Brother, my angel
Brother, my angel, I don’t even know your name. Perhaps our parents did not have enough time, in your agony, to give you a name. In the sordid poverty of post-war Paris your, and their ordeal, are for me unimaginable. I can only say you saved my life, years later, when I was in despair and looked at the void: you were there, I am certain, looking down at me, at this wreck. I survived, I thrived. My poor angel.
I so much wish I will see you, at last, there, wherever it can be, you and our younger brother, he who slowly destroyed himself. Us three. Surely Saint Peter will allow us. You will vouch for us, I am sure, let those old sinners in, they are my brothers.
you were my guardian angel
Our Mum so much wanted a daughter. It never came but her granddaughter did, perhaps too late? I have long concluded that you were my guardian angel. Thanks to you, I survived everything, dropping off a cliff, my parachute not opening, several motor crashes, the plague, Chad, and worse. My poor angel.
I can only imagine you as I look at my grandson. He was born on February 18! Contrary to you he has plenty, I don’t even know when you were born, my dear, so-dear brother. You must know, I hope, that our parents moved shortly after you were gone (and where are your ashes?), and when I was still very young, they could not bear to stay in that city of despair, they wanted to leave behind, the killings, the tribunals, the orgies of the “victors”.
They made their life there
The little town had been badly burnt, by the same hideous lot, but it was quiet, austere, almost welcoming. They made their life there, and our younger brother was born there, in March.
I owe you everything: to know how precious human life is, how important it is to be prepared to defend it, to be both strong and humble.
So I am getting ready, to meet you at long last. I will beg you to pardon this sinner, this wreck of a liar, but still, a dreamer.
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