Yesterday, Lazare Ponticelli, France’s last living veteran of World War I, died at the age of 110. “Today, I express the nation’s deep emotion and infinite sadness,” said French President Nicolas Sarkozy.
I learned, somewhat unexpectedly, that I am loosely related to Lazare. He was my husband’s mother’s father’s cousin. Looking at the photographs accompanying his obituary, I thought I could see a faint resemblance, especially around the hairline.
Lazare and my grandfather-in-law were born in Italy. Their fathers were brothers who emigrated to France with their families. At 16, Lazare lied about his age to join the French Foreign Legion and fight against the Germans. After the war, he and his brothers started a successful piping company in Paris. Like many men who live to such an age, he developed both a long view of the world and a certain bluntness. Not long ago, he said simply, “War is completely stupid.”
Until about a year ago, Lazare was one of a small group of surviving French veterans of the First World War. Then, one by one, the others died. My husband and I found ourselves quietly rooting for him to be the last, though it is a strange thing to root for. In January, the second-to-last veteran passed away, leaving Lazare as the final living link. Winner! we joked.
But, there is no real triumph in outliving 8.4 million fellow soldiers. There is only the weight of having seen so much, and the strange position of receiving recognition on behalf of men who did not live long enough to receive any. There is also a particular kind of loneliness in being the last person who remembers, in holding memories of trenches and battlefields that will soon belong entirely to history.
May they all rest in peace.
