Inauguration of the Place Moussa et Odette Abadi
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Speech by Jacqueline Denechère
Madam Mayor of the 12th arrondissement,
Deputy Mayor responsible for remembrance,
Ladies and gentlemen of the municipal team,
Madam President of the association “Les Enfants et Amis Abadi”,
Ladies and gentlemen,
Many of you do not know me: I am neither a hidden child, nor a resister, nor a politician, but simply a friend of Odette and Moussa Abadi who spent some forty years in their company. And I thank those who have included me in the tribute being paid to them. What I am about to tell you briefly will no doubt astonish and surprise you, but it sums up well who these two humble, discreet and exceptional people were. Yes, even to me, so close to them, Odette and Moussa never spoke of their heroic rescue of 527 Jewish children. I learnt of it like everyone else, when they decided they had to tell it. Why so late, and why precisely at that moment?
Before attempting an answer, allow me to bring them back among us for a few moments. They were two people one could not imagine apart. When you left them after a meeting, you saw them walk away, drawing close, pressed against each other, a two-headed silhouette, together at last, just the two of them. Those of you who knew them will remember Odette, that warm little woman with beautiful deep-blue eyes, a direct gaze – sometimes mischievous, occasionally stern, always curious – constantly attentive to others. She who had known so much suffering nevertheless gave off a fragrance of lightness that soothed. And no one could forget the deep voice and storytelling talent, the biting humour and sometimes sharp tongue of Moussa, with his big glasses behind which charm and tenderness were hidden. He too was so attentive to the lives of those around him. Those two shared one passion: Life.
And life, for them, was everyday, simple life, made of interesting and pleasant encounters, lively chats, meals in nice places or a coffee in a bistro, heated discussions about current events with their friends. For Friendship was sacred. I lived that friendship, but it is impossible to describe – a mosaic of little things that fit together, enrich you, but leave you bereft when the separation is final. Life for them was not that easy, superficial world we would nowadays call “bling-bling”. They shunned high society. Life was also their daily life, filled by their professions, in which the theatre held a central place. Moussa devoted all his energy to it. Odette had become “hooked” and had added to her work as a doctor that of Moussa’s assistant. Together, they overflowed with enthusiasm and gave themselves to it body and soul.
Their life was a shared passion for others, and above all a love of children. And that is where it becomes possible to answer the questions: why so late, and why precisely at that moment? They had no children, but a visceral attachment to the child – the child who is only a child and deserves all our vigilance and protection. Because they had hidden and saved 527 children at the risk of their own lives, they perhaps knew better than anyone how to define a child’s innocence. And for them this rescue was not a spectacular action. It was an impulse from the gut, a natural, spontaneous, irrepressible movement of the heart in the face of monstrous injustice. They had not fought for glory, out of calculation, or for posterity. With all those who supported them – Catholics, Protestants, secularists – they fought out of conviction, in the name of solid principles they never afterwards renounced: the right to life, freedom for all, tolerance. They could not bear children becoming innocent victims. Their words were: fraternity, generosity, respect for others. On the other hand, they knew that tolerance must not be naive, must not be that of turning the other cheek. Listen again to Moussa’s message at the Senate on May 21, 1995. They came out of the shadows only out of duty, because they sensed a danger, because they wanted to denounce that web of lies, that heap of slander, that foul beast called “negationism”. For them, saying nothing would have been cowardice. They had never wanted to talk about their past as resisters. Odette, even in our conversations, avoided talking about her deportation, about her mother and sister who were gassed. But then, enough was enough. In the name of so much suffering, out of respect for their 527 children, whom they called our children, they had to set off for one last battle. Their bond grew even closer. They wrote. They spoke. Their past, their painful experience, justified making their voices heard. For them the time had come – not to put themselves in the spotlight, but to cry out loud and clear that we must remain on our guard, that nothing is ever won for good. Then came back the message they addressed to each and every one of us, which we must pass on: whatever our convictions, we must protect children without any distinction of country, race, religion or colour.
We must teach children respect for the lives of others, respect for others – everything that makes the greatness of the human being.
Read or reread their books and their statements, and you will feel their faith in a generous humanity. I hope you will never again have to live through such painful times, but I wish you to meet people of quality like Odette and Moussa Abadi.
They left elegantly, on tiptoe. Thank you, Odette and Moussa, for loving us.