PART 5 – “AN OLD OFFICIAL, A FORGOTTEN DEPOSIT AND THE DECISION THAT WOULD FOREVER CHANGE MY FATHER’S MEMORY”

That night I didn’t sleep.

I had spread all the documents out on my kitchen table.

My father’s photo.

His letter.

The testimony of Louis Bernard.

The decoration.

And my mother’s note.

For sixty-four years I believed my father’s story could be summed up in one sentence:

“He died in Algeria when you were a baby.”

Now I was discovering that behind this sentence there were people, decisions, fear, guilt, and a truth that no one had managed to tell me.

The phone rang a little after nine.

It was Theo.

— Mrs. Zoziane, I spoke with a historian who works with families of former military personnel.

— And?

— He told me that we can request an official examination of the documents.

I felt a little hope.

— So can my father’s name be restored?

— Maybe. But it will take time. And first we need to ascertain what is authentic.

I hung up the phone.

Then I looked at the photo of my father.

“You’ve waited sixty-four years, Dad,” I whispered. “I can wait a little longer.”

The next day I returned to the cafe.

Nathan was standing behind the counter.

— You finally came.

— Yes.

— We need to talk.

He took out a piece of paper.

— Your departure yesterday created a problem in the operation of the store.

I looked at him.

— I understand.

— I can’t allow employees to leave whenever they want.

— I wouldn’t consider it right either.

He seemed surprised by my answer.

— Then we agree.

— Not exactly, Nathan.

I left my bag on the counter.

— I’m sixty-four years old. I’ve been working here for twenty-two years. I’m not asking for special treatment. I’m asking you to remember that the people who work for you have lives outside of this store.

He looked at me without speaking.

— Yesterday I learned things about my father that I had been unaware of my entire life.

Nathan lowered his eyes.

— I know. My father told me.

I was surprised.

— Your father?

— Yes. And he also told me that Mr. Lambert was coming here long before I took over.

He took a deep breath.

— Maybe I didn’t handle the situation correctly.

It wasn’t exactly an apology.

But it was a start.

Before I could answer, the door opened.

An old man with a cane entered.

A woman in her sixties was following him.

The man looked around.

— Mrs. Josianne Petit?

I approached.

— It’s me.

His gaze settled on my face.

— You look a lot like your father.

My heart skipped a beat.

— Did you know him?

The man nodded.

— My name is Paul Delacroix.

He held his cane with both hands.

— I was one of the men your father helped that day.

For a moment nothing was heard.

Not even the coffee machine.

Not even the spoons.

Not even the voices from the street.

— You… live because of him?

The old man took out a handkerchief.

— Yes.

His eyes filled with tears.

— And I spent my whole life trying to find the courage to tell his daughter.

I led him to table four.

There he sat.

And for the first time, the second cup wasn’t left across from an empty chair.

Paul looked at the table.

— Gerard often spoke to me about this place.

“Why didn’t you come earlier?” I asked him.

He bowed his head.

— Because I was ashamed.

— For what?

His hands began to tremble.

— Your father returned to help me and another wounded man. I was saved. He did not return.

He stopped to catch his breath.

— For many years I believed that if I hadn’t been injured, he would have lived.

I reached out my hand to his.

— It wasn’t your fault.

Paul closed his eyes.

— That’s what Gerard told me.

Then he took a small photograph out of his pocket.

Three men.

My father.

Gerard.

And Paul.

Behind the photo were a few words.

“If we all come back, the first coffee is mine. If someone doesn’t come back, the rest won’t forget them.”

I looked at Paul.

— Who wrote it?

He smiled sadly.

— Your father.

I felt the tears flowing.

Now I understood.

The two coffees.

Table four.

Gerard’s silence.

It wasn’t just a mourning ritual.

It was a promise.

And Gerard had kept her until his death.

Paul shook my hand.

— There is something else, Zoziane.

I looked at him.

— What?

— Gerard had filed an official petition years ago to have your father’s act recognized.

— And?

The old man smiled through his tears.

— The answer arrived two weeks before he died.

My heart beat fast.

— What did it say?

Paul took out an envelope.

— He didn’t have time to give it to you. But he asked me to do it myself, if I ever found the courage.

CONTINUED IN PART 6…