“Paul, Paul, not so fast. There’s going to
be an accident!” his mother cried out.
The car spun out of control. The young
André pushed himself away from the
wreckage. His father and brothers and
cousin were fine. His mother was not.
He saw her lying lifeless thirty feet
away. Confronting a Nazi officer paled
in comparison with seeing your mother’s
body by the side of the road. As Trocmé
wrote to his deceased mother, many
years later:
If I have sinned so much, if I have
been, since then, so solitary, if my
soul has taken such a swirling and
solitary movement, if I have doubted