Reims

Jeph and I left Paris today and made our way to Reims.  Driving in Paris is like driving in a big city only the lanes are may 2/3 the width of lanes in the US and the motorcycles are nuts.  They dodge in and out and around.   One will come up on your left between two cars in their lanes then dart across in front of your car just inches from being a hood ornament on the rental car.  Jeph says that natural selection has allowed only the riders that are experts are left.

The cathedral at Reims is fantastic.  It is built where a palace was located in the 5th century.  It looked to me like lace or a snowflake.   The buttresses are more subtle than those at Notre Dame, but they way are placed added to this feeling of lace.   On the lower levels, there was a musty / pleasant smell that was similar to that at the Cluny museum in Paris.

In WWI, the Germans wanted to demoralize the French and what better way than to take away the cathedral.  They bombed it multiple times in 1914.   Large parts of the roof and ceiling were destroyed and beautiful windows were lost.  It’s hard to picture this place with airplanes buzzing overhead focused on destroying this beautiful cathedral and its history, but that’s what I’m here for.. to pay homage to those who lived through it.

You can see where the ceiling had to be repaired by the color of the stones.   Window were restored and some were replaced by those designed by Chagall and Knoebel.  They are not what you expect to see in a cathedral where construction started in the 13th century.

Montmarte

This morning, we had the pleasure of meeting the genealogist who did some research on the people that helped our father.   She is lovely and shared stories of other assignments and the process of getting documents in a country with privacy laws more robust than the U.S.

We took the metro to Château Rouge to find the corner for the obligatory photo.   The cafe is now a gift shop, but the Le Consulat persists and guided us to that location.

We also received a note from our air bnb host Sandrine.   This is near the house at which my father was hidden and subsequently captured.   It sounds like we will meet people who remember the people who hid my father and other allied airmen.  
——————-

Date: Thursday, Jul 18, 2019, 9:31 AM

To: Harrison Jr., Joseph H. <jharrison@sidley.com>

Subject: You're coming

Hello Joseph and Edie

You're coming😁👍​

It is tomorrow that I will have the great pleasure to see you at last!​

I look forward to introducing you on Saturday to the fraternal side of our region. That's what I found in your dad's book. And, I'm sure he'll be there as well this Saturday. I intend to block you from 10:15 a.m. to 1PM.​

Maybe you've already arrived in France or Belgium? I hope all goes well.​

Do you know your arrival time for tomorrow?​

 I give you the address: ​

28 rue Louis Bauchet 62138 Violaines:entrance next to the barrier and  on your right. you can park inside the garden yard.

There is just a small change due to small technical problem on the other house. So you will be installed in a new house with the garden in addition. It has no stairs and this is my favorite.  You will be very well settled and I absolutely want to!​

I have other surprises in store for you when you arrive because in France we are always surprised!​

See you tomorrow and have a good day​

well cordially​

Sandrine​

​

Ps: I just speak a little English, so you'll excuse me I also rely on google translation

B17

Each time over the last week or so when I tell people where I'm going in France I end up telling Dad's story. I think I have perfected an abbreviated "elevator" version but repeating it makes me think about him. So now we are at gate B17 waiting for our flight. It will be very nice to retrace some of his steps

At our gate!!

It's getting real....

This time next week, I will be in France.  There are so many things I am looking forward to.  I canNOT wait to see Christine and Patrick and meet Michael.   Their father held my father’s life in his hands.   Jules Morel knew the consequences of his compassion, but his compassion overcame his fears.

Patrick and I were pen pals back in the dark days of snail mail and land lines.  As we grew up, the letters faded. 

In 1975 I had the honor of going with my parents to see the Morel’s.   It was the first time that my father had seen Jules Morel since WWII.  We walked through the town and met people that had been a part of concealing my father.  They would always point at his  once jet black hair that was now white and laugh with joy.  At every house went visited, they served us alcohol in some form.  At 15, I had never had this much (okay, ANY) alcohol and was pretty looped by that evening.  My parents thought it was hysterical.

Last April, John and I went to Poperinge, Belgium and I was able to find where the Morel’s store was.  I will get confirmation when we see Chris and Patrick.  

We are meeting on 7/20 at the tourism office in Poperinge.  So, if you hears squeals of joy, that will be me.

How Did We Get Here...

In the 1990's when my girls were little,  I would bring them to dinner at my parent's house several nights a week.  After dinner, the girls would play upstairs with Grandma and I would sit with my dad next to his computer.  When he retired, he bought a computer and was completely fascinated by it.  He'd always have a list of questions for me and show me proudly what he had done during the day.

Often our conversation would drift away from the computer. 

He would talk about his mom and remember that as a little boy he'd slip out of bed to listen to her play the piano and sing. She died before I was born, but I got to know and love her from my father's story and the look on his face when he talked about her.

One the time he came home from school (little brother in tow) crying because he thought he had swallowed his tongue.  His brother, Charlie, cried in solidarity.  I could hear the love when he talked about his mother and there would sometimes be a tear.  I could hear the love and sadness when he talked about Charlie.

Or how at the age of 80-something, he didn't feel any different than he did when he was 12.

Dad rarely talked about his father, but when he did I could tell their relationship was distant.  He told me once that he thought he would have been a disappointment to his father, but Dad didn't care because he was happy.

It was about this time when my father was persuaded to write down what happened to him during World War II.   It was always hard for me to picture my father as a soldier, however while he was working on this, it would be on his mind and he'd talk about it some.  When I read his final product, I realized that he left out some details.

When the Germans found my dad hidden at the Titron's house, they locked him alone in a room and told him he was going to be shot in the morning.  He sat there all night thinking about this.

His story of the evacuation and boat ride had one more detail that he left out.  The men were tossed into the boat and the men at the bottom were crushed. 

To me, this excerpt explains why he left it out.  I am sure other stories are lost as well.

"For a long time, several years, I tried not to think of this experience.  If I thought of it, I felt the despair of that moment.  I didn’t know how long I would be down there or where I was going.  The guards pushed so hard at the start, I was lucky to hang on to the ladder.  The climb down was easier, I had nothing to carry."

Getting Used to Blogging

Edie coached me through being able to both post to the Blog and see what is posted so I'm prepared to be a full participant. On Sunday I updated the European maps on my Tom Tom so we are ready to find our way. I'm about 30% through "D-Day" by Stephen Ambrose which is putting me in the mood. I'm also going to reread my Dad's story on the way over.