ABSTRACT
“Françoise!” This call drew me away from the incredible ceremony that had just ended. Across from me, at a distance, the Rutor glacier waterfalls had not suspended their motion. Behind me, the Mont Blanc mountain chain, the Grandes Jorasses, the Dent du Géant, and a little nearer the Aiguille des Glaciers, the Tré-la-tête glacier and the Montvalezan on the right were still there. The French and Italian standard-bearers were putting the flags back in their sheaths. The six Alpine “chasseurs” were leaving the marble stele covered with flowers, which was henceforth inscribed with the names of the twenty-eight hostages. The “call of the fallen” had been carried out, so that their relatives could answer, when the names were called one by one: “Fallen for France”. My father, his head bowed, was still sitting on the grass next to the stele. Across from the young “chasseurs” dressed in ceremonial white, he had whispered “Emile”.
