Letter from Marie Agnus, granddaughter of Jean Agnus to the Minister of the Armed Forces
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For Marie Agnus, hergrandfatherwas this young man pictured in the library or in the family albums. She has of course heard of it, like of Minerva, she knows her ceremonial sword, her uniform or her camera which she still keeps today on her chest of drawers, in her bedroom. And she often still wonders why she didn't have the chance to know him. It's a permanent lack that no doubt echoes mine. Like all little girls, she also feels what her daddy feels. And she expresses it here with her words, her accuracy, and her emotion.
Mrs Florence PARLY
Minister of the Armed Forces
14 rue Saint-Dominique
75007 PARIS
Montaigut sur Save, le 17 décembre 2018
Madam Minister,
My name is Marie Agnus.
I'm writing to you today to tell you the story of a little girl.
She is 8 years old, with brown curls all around her face and big green eyes open to the world. One day, while out walking with her dad, this little girl discovered that an old man who lived a few dozen metres from her house knew her grandfather. It was a happy coincidence, as her father immediately went to his house to talk about it. In the living room, his eyes were as red as when he lit the fire. After talking in a low voice for a long time, the old man looked at the little girl and suggested that she go upstairs and look at a big box full of old newspapers that she found hard to read and black and white photos. While the adults were talking, she made a little pile of photos and a few pieces of newspaper that seemed important to her because they were full of words. But above all, among all these words, the name of her grandfather.
The little girl and her father returned home, and everything went back to the way it was before, apart from her dad's visits to the old man. But she wasn't allowed to come now. Too bad. She would do her own investigation.
Unlike the grown-ups, she, with her childlike eyes, could see and talk to her grandfather. Every night for years, she would wait until her parents thought she was asleep before calling her grandfather in. Next to him stayed two other people: two other deceased members of her family. She would chat with them in the evening, telling them about her day, asking them questions, telling them jokes. They played along, gave her advice and even laughed at her worst jokes. Once the mourning was over, they left. But her grandfather just stood there, never saying a word. No matter how much she insisted, how many questions she asked, how much she ended up getting angry, crying, begging in the night, he just stood there, a smile on his face, his eyes full of sadness. The little girl grew up, but the grandfather stayed. She built herself up by trying to fill a void, right there in her heart, like a lost piece that leaves the jigsaw unfinished forever.
That little girl is me. I'm the granddaughter of Lieutenant Jean Agnus, engine engineer on the Minerve, who disappeared off the coast of Toulon in January 1968. I'm nearly 18 and I'm still trying to understand. People tell me that I look like him, that I think the same way, that unfortunately for me I have the same sense of humour. In short, that I look like a mute shadow in the night. A shadow I cherished all my childhood, who was my confidante, but who, unlike the others, never had a voice.
Not long ago, the Argentine submarine San Juan and its dead sailors were found. But the Minerve, a French submarine, has not been found. So, years later, I'm still doing my best to mourn. But, while everyone goes to the cemetery for All Saints' Day, I'm still hesitating about which seafront to face to try and approach her.
La Minerve disappeared 50 years ago. Today, perhaps we could find out where it is. We might. An 8-year-old granddaughter is asking you, along with all the families of the sailors on La Minerve: please help us find her.
Yours sincerely
Marie Agnus