Today is my father’s birthday. His name was Pierre Hilaire François; born in Paris in 1919, he would have turned 107 today. He passed away a long time ago, in June 2005. He was recovering from an illness in a Swiss hospital (yes, Swiss!) near Paris and his heart apparently stopped beating.

Paradoxically, my father Pierre is someone I did not know well; he was very reserved and rarely opened up about his childhood, which was spent against the tumultuous backdrop of the pre-war years. I believe he was somewhat neglected—if not rejected—by his parents, and he moved to central France during the conflict. He trained at a technical school and became a carpenter.

I never saw my father express his emotions—certainly not sadness; his sensitive heart had likely been locked away at a very early age. Yet, in 2002, while traveling in France with a colleague, I stopped at his old carpentry school in Felletin and brought back a brochure for him. It gave him an opportunity to see how the institution had changed over fifty-five years. He simply said “thank you,” without adding another word. However, as he leafed through the document, I saw tears rolling down his cheeks. That must have been a wonderful time in his life.

I love you, Papa.

Below is a picture of my parents, taken in the 1950s.