Even today I carry a death within
myself, the death of my son, and I am
like a decapitated pine. Pine trees do
not regenerate their tops. They stay
twisted, crippled.But surely he must have paused when he
wrote those words, because everything
that had happened in Le Chambon
suggested that there was more to the
story than that. Then he wrote:
They grow in thickness, perhaps, and
that is what I am doing.1 The historian Christine van der