FRANCIE

 At the risk of sounding like a page out of a Reader’s Digest magazine, I am going to attempt putting into words my 60+ year span of recollections, memories, mind pictures – with a regrettable 40 year hiatus - of the most unforgettable individual I have ever known.   You might classify it as a romance or perhaps even go further and call it a love story, although it’s not, that is, not in the familiar use of the phrase.  But I do love her, as does my wife, Dickie, although she never even actually met her.  This is as I remember it, though time might have blurred some of the memories, like a snapshot slightly out of focus.  

It was August, 1944 when I landed in France, arriving in Paris just a few days after the city had been liberated.  We had to wear helmets in the street as there were still snipers doing target practice.  I was a lowly Technician Fifth Grade, the equivalent of a Corporal, and part of the 583rd Quartermaster Sales Division.  We were a body of soldiers who had been trained to set up and operate P.X.s and Sales Stores; a Sales Store was a clothing store for officers and traveling USO personnel who had to purchase their own uniforms.  In effect, this was to be a scaled down department store.  Our location just happened to be Paris and our company’s particular assignment was to set up a sales store there.  It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.   We never asked for it, but, oddly enough, nobody ever complained.  

What was to be our future store was located in the very heart of Paris near the Champs-Elysees, just a few blocks from and within sight of that imposing memorial to a previous war, the Arch of Triumph and the tomb of France’s Unknown Soldier.  Our store-to-be was a large sprawling one floor affair, smaller than a Wal-Mart, more the size of a small, compact supermarket.   It had been used as a book depository by the Germans, and we had to empty it of all the many lovely art books that were stored there as well as thousands of copies of Mein Kampf, of which the poor quality of the paper on which they were printed ruled out the more practical and obvious use these pages should have been put to.   

It was obvious from the start that we would need more than just our group of G.I.s to run and operate our pseudo ‘Lord & Taylor’.  Fortunately, there was a large pool of English speaking French civilians available.  Every one of them had to be thoroughly investigated and found to be innocent of having collaborated with the enemy before working for the army.   Before long we had a large augmented sales force of civilian men and women, one of which I recall, was an ex-patriate American Jewish gentleman named Markowitz who remained in Paris after World War I and raised a family.  Remarkably enough, he survived World War II with presumably a minimum of trouble.  

In time, our store opened its doors with little fanfare or attention given by the French.  I headed the department selling the jacket portion of the officers’ uniform known in army nomenclature as the blouse.  Though I had never had any garment industry experience, I became rather adept at fitting my customers – may I say, clientele?  - with almost a semblance of expertise.  There was a shoe department as well as other sections devoted to different parts of clothing, even lingerie items for nurses and WACS so no officer need go naked into war - and more importantly, had some place to pin bars or stars.  And somewhere in the center of all this activity, we had a cashier to handle the money for most of the departments.  There may have been more than one, but only one that I remember.  She was one of the French civilians, pretty, maintaining that attractive – je ne sais quoi, I don’t know what it was -quality and style that somehow all the young French mademoiselles managed to have fed and nurtured through the years of occupation and deprivation.  Her name was Francoise Guillemain d’Echon.  I can’t recall now at what point it occurred to me that it was an odd sort of name, certainly by American standards.  However, after all these years, there are bound to be memory lapses in re-creating this narrative so you must forgive me.  We called her Francie.  She spoke English well, charmingly, in fact, with an accent that was like music to our unaccustomed American ears.  As she handled the cash in my department, I naturally had frequent occasions to speak to her.  And when business was slack – and as you know, there has always been a slack season in the garment industry – no pretense was required.  We had long chats, and I learned she was married to a young, French officer who, co-incidentally was also named Bernard.  She pronounced it – and again, the musical accent – Bare-nard, with a kind of a trill in the first ‘r’.  I learned at a much later time her loving pet name for him was Bunny.  I was never Barenard, and certainly not Bunny; I was Bernie.  They had an infant son, Jean Pierre, affectionately called Jeep, who was being cared for by her mother while she and Bernard lived in an apartment which belonged to her uncle not far from our store.   

Bernard was free again to openly wear a French uniform.  However, during the occupation and at the time he and Francie first met, he was serving in the underground.  Frequently his undercover activities caused unaccountable absences in his social life for extended periods of time; then he would return without explanation.  Francie never required one.  She never asked questions.  The idea never occurred to her.  Sheltered and protected all her early life (under circumstances I only learned about years later), she wore her shyness like a second skin.  As Bernard’s feelings deepened, he wanted to keep the details of his underground activities from her.   He was fearful that such knowledge might somehow put her in jeopardy.  For Bernard and his comrades spent long, dark nights in open fields where the moon was as much an enemy as the Germans.  His mission was to find and save the American fliers who had been unlucky enough to crash or be forced to parachute down, and through some apparent rescue network, enable them to escape to Spain.  But in time, as these two friends became closer and ultimately wed, this dark, secret side of Bernard was gradually made known to Francie.  And contrary to America ’s present fear of identity theft, Bernard maintained four identities, one of which, in time, was in the name of a brother of Francie’s.  To further the deception, she carried papers bearing her maiden name.  

Our conversations in the store were frequent and we became good friends.  Francie invited me for dinner and to meet Bernard some evening.   Food was a difficult commodity to come by for the French, so I had mixed emotions about imposing on the generosity of these good people.  However, my curiosity and my eagerness to further my acquaintance with them, overcame any doubts.  It was a comfortable, relaxed evening and we were three good friends by the time it was over.  There was a piano as I recall; I don’t remember who played, certainly not me.  But I do remember Francie introduced me to a popular French song of the day, “Ah, le petit vin blanc” (Ah, the little white wine), but refused to translate it because she said it made her blush.  I lost track of time and had to put on speed for bed check.  Bernard insisted on accompanying me back to my quarters, jogging all the way by my side, as it was too late for available public transportation.  Funny, but in a recent letter from Francie, she too recalled that mini-marathon of so long ago.  Anyway, I made it back in time.  

The name Guillemain d’Echon literally meant (the family named) Guillemain of (or belonging to the estate named) Echon.  I’m positive there are other examples, but for some odd reason, the only person that comes to mind bearing some form of location attached to his name is the French artist, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec – and he has a whole city, not just an estate. The name, Guillemain d’Echon, goes back to the 16th Century, sometime between the years, 1500 - 1515.  It was a title of nobility and bestowed by nobility which allowed the recipient to add his estate name to the family name; no family may arbitrarily do this on its own. It was awarded to this family consisting of moderately well-off land owners as a reward for some long forgotten service and came complete with a coat of arms.   Originally, in some long past regime, they would have also been entitled to wear a signet ring.  The estate, Echon, and the manor house and other buildings that were part of it, is located in a small town in central France called Anthien.  In those days of 1944-45, it had endured and was still in the family for some 5 centuries, as was a smaller house (though not nearly as old) on the Riviera near the Mediterranean city of Nice.  It was to this house by the sea that Francie and Jean Pierre moved after she gave notice at the store.  Bernard was no longer confined to his small covert battleground but instead, with new vistas open to him, went on to serve his country with great distinction.  After the war, he was decorated and awarded, among other medals, the French Legion of Honor.  Francie of course had my address in Paris and before long, we had established our chain of correspondence. When Nice was made available for furloughs, I was first to apply.  Three of my buddies and I visited her there on one of the days, and I still cherish the snapshot taken of me holding Jean Pierre in my arms.  But that day in 1945 is the last day I ever set eyes on Francoise Guillemain d’Echon.  

Bernard Weixelbaum (center) holding Jean Pierre, Francie (far right). To Bernard's left is Jim Callaghan; just left of Francie is Justin Hppenjans; and standing behind Bernard Weixelbaum is Jim Mulvey. Girl between Jean Pierre and Justin Hppenjans is not named.

There was so much I was yet to learn about Francie back then in those brief days of discovery and adventure.  Francie’s life was full of surprises.  Her story was like a beautiful rose.  To peel and discard each petal one by one would reveal another, even more delicate and beautiful, beneath it.   When I first knew her, I thought her to be the typical French mademoiselle, born and schooled in Paris.  It was only many years later that I discovered the first time she had ever even stepped on French soil was in 1937, only 7 years before I got there myself.  She was actually born in Tienstin, North China on December 3, 1919.  Her father, Jean Pierre Ferrer, a French citizen of Spanish descent served in the military in China while in his 20s.  After his service, he settled in China and married a French citizen like himself.  He became a merchant – perhaps an entrepreneur might be more fitting, for Francie speaks of a number of businesses he created.  Among these were a bank, three stores carrying French and European imported goods, and last, though certainly not least, a three storied restaurant called ‘Eden’. The businesses prospered and the family became wealthy. 

Francie was the 12th child born from a total of 14, although only 10 lived.  They were part of a rather large community of European families.  She was educated in China, and her second language was Chinese, possibly even her first in early, formative years.  She regrets that she has forgotten most of it now, unlike her English.  Our frequent correspondence provides ample opportunity to test her linguistic prowess.  She also tries to converse in English to her children and grand-children as frequently as possible.  In addition, she confesses to resorting to the use of a large French-English dictionary when, literally, words fail her.  As a child, she had an Amah, a Chinese nurse, with feet kept tightly bound, she recalls, according to a cruel and crippling old Chinese custom.   All European and wealthy Chinese children had his or her own Amah, and Francie, of course, was no exception.   Her father must have been an extraordinarily good person.  She sent me a translation of part of a memoir about him that she is writing for her children and their children.  She began it at a point in 1930 when she was 10 years old.  It was the day she first met Maria.  Maria was a young 15 year old Chinese girl who Francie never even knew existed up to that day.  What they had in common was they both shared the same named father – Jean Pierre Ferrer.  Before she explained any more, and with an unerring flair for the dramatic, she digressed here and went on to expand on some of the history concerning her father.  She went back to the period which first brought Jean Pierre Ferrer to China, around 1895-1900, when the Emperor of China attempted to throw out of the country all the European families who had been living there for years.  Troops were sent by the French, English, Germans, Italians and Russians.  

Included in the French contingent was this young, not yet dry-behind-the-ears, 20 year old soldier.  The Europeans’ victory coincided with the completion of Jean Pierre’s enlistment, and he remained in China while the rest of the troops returned home; however, a pact had been established between China and the 8 involved European nations guaranteeing certain concessions including peace, civil rights and free trade rights to the victors.   Jean Pierre became a business man of some stature.  One day, years later, over the period of time it took him to gain 1 wife and 5 children, curiosity, or perhaps fate, prompted him to walk through a Chinese street market followed by one of his servants.  He observed a Chinese man carrying a pole with a basket at either end balanced over his shoulder.  Each basket contained a small child, one being a 2 year old girl and the other also a girl, 1 year old.  His servant explained that the man was trying to sell the children.  Useless, unwanted girls, was the inference.  Jean Pierre asked, “And if he can’t sell them?” to which he was told the man would probably feed them to his pigs; her ‘dearest daddy’ was horrified, and impulsively said he’d buy them – and, on the spot, did.  It’s one thing to bring a stranger home unexpectedly for dinner, but how do you explain to a wife, the bringing home of two babies, not far past infancy, who are obviously expected to stay for many meals beyond dinner?  Especially to a wife who herself is expecting her 6th child within a week or two.  After much compromise, it was agreed that the girls be put into the care of a congregation of nuns.  There, in time, one died of tuberculosis while the other, Maria, thrived.  I find no evidence in Francie’s letters that her father ever officially adopted the girl as a foster daughter, but she does say that on that day in 1930, when she came to the house, it was for a discussion concerning her dowry.  Maria’s story was a saga in itself.  I only print this much of it to illustrate the humanity of this man.

In 1937, Japan declared war on China.  Francie, now approaching 18, as well as her three younger siblings, were taken by their mother to live in France for the first time, before the situation in China became too dangerous for the European colony.  Her father stayed in China and died there two years after they had left.

My war was over. I sailed home and was discharged in March, 1946.  Then the letters began, though at that point, the words only flowed from our pens, not yet from our hearts.  There was no inkling of how dear and important they would become.  New addresses were exchanged; new births noted – only by her at first, of course; mine came later.  And when my first was born in 1951, she had already given birth to a total of 4, one of whom had died at a very early age.   

"Bunny" and Francie with 10 month old Marie in Nice in 1948.

Bernard had always been interested in Aviation since he was a child of 5 or 6.  He continued his education in that field after the war, helped by his parents while they continued living in Nice for up to 5 years.  His reputation in Aviation was spreading, and one day he received a letter offering him the opportunity to run an airport in Casablanca, Morocco.  It was just the kind of invitation that appealed to their love of travel and adventure.  Bernard went on ahead and Francie followed at a later time with three small children in hand, evidently indoctrinated with old-time pioneer spirit and courage.  

Francie and Children in Morocco

So, once again, I received another letter bearing a mega-mile change of address. Our letters continued only sporadically after that, and though the births of three more children of hers occurred over the years, as well as one more of mine, I don’t recall if that information was exchanged at the time.  But I do recall that there were occasional letters and pictures until one day, I sat back and realized the letters had stopped altogether.  I haven’t the haziest notion of who was the last to write or the first to allow a letter to go unanswered.  

Francie and Bernard  after his retirement  around 1984

Many years went by, a lifetime by some standards, during which I gave many a nostalgic thought, tinged with regret and remorse, to my dear French friend.  My wife and I retired, moved to Florida, became grandparents, lived re-adjusted lives, and through it all the nostalgia grew, overwhelmingly so.  A glimmer of an idea began taking shape.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to spend a vacation in Paris, follow old, once familiar paths, to find the location of the store where I had first met Francie, and even more wonderful, to perhaps find Francie herself.  We made tentative plans in, I believe, 1990, but there was some unrest in Paris and a delicatessen in the Jewish Quarter had been bombed, so at the last minute, we cancelled.  

However, the following year, we made plans again, and on November 5th, 1991, we took off for Orly Airport in Paris.  The smattering of High School French that I recalled augmented by the cabby’s smidgen of English got us safely to our hotel.  We registered, but before we even got to our room, I found a phone booth with a directory.  I surmised that even if I didn’t find Francoise or Bernard listed, any Guillemain d’Echon was likely to be a relation.  And so it was.  I spoke to one of her daughters-in-law who fortunately spoke English and told me Francie and Bernard didn’t live in Paris.  She was cautious enough not to tell me their phone number; however, she would call her immediately and give her mine.  

We weren’t in our room more than 15 minutes when the phone rang and suddenly it was yesteryear.  I think I cried.  We exchanged addresses.  I don’t recall what else we spoke about; it doesn’t matter for when we arrived home, I found a most welcome, newsy letter waiting for me.  She bridged the gap of those 40 lost years.  They had gone to Casablanca in December, 1950.  She wrote of the 3 children who had been born there as well as the one she lost during that period.  There had been trouble in the country and they were living in an isolated area some 30 kilometers from Casablanca near Bernard’s airport, both factors which made her disenchanted with Morocco and uneasy for the safety of her family.  

Bernard asked for a re-assignment and was made chief of a department at Orly Airport, the same airport we had just flown in to, and was Paris’ only airport at that time in 1958.  Over the years, Bernard was re-assigned to other locations, but always stayed with his first love – aviation.  She helped nurse him back to health when he suffered a breakdown.  He returned to work and ultimately retired at the age of 60.  The children traveled all the peaks and valleys one generally encounters on life’s journey – a montage of weddings, babies, career choices, even divorce and separation.  One son, Raymond, even developed Hodgkin’s disease, but happily has been in remission to this day.

Her final words of this letter written in November, 1991, concerned Bernard’s then present health.  She wrote that two years prior, in 1989, he had fallen ill with a serious blood condition which presumably resembled leukemia although it was not.  Subsequent letters described her years of journeying with him to other, colder climates, more conducive to treating his condition.  Finally, one day in December, 1995, I received a telephone call from her advising me that her beloved ‘Bunny’, her mate of 51 years, Bernard Guillemain d’Echon, had died at age 75.

The letters continued, each one eagerly anticipated, gratefully welcomed, written in her now familiar flowing script and, more recently, written somewhat larger in deference to my vision problems.  They gradually increased in both frequency and content.  She referred to us as her American brother and sister.  She was both knowledgeable and opinionated about world politics and events.  In one letter, she criticized our president and then agonized over possibly offending me. A few years back, she moved into a two bedroom apartment in Barberaz, France which she shares with her son, Raymond, now separated from his wife.  It appears to be a good arrangement; each of them seems to fulfill a spiritual need in the other.  She endured serious hip and back surgery some years ago which required an extended period of immobilization; she came through nobly.  There was a recent period when she thought she might have to sell Echon.  It needs a good deal of expensive repair, but the family has gotten together to undertake whatever is necessary.

It is a veritable dynasty that grew from this couple out of their deep love for each other.  From a total of 6 living children, there are 14 grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren.  Of course, time marches on.

As I wrote earlier, I never saw her again, but a few years back, my daughter, Jody made a journey to Poland and other eastern European countries with the Zamir Chorale which was the subject of a PBS documentary.  She stayed on at the tour’s completion and contacted Francie who was, at that time, staying at Echon.  She was invited to spend a few days there, lovingly welcomed by as much of the family who was there at the time.  I like to feel she was there as my proxy.  

Bernard Weixelbaum's daughter Jody  and Francie at Echon in 1999.

Francie in Paris  in 2001.

I know I can never do her justice in describing all the parts that make up Francie, the profundity of her thoughts, the humor, the depth, the affection.  I’m surely not that talented a writer, but I hope you agree   this tale might be considered a romance – of sorts.  I recall a movie of that period during the war time ‘40s – I’m sure you all do – “Casablanca” – in the finale of which our hero, Rick, sends his dearest love, Ilse, off with her husband to save the world, with these words, “Remember, we’ll always have Paris”!