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before and one on August 13th, so
now I only have 150 francs left. I'm holding on to them because I may need
them. We already wrote to Madame David, to Dinale, and several times to you. I
haven't written to Fayche because I don't know if he was arrested. I hope not.
If by some stroke of bad luck, the Scherers were arrested, you can ask Robert
Mercier, Dede's brother, to help with the books. From our bakery, try to send
me some biscuits, you can ask the boulangere and I'm sure she won't refuse you
anything if it's for me. If you want, send me a few barrettes, a fine comb and
a pocket comb, a ribbon, and one or two boxes of soap, butter, tea, and coffee,
but not a lot. Don't send anything I'd have to cook: jam, and salt. If you send
me a letter, don't mention that I sent you this one. I sign off, my dear little
aunt, embracing you with all my heart. Didi and Annette too. Tell all the
family that we are thinking of them. Tell Grandma that we love her with all our
strength. I have faith in your heart. I hope you are all together and that you
are in very good health. Your nephew who loves you. If you send me a package or
a letter send them registered, in other words put three stamps on top.
Pithiviers, August 18, 1942. Dear and much loved little Aunt, Yesterday I
received your quite large package with intense, inexpressible joy. I don't know
how I can possibly express my gratitude. I hope you are all together, I mean
the whole family, with Fayche and Grandma. I also hope that you're all in very
good health. Didi and Annette have a touch of diarrhea. Everything you sent was
wonderful, except you shouldn't have sent those split peas; in your future
packages, dear aunt, you shouldn't put anything we have to cook, because we
aren't allowed to light a fire; we don't prepare our own food. The package gave
me even greater pleasure than you know, because thanks to it I found out you're
in Paris. Did you not receive all my letters? I wrote you many times that on
July 19, 1942, we were brought to Pithiviers. Two weeks later there was a
departure and they took our darling papa. Two days later it was our beloved
mother's turn. How brave Maman was! She forced herself to hold back her tears,
but even so she looked destroyed, sad. "My dear son," she told me, `promise me
you'll do nothing every day but look after Annette, that you'll be her father,
her mother, her big brother, for I'm sure I will die on the way."
These
letters were no doubt the last act of writing by this Jewish child who was
murdered with his brother, sister, and his friends a few days later.
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FRENCH
CHILDREN OF THE HOLOCAUST A memorial
Serge Klarsfeld
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