They died. All We Have to do is Vote. Memorial Day Thoughts.

In Saint Avold there is an American military cemetery where 10,000 G.I.’s are buried, the largest number in any Second World War cemetery, many from the Battle of the Bulge.  It's dominated by a stark white monument rising about 250 feet into the sky, with several levels of long steps below, leading finally to rows and rows of thousands of graves arrayed in neat sections, stretching to the edge of the woods.  Like other huge military cemeteries in Europe, it’s the most beautiful and the saddest sight you can imagine.

We happened to be in Saint Avold on American Memorial Day.   Until a few years ago, there was just a small commemoration of American Memorial Day at the Saint Avold cemetery, attended mostly by the American staff.  But through the efforts of Bertrand Cerf* and others, it has come to be a major Franco-American event, with equal participation by the French military, clergy and elected officials.  Bertrand invited us as guests of honor at the ceremony, which included color guards of French and American troops and veterans, and a flyover by four American jets.

The most impressive speech was by the American consul general from Strasbourg. That day was also the Fête des Mères in France (two weeks after our Mother’s Day) and he spoke of the pain of the mothers and families whose children lay at the cemetery.  It was also election day in France, and the consul-general pointed out that those honored in the ceremony died to protect the rights symbolized by voting: “Americans do not vote in the French elections,” he said, “but we see here before us the evidence that Americans did vote for France to have elections.” The ceremony ended with a presentation of wreaths by French veterans to the children of American soldiers.  

Afterward, we walked briefly through the cemetery’s sea of crosses, interspersed with occasional Stars of David, each with a small American and French flag posted in front.  I looked closely at one star that read "Arthur Summerfield, d. May 4, 1945." Arthur died just four days before the end of the war in Europe.  Like Paul, the hero of All Quiet on the Western Front, his life was cut short just at the brink of peace.

The town’s Jewish cemetery, where my Great Uncle is buried, is just steps from the American Military Cemetery. On the Eastern Wall of the Jewish Cemetery there is an Auschwitz Memorial, where granite steps lead up to a wall on four short pillars, inscribed in raised letters with a list of the names and ages of all of the victims of the Holocaust from Saint Avold.  

The list ends with the words Martyrs morts pour la France et pour leur foi  [Martyrs who died for France and for their faith].  Below that in larger letters is a quote from the Torah in French and Hebrew: “I am the only one; there is no other God than me.  It is I who take away life and I who give life; It is I who wound and I who cure.”  Finally, at the foot of the monument is a small rectangular box with the brass  inscription Cendres de déportés d’Auschwitz [Ashes of the deported to Auschwitz].

It was a gorgeous day, with the sun glancing brilliantly off the graves and the Holocaust monument.  As I walked around the somber yet brightly illuminated grounds, I wondered if it had been a good idea to return, or whether the day was too steeped in death and memory.  Yet the link was clear: Without the deaths of the Americans buried at Saint Avold, there would have been many more names on that terribly sad wall of Martyrs morts pour la France et pour leur foi.  Without the sacrifices of those Americans, the cemetery and monument might not have been there at all, and Uncle Israel may not have survived.