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I would first like to thank you for the hospitality that my wife, my sister and I are enjoying. I am somewhat embarrassed, because if my grandmother had been her in my place, she would not have been able to read what I am about to say, since she could hardly read and write. She grew up in a poor family; when she went to school, her teacher had her work in his garden, rather then study. It was around 1880. So she wouldn’t have read from this page, but she would have let her kind heart speak for her, a heart that she concealed under an austere exterior, with little manifestations of love and tenderness. She had three sons: Gustave, René and Jules, my father, and since when I was born my parents experienced some difficulties, she raised me for three years. Having lost her husband at a relatively young age, she took pride in having thanks to her hard work and deprivation, kept, her little farm with a horse, a cow, some goats, several pigs, a small bit of land. She left her farm only to go to church on Sunday, for visits in the neighborhood, and of course, for family celebrations that gave her the love and warmth that she certainly missed.
Having suffered from loneliness and the ungratefulness of her neighbors, she was willing to offer the remnants of her love to the first person that would extend their hand to her. Thus when Hubert came into her life, she never asked questions, she never calculated the additional expenses, and above all, she never contemplated the danger from the Nazi barbarians who had no compassion. Hubert was endangered and defenseless, and despite her 65 years she did the necessary. Shortly before the arrival of Hubert, two girls that had to be hidden were staying with her. But they did not stay for long.
She died in 1947, at the age of 69, from a heart attack, all alone in her home. More than sixty years later, Hubert and I remember her as a dignified and courageous woman, and will remember her until our last day.