Creative parallels: “…and he lives in the 13th” Paris story – Aurore Pont

Jane S. Gabin starts this Paris story: “After my father passed away, I had to clear out my parents’ place. I found a box of old photos stashed away, marked ‘Memorabilia.’ Going through it, there are many people I recognized – but also many I did not. There were dozens of photos from WWII.

I knew my father had been in Paris for about two years, but he never spoke much about it. There was one photo showing him with a French family sitting around a dining room table.

He had jotted down their names. There was a young boy in the group. I was curious about these people and set out to find the boy. It took some work, and I had some disappointing tries. But I found him! And he lives in the 13th!”

Aurore Pont continues: Probably the most exciting quest I ever undertook began on a sunny afternoon in June. I was waiting in front of a fountain made of small cast-iron sculptures in place de la Commune-de-Paris in the 13^th arrondissement. Right across the place was a small bistrot aptly named L’Espérance. A row of four tables, with wooden chairs, was placed on the footpath to indulge in the ‘people-watching’ the French love to do so much while sipping a Perrier Citron.

A man with a walking stick came towards me. He was tall and still looked strong despite the years that had gone by. He was dressed in a white polo shirt and a pair of beige cotton trousers. “Bonjour”, he said in a clear voice, “vous êtes bien Jane?”Remembering my French, I confirmed and showed him the black and white photo that prompted the start of this epic journey.

We started walking as he explained: “My father Jacques was a member of the French Resistance during the liberation of Paris in August 1944. He fought alongside the 4^th Infantry Division which your father Richard belonged to. But what got them close wasn’t so much the battle…”

“It was art. My father was a painter by trade and despite his rugged looks and stern attitude, he was a passionate artist. Paris was a very popular place for foreign artists back then. Richard had taken a lot of photographs of the war and they both spent hours debating about it and painting in the workshop. The floor of the workshop was an explosion of colours, a stark contrast with the horrors we had witnessed, and a place where their friendship developed.”

“Sadly most of it is gone.” We were now at Place Paul-Verlaine, a leafy square bustling with children playing chat. We sat on the long stone benches dating back to the early 1900s. “As you have experienced, a photograph is worth a thousand words”, he looked down at the side of the bench, “but a few words can be just as meaningful.” Discreetly engraved on the stone were the words: “Jacques et Richard, amis pour la vie.”

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