Peyrins Château
December 18, 1992
Valérie took the car and headed for the château despite the snow. It was not too far, and the roads were passable. She was listening to an old tape of France Gall, and the song “Ella, elle l’a” was on full blast as the barren, frozen fields gave way to leafless wintry forests. Since deciding to write her thesis on the children of Vénissieux, she felt a positive sense of energy flowing through every aspect of her life. Almost every door she knocked on opened willingly. She had managed to get in touch with the people who currently managed the château, and the manager had told her that they still had unopened boxes from the time when the building housed a number of Jewish children.
René Nodot had told her about one of the children hidden there from the Nazis, Eva Stein. The Spielman family had also found refuge in the château when Germaine Chesneau was in charge. She saw what was going on in France and in 1942 decided to turn their home into a refuge for persecuted Jews. Her previous experience as a nurse served her well during that time.
Valérie drove through the gate and into the château grounds. The spacious yard was unkempt. There was a long pond in the middle and several walkways flanked by enormous plane trees. The main house was divided into two wings. It was a dingy cream color with wooden shutters that gave it a country look. Ivy grew up the façade all the way to the rounded roof.
When her car stopped on the gravel near the front door, a well-dressed man came out to greet her. He smiled, led Valérie inside, and said, “Welcome to the castle. The château is not in its finest moment, but it still retains something of its former glory.”
“The most beautiful thing about this place is that it was a safe haven for some of those who suffered most during the war.”
“That it was.” He nodded, indicating for Valérie to enter a spacious room that was brightly illuminated despite the dim winter light coming through the windows.
“Is this where the families were housed?” Valérie asked.
“They were spread throughout the various buildings. Germaine had installed a bell and a telephone to sound the alarm whenever the Gestapo showed up.”
The man gave Valérie a tour of the first, second, and third floors. They ended in the attic where one dingy bulb provided the only light. He took down a box and handed it to the young woman.
“No one has touched these things since 1944 when the Allies liberated the region.”
Valérie went back down to the well-lit room, holding the box like a delicate china vase. She placed it on a table and looked at the man, silently asking for permission before opening it.
“Please, go right ahead. I’ll leave you alone with history.”
“Thank you so much,” she said as he left the room. But he turned on the threshold to ask, “Coffee? It’s terribly cold out.”
“Oh yes, thank you.”
He nodded and left.
Valérie breathed in the solitude for a moment before opening the box. It was soft from decades of dampness and dust. She pulled out several books, a few notebooks, a pen, some photographs, and, finally, a small box. She studied it before trying to open it. It took her a while to find the golden clasp under the lid.
“There we go,” she said, raising the wooden top.
Inside were a number of purplish papers, though perhaps they had once been blue.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out the first. The heading told her what they were. Two large tears rolled from her blue eyes down her neck to her white shirt. She read the documents in silent reverence. The weight of history bowed her forward, and her head dropped. They were the releases, the papers signed by parents on that fateful night in August 1942. The box contained at least sixty of them. Valérie studied them one by one as the names of the children reverberated throughout her core.