Dead men tell no tales, but when those left behind do—a fellow family historian reminds us—their stories often reveal more than any records.
This week I read a very moving piece by a fellow family history researcher. I have enjoyed many of Paul Chiddicks’ posts on Substack. He is also a columnist for Family Tree Magazine.
In a recent piece, The Trees Remember, Paul has perfectly underscored the fact that, in terms of having a better understanding of history— whether about one’s family or in a more general context—records are merely a starting point. They have limitations. Paul’s piece provides countless examples of how essential family and historical information only came to light when those who lived through the particular incident he details began telling their stories. Even when results of investigations filled in parts of the story, they did not convey the complete story. That necessitated many personal conversations over time.
It immediately struck me how serendipitous it had been to have read Paul’s piece during the same week I’d been contemplating this prompt for the 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks Challenge:
“We deal with a lot of written records, but we can also learn from things like photos and the spoken word. What is something you’ve learned about an ancestor in a different way? (Or what do you wish had been written down, but wasn’t?)”
Paul details the painstaking efforts that went into finding out the details surrounding a horrible incident of which there were only a few survivors. These survivors and perhaps a handful of local residents were the sole witnesses to what went down outside a small rural town in Normandy during World War II.
While all eyes were on the desperate efforts to evacuate Allied troops from Dunkirk in late May 1940, a despicable war crime took place further inland in a pasture near Esquelbecq. About 100 Allied soldiers were tasked with covering the rear while the rescue efforts on the coast—that would later become famous—were taking place. The soldiers fought valiantly to slow the German advance, buying time for their comrades to be ferried away, in vessels of all shapes and sizes, to safety across the English Channel. After nine hours of holding rank, the forces were overwhelmed. They surrendered, giving up their weapons. Defenseless, they were massacred in cold blood by their German captors.
The dreadful story of what happened to the ill-fated rear flank came out much later only because survivors eventually spoke up. This then prompted an investigation, and laborious efforts to interview locals and to identify previously unidentified remains followed. Only then were the families of some of those who had died there finally given a modicum of resolution as to what had happened to these men on that fateful day.
It all started with those who had survived retelling their story.
Paul writes:
Because sometimes the record is not a birth certificate, a census or a marriage entry. Sometimes the record is a survivor remembering what happened to a friend. Sometimes it is a name recovered from a grave. Sometimes it is a document created because someone, years after the event, refused to allow a person to simply disappear.
With his permission, I am sharing Paul’s piece. It’s an engrossing story, superbly researched and written. And it’s a testament to the unique genealogical and historical source that is the spoken word.
With regard to the tale Paul recounts, personal stories turned out to be irreplaceable resources.
Read “The Trees Remember” here.
Written for the 52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks Challenge: Week 39-“What Wasn’t Written Down.” PROMPT: We deal with a lot of written records, but we can also learn from things like photos and the spoken word. What is something you’ve learned about an ancestor in a different way? (Or what do you wish had been written down, but wasn’t?)
Susan, thank you so much for this. ❤️
I’m genuinely touched that you not only took the time to read The Trees Remember, but then went on to reflect on it so thoughtfully and connect it with your own 52 Ancestors prompt. That means an enormous amount to me.
One of the things I have always hoped to do with my writing is to remind people that behind every record there was a person, and sometimes the most important parts of their story were never written down at all. As you so beautifully captured, sometimes the only way a story survives is because someone remembers it, someone tells it, and eventually someone else cares enough to listen.
What particularly moved me was your observation that the story only began to emerge because survivors eventually spoke. Those voices became records in their own right, and without them so much of what happened might have remained lost forever. That is something I think applies just as much to our own family histories as it does to the larger stories of war and history.
Thank you too for sharing the piece with your readers and for giving it such a thoughtful introduction. It is incredibly kind of you, and I never take that sort of generosity for granted. Knowing that the story has prompted someone else to think differently about the records, the gaps between them, and the importance of listening to the voices that remain, makes all the hours of research worthwhile.
And I particularly loved your line about the spoken word being a unique genealogical and historical source. I think that is something we can all too easily overlook.
Thank you, my friend. I’m truly grateful. ❤️