My stomach had fallen back heavily on itself, a worn cloth, a rag, a shroud, a slab, a door, this void of a stomach. An hour ago, a day ago, eight days ago death apart, death of a life that we had lived nine months together, a life he had just left separately. I said to R., “I don’t want any more visitors, only you.” Still lying on my back, facing the acacias. It was between the 15th and the 31st of May, 1942. Ten minutes.” “It’s no use, I won’t go.” “Why?” “It would make you cry, you would be sick, it’s better not to see them in these cases, trust me.” The next day, in the end, they told me in order to shut me up: they burn them. He belongs to me.” “That’s impossible, he’s dead, I cannot give you your dead child.” “I want to see him and touch him. I want to have him here next to me for an hour. You will leave him with me for a moment.” She cries: “You’re not serious?” “I am. I asked her: “What are they going to do with him?” She said to me: “I am very happy to be here with you, but you have to sleep, everyone is asleep.” “You are nicer than your superior. One night, Sister Marguerite was on duty. I looked at the open window, the leaves of acacias that were growing on the embankments of the railway line that ran along the hospital. And every hour: “Is he still here?” They said, “I don’t know.” I couldn’t read. “What does his mouth look like?” “He has your mouth,” R. My heart was very tired, I was lying on my back. They had told me where he was, to the left of the delivery room.
I asked the Mother Superior, she said no, that there was no point. He’s very pale.” Then he hesitated and said: “He’s beautiful, probably also because of death.” I asked to see him. answered me: “I didn’t touch him, but he must be. The next day, I asked: “What was he like?” They told me: “He’s blond, reddish blond, he has high eyebrows like you, he looks like you.” “Is he still here?” “Yes, he’s here until tomorrow.” “Is he cold?” R. I had glimpsed the child when he passed in front of me, in the arms of the nurse. The Sister Superior went to draw the curtains, the May day entered the room. They told me: “Your child is dead.” It was an hour after the birth.