My family's true story.

My family's true story.

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You may wonder what is the aim of this page. A family history must be something full of life. Mine is dead. I even don't know whether I'd rather forget or keep it in mind. Many of us have known pain and suffering. Countless are the stories like mine. I must admit that I write it more for me than for an unlikely reader. Concerning the reason that have led me to write it down in English (I'm French, my father was Italian), and to host this site in Colorado (I live in France), I don't know. Nevertheless, here is a brief résumé.

All my grandparents were born around 1900. The parents of my French mother are dead of pain and misery during World War Two for her father, in 1948 for her mother. The parents of my father died like Italian small farmer : poor. When I was born in 1965, my parents were 39 and 38. In a century, from the birth of my grandparents to now, they will have been three generations. In the same time, there will be four and a half in my wife's family.

ITALY

ITALY

I can't tell you much about my father's family. During the mussolinian time, his parents have lost their right to the social care because they refused to send their children to the "Ballillas", the Italian equivalent of the German "Hitlerjugend". They have always been poor. They were farmers.
In the late forties, one had to emigrate, since there was no work in Italy, and their family was poor. So him, his brother and his half-brother went to a far end of the garden, and drew straws. A whole life conditioned by a little straw. You, who did not emigrate, can't know the pain it is to be obliged to leave a beloved country. From this moment to his death, my father will go back to Italy twice. He will not be able to visit his mother before she dies.

The parents of my father, my father, and his sister.

FRANCE

FRANCE

The parents of my mother's mum.

She, with her daughter, the mother of my mother.

He, as a rural policeman (~ 1930).

Them, old.

Their daughter, the mother of my mother, as a young woman.

The parents of my mother, with their children. My mother is the one with the arrow.

My mother,
as a young child,
and her mother.

The family grave in Jussy-le-Chaudrier (dépt. 18 - France)

The four brothers of my mother have never been welcome at us. They have all had an hard life during the occupation of France by the III Reich. They were all starving. When she was twelve, my mother had to quit school (her main regret) to care her five brother, to help their parent that were working. One was older than she was, and she has developed a strong feeling of hatred against this injustice, and against her brothers, except one, the youngest.

The first boyfriend of my mother was shot by the Germans. He was a partisan. Once, he was at her place. In those times, all window panes had to be painted dark blue for the curfew. Fortunately, the shutters were shut. When the Gestapo kicked the door, her boyfriend had just enough time to hide between the window pane and the shutters.
He will be betrayed and shot by the Germans in 1944, at the age of 17. Some of his friends were also caught with him and sent to the STO (Service du Travail Obligatoire - Compulsory Duty Service). Two of them were sent to München to work in a factory. One of them wrote to my grandmother that the other one had joined the SS. This other one was ... my oncle. The letter (I will soon put it online) is absolutely clear. I'm still searching out a database about the Frenchmen engaged in the Division Charlemagne (a German SS division composed of Frenchmen).

Another thing she has told me about the Occupation. A girlfriend of her came late an evening to visit her. She was looking that sad that my mother and my grand mother thought that someone was dead in her family. My mother still remember how this young girl was looking to the fire in the fireplace, how she was silent, how she stayed as late as she could. And how the next morning my mother discovered that they had all been deported by the nazis, probably sent to a concentration camp, via the French camp of Drancy, near Paris, in which the French police was so ... efficient. If anyone knows something about ROSETTE TANENBOIN and what happened to her. This story too place in La-Charité-sur-Loire in 1942. In memoriam. May God that does not exist forgive us.
I have had some information about Rosette Tannenboim. The only person that has been sent to a concentration camp and whose name was Rosette Tannemboin was ... 5 years old in 42. That doesn't match.

My mother has a long scar, from the shoulder to the elbow. I happened when she was young, but she has never told to anyone how it did occur.

Another anecdote she has told us : when the Germans have got near La-Charité-sur-Loire, in 1939, the French Army fled. But,La-Charité-sur-Loire is located on a side of the Loire river, and there was a strategic bridge that could not be deserted. More than this, on the other side of the river, there was a memorial to the soldiers of the First World War, with an old outdated gun. So the French Army told some black soldier from Senegal, which was a French colony at that time, to guard the bridge, at any cost. My mother, some of her brothers and some of their friends found the bodies the next morning. The niggers had been minced by the German machine guns. The guns in the French Army were one-shoot riffles.

In 1948, when her mother died, most of the family possession were sold for nothing to ragmen by one of her brother. She reached to save some furniture.

Years after, in 1954, she bought a bar in a small town. The beside postcard shows this town in the twenties, but even in the late sixties, when I was young, it hadn't changes that much.
She met my father, an Italian builder. People were jealous. You can't imagine what is a French village. Even if she was not a native, she was having wealth, and was a good match. And it has been a fucking lazy Italian that has won the cup. They had few friends. When they intended to have a baby, they sold the bar, not to bring up children in a bar (?).

My father died when I was eleven, after seven year of invalidity due to a lung cancer. Remember what was the cancer treatment in the seventies : a kind of butchery with no psychological care. He has suffered, dramatically suffered. He has known the humiliation to be nothing but a piece of meat. It may seem excessive to many of you, but he has been treated by the medical staffs as he had been a merchandise, not a human being, just like in a concentration camp. Remember : it was twenty-five years ago. Now, a patient is no more treated like an animal. I hope so, even if we hear about more and more nurses accused to be serial-killers by euthanasia.

Since my father had become invalid, we had become poor, very poor. After his death, the income of my mother was about $100 a month. How did we manage ? You've never been poor, have you ? My mother worked on the side for years. And for years, my main leisure was to salvage old things in a junkyard. I've even been eating in this junkyard, not often, but it did happen. And for years, I've been getting my clothes there. Shame ? No shame : survival. Now, twenty-five years after, I still can't stop having a glance to any pile of rubbish when traveling.

I have told you my father was a builder. When my mother and him have sold their bar, they have bought an old farmhouse in the same town. They had planned to renovate it. But my father felt ill, so ... the house remained in bad condition, and even got worse. When we were children (in the sixties and the seventies), there was only one bulb at home, and one plug. There was no hot water, and no heating, except a fireplace. To make fire, we were picking up wood, anywhere we could. We have even stolen used sleepers, along the railways. We were sawing them into little sections, and carrying them back home on the luggage racks of our bicycles.

As his cancer, and his decay were growing inside of him, he began to drink, a lot. In his despair, I mean, it was his way to forget. I can't judge him, since I've never had a cancer. But he became violent and unpredictable. At each of his visit, between two stays in hospital, we were obliged to take refuge in the attic of our house. It was a farm attic. In France, in the XIXth century, attics were used to store the grain, the hay. It is well aired, very well, especially in winter. I still see us, my mother, my sister and I, lying on a rat-eaten mattress, using candlelight. My sister and I were about 8 years old. How did we manage with the school? Simple All day long, my father was sleeping. On the afternoon, he was drinking. The evening, we were obliged to flee.

A brother of my mother has been living about fifteen year with us, like a violent parasite. He came back (half mad) to France after the war with Algeria. My parents did offer him to stay with us (cuckooing!!!). After some years, he benefited from the distance of my father who was in hospital, and took my sister and me as hostages to have our mother giving him board and lodging. He was a kind of dictator, often violent, sometimes gentle.
One year after the death of my father in 1976, my mother who was (and is still) betting on hoses has won $12,000. It may not seem that much now, but in 1976, it was a fat sum. It was a good luck, but for poor people, wealth is unmanageable. Nevertheless, my mother has paid my uncle to go away.
Then he met a young girl, a bit degenerated since, as her former boyfriend has beaten her 6 month old daughter to death, she did notcall the emergency ward or the police. The baby died. She has been sentenced to two years of jail.
Years after, she has had another child with my uncle, who has been placed in an orphanage. She or he must be now about 12 years old. My mother revealed her/his existence last year. He is now an old ill man, who tries to cure himself with irrational treatments. He will be buried like a dog can be, and forgotten.

As we were having a little money, we had the opportunity to go to Italy to know my father's family. Bad choice : there is some evil spell on our family. Just read below what we gained...

I've got a sister, one year younger than me. She has left home when she was eighteen. We were in Italy. At the end of our holidays, she just said, on departure eve, that she was no coming back with us. That was all.

She has been living in Italy for four years. Then she married an lieutenant colonel of the Canadian Army (a good match ? Not psychiatricaly). After he has retired, they entered a very dangerous American sect : Amway. Beware of them. We have sent them an e-mail containing evidences that the sect they were in was dangerous. One of these pieces of evidence was saying that the sect obliged the disciple to cease any relationship with their relatives and friends that were against Amway. That's what they did with me and my wife.

In 1979, it was the second time that we were having our holidays in Italy. My mother had decided to get married with the brother of my father. One month after our return in France, he died, ran over by the Volkswagen of a tourist, a ... German. I remember the telegram that my aunt did send us : "A... is dead. L..." . That's all. I remember my mother fainted. You know why I'm not very feeling like talking about my Italian family : they made us understand that my father should never have left Italy and get married to a foreigner to make bastards.

In 1988, after having spent three summer holidays spent at the same owner's, he -the owner- and my mother were very close. They decided to get married. He died the fall after in a typhoon in Miami.

As my father's stays in hospital were painful, my mother has conceived an absolute hatred of doctors and medicine. The last time she has been at a doctor's, it was for the birth of my sister , in 1966. She has has an injury four years ago, an had to go to the hospital, but that's all. Two year ago, she has had a cerebral accident. Following what she has told me, I guess that a little vein must have provoked an hemorrhage in her brain. The left part of her face and her left arm have remained paralyzed for some days. She hasn't been at a doctor's. Now, when we have a phone call, she keep on telling me bad news about her health, that she his often falling because her legs don't respond, that often, she is blind for some times. She is less and less valid. I can't do anything for her. She does not want us to visit her any more. Due to her weakness, she can't come neither. Everyday I expect the fateful phone call that will tell me ... My worst fear is that she may remain definitely invalid, and may have to stay in an hospital. She says that it would not take long for her to die. Help. I'm drowning. In her last phone call, she has told me that she has dramatically lost weight.
I've written the paragraph above six month ago. Exchanging letters with my mother, I must reckon that she is getting insane. I was affraid for her health, but I have'nt taken enough into account the mental aspect.

Despite all what you have read above, I can't feel hatred for anybody, not enough to hope that someday I'll take my revenge. I must admit that when I can't sleep, I can't prevent my unconscious to surface, and I imagine that I'm drowning, burning people, burying them alive or immuring them, making them eat by rats. Then, my mind wakes up and I wipe those bad thoughts away. All this cruel experiences have molded me. As I was having little, I used to read book, and felt in love with knowledge. That helped me. Now, I'm a web designer, but I'm not wealthy. I can't drive (I'm not able to. Why, I don't know). When I look back and see where I'm coming from, I say to myself that the result is not THAT bad. Life has been ... a bit hard with me, but it has been harder for my mum and my father. Each people that did hurt us has been hurt too, mostly by himself, without having the slightest idea of it. I would like to break this chain of pain. I would like to avoid spreading the evil around me. From now on, I succeeded in. I've told you that there must have been some evil spell on my family. I hope that some day, it will be over. I hope, for my wife and my little daughters.

I have written the preceding lines 4 years ago. But the story wasn't over. Oh, no, it wasn't.

And it went on.

These four last years, I've watch my mom's decay. Sorry, there's no other word for that.

It started strangely. For a year, my mother did not want to see us, my wife and I. I must reckon we had other fishes to fry, with the kids, the work, etc. We'd never had thought that she was slowly getting mentally and physically ill. After a year, I succeeded into having her accept me again. I went and see her. Half of her face was nearly paralysed, and so was one of her arms.

She told us that some day, she just fell and stayed where she fell for an undetermined number of ... days, and then she could get off. We tried to have her see a med, but she was stubborn, and even after that, she didn't intend to.

We visited her from times to times. She nearly healed, even if her arm remained weak.

Then, some day, me and my wife decided to invite her for a week holiday by the seaside. She was happy, but there was something which was ... like an uneasy feeling, blanks. We spent the holidays watching tv, as obviously she couldn't be let alone any more.

Some months went by.

Then, her behavior changed. She had always been a socially uncommon person, but she began to develop some other oddities, like talking to voices and obey them, having imaginary friends, doubles, etc. She pretended my sister had tried to poison her, etc.

The next summer, me and my wife decided to invite her for another week holiday by the seaside.

When I arrived at hers, she was living amongst piles of garbages, and she was dirty. Really dirty. I realized that it was hopeless. I was seeing it in her eyes, her hauted eyes, my mom's eyes.

The trip by bus, and then by train has been ... One who has never walked beside a mad zombie who happens to be his mom can't know. No, you can't.

I brought her home. My wife was shocked. My daughters asked me why her grandma was smelling bad. We have her have a shower, washed her rags. We tried again and again to have her see a med. We nearly decide not to go on holidays. We should have.

She was a ghost, a hauted one, telling freaking stories to my oldest daughter. Witches do not exist, except on the shores of Brittany. My wife was nearly breaking down. From time to time, she turned nearly sane again, and then would sink back into insanity.

That was hopeles. I knew it. I was facing a choice. Let her return freely to the junkyard she had turned her house into, or having her committed, in a one way or another. Keep your morale for yourself. I let her return to her home.

And I waited near the phone, day after days.

And the police phoned.

My mother had been sent to the urgencies of a general hospital, and I was asked to commit her.

She spent her last year in some kind of retirement house. They explained me about what a Cerebral Vascular Accident was, that it was the cause of her behaviour. That it was, also, too late.

My sister was in charge of her, by legal guardianship. She spent time to clean and empty our mother's house. Every bits of our childhood and of our family's memory, things that even the nazis had not destroyed, had been eaten by rats, or voluntarily dirtied by our mother. And oh, yes, I nearly forgot: there were empty plastic bottles of cheap wine everywhere.

I saw her last week. She had lost weigh, for she was refusing to eat, to talk, to anything. She was refusing to live anymore.

And then the doctor told me she was suffering from a cancer of the uterus, that in her state, it was better to let her go.

She went, last thursday, at 7pm, in her sleep.

And everybody told me it was better for her. I didn't cry. Why had I? I have not cried when a male nurse came home in 1977 to tell us that "I was over". I still see my mom be distraught with grief, collapsing in his arms. My father was dead, and I read a comics.

Tomorrow are the funerals. I'll have to bear things a human should never have to: the scorn of the survivors.

I will not cry. Why for, and in who's arms?

There's no heaven, you know ?