Charlotte. David Foenkinos
of the construction work, the place is empty.
But there is a light on in the apartment.
As if someone’s there.
There must be someone there.
And yet I hear no sound.
It’s a large apartment, I know.
I ring again.
Still nothing.
While I wait, I read the names listed above the doorbell.
Apparently the Salomons’ apartment has been turned into offices.
The company headquarters of Dasdomainhaus.com.
A firm that develops websites.
I hear a noise.
Footsteps coming closer.
Someone hesitating, then opening the door.
A worried-looking woman appears.
What do we want?
Christian Kolb, my German translator, is with me.
He takes his time before speaking.
Dot dot dot is always in his mouth.
I ask him to explain why we are here.
French writer . . . Charlotte Salomon . . .
She slams the door in our faces.
I stand there stunned, immobile.
I am only a few feet from Charlotte’s room.
It’s frustrating, but some things should not be forced.
I have plenty of time.
8
Charlotte is enriched by the discussions she hears.
She starts reading: a lot, and with passion.
Devours Goethe, Hesse, Remarque, Nietzsche, Döblin.
Paula thinks her stepdaughter is too withdrawn.
She never invites friends home.
Charlotte becomes possessive with her stepmother.
During parties, she follows her around like a shadow.
Cannot bear other people to spend too long talking to her.
She wants to give Paula something special for her birthday.
She spends whole days searching for the ideal gift.
Finally, she finds the perfect powder compact.
All her pocket money goes toward it.
She is so pleased with her find.
Her stepmother will love her even more.
The evening of the birthday, Charlotte is on tenterhooks.
Paula opens her present.
She is very happy with it.
But it is one gift among many.
She thanks everyone with equal sweetness.
Charlotte falls to pieces.
She is crushed by the disappointment.
Driven crazy.
She rushes over to grab back the compact.
And hurls it on the floor, in front of all the guests.
Silence descends.
Albert looks at Paula, as if it is up to her to react.
The singer is coldly furious.
She accompanies Charlotte to her room.
We’ll talk about this tomorrow, she says.
I’ve ruined everything, thinks Charlotte.
In the morning, they see each other in the kitchen.
Charlotte starts babbling excuses.
She tries to explain what she was feeling.
Paula strokes her cheek, to comfort her.
Glad that Charlotte is finally able to put words to her malaise.
Paula remembers the joyful adolescent she met.
She doesn’t understand what it is that troubles her so much now.
For Albert, his daughter’s reaction is a manifestation of jealousy.
Nothing more.
He refuses to see the depth of her suffering.
His work takes up all his attention; he is an important doctor.
He is making major discoveries in the treatment of ulcers.
His daughter’s tantrums are not his priority.
Paula continues to worry.
She thinks Charlotte should be told everything.
The truth.
What truth? Albert asks.
The truth . . . about her mother.
She insists.
No one can build their identity on such a lie.
If she finds out that everyone has lied to her, it will be awful.
No, Albert replies, we must say nothing about it.
Then adds: her grandparents are adamant.
They do not want her to know.
Paula suddenly understands.
Charlotte often goes to stay at their house.
The pressure is incessant.
They never let anyone forget that they have lost their daughters.
Lotte is all that’s left to them, they moan.
When she returns from staying with them, Charlotte is somber.
Her grandmother loves her very deeply, of course.
But there is a dark power to her love.
How can that woman look after a child?
That woman whose two daughters killed themselves.
9
Paula agrees not to reveal anything to Charlotte.
As that is the family’s wish.
But she sends a scathing letter to the grandmother.
“You are the murderer of your daughters.
But this time you won’t have her.
I am going to protect her . . .”
Devastated, the grandmother withdraws into herself.
The past she attempted to bury is coming back in waves.
She lets the successive tragedies overwhelm her.
There are her two daughters, of course.
But they are only the culmination of a long line of suicides.
Her brother too threw himself in a river, because of an unhappy marriage.
A doctor of law, he was only twenty-eight.
His corpse was exhibited in the living room.
For days on end, the family slept close to the tragedy.
They didn’t want to let him leave.
The apartment would be his tomb.
Only the stink of decomposition put an end to the exhibition.
When they came to pick up her son, the mother tried to stop them.
She