows since she sees me most days). But most happily surprising, someone always gives me their seat and I don't even have to ask.

The other day, two young men in suits quickly got up and offered a seat. Women and men of different ages regularly insist that I take their seat. But sometimes there are funny or endearing moments. One afternoon a few weeks ago, an older woman asked a younger woman to give her seat to me (which she promptly did). I gratefully accepted the seat and fellow passengers were probably happy they wouldn't have to see me try and stay upright during the ride. But the real gem of the ride happened once I was seated. A much older Latina woman sat beside me. That afternoon, the Tiniest Gibson was really active and each time, she moved, my stomach also visibly moved and the lady laughed. I felt that as she watched me, she became a young mother right in front of my eyes—remembering her own pregnancies. She then said, "kicking?" and we both laughed as we shared the moments my belly continued to move.

The sidewalk—Sidewalks make for funny snippets. Today an older man, who looked a little crazy, stopped in front of me, looked at my obviously large belly and said, "I told you when you eat watermelon you are supposed to spit out the seeds" and then kept walking, leaving me stopped laughing in my tracks.

I don't ride the Metro enough to comment, but the few times I have ridden it, I've either found a seat or have asked and people have politely given me a place.

But besides just giving up seats, I regularly get fun questions, bits of advice and/or comments like "Oh I have one at home". More often than not, these random moments with strangers remind me that children are a big deal—and everyone is at least a little invested in them.

I won't lie, climbing 63 stairs to get to our place isn't my favorite part about city living and pregnancy, but I'll happily keep trekking up those stairs in exchange for the chance to feel that a lot of people care about the Tiniest Gibson.

Still making it up those stairs,
sPg

From Paris to Parenthood

I wrote my last blog entry in early 2008 as we were re-adjusting to life in DC after a seemingly surreal whirlwind adventure in Paris. Our return to DC and the ensuing year and a half have has been reasonably uneventful, so I wondered if my time as a blogger had drawn to a close. Maybe it was the reduction in wine consumption, but life seemed more ordinary here and not quite worth justifying adding my voice to the crowded blog-o-sphere.

But, just as we were hardly the first idealistic Americans to unpack our hopes and dreams in the middle of the City of Lights, we are now joining the ranks of idealistic Americans who are happily rearranging life as we know it to become parents. And, just as our Paris adventure inspired me to write, the imminent arrival of our little one has sparked the writer in me. So, without further ado, "His and Hers Parigi" has a new subtitle: "From Paris to Parenthood."

As I was laying in bed the other day, propped up by a series of pillows that would make any systems engineer pleased, it occurred to me that picking up and moving to a foreign country does have a few potential similarities to becoming a parent. And so, in vignette style, I offer a few humble observations and hope that ultimately parenthood turns out to be even more fabulous, unbelievable, slightly ridiculous, sometimes confounding, occasionally difficult, fulfilling and shockingly unexpected than our last blog-able adventure.

As I prepared to move to France, these were the things that were on my mind, which really mirror many of the thoughts I have as we prepare to welcome our little one in just about six weeks.

1. I don't deal well with lack of sleep, I wonder how bad the jetlag will be.
2. I've read about what the next year is supposed to be like. I’ve learned a few tips in advance about how to survive. I signed up for this adventure willingly. It seems like this should be a smooth transition, but something tells me I have no idea what awaits me.
3. I wonder if I'll be lonely or overwhelmed or learn things about myself I didn't want to know.
4. I wonder how Josh and I will adjust to our new roles.
5. I hope our families visit and really get to see the new me.
6. I hope I am flexible enough, strong enough and open enough so I don't miss a minute of the grand adventure we are about to embark on.
7. I hope I can find a way to make sure I can still get my hair done on a regular basis—I'm not ready to be openly gray.
8. Is there any way that we can prepare for all the unexpected logistics and costs?

You get the idea. I "get" that parenthood is a really big change. I even get that parenthood makes moving to a foreign country look like child's play (no pun intended). But, I'm daring to be hopeful that there are at least a few lessons to be learned from turning your life upside down in one way that might be applicable to the next time you sign up to turn your life inside out.

We'll see. I could be wrong. But at the very least, this seemed blog-able. So stay tuned for musings, rants and hopes from a soon-to-be-mother (and perhaps from a soon-to-be-father, who is still deciding if the writing muse is calling his name).

With love, waffles, milkshakes and Tums,
sPg

Feeling Better

[Note: this is just a quick update on where things stand.  I may post more at a later point...]

What a crazy couple of weeks! Some of you know more than others, so to catch you up:

I started having what I now know are diabetes symptoms while in Chesterton for the holidays, was tested for diabetes on the 5th, was diagnosed on the 8th, had a huge grant application due for work on the afternoon of the 12th, and admitted myself to the hospital that same day with what turned out to be a correct self-diagnosis of diabetic ketoacidosis (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diabetic_ketoacidosis).
After an evening in the ER, two days in the ICU, and two more days in the general hospital, I came home Friday night. I'm now on two kinds of insulin, and even after just a couple of days at home, my blood sugar is starting to moderate. With diet, exercise, and some meds, this should be manageable.

Throughout everything, Sara has been a saint and a godsend, my mom provided lots of good advice from her own experience with the disease, and friends from near and far have provided great moral support.

In the grand scheme of things this isn't a big deal, but the diabetes situation has thrown a monkey wrench into our Inauguration plans (Sara will go, I'll likely lay low) and our planned late January trip to Europe (probably postponed until April).

Long story short, this was a big enough jolt to remind me of what's really important in life, but my diagnosis was moderate enough to keep what happened to me in perspective--things could be much worse, and I'm lucky in so many ways despite what happened this week.

Thanks again to everyone who has reached out to me with kind words, personal experience, and any other kind of help you can imagine.  It's a month late for this, but I feel a bit like George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life"--it's only after a real scare that you really understand how much you value friends and family, and vice versa.

Josh

PS: I'm working my way out of a nasty e-mail backlog, so please bear with me...

Josh

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