Yesterday, Lazare Ponticelli, France’s last living veteran of World War I, passed away at the age of 110. “Today, I express the nation’s deep emotion and infinite sadness,” mourned French President Nicolas Sarkozy before going to find the nation’s solace ‘tween the legs of the First Lady.
I know, that was totally tasteless. It’s my grief, blinding me to all that is proper. You see, I am sort of related to Lazare. He was my husband’s mother’s father’s cousin. Looking at the pictures included with Lazare’s obituary, I can see a resolute resemblance to my husband, especially around the hairline.
So, my grandfather-in-law and Lazare were born together in Italy. Their fathers were brothers who emigrated to France with their families. At age 16, Lazare lied about his age to join the French Foreign Legion and defend his country against the invading Germans. After the war, Lazare and his brothers started a successful piping company in Paris. Like many very, very old men, Lazare’s longevity gave him a unique perspective as well as a fondness for being blunt, saying recently “War is completely stupid” (here for NY Times obituary, which startled me when I read the newspaper on the train this morning).
Lazare was one of a half-dozen French survivors up until a year ago, and then they began dropping like flies. Mr. Pinault and I cheered him on to be the last veteran: “Go Lazare, go! Keep breathing! You can do it!” And he did: In January, the second-to-last French WWI veteran passed away, making Lazare the ‘winner.’ But, of course, there is no triumph in having outlived the other 8.4 million French soldiers. There is sadness of having witnessed so much death. There is the burden of receiving overwhelming appreciation when other men received none. And there is a loneliness of being a nation’s last mortal link to one of humanity’s greatest catastrophe, of holding the last living memories of battlefields, trenches, and the soldiers who fought in the Great War. May they all rest in peace.
