This article draws on the analysis of 25 interviews with the grandchildren of Polish Jews who came to France1. These interviews make it possible to better understand the way grandchildren of Jews who came from Poland to France look upon their grandparents and upon themselves, their questioning about the place they occupy in a family history that was caught up in the History of the century, and the effects of this history on their identity and their life choices. They spoke to us of the lives of their grandparents in Poland, of the reasons for their coming to France, of the way they passed through the war and the Shoah and of how they lived afterward. They spoke to us of what their grandparents transmitted to them in the way of values, memory, trauma, identity, as well as of the way they look upon their grandparents and their parents. We also invited them to speak of their own life choices, of their relation to Judaism, of their ideological, religious, and political references, and of their projects.
The twenty-five grandchildren of Polish Jews who came to France, whom we met, do not of course make it possible to describe the third generation. Their number and their diversity are indeed too limited to generalize the principal points that emerge from the interviews. They are nonetheless rich in instruction and give rise to numerous reflections.
Insofar as we wished to understand the effects of a history with multiple aspects, marked by exile, the Shoah, and integration in France, we considered the grandchildren of those who had emigrated to France to constitute the third generation (the point of departure being exile and arrival in France).
Those who were interviewed have a diversity of histories, of trajectories, of ways of being — by their age (between nineteen and forty-eight years), by their family situation (single, in couples, themselves parents), by the history of their grandparents who came from Poland (they arrived in France between 1900 and 1950, some were hidden during the war, others deported, others members of the Resistance, some lived through it in France, others in Poland, their political and social commitments were very diverse), by the history of their parents (some born after the war, others children during that period), by the history of their two lineages (whose origin and history are sometimes homogeneous or, on the contrary, very different). Despite our wish to give an account of multiple trajectories, it was very difficult for us to make contact with grandchildren of Jews who came from Poland who had not undertaken university studies and whose parents had not either. This limit no doubt derives from a strongly invested relation to knowledge within this immigration, a fact noted by sociologists2.
Nor was it possible for us to contact grandchildren engaged in right-wing movements or in orthodox religious movements. None of those we met situated themselves in a rejection of their family history, and all, to varying degrees, wished to transmit it to their children.
This text cannot address the whole of the questions raised by these interviews, so many are they. We have chosen to center it on the modalities of transmission and the effects of family history on the subjective identity of the descendants.
Modalities and difficulties of transmission
All these grandchildren wished to transmit the history of their family to their children and sought to inscribe themselves in its continuity. Most of them had the sense of being the heirs of numerous values transmitted by their parents and their grandparents, and they thought these had influenced their ways of being and their life choices. Confronted with the disappearance of a world in which their grandparents had lived (that of the Jews of Poland, on account of the Shoah and exile, and, sometimes, that of communism), and with the disappearance of an important part of its references, they curiously found only a partial support in the one that presented a certain permanence — that of France, which they hold in common with their grandparents and their parents. In relation to the places and the era where the grandparents lived through the most dramatic things, France and its references, the life that had unfolded after the war, were perceived as no doubt so “banal,” so close and so self-evident that they were not for them a source of questioning. Moreover, integration in France was for the grandparents the object of a struggle with contradictory elements that the grandchildren perceived: the desire to integrate and above all that their children should integrate and succeed socially, but also the fear of effacing the references that were their own. For those who had lived through the war in France, there sometimes existed an ambivalent relation to this country that had not protected them, even if they also leaned on the fact that some of them had been saved thanks to the courage of those who had helped them. The grandchildren had moreover to find their own place and their own bearings so as to inscribe themselves in the continuity of family history without being the guardians of a memory or alienated to a constraining and frozen faithfulness. Some were able to find their place without major contradiction between their family history and their present insertion in France; others, more painfully.
Are these differences due to family history, to the ordeals undergone, to what was transmitted? The interviews can only bring avenues of reflection to this question. They give an account of a trajectory and a questioning at a precise moment, those whom we met being of various ages (between nineteen and forty-eight years).
All the more so as they show the complexity of the process of transmitting a family history marked by exile and the Shoah. Some underwent the effects of silence and the unsaid, others those of traumatizing accounts, all the more violent as they were sometimes told prematurely and repeatedly to the grandchildren; others were confronted with their forebears’ desire to transmit and with the putting-into-narrative of family history; others with a “modest transmission,” without secrets and unsaid, but without narrative either, as long as the child did not feel ready to receive it. But whatever the conscious and unconscious position of the grandparents or the parents may have been, no way of transmitting, of saying or of not saying, allowed the grandchildren to escape the disturbance and the necessity of reappropriating the history from which they issued, on the basis of their own undertaking.
Several moments in transmission can be distinguished: that of reception in a passive position; that in which it is actively sought and in which it represents a genuine “act” that modifies the grandchild’s relation to his forebears, that allows him to appropriate family history, to transform a knowledge that would risk being merely intellectual and abstract into a knowledge invested with affects and living, transmissible and shareable in turn with others. This act of transmission is as important as the very content of transmission and appears as one of the major conditions for it to pass on to the great-grandchildren. Unlike forced or passively received transmission, it makes it possible to integrate, to think, and to put into narrative, in one’s own words, the emotional transmission received from grandparents or parents — in which what their world was had been intuitively perceived — and to render living and personal, because felt and shared in an active way, the knowledge of family history.
Some interviews show that, depending on the case, this act of transmission was able to take place, is in the making, or remains impossible. But in every case, and even if the parents have maintained ties with present-day Poland, the majority of the third generations have difficulty thinking, in a living and concrete way, the life of the grandparents before exile, their country or their city of origin. For several of them, the grandparents’ account of their life in Poland appears partly as a tale or a novel. This feeling of unreality, of strangeness, of distance is due at once to exile, to the disappearance of Jewish life in that country, to the rupture it brought about, and to the weight of the Shoah in family history. For the Shoah risks concentrating family history, whence the difficulty of the grandchild in representing to himself a before-the-Shoah and in giving a place to an after. In making Judaism in Poland disappear, the Shoah froze its history, and it is impossible today to know how it would have evolved with all its richness, its characteristics, and its diversity. It no longer appears, then, retrospectively, except in the frozen and mythical form of the Shtetl, with distant bearings and models for those who live in France and are integrated there, who have found or created other continuities and other bearings. Under these conditions, the third generations, for most of them, no longer have access to a representation of a part of the life and the ways of being of their grandparents and their ancestors, whatever the accounts of their forebears or their absence. Furthermore, since Poland was a country of oppression of the Jews at the beginning of the twentieth century and the principal site of the construction of the extermination and concentration camps, the grandchildren of the Jews who came from that country can scarcely think their origin in connection with it, with its language, its culture, its present-day evolution. This redoubles their feeling of “a vanished world” and their difficulty in representing it to themselves. Some took stock of this radical break by leaning on their present references and on a sufficiently evolutive vision of their family history.
Others, by contrast, sought to annul it and to inscribe themselves in a continuity of family history beyond the rupture of the Shoah and exile. Caught in a temporal telescoping and a suspension of temporality, they leaned on shreds of family history, sometimes mythical, so as to bring back to life, through their commitments, what their grandparents, according to them, incarnated; or else, despite a long-standing presence in France for three generations, they continued to present themselves as “Jews from Poland.” Some sought to posit an act of transmission by learning Yiddish so as to better understand what the world of their grandparents had been, by taking an interest in the culture or the religion as they existed in Poland — but they thereby privileged the preservation of a memory or the attempt to reconstruct a vanished past that they felt it their duty to transmit to their descendants.
These various attempts show how the “duty of memory” risks transforming itself into an impossible constraint that could lock the grandchildren into a frozen faithfulness. If it is no longer a matter of transmitting the complexity of the history of the grandparents — at the crossroads of Poland, the Shoah, and France — but of placing them, in effect, in a mythical position by identifying them with a world doubly inaccessible because vanished and because the Shoah took place, then the grandchildren face an impossible mission. Whatever they do and whatever their desire, they cannot perpetuate and faithfully transmit a vanished world.
A few resumed contact with present-day Poland through touristic or university stays in that country and thus sought to go beyond a mythical and schematic vision of it. But, apart from a young woman born in Poland who lived there for ten years, only one person invested herself intensely in a political and historical reflection on that country and on what it represented for her. Was this due to the fact that she perceived in her grandmother the nostalgia for the country of her childhood, or to the fact that her Polish identity had allowed her to hide her Jewish identity during the war and thus to escape death?
All the others rather perceived the rejection of that country by their grandparents, or the bitterness of those who had returned there after 1945.
Because of the Shoah, the transmission of family history could not, in most cases, live up to what each one expected of it, whatever the position of the grandparents and the parents, their desire to bear witness or their silence, and whatever the desire of the grandchildren to understand and to appropriate family history. Each of them listened to or heard the history of his grandparents or his parents through a selective lens, finding a more or less satisfying compromise between what the grandparents would have wished or sought to transmit and what the grandchildren wished or would have wished to receive and were capable of hearing. The grandparents sometimes did not always know how to transmit their history to descendants living in another cultural universe and having other references. They perceived their desire to know their history, but also their disturbance and their incapacity to hear and receive this transmission. Some wanted to preserve a more soothed image and relation with their descendants, for whom the accounts of the violence of what they had lived through and of their suffering were often hard to bear. The grandchildren wished that family history be transmitted to them, but they feared that the image of their grandparents would be altered, they dreaded losing the daily bearings that had been woven with them and that their view of family history would shatter into pieces. They were also afraid of bringing back the suffering of their grandparents, of making masochistic or sadistic feelings emerge, of being in the position of voyeurs. Whether there had been narrative or silence on the part of the grandparents, whether or not this narrative was counterbalanced by more banal and everyday elements of life before or after the war, certain interviews showed the disturbance of the grandchildren confronted with this transmission: a blurring of temporal bearings, a partial incapacity to hear and to memorize, a feeling of abstraction and unreality. Sometimes a feeling of strangeness arose when the usual codes of the relation between grandparents and grandchildren wavered, even for a brief instant, and they were confronted with another image of their grandparents because of the impact of the Shoah or the persecutions. The grandchildren then oscillated between the feeling of the familiar and the strange, of the near and the far, troubled by the fact that the two could coexist and were inseparable.
In order to integrate family history into their psychic space and become in turn actors of its transmission, some grandchildren leaned on fragments of it that allowed them to go beyond the unbearable image of anonymous extermination. Many laid the accent on the acts of humanity or solidarity, the qualities and the heroic acts that allowed their grandparents to survive and to rebuild their lives after the war. The fact of having survived was considered an exploit, whether the grandparents had been deported, hidden, or members of the Resistance. Some sought to give back a unique individual status to those who had been caught up in a mass extermination and to render their deaths thinkable because due to an individual — whether a matter of an act of sadism, of courage, or of human error. This psychic work made it possible not to be locked in a position of victim, not to lock their forebears into it, to inscribe oneself in the continuity of active and energetic positions whose inheritance they could claim with pride.
The transmission of family history rarely appeared balanced between the two lineages or among the four grandparents. No doubt this is due partly to specific and banal family histories, even if the Shoah gave them a particular relief. As in every family, one or several grandparental figures can occupy a central and sometimes crushing place to the detriment of the others. But the weight of the confrontation with the Shoah or of engagement in the Resistance, an insufficient or crushing transmission of the ordeals undergone, magnified and froze this imbalance. The destinies of those who had lived through exile and the Shoah indeed arouse more curiosity and disturbance in the grandchildren than the destiny of those who did not know these ordeals, and they make necessary a psychic work of constructing family history in order to be able to attribute it to oneself and to inscribe oneself in a continuity. Transmission can seem self-evident and, in appearance, without problem on the side of the grandparents who are more rooted in France or who seem to have undergone fewer ordeals.
The recourse to a third party in the process of transmission appeared in numerous interviews. Its function and its place were not univocal. One can schematically distinguish several configurations.
The third party is the one who can bear witness on the basis of an experience close to that of the grandparents. This allowed grandchildren, in certain cases, to acquire a knowledge in place of what the grandparents could not transmit, to imagine through the identification of the grandparents with this witness — but transmission nonetheless remained at an impasse, for this testimony could not substitute itself for that of the grandparents. In certain cases, however, the third party made it possible for children and grandchildren to perceive that other subjective positions were possible with close experiences, and to lean on this diversity so as to be less alienated to family history.
The third party can also be the one who elicits or makes possible the grandparents’ testimony. In certain families, the non-Jewish parent, caught up in the relation to the history of Judaism and troubled by it, but nonetheless sufficiently perceived as different, occupied the function of “conveyor.” He was, because of his characteristics, one of the principal repositories of the grandparents’ account, indeed the one who elicited transmission. The testimony could also take on a collective and general value when it addressed itself to society. Several grandparents thus bore witness at the request of the Spielberg Foundation or of journalists. The interviews do not make it possible to say whether they needed this mediation in order to be able to address their descendants, or whether this testimony was driven by the desire to transmit to society out of a concern for collective reflection, so that genocides would not recur, in parallel with the concern to address the descendants directly by other possible channels.
It was often difficult for the grandchildren to confront these public testimonies. In most cases, they could not seize hold of them to appropriate family history, for these testimonies froze the discourse of the grandparents, rendered it untouchable and without possible evolution, whereas the grandchildren were for their part in the midst of questioning. These testimonies could also confront the grandchildren brutally with the image of grandparents assisting, powerless, at the horror of extermination and at its effects on their own family, and with the fact that what had been seen by the grandparents could not be really apprehended by the grandchildren. It was not transmissible, and the narrative and the words could not translate its violence. Whence the confrontation with an insurmountable gap between the grandparents and their descendants and with an inevitably insufficient transmission. Only one granddaughter of a Resistance member leaned on the testimonies of her grandfather to better know the history of her grandparents, but this was possible because they were accounts that were violent, to be sure, but that did not concern the experience of the camps and that therefore continued to be part of representable bearings and a representable world.
Several grandparents wrote their history, and some accounts were published. Through these writings, there was the concern to transmit to descendants and to society. Certain parents, uncles, or aunts undertook genealogical research or recorded the testimonies of family members out of a concern for transmission to descendants. The destiny of these writings, these testimonies, and this research is diverse. Some said that their presence was sufficiently reassuring as to a possible transmission that they did not feel the need “to go and look.” No doubt they also delayed the moment of confronting them, so as not to break the everyday images and relation they had been able to establish with their forebears. For others, these writings opened a possibility of dialogue and transmission. But the “co-construction” of transmission between forebears and descendants proved rare. It was the case once. One of the grandfathers had asked his grandson to help him in the writing of his book. But it concerned his life in Poland, the evolution of everyday life in his village before the war, and the mention, at the beginning of the book, of the camp to which this grandfather was deported deeply troubled the grandson.
Three grandchildren felt the need to make a film about the history of their grandparents. The choice of putting things into images so as to become in turn actors of transmission fit into their professional choices, but perhaps they also felt the necessity of compensating for a feeling of unreality and abstraction with respect to family history. This act of transmission addressed itself first to themselves, then to their descendants, so that the latter could appropriate a knowledge charged with affectivity and in evolution, palpable and representable traces of family history — and finally to society. For one of them, this film also addressed itself to a friend, and it translated, through this address, not only a demand for faithfulness toward the grandparents, but also the need to make a bridge between what their world and the ordeals undergone had been and his own daily life with its present preoccupations.
Impact of the grandparents’ history on the subjective identity of the descendants
Each one took fragments of the Judaism that the grandparents seemed to incarnate. Some tried to hook it onto what present-day Judaism offers (communal, religious engagement, the reference to Israel). Others made of it solely a family and private history. But none totally renounced this identitarian reference. Even if they did not know what content to give it, it was at least a memory that they felt it their duty to know and to transmit.
The grandparents incarnated Judaism. As long as they were in Poland, they were Jews in a world whose references were rather homogeneous, whatever the conditions in which they lived. Assimilation was an act of rupture or of voluntary evolution in relation to that world, as was the arrival in France and the desire for integration. This homogeneous Jewish world — religious, culinary, cultural, social — did not exist in France. The Shoah made it disappear in Poland without allowing it to evolve along with the whole of modern society. Because of this, the grandchildren sometimes had trouble knowing whether the grandparents’ rupture with traditional and religious Judaism and the integration in France were the consequence of a voluntary act, of the normal evolution of modern society, or of the Shoah — or of all three at once.
The relation to Judaism therefore poses a problem in every case. The third generation is torn between several relations to the Judaism of the grandparents, the weight of the Shoah, which risks constituting its sole reference, present-day Judaism, and what was transmitted by the parents. All wondered, each in his own way, whether Judaism risked disappearing with them or their children, whether they risked contributing to this disappearance through an incapacity to give it a content and through a passive acceptance of a state of affairs. This risk of disappearance was often lived painfully, and they had the sense of a great responsibility toward their grandparents, who had the courage not only to survive the Shoah but to transmit life. They were caught in a duty of faithfulness toward their forebears, but it was difficult for them to find modalities for maintaining this identity that would correspond to their expectations and that would not betray those they attribute to their forebears.
Different modes of perpetuating or referring to Judaism appeared. Some were linked to the preoccupations and references of the Jewish community (religion, cultural, political, and social engagement). Others defined Judaism principally by the fact of being Jewish in the diaspora and its effects on their subjective identity; others said they were Jews because they were the heirs of a particular family history connected to that of the Ashkenazi Jews of the twentieth century. Some linked their Judaism to the relation to culture and knowledge — those of the yiddishland, but also those of Jewish writers, filmmakers, or painters who bear witness to universal values. Others sought their reference to Judaism through language (Yiddish when they lived it as a memory to be preserved, Hebrew when they sought to inscribe it in their present daily life). For some, Jewish identity imposed itself as self-evident, whatever its content and its definition; others needed to posit an act in order to attribute it to themselves.
But all were confronted with the same question: faithfulness to what and how, and under what form?
Faithfulness to family history, and thus the possibility of inscribing oneself in a continuity, seeks to pass beyond the traumatic ruptures in that history, but also to take stock of the founding ruptures without thereby annulling the before of these. The “third generations” are confronted with the following questions: does the rupture introduced by the Shoah or the persecutions in Poland concentrate the entire origin of present-day family history, of their history and of their questioning about it, or is it possible to identify other traumatic or voluntary and assumed ruptures at the origin of this history? The origin here is not the real or mythical origin of the family, but that of the tipping point at which the forebear became other (other than he was, other than others — and first of all his parents — saw him, sometimes other than he himself saw and knew himself to be). It is therefore a matter of a rupture that is not only eventful but subjective, and that marks a moment of profound change and that opens onto a new symbolic origin in the history of the lineage. Those whom we met wondered whether the ruptures allowed their forebears to become the founders of their own history, whether they had become other because different — but whether this difference was assumed and acceptable, or whether, on the contrary, these ruptures were those of traumas and their forebears had then become other because become strangers to themselves. In the first case, despite the Shoah, they could lean on this moment of refounding of family history to authorize themselves to find their own modalities of transmitting the past and the history to come. Faithfulness was not reproduction, but an authentic continuity. Some were thus conscious of occupying a specific place in family history but also of the necessity of finding their own path and their own bearings, while leaning on the experience of those who had preceded them. In the second case, the third generations were caught in a duty of faithfulness that constrained them to seek the grandparents from before the rupture, to identify with the references and the world of that before, to attempt to perpetuate it in an imaginary way. Sometimes the grandchildren were confronted with the coexistence of traumatic ruptures and acts of refounding. The grandparents were at once strangers to themselves because of the effects of the Shoah or the persecutions and only different because they had also borne the refounding of family history. Their grandchildren, troubled by the coexistence of these two types of relation to oneself, oscillated among several possible origins of their history (the Shoah, the arrival in France, the moment of the grandparents’ meeting, the “new departure” of the postwar period, the Poland of the shtetl) and several images of their grandparents.
Faced with the risk of a Judaism and a family history reduced to the Shoah, several subjective positions appeared. Some oscillated between a Judaism too alienating for them because imposing a reading of the family’s history too closely tied to the Shoah, and a universalism that allowed them to situate themselves outside any community of belonging, apart from the human community. Others leaned on the eternal references of Judaism or on particular moments of its history so as to give a less crushing and more living content to this identity and to attempt to avoid situating themselves in a family history whose origin would be the Shoah or the persecutions. Others, finally, decided to reappropriate a Jewish identity by choice, to be the actor of this identity and not the one whom the other designates as Jewish out of antisemitism or refusal of difference. In thus becoming actors, they also sought, confusedly, the ways of a refounding of family history that had not been able to take place before, either because it had not been able to come to fruition, or because it had not been borne by one of the forebears. This refounding was not for them a rupture, but a taking up again — with other formulations and in another context — of what had remained at an impasse for the forebears.
Integration in France, wanted by the grandparents and the parents, was achieved for all, even if for some it was only a social insertion because of the absence of old roots and of ancestors, and because the grandparents’ arrival in France was perceived not as a choice but as a chance occurrence or a “passage.” The Shoah struck those who were in France during the war, but in most of the accounts the denunciations or antisemitic acts were counterbalanced by those of the help received. Did these accounts correspond to reality, to what the grandchildren retained of it, or to what the grandparents transmitted in order to facilitate integration? The present-day resurgence of antisemitic acts nonetheless very quickly brought back the fragility of its representations. And yet, France represented an acquired thing, a reference of family history that the grandchildren had inherited without problem, and it appeared as the site of a certain continuity and permanence.
The fact of confronting the heritage of the struggles waged in their time by the grandparents was, by contrast, much more complicated for the grandchildren. Their commitments (communism, secularism, left-wing Zionism) had contributed to shattering the overly homogeneous and rigid references of Judaism; they had been the opening to otherness and to difference, to universal values — that to which the grandchildren held. They were proud of their grandparents, of their struggle, but also ambivalent and sometimes angry, for, in counterpart, they no longer knew what content to give to their Judaism. Its references had been called into question. They could not identify with the present-day references of the Jewish community, for its functioning, its values, the risk of being closed up in too homogeneous a group appeared to them contradictory with what had been transmitted to them; but neither could they lean on the proposed alternatives, which had shown their limits, indeed their impasse. There remained the references to family history and to the values defended that transcend this or that historical moment. But these appeared to them insufficient. They could be faithful to the commitments of their grandparents only by perpetuating the memory of a history, by assuming its complexity without being alienated to it, and thus by finding their own path.
Several bore witness to this search-in-the-making, and also to their great solitude. Issuing from a doubly exceptional history — that of the Shoah and that of the grandparents’ struggles — confronted with two worlds that collapsed (that of the Jews of Poland, that of communism, or that of left-wing Zionism imbued with a socialist ideal), they could lean on no religious reference and had very little tradition and history of Judaism. The community of reference that they sought remained, for the moment, nowhere to be found. They therefore bore family history alone, not always knowing what to do with it, and the various groups in which they took part (that of the Jews, that of the “non-Jews”) always reflected back to them their difference and their marginality — which was also, in a more dramatic form, the lot of their grandparents.
Family history also had an impact on the relation to knowledge of the “third generations.” This relation was not univocal, and various modalities can be distinguished: the labor of knowledge, the duty of knowledge, the incitement to knowledge. The intrinsically unsatisfying transmission of family history, the exceptional destiny of their family, were for some at the origin of their epistemological drive, of a labor of knowledge that one might define as the sense of a necessity of knowing in order to construct one’s own history, to understand it, to appropriate it. This passed either through the search for a better knowledge of family history, or through a questioning and an attempt to understand genocides and the limit-situations of human experience, or through readings on the world of the yiddishland, or through the learning of Yiddish. To learn that language had as its aim to recover, give form to, and give meaning to the impressions of childhood, or to engage the dialogue with the grandparents in the thought that transmission would become possible thanks to the sharing of the mother tongue. Others, few in number, were caught in the duty of knowledge. What the grandparents had transmitted to them seemed to them too distant and unreachable, of the order of a bygone past, but also a crushing and insurmountable example. They therefore had to appropriate a knowledge in order to attempt to approach this world and to be able to feel themselves the legitimate heirs of the grandparents.
In many interviews, the incitement to knowledge leaned on the transmission of the values of the grandparents and the parents. Knowledge and the relation to culture appeared in the grandchildren’s accounts as a factor of survival and permanence at once primordial and inalienable. The feeling of unreality with respect to family history and the necessity of making their imaginary work so as to make up for the insufficiencies of transmission were probably, for some, one of the origins of their artistic vocation.
Conclusion
Caught between exile and the Shoah, the shattering or the disappearance of the universes of reference and of origin of their grandparents, finding in their integration in France a permanence and a self-evidence that does not spare them from being caught up in the exceptional destiny of their family, the grandchildren of the Polish Jews who came to France bear witness to the difficulty of finding a balance between past and present, between faithfulness to family history and the necessity of constructing their own history so as to be, in turn, actors of transmission.
Notes
This work, carried out with D. Oppenheim, will be the subject of a book to be published by Éditions Érès. It also drew on the reflections of a friendly working group composed of J. Frydman, I. Rosenman, and K. Szurek, and of five members of the “third generations,” Iona, Boris, David, Sarah, and Elie.↩︎
Schnapper D.: Juifs et israélites, Paris, Gallimard, 1980.↩︎