FEEDING THE BIRDS, DEAR?
An Extraordinary Afternoon in Paris
Anne Frank & Edith Piaf
A fictional encounter between two real women,
inspired by their lives, their words,
their music and the history that shaped them.
Chapter One: The Little Sparrow
PARIS
Springtime.
The sort of afternoon that makes one wonder why anyone ever bothers with winter.
The chestnut trees were beginning to dress themselves in their finest green.
The flowerbeds were bursting with colour, the fountains were playing their familiar watery tunes, the great city was behaving as though it had never done anything more dreadful than overcharge an Englishman for a cup of coffee.
Which, of course, was nonsense.
Paris had seen revolutions, executions, invasions, occupations, uprisings and more political scandals than a respectable historian could comfortably fit into a lifetime.
Yet every spring, she put on her prettiest frock, dabbed a little perfume behind her ears and pretended to be innocent.
The French have always been rather good at that.
It was shortly after two o'clock.
In a quiet corner of the Jardin du Luxembourg, away from the more fashionable promenades.
A young girl sat alone upon a wooden bench.
She was perhaps fifteen years old.
Her dress was blue.
Not an expensive blue, nor a particularly fashionable one.
Just a simple, rather pretty blue cotton dress with a white collar,
neatly pressed and carefully buttoned.
Her dark hair fell around her face.
She had thoughtful eyes.
Eyes that seemed to have seen considerably more than fifteen years ought to permit.
She looked neither happy nor sad.
Merely, thoughtful.
Beside her sat a small paper bag full of breadcrumbs.
Every so often, she reached inside, took a little handful and scattered them upon the gravel.
Immediately, several sparrows appeared.
They hopped, fluttered, argued, pecked.
Occasionally behaved with the sort of appalling manners,
normally reserved for politicians at an International Conference.
The girl watched them with considerable amusement.
"You are terribly greedy," she told one particularly plump fellow.
The sparrow looked up.
“Not, very polite either."
He helped himself to another crumb.
"Honestly! You remind me of someone I used to know."
She smiled.
Then, quite unexpectedly, the smile disappeared.
For a moment, her thoughts seemed to travel somewhere
far beyond the beautiful Parisian gardens.
Somewhere, dark.
Somewhere, without birdsong.
Somewhere where even the smallest noise
could become a matter of life and death.
She shook her head gently.
"No," she whispered. "Not today."
She scattered another handful of crumbs.
It was then that a woman appeared along the path.
She was very small.
Almost painfully thin.
Her black coat hung loosely from narrow shoulders,
her dark hair framed a face that seemed to have been carved by sorrow,
laughter, sleepless nights and rather too much champagne.
She looked an old sixty.
In truth, she had never lived to reach fifty.
But time, which had never been particularly kind to her,
had apparently decided to finish the job anyway.
She walked slowly.
Not because she was in any particular hurry,
but because her body had long ago ceased cooperating with her ambitions.
She carried a small handbag.
Her shoes were black.
Her stockings were slightly crooked.
She possessed the unmistakable air of a woman,
who had spent a lifetime being told what she ought to do,
while doing precisely as she pleased.
She stopped beside the bench.
Looked at the birds.
Then at the girl.
"Vous nourrissez les oiseaux, ma chère?"
Feeding the birds, dear?
The girl looked up.
"Ja," she replied automatically.
Then, realising the woman was speaking French, she smiled apologetically.
"Oui, madame. Les moineaux sont mes préférés."
Sparrows are my favourites.
The woman smiled.
"Ah! Les moineaux!"
She looked down at the little birds.
"Moi aussi, ma chérie."
I like sparrows very much too.
"May I sit?"
"Please."
The woman lowered herself carefully onto the bench.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The sparrows continued their feast.
Then the woman opened her handbag.
Removed a cigarette.
Searched for a lighter.
Failed to find one.
Searched again.
Muttered something in French that would have made a priest reconsider his vocation.
The girl giggled.
"Have you lost something?"
"My lighter."
"Perhaps you shouldn't smoke."
The woman looked at her.
"Perhaps you shouldn't interfere."
The girl burst out laughing.
The woman grinned.
"What's your name, little one?"
"Anne."
"Anne what?"
"Frank."
"Anne Frank."
She repeated it thoughtfully.
"A good name. Strong. Simple.
Easy to remember."
“Yours, madame?"
"Édith."
"Édith what?"
The woman hesitated.
Then smiled.
"Piaf."
Anne considered this.
"Piaf?"
"Yes."
"Like a sparrow?"
Édith's smile widened.
"Exactly like a sparrow."
Anne looked at the birds.
Then back at the woman.
"How extraordinary!"
"Why?"
"Because sparrows are my favourites!"
Édith laughed.
"Then, my dear Anne Frank, I suspect we are going to get along very well."
Somewhere above them, in the branches of a chestnut tree,
a small brown sparrow began to sing.
Neither woman knew it yet.
But the afternoon was about to become one of the most extraordinary conversations
that had never taken place.
Chapter Two: Two Girls Who Grew Up Too Quickly
"Where are you from?" asked Édith.
"Germany originally. Frankfurt.
But I grew up in Amsterdam."
"Ah, Holland!"
Anne nodded.
"And you?"
"Paris."
"Have you always lived here?"
"Good heavens, no! I've lived everywhere.
Streets, rooms, hotels, dressing rooms, hospitals.
Occasionally somewhere respectable, although never for very long."
Anne laughed.
"Were you happy as a little girl?"
Édith looked at her.
It was such an innocent question.
And such a difficult one.
"Sometimes."
"Only sometimes?"
"Isn't that enough?"
Anne considered this.
"I don't think so."
"Neither do I, darling.
But life seldom consults us about these matters."
She leaned back against the bench.
"My childhood was rather untidy."
"Untidy?"
"Very."
"How?"
"Well, my mother was a singer.
My father was an acrobat.
I spent some of my childhood with my grandmother, who ran a brothel."
Anne's eyes widened.
"A what?"
"A brothel."
"I know what a brothel is!"
"Then why did you ask?"
"I wasn't expecting you to say it!"
Édith laughed so loudly that several sparrows took flight.
"Darling, if you spend your life expecting respectable answers, you will be terribly disappointed."
Anne grinned.
"Did you like living there?"
"Some of the women were very kind to me."
"Really?"
"Of course. A woman's occupation does not tell you everything about her heart."
Anne thought about that.
It was a rather wonderful observation.
One she might have written down.
If only she had her diary.
"My father was a businessman," Anne said.
"A respectable one?"
"Very."
"Poor man."
Anne laughed.
"He was lovely."
"Then he was a rare businessman."
"He was patient. Intelligent. Kind.
He used to help me with my studies."
"And your mother?"
Anne's expression changed.
"My mother..."
She paused.
"We didn't always understand one another."
Édith nodded.
"Ah."
"I was sometimes very unkind to her."
"Were you?"
"I thought she didn't understand me. I thought nobody understood me."
"That sounds remarkably like being fifteen."
Anne smiled faintly.
"I suppose."
"Did she love you?"
"Yes."
"Did you love her?"
Anne looked down.
"Yes."
"Then perhaps the rest was simply unfinished business."
Anne was silent.
Unfinished business.
What a curious expression.
How much of human life was unfinished business?
How many apologies were never spoken?
How many embraces were postponed?
How many people went to bed angry with someone,
never imagining that tomorrow might not arrive?
"I wish..." Anne began.
Then stopped.
Édith waited.
"I wish I could speak to her again."
Édith's face softened.
"So do I."
"Your mother?"
"My daughter."
Anne turned.
"You had a daughter?"
"Yes. Marcelle."
"What a pretty name."
"She was a pretty little thing."
"Where is she?"
Édith looked towards the fountain.
"She died when she was two."
Anne's hand stopped inside the paper bag.
"Oh."
For once, the girl who loved words could find none.
"I'm terribly sorry."
Édith shrugged.
Not because it did not matter.
But because some sorrows become so deeply buried
within us that even speaking of them feels like disturbing a grave.
"Thank you."
"Did you miss her?"
Édith turned.
"Every day."
Anne nodded.
"I think I understand."
Édith studied the girl.
"Do you?"
"Not exactly. But I know what it is to lose people."
"Who did you lose?"
Anne looked at the sparrows.
"Almost everyone."
The woman said nothing.
A little breeze moved through the trees.
Somewhere, a child was laughing.
A distant church bell rang.
Paris continued being Paris.
Entirely indifferent to the extraordinary sadness sitting upon one of its benches.
After a while, Édith reached into her handbag again.
"Would you like a cigarette?"
Anne stared at her.
"I'm fifteen!"
"So?"
"Fifteen!"
Édith raised an eyebrow.
"Darling, I've been fifteen three times. It doesn't improve with practice."
Anne burst out laughing.
For a few glorious seconds, both women forgot their sorrows.
Chapter Three: The Girl Who Could Not Go Outside
"Tell me about Amsterdam," said Édith.
Anne brightened.
"Oh, it was wonderful before the war."
"Before the war?"
"Yes."
"Did you have friends?"
"Lots. I went to school. I loved reading. I liked the cinema. I wanted to be a writer."
"A writer?"
"Yes."
"What sort?"
"All sorts! Stories, novels, perhaps journalism."
Édith nodded approvingly.
"A dangerous occupation."
"Writing?"
"Certainly. People will forgive a singer almost anything if she sings beautifully enough.
But a writer who tells the truth? Governments find those terribly inconvenient."
Anne smiled.
"I liked writing."
"Then you should write."
"I did."
"Good."
"I kept a diary."
"Excellent. Diaries are wonderful. You can insult people without having to apologize."
Anne giggled.
"I did rather a lot of that."
"Then you were using it correctly."
Anne grew thoughtful.
"It wasn't just that. I wanted to understand myself. And other people.
I wanted to make sense of everything."
"Did you?"
"Not really."
"Nobody does, darling. That's why philosophers have jobs."
Anne laughed.
Then Édith asked:
"What happened during the war?"
The laughter faded.
Anne looked down at her hands.
"We had to hide."
"Hide?"
"Yes."
"From whom?"
"The Nazis."
Édith became very still.
Anne continued.
"My family was Jewish."
Édith nodded.
"We had to leave Germany because of what was happening there.
We thought Holland would be safe."
"But it wasn't."
"No."
Anne shook her head.
"They invaded. Then came the restrictions.
We couldn't do ordinary things anymore."
"Such as?"
"Go where we wanted. Attend the schools we wanted. Visit places. Live normally."
She looked towards the open park.
"Eventually, we couldn't even go outside."
Édith glanced at the sunlight.
"Outside?"
Anne nodded.
"We hid in rooms behind my father's business premises.
Eight of us."
"For how long?"
"More than two years."
Édith stared at her.
"Two years?"
"Yes."
"Without going outside?"
"Not once."
Édith looked around the gardens.
At the trees.
The fountain.
The children.
The sunshine.
The sparrows.
"Mon Dieu."
Anne smiled sadly.
"You see why I like sitting here?"
Édith said nothing.
"I used to look out at the sky whenever I could.
Sometimes I could see a little bit of a tree."
"A tree?"
"A chestnut tree."
Édith looked up.
Above them, the great chestnut branches were moving gently in the breeze.
Anne followed her gaze.
"Funny, isn't it?"
"What?"
"How something so ordinary can become the most beautiful thing
in the world when you can't have it."
Édith swallowed.
"Yes."
"I used to dream about walking outside.
Feeling the wind. Hearing birds. Not having to be quiet."
"Quiet?"
"We had to be careful. Especially during the day. People were working below us."
Anne paused.
"You couldn't run. You couldn't shout. Sometimes you couldn't even flush the toilet."
Édith looked horrified.
"Not flush the toilet?"
Anne nodded solemnly.
Édith shook her head.
"Darling, I could survive without champagne.
I could perhaps survive without cigarettes. But that..."
Anne laughed.
Then, just as quickly, she stopped.
"Sometimes we laughed too."
"I'm glad."
"We had arguments. Silly arguments. About food. About space. About everything."
"Eight people shut together for two years? I'm surprised there weren't murders."
Anne smiled.
"Sometimes I thought there might be."
They laughed.
But beneath the laughter was something neither needed to explain.
Fear.
Not the brief fear of a thunderstorm.
Not, the nervousness before a performance.
But the kind of fear that moves into your home, sits at your table,
sleeps beside your bed and waits patiently for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
"Did they find you?" Édith asked quietly.
Anne looked at her.
"Yes."
The word seemed to fall between them like a stone into deep water.
"And then?"
Anne did not answer immediately.
"We were arrested."
Édith closed her eyes.
"Where did they take you?"
"First to a transit camp.
Then Auschwitz. Later, my sister Margot and I were sent to Bergen-Belsen."
Édith's face had lost its colour.
Anne continued softly.
"It was terrible."
There were no elaborate descriptions.
No dramatic speeches.
Just those three words.
It was terrible.
Sometimes the greatest horrors require the fewest words.
"Did your sister survive?" Édith whispered.
Anne shook her head.
"No."
“Your mother?"
"No."
"Your father?"
Anne looked up.
"Yes."
Édith exhaled.
"Thank God."
Anne smiled.
"He was a good man."
"I believe you."
"He always believed in me."
"Then he was a wise man."
Anne looked at the paper bag.
"I never got to say goodbye properly."
Édith reached across and took her hand.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then Anne looked at her companion.
"Édith?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Did you live through the war?"
Édith hesitated.
"Yes."
"In Paris?"
"Yes."
Anne looked directly into her eyes.
"Then you must have seen the Germans."
Édith's fingers tightened around her handbag.
"Yes."
"And the Nazis?"
"Yes."
Anne nodded slowly.
Then asked the question that would change the entire afternoon.
"Did you sing for them?"
Chapter Four: The Song and the Swastika
For the first time since sitting down,
Édith Piaf seemed genuinely uncomfortable.
Not embarrassed.
Not offended.
Uncomfortable.
There is a difference.
Embarrassment is what one feels when one's stockings fall down in public.
Discomfort is what one feels when somebody asks a question whose answer cannot be made respectable by changing the subject.
Édith looked towards the fountain.
"Yes," she said.
Anne waited.
"I sang during the occupation."
"For Germans?"
"Sometimes."
"For Nazis?"
Édith took a long breath.
"Some of the Germans who came to hear me were undoubtedly Nazis."
Anne looked at her.
"Why?"
Édith turned.
"Why did I sing?"
"Yes."
"Because I was a singer."
Anne frowned.
"That doesn't seem a very good answer."
"No," Édith admitted. "It doesn't."
A sparrow landed beside Édith's shoe.
She looked down at it.
"Life under occupation was complicated."
Anne said nothing.
"People still had to eat. Work. Survive.
Some resisted. Some collaborated.
Some tried to keep their heads down.
Some did things they later regretted."
“Some helped the Nazis."
"Yes."
Anne's voice was very quiet.
"Some helped them find people like me."
Édith closed her eyes.
"Yes."
"People who hadn't done anything wrong."
"I know."
"Children."
"I know."
"Babies."
Édith's voice was almost inaudible.
"I know, Anne."
The girl looked away.
For several minutes, the only sounds were the fountain,
the birds and the distant traffic.
Then Édith spoke.
"I had Jewish friends."
Anne turned.
"Did you?"
"Yes. One was a pianist named Norbert Glanzberg.
He was a gifted musician. He was in danger, and I helped him."
Anne studied her.
"That was brave."
"Others helped him too."
"Did you know what was happening to the Jews?"
"We knew people were being persecuted. Arrested. Taken away.
We heard rumours of terrible things. But knowledge came in pieces,
people did not all know the same things."
Anne nodded.
“Did you ever go to Germany?"
"Yes."
"To sing?"
"Yes. I performed for French prisoners of war there."
Anne considered this.
"French prisoners?"
"Yes."
"Did it help them?"
"I hope so."
"Did it help you?"
Édith looked surprised.
"What do you mean?"
"Did it make you feel better about singing during the war?"
Édith looked at her for a long moment.
"Perhaps."
Anne nodded.
"That's what I thought."
There was no cruelty in her voice.
Only, an extraordinary honesty.
Édith almost smiled.
"You would have made a formidable journalist."
"I intended to."
"I can see that."
Anne leaned forward.
"People sometimes say they had no choice."
"Sometimes they didn't."
"Sometimes they did."
"Yes."
"And sometimes they simply didn't like the choices."
Édith nodded slowly.
"Yes, Anne. Sometimes that too."
The girl scattered a few more crumbs.
"Do you think people can do good things and bad things?"
"Certainly."
"The same person?"
"Especially the same person."
Anne thought about this.
"Then perhaps the difficult part is deciding which things matter most."
Édith smiled sadly.
"And who gets to decide?"
Anne looked at her.
"The people who were hurt, perhaps."
Édith lowered her eyes.
It was a devastating answer.
Not because Anne had shouted.
Not because she had accused.
But because she had spoken so gently.
After a while, Édith said:
"People later accused me of being too friendly with the Germans."
"Were you?"
"I knew Germans. I performed before German audiences.
There were photographs, rumours, accusations.
I also helped people who were in danger."
"Then why didn't you simply refuse to sing?"
Édith looked at her.
"I cannot tell you that I made every choice for noble reasons. I was ambitious.
I loved performing. I wanted to keep working. Yes, I wanted to survive."
Anne listened.
"I don't know what I would have done in every circumstance," Édith continued.
"It's easy to be brave in stories. Harder when the danger is standing outside your door."
Anne looked down.
"I know something about that."
"Yes," Édith whispered. "You do."
Then Anne said something that surprised them both.
"I don't hate you."
Édith looked up.
"I wasn't asking you not to."
"I know."
Anne smiled faintly.
"But I don't think you should ask me to say it was all right."
Édith nodded.
"No."
"Because it wasn't all right."
"No."
“Some people never got to explain their choices."
Édith's eyes filled.
"No, Anne. They didn't."
The girl reached into the paper bag.
Found the last large piece of bread.
Broke it in two.
And handed half to Édith.
"Here."
Édith looked at it.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
"Feed the birds."
Édith smiled through her tears.
"Is that forgiveness?"
Anne shook her head.
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"A piece of bread."
Édith Piaf laughed.
Not a polite laugh.
Not a theatrical laugh.
A genuine, helpless, wonderfully human laugh.
"Mon Dieu, child! You are impossible!"
Anne grinned.
"So I've been told."
So together they fed the sparrows.
(Historical note: Piaf's performances during the occupation and in Germany, her assistance to Jewish musician Norbert Glanzberg, and the post-Liberation scrutiny of her conduct are documented. Accounts of her helping large numbers of prisoners escape are disputed. The dialogue and personal explanations here are fictional, not quotations or established testimony)
Chapter Five: The Woman Who Sang Her Heart Out
"Did you always want to be a singer?" Anne asked.
Édith smiled.
"Not exactly."
"What did you want to be?"
"Alive, mostly."
Anne laughed.
"That's not a profession."
"It was a full-time occupation in my childhood."
"How did you become famous?"
"By singing in the streets."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Just standing there?"
"Yes."
"With no orchestra?"
"Not initially."
"No piano?"
"No."
"No beautiful dress?"
"Certainly not."
Anne looked delighted.
"How wonderful!"
Édith raised an eyebrow.
"Wonderful? Darling, I was poor, cold, hungry and frequently surrounded by people who thought a young woman singing on the pavement was an invitation to behave disgracefully."
Anne considered this.
"Perhaps not entirely wonderful."
"Precisely."
"But you must have had a beautiful voice."
Édith shrugged.
"I had a voice."
"Did people stop to listen?"
"Sometimes."
"And then?"
"One day, a nightclub owner named Louis Leplée heard me singing."
"And?"
"He gave me a chance."
"Was he kind?"
"In important ways, yes."
"Did he give you your name?"
"He helped make it famous. He called me La Môme Piaf."
"The Little Sparrow!"
"Exactly."
Anne looked at the birds.
"Because you were small?"
“Scruffy. And rather noisy."
Anne laughed.
"You still are."
Édith gave her an indignant look.
"Madame Frank! Such disrespect!"
"Sorry, Madame Sparrow."
"That's better."
Anne leaned closer.
"Did you enjoy being famous?"
Édith considered the question.
"Sometimes."
"Only sometimes?"
"Fame is a peculiar creature.
It promises to make you loved by everyone,
then leaves you wondering whether anyone actually knows you."
Anne frowned.
"I don't understand."
"Imagine walking into a room where everyone knows your name."
"That sounds lovely."
"Now imagine nobody wants to know who you really are."
Anne thought about that.
"Oh."
"Exactly."
"Did you have lots of friends?"
"Lots of acquaintances."
"That's different."
"Very."
“Lovers?"
Édith threw back her head and laughed.
"Good heavens, child! Have you brought a notebook?"
Anne blushed.
"I was only asking!"
"Well, yes. I had lovers."
"Lots?"
"Enough to keep the newspapers entertained."
Anne giggled.
"Were you ever married?"
"Yes."
"More than once?"
"Twice."
"Did you love them?"
"Yes. In different ways."
"Did they love you?"
Édith paused.
"Some people love the person. Some love the idea.
Some love the applause that comes with standing beside them."
Anne nodded.
"I think that's rather sad."
"So do I."
Then Édith smiled.
"But love itself? Ah, Anne! Love is magnificent!"
"Even when it hurts?"
"Especially when it hurts, although I wouldn't recommend making a career of that."
Anne laughed.
"Did you ever meet somebody you truly loved?"
Édith's expression changed.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"A boxer."
Anne blinked.
"A boxer?"
"Marcel Cerdan."
"A boxer!"
"Must you repeat everything?"
Anne giggled.
"Sorry."
"He was wonderful."
"Handsome?"
"Very."
"Strong?"
"Naturally."
"Kind?"
Édith's eyes softened.
"Yes."
"What happened?"
Édith looked towards the distant trees.
"He died in a plane crash."
Anne stopped smiling.
"Oh, Édith."
"Yes."
"That's terrible."
"It was."
"Did you ever stop loving him?"
Édith shook her head.
"No."
Anne thought for a moment.
"Perhaps that's what love really is."
"What?"
"Something that doesn't stop just because the person isn't there anymore."
Édith turned towards her.
For a moment, she looked very old.
Then very young.
Then simply human.
"Yes," she whispered. "Perhaps it is."
Chapter Six: The Diary and the Microphone
"Tell me about your diary," Édith said.
Anne brightened immediately.
"Oh, I loved it!"
"More than boys?"
Anne laughed.
"Sometimes!"
"Then it must have been a very good diary."
"It was a present for my thirteenth birthday."
"What did you write?"
"Everything."
"Everything?"
"Almost."
"About boys?"
"Yes."
"Your parents?"
"Yes."
"People who annoyed you?"
"Especially them."
Édith grinned.
"Then I should very much like to read it."
Anne smiled.
"I used to imagine I was writing to a friend. I called her Kitty."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted somebody I could tell everything to."
"Didn't you have friends?"
"Of course. But sometimes you need someone who listens without interrupting."
Édith nodded.
"That is a rare quality."
"Especially, among adults."
"Particularly, among adults."
They laughed.
Anne looked thoughtful.
"Writing made me feel free."
"Even when you were hiding?"
"Especially, then."
Édith considered this.
"Singing was like that for me."
"How?"
"When I sang, I could become something larger than my circumstances."
"Even when you were unhappy?"
"Especially when I was unhappy."
Anne smiled.
"So your songs, were like my diary.
Édith looked at her.
"Perhaps."
"Except everybody could hear yours."
“But nobody could hear yours?"
Anne looked down.
"Not then."
A strange silence followed.
One of those silences that seem to contain something waiting to be discovered.
Édith looked at Anne's face.
"Do you know, little one, I think words and music are the two most extraordinary inventions humanity ever stumbled upon."
Anne smiled.
"More extraordinary than aeroplanes?"
"Certainly."
"Telephones?"
"Absolutely."
"Chocolate?"
Édith hesitated.
"Now you're being unreasonable."
Anne burst out laughing.
"Why words and music?"
"Because they can reach places that armies cannot."
Anne thought about this.
"Armies can reach almost anywhere."
"Yes. But they cannot make someone love them."
"Some people love armies."
"Usually from a safe distance."
Anne giggled.
Édith continued.
"An army can occupy a country. It can destroy a building.
It can frighten a population.
But it cannot force a person to believe something in the privacy of their own soul."
Anne looked at her.
"Sometimes they try."
"Yes."
“Sometimes people pretend."
"Yes."
“Sometimes people believe terrible things."
Édith nodded.
"That too."
Anne leaned back.
"Then perhaps words can be dangerous as well."
"Very."
"Words helped make people hate us."
Édith looked at her.
"Yes."
"Speeches. Newspapers. Posters. Lies."
"Yes."
"Then words aren't always good."
"No."
"Neither is music."
Édith frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Armies march to music."
The singer fell silent.
Anne continued.
"People sing patriotic songs before going to war.
They sing while celebrating victories.
Sometimes they sing about killing people."
Édith nodded slowly.
"You're right."
"So perhaps words and music are like knives."
"Knives?"
"They can cut bread."
Anne looked down at the crumbs.
"Or they can hurt somebody."
Édith smiled.
"Then the question is not whether the knife is good."
"But who is holding it."
“Why."
Anne nodded.
"I think I'd like to write about that."
Édith grinned.
"Please do. Then when you become famous, remember where you heard it."
Anne laughed.
"You're already famous!"
"Darling, that has never stopped anybody wanting more credit."
Chapter Seven: A World That Never Learns
The afternoon had grown warmer.
Children sailed little boats upon the pond.
Couples wandered beneath the trees.
An elderly gentleman sat reading a newspaper with the solemn expression of a man discovering that civilization had once again failed to consult him.
Édith watched a young woman walking past,
talking animatedly into a small rectangular object.
"What on earth is she doing?"
Anne followed her gaze.
"I don't know."
"She appears to be arguing with a cigarette case."
The woman laughed into the object.
Then began speaking again.
Anne looked fascinated.
"Perhaps it's a telephone."
Édith stared.
"A telephone?"
"Yes."
"Without wires?"
"Apparently."
"Mon Dieu."
A young man passed them, looking down at another little screen.
Then another.
And another.
Soon it seemed half the people in the park were staring into their hands.
Édith shook her head.
"Paris has gone completely mad."
Anne laughed.
"Perhaps they're reading."
"Then why are they walking into trees?"
Almost immediately, a young man stumbled against the edge of a flowerbed.
Édith pointed triumphantly.
"You see!"
Anne giggled.
"I wonder what they're looking at."
"Probably, themselves."
"Why?"
"Because humanity has always been fascinated by itself. It has merely invented a more expensive mirror."
Anne laughed.
Then grew thoughtful.
"Imagine being able to communicate with anyone in the World."
"Wonderful."
"Instantly."
"Extraordinary."
"Without having to hide letters or wait for the post."
Édith nodded.
"Yes."
"Perhaps people would understand one another better."
Édith looked around.
"Would they?"
Anne frowned.
"Why wouldn't they?"
"Because hearing somebody is not the same as listening to them."
Anne considered this.
Édith continued.
"People have always had the ability to speak.
It has never prevented them from being spectacularly stupid."
Anne laughed.
"You're rather cynical."
"I'm French."
"Is that the same thing?"
"Frequently."
They smiled.
Then Anne asked:
"Do you think there are still wars?"
Édith looked away.
"I imagine so."
"But after everything that happened?"
"Yes."
"After all those people died?"
"Yes."
Anne shook her head.
"Why?"
Édith sighed.
"Power. Territory. Fear. Pride. Religion. Money. Revenge.
The usual ingredients."
"But surely people learned?"
"Some did."
“The others?"
Édith looked towards the newspaper.
"Some people learn history. Others merely repeat it with better machinery."
Anne sat quietly.
Then asked:
"Do people still hate Jews?"
Édith's expression became grave.
"Some do."
"Even now?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Édith shook her head.
"There is no sensible answer to that question."
Anne looked down.
"Do they still hate people because of their religion?"
"Yes."
"Their colour?"
"Yes."
"Where they come from?"
"Yes."
"Who they love?"
"Yes."
Anne looked genuinely bewildered.
"But why?"
Édith reached for a cigarette, remembered Anne's disapproval, and put it away again.
"Because some people find it easier to hate a stranger than to question themselves."
Anne thought about that.
"Then perhaps the World hasn't changed very much."
"Oh, it has changed enormously."
"How?"
"Machines. Medicine. Travel. Communication. Science."
"And people?"
Édith smiled sadly.
"People are still working on it."
Anne looked towards the children playing beside the fountain.
"Perhaps we should start with them."
"The children?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because they aren't born knowing whom they're supposed to hate."
Édith considered this.
"No. They have to be taught."
"Then perhaps we should stop teaching them."
Édith smiled.
"My dear Anne, you have just proposed something so sensible
that I fear no government will ever adopt it."
Anne burst out laughing.
Chapter Eight: The Things We Regret
"Do you have regrets?" Anne asked.
Édith looked at her.
"How much time have you got?"
Anne laughed.
"Plenty."
"Then we may need another bench."
They smiled.
Édith looked down at her hands.
"Yes. I have regrets."
"About what?"
"People I hurt. People I trusted. Things I said.
Things I didn't say. Decisions I made when I was frightened or foolish."
Anne nodded.
"Me too."
Édith raised an eyebrow.
"At fifteen?"
"Yes!"
"Good heavens. You started early."
Anne giggled.
"I regret being unkind to my mother."
"You've told me."
"I regret arguing with my sister."
"Did you love her?"
"Very much."
"Then she knew."
Anne looked uncertain.
"Did she?"
Édith nodded.
"People who love us often know more than we realize."
Anne thought about this.
"Do you regret singing during the war?"
Édith looked at her.
The question had returned.
But this time, it sounded different.
Less like an accusation.
More like a genuine attempt to understand.
"I regret anything I did that may have helped make an unjust situation seem ordinary."
Anne listened.
"I cannot undo the past," Édith continued. "I cannot pretend that helping some people automatically answers every question about my conduct."
Anne nodded.
"That seems fair."
"Does it?"
"Yes."
Édith smiled faintly.
"Thank you."
Anne looked towards the sky.
"I sometimes wonder whether people spend too much time trying to prove they were right."
Édith laughed.
"Darling, entire governments have been built upon that principle."
"Instead of admitting they were wrong."
"Precisely."
"Why?"
"Because admitting you're wrong requires courage."
"And being right?"
"Sometimes merely requires a loud voice."
Anne giggled.
Then she grew serious.
"Do you think people can change?"
Édith considered this.
"Yes."
"Even bad people?"
"Some."
"Even people who have done terrible things?"
"Some."
"How?"
"By recognizing what they have done. Taking responsibility.
Trying to repair what they can. And not doing it again."
Anne nodded.
"That sounds difficult."
"It is."
"Perhaps that's why people prefer pretending."
Édith laughed.
"You really should have become a journalist."
Anne smiled.
"I know."
Then, after a pause, she asked:
"Do you think forgiveness is always necessary?"
Édith shook her head.
"No."
Anne looked surprised.
"Really?"
"No. Forgiveness may be a gift, but it should never become another burden placed upon somebody who has already suffered."
Anne considered this carefully.
"Then perhaps understanding is different from forgiving."
"Very different."
“Forgiving is different from forgetting."
"Absolutely."
Anne looked at Édith.
"Because if we forget what happened, we might let it happen again."
Édith nodded.
"Yes."
Anne smiled sadly.
"Then I hope people remember."
Chapter Nine: The Little Girl Who Wanted to Grow Up
"Tell me something happy," Édith said suddenly.
Anne looked surprised.
"Happy?"
"Yes. We've spent half the afternoon discussing war, death,
guilt and the appalling behaviour of humanity. Even I have my limits."
Anne laughed.
"What would you like to know?"
"What did you want from life?"
Anne brightened.
"Oh, lots of things!"
"Such as?"
"I wanted to travel."
"Where?"
"Everywhere!"
"Very sensible."
"I wanted to see Paris."
Édith spread her arms.
"Well, here you are!"
Anne looked around.
"Yes."
For a moment, her face shone.
"I wanted to see London too."
"Rain."
"Rome."
"Priests."
"New York."
"Noise."
Anne laughed.
"You're impossible!"
"I've been told."
"I wanted to write books."
"Naturally."
“Perhaps fall in love."
Édith smiled.
"Ah!"
Anne blushed.
"Don't!"
"Don't what?"
"Make that face!"
"What face?"
"That face!"
Édith laughed.
"Was there a boy?"
Anne hesitated.
"Yes."
"Tell me everything."
"No!"
"Was he handsome?"
"Sometimes."
Édith burst out laughing.
"Sometimes?"
"Well, you know what I mean!"
"Did he kiss you?"
"Édith!"
"That's a yes, then."
Anne covered her face.
"You are dreadful!"
"Thank you."
They laughed together.
Then Édith asked:
"Did you want children?"
Anne looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps."
"How many?"
"I don't know."
"Boys or girls?"
"Either."
"Would you have been a good mother?"
Anne considered this seriously.
"I hope so."
Édith smiled.
"I think you would."
Anne looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because you ask questions."
"Is that enough?"
"No. But it's a beginning."
Anne nodded.
"I wanted to grow old."
Édith's smile faded.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"How old?"
"Oh, terribly old!"
"How terrible?"
"Sixty!"
Édith looked scandalized.
"Sixty! Child, that's practically ancient!"
Anne giggled.
"With, grey hair."
"Disgraceful."
"And spectacles."
"Hideous."
“Lots of books."
"Now you're talking."
“Perhaps grandchildren."
Édith looked at her.
Anne smiled.
"I think I would have liked that."
The singer reached across and took her hand.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then Anne said quietly:
"That's what makes me sad."
"What?"
"Not just dying."
Édith waited.
"Not getting to find out who I might have become."
The words hung in the spring air.
Édith looked at the young girl beside her.
And suddenly understood something she had not considered before.
Death does not merely take away a life.
Sometimes it takes away all the lives that person might have lived.
The books never written.
The children never born.
The friendships never made.
The places never visited.
The apologies never spoken.
The discoveries never discovered.
The love never experienced.
An entire universe of possibilities.
Gone.
And yet...
Édith looked at Anne.
Perhaps not entirely gone.
Chapter Ten: No Regrets?
"Did you ever sing a song about regrets?" Anne asked.
Édith laughed.
"Darling, I made a career out of them."
"Really?"
"Almost."
"Did you regret your life?"
Édith considered the question.
"I regretted parts of it."
"But not all?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because even the painful parts helped make me who I was."
Anne frowned.
"That sounds rather convenient."
Édith looked at her.
"Convenient?"
"Yes. People say suffering makes us stronger.
But perhaps sometimes it simply makes us suffer."
Édith stared.
Then slowly smiled.
"That's a very good point."
Anne continued.
"I don't think children should have to suffer just to become interesting adults."
"Neither do I."
" I don't think people should be grateful for terrible things happening to them."
"No."
"Perhaps they can learn something from them. But that doesn't make the terrible things good."
Édith nodded.
"You're right."
Anne smiled.
"Good."
Édith laughed.
"You enjoy being right, don't you?"
"Very much."
"Then you really are a writer."
They sat quietly.
After a while, Édith began humming.
Very softly.
A melody Anne did not recognize.
There was something in the sound that made the air itself seem to listen.
Anne turned.
"What a beautiful voice."
Édith smiled.
"Thank you."
"Will you sing?"
"Here?"
"Yes."
"In the park?"
"Why not?"
Édith looked around.
"People might recognize me."
Anne grinned.
"Would that be so terrible?"
Édith sighed dramatically.
"Very well."
She sat a little straighter.
Closed her eyes.
Began to sing.
Not loudly.
Not theatrically.
There was no orchestra.
No spotlight.
No velvet curtain.
No fashionable audience.
Just a small, thin woman on a park bench.
Singing a wordless melody to a girl in a blue dress.
And somehow, it was enough.
The notes rose gently through the branches.
A nearby couple stopped walking.
An old man lowered his newspaper.
A child looked up from the fountain.
Even the sparrows seemed momentarily uncertain whether to continue eating.
When Édith finished, Anne was crying.
"Oh, darling!" Édith exclaimed. "Was it that bad?"
Anne laughed through her tears.
"No!"
"Then why are you crying?"
"Because it was beautiful."
Édith smiled.
"That's allowed."
Anne wiped her eyes.
"I wish I could sing like that."
Édith looked at her.
"Perhaps you can."
Anne shook her head.
"No."
"Have you tried?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"My sister complained."
Édith roared with laughter.
"Then perhaps you should stick to writing."
Anne giggled.
"Perhaps."
Then Édith said:
"Besides, not every song needs a voice."
Anne looked puzzled.
"What do you mean?"
"Some songs are written."
Chapter Eleven: The Book That Went Around the World
The shadows had begun to lengthen.
A gentle golden light spread across the gardens.
Édith looked at Anne.
"Tell me, little one. What happened to your diary?"
Anne hesitated.
"I don't know."
"You don't?"
"No."
"Did you take it with you?"
Anne shook her head.
"When we were arrested, everything happened so quickly."
Édith nodded.
"Perhaps somebody found it."
"Perhaps."
"Perhaps somebody kept it safe."
Anne smiled faintly.
"I hope so."
Édith looked at her for a long moment.
Then something curious happened.
A book appeared upon the bench between them.
Neither had placed it there.
Neither had seen anyone approach.
It was a small book.
It’s cover bore a photograph of a young girl.
Dark hair.
Thoughtful eyes.
A familiar face.
Anne stared.
"That's me."
Édith picked it up.
Looked at the cover.
Then at Anne.
"Yes."
Anne's hands began to tremble.
"What is it?"
Édith turned the book over.
Read the title.
Then slowly handed it to her.
Anne opened it.
Her eyes moved across the first page.
Then, the second.
Then, the third.
She looked up.
"These are my words."
Édith nodded.
"My, diary."
"Yes."
"But how?"
Édith smiled.
"Perhaps your father kept his promise."
Anne looked at her.
"What promise?"
"To believe in you."
Anne looked back at the book.
Then noticed something else.
There were other copies appearing beside it.
One in French.
Another in English.
Another in Spanish.
German.
Italian.
Japanese.
Hebrew.
Languages Anne could not identify.
She stared in astonishment.
"What are these?"
"Translations."
"Of my diary?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
Édith nodded.
Anne looked overwhelmed.
"But why?"
"Because people wanted to read it."
"People?"
"Millions of people."
Anne looked up sharply.
"Millions?"
"Yes."
"Why would millions of people want to read my diary?"
Édith smiled.
"Because you told them something they needed to hear."
Anne shook her head.
"But I was only a girl."
Édith took her hand.
"Yes."
"An ordinary girl."
"Yes."
"I wasn't famous."
"No."
"I hadn't done anything important."
Édith's eyes filled.
"Oh, Anne."
The girl looked at her.
"You have no idea."
Anne looked down at the books.
"Did people like it?"
"Very much."
"Did they understand?"
"Some did."
"And the others?"
Édith smiled sadly.
"Some are still learning."
Anne looked at the book again.
"Did it make people kinder?"
Édith hesitated.
"Some."
"Did it stop wars?"
"No."
"Did it stop people hating Jews?"
"No."
Anne lowered her eyes.
"Then perhaps it didn't do very much."
Édith turned towards her.
"Listen to me, little sparrow."
Anne looked up.
"A book cannot force humanity to become decent.
A song cannot end every war. A painting cannot feed every hungry child."
Anne listened.
"But they can change a person."
"One person?"
"Yes."
"Is that enough?"
"Sometimes one person changes another. And another. And another."
Anne thought about this.
Édith continued.
"Your diary travelled to places you never got to visit. It entered homes you never saw.
It reached people who had never met a Jewish child.
It made them see you not as a number, not as a victim, not as a name in a history book."
She paused.
"But as Anne."
The girl began to cry.
"Just Anne?"
"Just Anne."
Édith smiled.
"The girl who argued with her mother.
Who liked boys. Who complained about adults.
Who dreamed of becoming a writer."
Anne laughed through her tears.
“Who fed sparrows."
"Exactly."
She looked at the books.
"Did I become a writer?"
Édith put her arm around her.
"Oh, my darling."
Anne looked up.
"You became one of the most widely read young writers in the World."
For a long time, Anne said nothing.
Then she whispered:
"Does my father know?"
Édith smiled.
"Yes."
Anne closed her eyes.
And cried.
Not because she was sad.
Not entirely.
But because somewhere, somehow, something she had loved had survived.
Her words.
Her thoughts.
Her dreams.
The little girl who had once been forced to remain silent had finally been heard.
Chapter Twelve: The Last Crumb
The sun was beginning to set.
The gardens glowed in the soft light of evening.
The sparrows had eaten almost all the breadcrumbs.
Édith looked into the paper bag.
"Empty."
Anne smiled.
"Almost."
She found one final crumb.
Very small.
Hardly enough for a bird.
She held it between her fingers.
A tiny sparrow hopped towards her.
"Here you are," she whispered.
The bird pecked at the crumb.
Then fluttered onto the back of the bench.
Édith watched it.
"Funny little creatures."
Anne nodded.
"Yes."
"So small."
"Yes."
"So ordinary."
"Yes."
“Yet they survive in the most extraordinary places."
Anne smiled.
"Perhaps that's why I love them."
Édith looked at her.
"Perhaps."
For a moment, they sat in silence.
Then Anne asked:
"Édith?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Do you think people are good?"
Édith considered the question.
"Some."
"Do you think people are bad?"
"Some."
"And most people?"
Édith looked towards the distant figures walking through the park.
"Most people are a rather untidy mixture of both."
Anne nodded.
"I think so too."
"Does that disappoint you?"
"Sometimes."
"Does it frighten you?"
"Sometimes."
"Does it make you stop hoping?"
Anne looked at the sparrow.
"No."
Édith smiled.
"Good."
Anne turned.
"Do you think the world will ever become peaceful?"
Édith sighed.
"I don't know."
"Do you think people will ever stop hating one another?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think they'll ever learn?"
Édith looked at her.
"Perhaps."
Anne smiled.
"That's enough for me."
Édith laughed softly.
"Hopeful little creature."
Anne grinned.
"Stubborn old sparrow."
They laughed together.
Then Anne asked:
"Do you think we could meet again?"
Édith looked at her.
"I should like that very much."
"Here?"
"Why not?"
"Tomorrow?"
Édith smiled.
"Perhaps."
Anne looked thoughtful.
"Will you bring some bread?"
"Certainly."
“But no cigarettes."
Édith looked scandalized.
"Madame Frank! You are becoming positively dictatorial!"
Anne burst out laughing.
"Only about cigarettes."
Édith stood slowly.
Anne rose beside her.
For a moment, they faced one another.
The famous singer.
The unknown girl who had become famous without knowing it.
Two daughters.
Two survivors of very different kinds of suffering.
Two women whose lives had been shaped by the same terrible century.
One who had been given too little time.
The other who had tried to cram several lifetimes into the years she possessed.
Édith opened her arms.
Anne stepped forward.
They embraced.
Not as celebrities.
Not as historical figures.
Not as symbols.
But simply as two human beings who had spent an afternoon listening to one another.
When they separated,
Édith kissed Anne gently upon the forehead.
"Au revoir, mon petit moineau."
Goodbye, my little sparrow.
Anne smiled.
"Tot ziens, Édith."
Then she paused.
"Édith?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for telling me about my book."
Édith smiled.
"Thank you for reminding me why songs matter."
Anne looked puzzled.
"Why do they?"
Édith looked towards the setting sun.
"Because sometimes, darling, a little beauty
is the only thing standing between a human being and despair."
Anne considered this.
Then smiled.
"I think words can do that too."
Édith nodded.
"Yes."
"Even little words?"
"Especially little words."
They began walking together along the path.
Neither seemed particularly interested in where they were going.
Perhaps that was because, for once, neither had anywhere she needed to be.
At the garden gate,
Anne stopped.
"Édith?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Do you think people will remember us?"
Édith laughed.
"Oh, Anne!"
"What?"
"Between your books and my records, I suspect we'll be bothering them for centuries."
Anne giggled.
"Good."
"Good?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Anne looked back towards the bench.
"Because perhaps one day they'll finally listen."
Édith smiled.
"Perhaps."
Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she added:
"Although I wouldn't hold my breath. Humanity has a remarkable talent for missing the point."
Anne burst out laughing.
The two little sparrows disappeared into the Parisian evening.
Epilogue: Feeding the Birds, Dear?
The following morning, the bench was empty.
The gardens were beautiful.
The chestnut trees swayed gently.
The fountains played.
Children laughed.
People hurried past, staring at their little screens.
Somewhere in the city, a young woman was reading The Diary of a Young Girl.
Somewhere else, an elderly gentleman was listening to Édith Piaf.
A schoolteacher was explaining the Holocaust.
A musician was practicing a song.
A child was learning about kindness.
And somewhere, sadly, somebody was teaching another child to hate.
The World continued.
Beautiful.
Cruel.
Magnificent.
Absurd.
Capable of extraordinary tenderness.
& equally extraordinary stupidity.
Upon the bench sat a small paper bag.
Inside was a single crumb.
Beside it lay a little handwritten note.
Nobody knew who had left it.
The handwriting was neat.
Young.Almost childish.
It read:
Please feed the sparrows.
They are very small.
But their songs can travel a very long way.
Beneath it, in rather untidy French handwriting, somebody had added:
For heaven's sake, listen to them.
A small brown sparrow landed upon the bench.
Looked around.
Pecked at the crumb.
Then began to sing.
THE END
For the children whose lives were stolen before their dreams could be realized.
For those who survived and carried their memories.
For those who used their voices when silence was easier.
And for everyone who still believes that humanity might one day learn to listen.
Two Little Sparrows. One Spring Afternoon.
A Song that Never Ended. 🐦❤️🇫🇷
Musings ©copyright.ChristianDion2026
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