The buffet in the tent is extensive. We drink a glass of juice but have no appetite and decide to go straight to the cemetery.
We walk through Le Vernet, a place with fewer inhabitants than there were passengers on the doomed flight. Many houses have À Vendre (“For Sale”) signs.
We´ve left the so-called security zone, so we must expect to be approached by journalists. I lower my head with an unfriendly look so that they leave us alone.
The entrance to the small cemetery is covered with fabric, shielding us from view so nobody can observe or photograph us.
A tent surrounds the grave on the occasion of the anniversary. Normally it´s exposed so visitors can see the neighbouring church tower as well as the mountains.
Government officials have already laid wreaths.
We´re grateful that we´re alone. Most of the mourners are still having lunch.
Every time I look down at the grave I think about whether it contains parts of our Jens. That will remain an eternal mystery.
New black granite slabs have been placed to the left and right of the commemorative plaque. The names of the deceased are written on them in alphabetical order in golden letters. We´re happy about this because it is no longer so anonymous. The families were asked in advance for their consent.
I read Jens´s name again and again. Slowly I take a few steps forward, squat down and trace the shape of the letters with my fingers.
We set up a small ceramic plate with his photo, lay white roses in front of it and light a candle for him. It should accompany him wherever he is. We ordered the grave decoration online.
Family members enter the cemetery.
We leave.
“I have no desire to mingle with the others,” I say to my husband. “Do we want to head toward Col de Mariaud and sit somewhere along the road?”
“That´s what I thought. We could help ourselves to the packed lunches.”
We find a suitable place, carefully climb down the slope and make ourselves comfortable on a large tree stump. The stream burbles over the stones, birds chirp and we feel the approaching spring. We can´t see much of the peaks through the trees.
Shuttles pass by, bringing the families to the barrier so they can hike near the crash site. We want to try to get as close to the site as possible tomorrow.
Small groups of reporters and their television crews are on their way up the mountain on the narrow road in front of us, carrying cameras, powerful tripods and pole microphones on their shoulders. I’m convinced they won’t get far, because from the first barrier they need a voucher that only we family members are entitled to.
We plunder the crackling lunch bags. Our appetites have returned in nature.
A vehicle stops. The door slams and rattles. I hear someone descending the slope. Branches crack under heavy steps. I turn around and see a man with broad shoulders, dressed in dark blue overalls and a checkered work shirt.
He stops in front of us and asks in English if we are family members. He offers to drive us wherever we want. We decline politely, explaining that we have to leave soon for the return trip to Marseille. He points to bushes that almost cover a house and says: “That’s my house.” When we are there again, we should visit him and he will make good on his offer. We´re impressed and thank him warmly. I´m surprised at how well he speaks English. So far we have only met French-speaking residents.
We spend the evening in the Marseille hotel restaurant with the families.
“This was hard and full of sad emotions, but it´s good that we are here,” is everyone´s opinion about today’s anniversary.
It´s late and we want to go to bed. As we go out, we see sitting in a corner of the foyer the Lufthansa staff member with the long reddish hair who handed us an additional rose for Jens at the end of the memorial service. We speak to her. A rather lively discussion on the course of events develops. We join her. She´s convinced that the passengers would only have noticed the crash in the last two seconds. She refers to the voice recorder and her knowledge as a flight attendant. I don’t really believe her. Everyone just wants to reassure us.
We talk about death and our lives that have become so different. She is still quite upset about the disaster even though a year has passed. Her sympathy is heartfelt.
We finally go to sleep.
© Brigitte Voß / Translation: Ellen Rosenbaum
A TEAR IN MY SOUL 