the diary of an ex-hostage of the Bataclan, week 9

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 ninth week.

>> The eighth week diary

Tuesday November 2. It is early when I arrive on the Ile de la Cité. Lovers pose between the trees of Place Dauphine. Bursts of laughter rise and in the distance sirens sing. I sip my coffee while waiting for a friend. These last three nights have been filled with dreams of the last two months. I recognize here and there lights and evanescent scraps of memories of the courtroom. I have the impression that my mind is struggling to organize the memory of each day. This daily life loaded with existential and factual questions facilitates forgetting and my brain makes me understand it.

November will always be the time of year when time stands still. At least for one day, the 13th of the month. There is a big hole in the calendar that we all inevitably fall into. During this fall, we stumble over our memories and our pains. Since November 13, our daily life has turned into an unplayable score so much so that the eleventh month of the year has become its sigh. Our eyes are on THE fateful date. This anxious and weakening expectation takes me back to my childhood, I was waiting, stressed, on New Year’s Eve, for the count. Today the expectation has changed and the count even more. In limbo of my mind, the voice stating the identity of those who died at the Bataclan replaced it.

Today begins a new phase of the trial, we will hear from the defendants on their personalities and their curriculum vitae. I left Place Dauphine a long time ago and I am sitting on a bench in the Salle des Pas Perdus, a cohort of journalists pushing into the space dedicated to them opposite the entrance to the courtroom. Civil parties, journalists and lawyers have lunch on sandwiches bought on the road and all the seats around me are occupied. For my part, I take a break from writing the post to come back to it later.

It is 5 pm when I resume.

Since the start of the hearing in September, the accused were distant figures, locked in the large glass room, as if excluded from the perpetual dialogue in the courtroom. In addition to this physical distance, there is psychological distance. Concerning them, the threshold of my understanding has long been exceeded and I leave that to others. Despite everything, we are many civil parties listening attentively to their statements. I was seated next to Gwendal during the first two interrogations. As in previous depositions, I describe the clothes and posture of the person speaking in my notebook. I try a few drawings too, all failed, I will have tried, at least. These interrogations plunge us into the personal construction of the accused. Through the answers to the questions, we go to meet their past, their family and their childhood: who are they? Where did they grow up?

I leave the auction room to continue writing the ticket. During the interrogations, words that one does not expect are invited: “nightclub”, “drink with friends”, “love”, “television” … Like an echo of the words spoken a few years ago. days by the civil parties. The violence of this thought strikes me, I did not expect it. But I imagine that this is also the manifestation of the truth? I leave the hall of lost footsteps around 6 p.m., my mind confused by this new day and its endless stream of questions.

We have switched to winter time and it is dark. I hope it’s not raining outside, at least.