Vehicles barrel down the concrete lanes of the motorway, their destinations unknown. We want to go to the South of France to spend ten days in Le Vernet and Prads (full name: Prads-Haute-Bléone). Can we call it a holiday? How will it be to spend more time near the crash site? I have very few doubts. The last three-day stay in the mountain village ended with a sad and strange farewell to Jens.
We´ve booked a holiday home in Le Vernet and a chalet at the Mandala campsite in Prads. Since the landlords in Le Vernet didn’t supply an e-mail address I had to make a phone call to tell them our approximate arrival time, which I did with my heart beating. The woman on the phone spoke neither English nor German. I was nevertheless able to translate the essentials, as she spoke clearly and not in the local dialect. She repeated the time exactly so I was reassured because she´d understood my modest French.
Yesterday we made good time and spent the night near Freiburg. We slept in a room with a view of the beer garden and a barking dog in the yard. The heater clanked although it was turned off. I lay awake most of the night.
We cross Basel and drive through Switzerland, whose mountains we can hardly see in the foggy haze. Contrary to expectations no one checks us as we cross the southern border with France.
Using GPS we also find our way with no problems, especially in the city of Gap, which stands out by its absence of signposts.
We make good time on the motorway considering the legal maximum speed is 130 km/h in contrast to the country roads which sometimes wind up and down in hairpin bends. Charming landscapes stretch along the way. Shortly before we reach our destination we pass the Serre-Ponçon reservoir, stopping to enjoy the breathtaking view of the water.
Exhausted, we arrive in Le Vernet. Françoise the landlord is waiting for us. She explains some things about the apartment and shows us what´s in the cupboards. I understand her quite well. We haven’t packed any towels so I ask if she can give us some. I confuse serviettes with assiettes, the vocabulary for towels and plates that she has just shown me in the sliding cupboard. She pulls the door back again so I can see that there´s enough crockery. She´s nice. I try to describe what I want in French until she understands, laughs and tells me the right word. She asks what we want to do here, showing us leaflets on the table with suggestions we barely register. We have no plans. It´s important for us to go to the cemetery, visit the monument, sit in the memorial room, and above all, to climb up to the crash site. At first I hem and haw until I finally explain that we lost our son in the mountains. There´s a fine line between laughing and crying.
She´s flustered for a moment before expressing her condolences, touching my arm and explaining that she shares our pain. Her husband and the locals were deeply affected by the terrible event.
After we store the contents of our suitcases in the spacious cupboards, there´s a knock on the door. Manfred and Heide, who´ve been staying at the “Lou Passavou” campsite for a few days, are at the door. Their son and daughter-in-law were on the flight.
We had originally wanted to visit them in their motor home but they thought it could get too cold. We´re happy to be together, sitting at the rustic wooden table in the middle of the kitchen and talking animatedly.
The red wine tastes good.
Jens smiles at us from the photo standing on a shelf next to the fireplace.
© Brigitte Voß / Translation: Ellen Rosenbaum
A TEAR IN MY SOUL 