the diary of an ex-hostage of the Bataclan, week 12

On November 13, 2015, David Fritz-Goeppinger was at the Bataclan when the concert hall was attacked by three men, armed with assault rifles and explosive belts. “Never again in my life will I forget these faces”, David confides. Taken hostage for two and a half hours, he thinks every minute that his time has come. Until the assault of the BRI police. That night, the coordinated attacks on the Stade de France, the terraces of the 10th and 11th arrondissements of Paris and the Bataclan, left 130 dead, including 90 in the concert hall, and more than 400 injured. Almost six years later, it is the trial of these attacks which is held in Paris. David Fritz-Goeppinger, now a photographer, has agreed to share via this logbook his feelings, in image and in writing, during the long months that the historic trial of these November 13 attacks that marked France. Here is his account of the twelfth week.

>> The eleventh week diary

Wednesday December 1st. The leaves have deserted the trees of Place Dauphine, winter is here. November has passed like a flash. The feeling of having resumed the course of the year is now very significant, the fall is behind us. This year was no exception to what is now a rule in my life, November is dark.

Yesterday at noon, I had a meeting with Chloé, victim of the attack against La Belle Équipe that I met a few weeks ago. After having lunch, we take the direction of the Palace together.

As in the previous days, five defendants refused to appear at the hearing and it starts later than scheduled. As I entered the courtroom, I was greeted by the voice of a new Belgian investigator. Like the previous two days, the testimony is difficult to follow. Also because hearing the sound of the leaves through the microphone, I have the impression that the policeman is immersed in a reading. However, the discovery of the route of one of the accused present in the box (in normal times) interests me. So, I hardly write a few notes in my notebook which is struggling to fill.

After a half-hour suspension, the president announces that for health reasons, a new accused refuses to appear at the hearing. His declaration is followed by a new suspension, of an hour and a half this one, which clearly undermines my desire to stay at the Palace. These repeated hearing incidents add a layer to my difficulty in staying focused and tire me out. Installed in the auction room, I decided to stop writing the 51st day around 6 p.m.

It is 4 p.m. Wednesday, December 1. I am sitting on one of the benches in the auction hall. At midday, I was unable to enter the Palace through the usual entrance. Signaling tapes and a police crew barred my way when I arrived at Pont-Neuf. The policeman looks at my badge and explains to me that I will have to go around, that a suspicious package has been discovered. I enter the Sanctuary after having made the tour of the Island, weary of anticipation.

As yesterday, the accused are missing at the box. The continuation of the hearing in their absence questions me, a little as if justice necessarily had to pass by their presence, I do not know. At the virtual “bar”, I recognize the voice of a Belgian investigator that we have already heard last week. He returns today to speak on the journey of two defendants present at the hearing. In my notebook, failing to take notes, I try to draw one of the projected photographs where we see an accused in combat gear. The contrast between these iconographic appearances from another moment in the life of the accused and the men we have in front of us slowly modifies the image we have of them. Deep down, I have the impression that these representations bring part of their past to life. Finally, over the testimony of the investigators and those involved in the trial, it is my point of view and my perception of the case that are transformed into something more concrete, more tangible and less abstract.

On the projection screen of the auction room, the image of the investigators’ office serves as an open window on Brussels, on history.

It’s time to go home, my hands are cold.