1944: Transcribing and translating an old handwritten letter

     Ok, I'd like to whinge a little about the difficulty of translating a letter written almost 80 years ago.  It's hard work.  It's in French (which I mostly don't know), it's in cursive (which I do read, but still...), it's tiny and cramped, it's written on super thin onion-skin paper (so that you can sometimes see the writing on the reverse side) and the paper is sometimes stained.  It's about 3000 handwritten words on only two sheets (front and back, so four pages) of paper.  He writes between lines sometimes and sideways on the left margin, and sometimes he crosses words out.  Take a look at page one to get a sense of the project (then multiply that by four).

Page 1 of the letter

    Before, during, and after WW2, my grandfather kept a folder of information that he needed to get an immigration visa to the USA. It included about 80+ pages worth of:

• Affidavits from Great Uncle Jake (my grandmother's brother) who was already in the US, swearing that he would not allow my grandparents and their children to become public charges and that he wouldn't allow the children to work before the age of 18.  These also included notarized letters from his banker swearing to the amounts of money he kept in his accounts, his employer, stating how long he'd worked for them, and how much he made, 1945 income tax returns, and lists of US. savings bonds he'd purchased. His naturalization certificate number, etc.
• Letters from Jake to the US Foreign Service.
• Telegrams back and forth between my grandparents and uncle, sometimes urging my grandparents to flee to any other country that they could.
• Letters from Uncle Jake to my grandparents and vice-versa.
• Inquiries to the American Red Cross
• Letters from my grandfather to a diplomatic official begging for a visa, and a reply from that official saying that he had no power to issue a visa, that those decisions were made in Washington DC by the State Department and to STOP ASKING HIM.
• Etc.

    He saved that folder for the rest of his life, it was that important to him. After he died, it wound up in my aunt's possession, and last summer she sent it to me.  I finally got around to scanning it about 10 days ago, and now I'm working through it.  And the contents tell a wonderful story, of desperation, love,  heartbreak, and family.

    The letter I'm currently working on is one of the letters from my grandparents to my great-uncle that was in that folder. It is (I believe) a draft of a letter that he mailed to my great-uncle right after postal communications were re-established after their area was finally liberated in the fall of 1944.  There are enough crossed-out words, that I suspect that he re-wrote it and sent a cleaner version to my uncle, then kept this version as a copy (or perhaps my great-uncle returned it to him after the war?).

    The letter is tremendously difficult to work with. To put it in perspective, the four pages are very slightly smaller than a standard sheet of printer paper, yet contain approximately 3000 words (that's about 10-12 typed, double-spaced pages). To put that into perspective -- that's a term paper's worth of writing.

    Making it doubly difficult, is that it's written in French, and I speak very little French. At this point, I'm pretty comfortable reading Grandpa's cursive, but I when I'm reading his writing in English, I do have to depend on context clues to read some of the words, and when I'm transcribing French, I lose those context clues.  

    So, I type it in word by word, letter-by-letter, trying to determine the spelling as best I can. The difference between m and n and u can be very subtle in cursive! Or i and e, or v and r. or L and T if the latter isn't crossed. I ignore the diacritic marks during this stage (French uses an insane number of accents and other markings, and they are a complete pain in the ass and require I press and hold the letter I want, which brings up that letter's mark options so I can choose between say, à and á or â).  Fortunately, I've gained enough experience reading French over the last year that at least I'm starting to recognize the more common words, and don't have to transcribe them letter-by-letter.  

    Once, I have it typed in, I spell-check it. I have the spell-checker language set to French, and it adds in all the accent marks for me. But, I compare each and every word it flags as a misspelling to the original to see if it looks like a plausible transcription before accepting it.  

    Next, I copy and paste the text into Google Translate, and anywhere the translation is nonsensical, I go back and try different spellings of the problem words until I find the one that looks like it matches the handwritten word, AND makes sense once it's translated.  That's basically where I get my context clues. And what remains - that's when I get help.  I average about 1-3 words problem words per several sentences or about 10-15 or so words per page

    Finally, I send the text with a screenshot of the appropriate portion of the original letter to my mother and aunt, both of whom know their father's handwriting better than I do and ask them to check the remaining words that I was unable to transcribe/translate such that it is recognizable.  Unlike me, they do know French -- they grew up speaking French at home -- though they have both told me they are pretty rusty as they've both been speaking primarily English for more than a half-century, and only English for a couple of decades. :-)

    Then, if there are any remaining words that the three of us cannot figure out (about 3 words per page), I go to a few native French speakers I know and have them look them over. 

    But, the good news is: The letter is pure gold.  There is some new information in that letter, and it also confirms some guesses I've made.  It also shares some of the more mundane daily life stuff that Grandpa didn't tell me 44 years later when I interviewed him.   Anyway, it's exciting and frustrating all at once.  

How would an AI handle my stories?

 My brother sent me this link, and asked me to play with it: https://chat.openai.com/chat

And the results are .... interesting. Both amazingly, surprisingly good (like it writes better than many people), but also a little flat and emotionless. 

So here is my first interaction:

"Tell a story from the point of view of a member of the French Resistance from WW2."

Here is what it gave me:

     It was the year 1943 and I was a member of the French Resistance, fighting against the Nazi occupation of my beloved country. My name was Marie, and I was only 25 years old, but I had already seen and done more than most people do in a lifetime.

     I lived in a small village in the countryside, not far from the city of Lyon. Our group was made up of about a dozen men and women, all of us united in our desire to free France from the grip of the Germans. We did whatever we could to sabotage their efforts and aid the Allied forces however possible. 

     One of my main tasks was to gather intelligence and pass it on to the British and American spies who came through our village. I would listen to the gossip of the Nazi soldiers and try to overhear any useful information, then write it down and pass it on. It was dangerous work, but I knew it was important. 

     One day, I received a message that a high-ranking German officer was going to be passing through our village, and that he would be carrying important documents with him. This was a golden opportunity to get our hands on some valuable information, and I knew I had to take the risk.

     I enlisted the help of a few of my fellow resistance fighters, and together we set up a plan to intercept the officer's convoy as it passed through the village. We chose a spot on the road where the convoy would have to slow down, and when the time came, we emerged from our hiding places and attacked the vehicles with all the weapons we had.

     It was a chaotic and violent scene, but somehow we managed to emerge victorious. We seized the documents and made off with them into the woods, where we took them back to our safe house and began to study them. 

     As it turned out, the documents were even more valuable than we had hoped. They contained detailed plans for a major offensive by the Germans, and with this information, we were able to alert the Allies and give them a crucial advantage. 

     I will never forget the sense of pride and accomplishment I felt as we sat around the table, studying those documents and knowing that we had made a real difference. The war was not over yet, but we had struck a blow for freedom, and that was a feeling I would cherish for the rest of my life.

Not bad!   It's clear and easy to read and follow.  Nothing jumps out at me, other than it wasn't very exciting. It also seems a bit emotionless and lacks detail.

So next, I asked it to re-write a scene (that I had written) but from a different character's point of view.

 Specifically, my instructions were, "Re-write this scene from Roma's point of view."

The side-by-side format is a little hard to read. I'd advise reading until you reach the double-line break, then move to the right.

My Scene (Arthur's POV)	AI's Scene (Roma's POV)	My comments
Arthur drove Roma to the hospital then helped her inside.  A doctor took her into an exam room, and Arthur started to take off his coat, then realized the room was very cold, that he could still see his breath.       The doctor brought Roma back out.  “She’s not quite ready, perhaps another few hours.  There’s no one else in the delivery room today, so you may wait with her there, until it’s time.”  The doctor led them to the delivery room. “We lack fuel to heat the entire hospital, so the only heated rooms are the ORs and the delivery rooms.”  That explained why the lobby was so cold.	Roma watched as Arthur drove them to the hospital, then helped her inside. A doctor led her into an exam room, and she noticed that the room was very cold, with Arthur's breath visible in the air. The doctor informed her that she was not quite ready to give birth and that they could wait in the delivery room until it was time. Roma noticed that the lobby was also freezing, and the doctor explained that due to a lack of fuel, only the operating rooms and delivery rooms were heated.	Notice that it did NOT add a description of the exam to Roma's scene. Roma also only noted Arthur's breath in the cold, not her own.
Arthur pulled a book out of his pocket. It was a new copy of Madam Curie by Éve Curie. They’d left their first copy behind in Brussels. “Shall I read to you? It might help pass the time.”       Roma smiled — she was between contractions — and said, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”     So he read to her, for hours, pausing when the contractions came, or when a doctor or nurse came in to check on her. After one such pause, he asked her, “So what are the names we picked out again?”      “Jean after your commanding officer, Jean Georges or Sylvie Jacqueline,” she reminded him instantly. When Liliane was born, they’d chosen a name with a common English cognate, and they’d done the same thing this time, still planning to go to America someday.  And while they weren't religious, the Jewish prohibition against naming a child after a living relative perhaps still informed their decisions. To name the child after Isaac, or Teofila or Lola meant that they had lost that tiny bit of hope that Roma’s family had survived.	Arthur pulled out a book, Madam Curie by Éve Curie, and offered to read to Roma to pass the time. Roma happily agreed and listened as Arthur read to her, pausing during contractions or when a doctor or nurse came in to check on her. Arthur asked her about the names they had chosen for the baby, and Roma reminded him that they had chosen Jean Georges or Sylvie Jacqueline, both with common English cognates and not after any living relatives, in keeping with their plans to someday move to America and the Jewish tradition.	The AI did a lot of summarizing here, and got rid of the dialog. The summarization got weird at times. It's also not clearly from Roma's POV, and is kind of from both POVs.
Finally, something seemed to change in Roma, and she said, “Arthur, I think it’s time.”       He opened the door, and went to find the doctor, but the man was already on his way in to check on Roma.      Arthur remained in the hallway outside, his hands in his pockets, and he paced to keep warm.  The doctor came out, and said, “the baby is coming soon; please go to the lobby.”     “May I retrieve my coat?” Arthur asked, rubbing his cold hands together.     “Yes, of course.”      Arthur collected his coat, hat, and gloves, then left the room, pulling them on as he left. Two nurses came in, and the doctor closed the door behind them.	Finally, Roma felt that it was time to give birth and told Arthur. He left to find the doctor, but the doctor was already on his way in. Roma watched as Arthur remained in the hallway outside, his hands in his pockets as he tried to stay warm by pacing. The doctor eventually told Arthur to go to the lobby, and Arthur collected his coat, hat, and gloves before leaving the room.	It did a reasonably good job switching at the beginning of the paragraph, but the POV got unclear in the middle and end.
Arthur was freezing. The waiting area was very cold and he could see his breath. If he sat down, he got cold, and soon began shivering.  So he’d get back up, blow into his hands to warm them, and bounce and pace and run in place to warm up again. But then he got tired, and sat back down, only to start the freeze-thaw cycle again.       He was terribly uncomfortable, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for a blanket. The patients needed the blankets far more than he did. His nose was cold and his toes were numb.	Roma was grateful to be in the warm delivery room as Arthur struggled to stay warm in the freezing waiting area. He tried to keep active by pacing, bouncing, and running in place, but eventually sat down, only to start shivering again. Roma knew he was uncomfortable, but he didn't ask for a blanket, knowing the patients needed them more. She worried about him as he sat with numb toes and a cold nose, shivering and chattering his teeth.	Same as above - the POV is Roma's at the beginning of the paragraph and it added a nice little detail about how she felt about being in the warm room.  But here's where it got bad: Roma was busy giving birth, and it didn't describe her birth experience at all.   She is also describing (as if with ESP) what Arthur was doing and feeling, even though he wasn't in the room.
After two hours, the smiling doctor came to find him. “Mr. Lubinski, you have a lovely, healthy daughter, and your wife is just fine.”       Relief poured through Arthur, both because he knew his family was safe, but also because now he could get warm.  “May I see her?” Arthur was shivering, and his teeth chattered as he spoke.  He had been planning to get up and begin his warm up routine, but stepping into the heated delivery room sounded much better.       “Yes. Come in, warm up, and see your new daughter.”	After two hours, the doctor came to inform Arthur that Roma had given birth to a healthy daughter and was doing well. Arthur was relieved and eager to see his new daughter and warm up in the heated delivery room. The doctor welcomed him in, and Arthur finally got the chance to get warm and meet his new daughter.	POV not well switched here at all.

So, there you have it. As a storyteller, the AI is surprisingly good, but not as good as well ... a human storyteller (like me!). At this time, it doesn't understand how to integrate dialog with narrative, and it does an incomplete job of switching the POV. It also doesn't know to add to the story - what were the things Roma experienced, that Arthur didn't see?

1944: Arthur learns to use a submachine gun (chapter draft)

 Ok, so my grandfather didn't talk much about the submachine gun he used in the maquis; he only said that it was a Sten and not very good, and that he'd heard that the American-made Thompson (aka"Tommy Gun") was pretty good. That's about all I know directly from him.

As I researched what life in the maquis was like, I realized that I needed to write about my grandfather learning how to use it. So, I researched how they trained on the weapon given that they a) didn't have enough to go around, and often passed one gun from unit to unit for training purposes, b) in the absence of adequate supplies of ammunition, they learned to assemble and disassemble the weapon in record times.  

As I wrote the scene below, I had to balance two things: the character's experience and perspective, and the author's experience and perspective.  Now, my perspective should be entirely absent. It should be all about my grandfather and who he was, but some of myself may have slipped in.

So let me describe the relevant parts of my grandfather's personality: he wasn't a pacifist, but he was also very ... peaceable and non-violent. He spent most of WW2 avoiding war zones and escaping to safer places, so he could protect his family. He also never served in the army, so had zero combat training.  But in the maquis, he DID learn to use a Sten.  And as an engineer, he was also very curious about how things worked.  But, I don't believe he ever owned a gun, even after living in Oklahoma (where the Second Amendment is sacrosanct) for 40 years. Even after surviving the Holocaust.

[Correction: I now have reason to believe he did serve in the military - in Belgium, all men served mandatory military training after high school or college]

Now for my background: I too am not a pacifist, but I am also pretty strongly anti-war under most circumstances.  And while I've fired a gun a few times in my life, I am very inexperienced.  I've never held a submachine gun (or even seen one except in the movies) and know little about how they work or what they are like.  I am only a couple of baby steps above novice.  

Now what that means is that in order to write about the Sten in an - ahem - authoritative way, I researched the hell out of them. To my surprise, there is a group of people who really like firing and teaching about antique firearms, so there were lots of youtube videos for me to watch. I also found animations that showed how to disassemble and reassemble it, both into the four main parts, but also all the way down to the 50-ish individual components.  I watched videos of a man reviewing what it was like (how awkward it was) and firing it at a range to demonstrate its accuracy and he showed how the 4 main parts went together. I read lots and lots of stuff, too, and pestered a friend when I couldn't find certain details (like how to switch it between automatic and single-shot mode, or whether it was a centerfire or rimfire weapon). I even read the f-ing manual for heaven's sake (people have scanned the WW2-era paper manuals and put them online). Ok, I only skimmed the manual. It's hard to absorb the info without the actual item in your hands.

Anyway, I wrote a scene describing how Grandpa learned to use it.  But ... it might reflect my own curiosity and I might have over-compensated for my ignorance, and I might have gone into too much detail. Will readers be curious about what it's like to fire an obsolete, cheap, poorly-made, mass-produced submachine gun? Or does it drag?  Does it allow you as the reader to experience Grandpa's gun-ignorance and reluctant-yet-curious personality?  I'd love any feedback you might have.

    As he was putting the casing back on the radio, he felt a tap on his shoulder. 

     It was Lucien. “Biscuit, you need to learn the Sten. Only one other person besides you hasn’t, and it should go to the next unit soon.”

    Arthur sighed. “All right. Let me finish this.”  He tightened the screws that held on the metal casing. “I am ready.”

    Lucien led him to the worktable where more than a hundred men had learned the Sten. First, he taught Arthur the names of all the parts and how to assemble and disassemble the gun. “We don’t need to strip it down to the individual pieces. Only down to the four main ones.”  Lucien picked up the main part of the gun. “Receiver assembly.”  He then grabbed a thin tube protruding about 7 centimeters from a wider tube. “Barrel screws into the front of the receiver assembly.” He quickly hand-twisted the barrel into place.  “Butt stock.” He picked up the stock, which had a locking mechanism on one end, lined it up with the other end of the receiver assembly, and slid it upwards until a small button clicked into place.  Lucien picked up the magazine. “This one last.” He clicked it into the side of the receiver assembly.

    Within a short time, Arthur could put it together and take it apart, if not quickly, then at least correctly, and he could do it from memory and without coaching.

    Then Lucien taught Arthur to use the selector button a little forward of the trigger. “Push the side marked A to put it in fully automatic mode. Push the side marked R to take single shots.”

    “What does the R stand for?” Arthur asked.

    “Repetition.”  Lucien shrugged. “It makes no sense. But you use it when you want to take single shots.” Then he pointed to the magazine protruding from the left side of the gun. “It attaches on the side instead of underneath, so you can crawl without catching the magazine on the ground.”

    Finally, Lucien taught him to “safe the gun” by locking the charging handle into a slot at the top. If he dropped a safed Sten while it was loaded, it could not accidentally fire.  

    “And now, let’s learn to use it.”  Lucien showed Arthur how to use the sights to aim and how he had to use his left hand to cradle not grasp, the underside of the barrel shroud. It was hard to brace the weapon — it had no real grip for the right hand when pulling the trigger and every good spot to grab the gun with the left hand caused problems. Not the magazine because it wiggled slightly, and the play caused the bullets to misfeed. Not the barrel, which got hot, and not the barrel sleeve because that obscured the weapon’s sights. So the only way to brace it with the left hand was to cradle (but not grab) the barrel sleeve from below. It was an awkward weapon to use.

    “Also, don’t dry fire the gun,” Lucien said.

    “What is that?” Arthur asked.

    “Don’t pull the trigger with no ammo in it.”

    “Why not?”

    “Because it could damage the firing pin,” Lucien told him. “I’m not sure it’s true because it’s a centerfire weapon — the firing pin doesn’t strike anything when it’s not loaded. But it’s a cheap weapon, so who knows?”

    Arthur practiced firing the gun by pointing it at a target and pretending to pull the trigger while Lucien placed his fist under the barrel and smacked it upward repeatedly as fast as he could while Arthur tried to hold it steady.  

    “Firing with live ammunition is pretty different,” Lucien said. “In automatic mode, the kick will be much faster than we can simulate — but this was the best we could come up with,” he said. “Now, it’s your turn to teach the last person.”

    “Me?”

    “Yes. Captain Sanglier says the best way to reinforce what you’ve learned is to teach someone else.”

August 1944: Nearly Liberated: A Woman's Experience

    One difficulty I've had when writing Biscuit - most of my information is from my grandfather, and the story focuses primarily on his (the soldier/husband) point of view. But wherever I could, I tried to show my grandmother's world.  Her stories -- the few that I have -- were often quite powerful.

    One involves her experience just before her area of France was liberated, and she encountered American soldiers and German soldiers in the same day.  The info I have about the story is actually from my grandfather (I don't recall my grandmother ever telling me the story herself) who said in the recordings:

    By the way, Roma could tell you the story. She was in the village, in the town of Beaumont, and Americans came -- A jeep or two, and people were extremely happy and women kissed them, and everyone was enthusiastic, fantastic. And then they disappeared and a few hours later, the Germans came. The Germans came. 

    And a German told her, asked her: “Where is your husband?”

    “He is working in Germany.”

    And he said then, “I don’t believe you; he is with the French Forces of the Interior. Here is the Armband of the FFI, and when we see them, we kill all of them. Maybe your husband is like him.”

    But in any event it was very unpleasant. 

I turned it into a chapter from my Grandma Roma's point of view, and fleshed it out a little, and discovered that the story took on incredible power when the reader experiences it along with her. Here's the chapter:

Trophies

—25 August 1944—

    Roma was working on the books for the town of Beaumont-Lès-Valence, and Liliane was playing quietly on the floor nearby, when they heard a commotion outside city hall.  Roma went to the window and peered outside, then jumped a little when she saw several open military vehicles pull to a stop just outside the building

    Then she saw that the soldiers were wearing foreign uniforms, and there was a white star on the door of the vehicle. Were they … Americans?  Then she saw a woman —her friend Thérèse — rush to one of the vehicles, and enthusiastically kiss the driver on the lips.  Yes, they had to be Allied soldiers.  

    “Liliane, come here, little one!” Roma said, and scooped up her daughter and rushed outside.  

    Within moments, it seemed the whole town had turned out to welcome these soldiers, and there was cheering, and men were shaking the Americans’ hands, and women and even children were hugging them, and pressing tiny gifts into the men’s hands.  Roma saw several people pass the soldiers bottles of wine that they’d been carefully saving and hoarding since the war began. 

    The Americans were enjoying the attention, but it was clear that they wanted to ask questions but they didn’t speak enough French, and the townspeople didn’t speak enough English.  So, taking Liliane by the hand, she walked up to the men, and said in English, “Hello, you have questions?” 

    The man looked relieved. “Yes, ma’am.  Can you please tell us if there are any Germans in this area, and if any are billeted in this town?  And are there any ammunition or fuel dumps?”

    “Speak slowly, please.”

The soldier repeated his questions.

    “Billeted? I do not know that word.”

    “Living here, in people’s homes,” he answered.  Liliane had been peeking at the men, sending them grins from behind Roma’s skirt. He winked at the little girl, and she giggled.

    “Oh … No, none live here.  And I do not think weapons or fuel are here, but I must ask the … important people of the village.  Germans are here sometimes, though.”

    “Thank you, ma’am. Yes, please ask.”

    Roma smiled at the man, picked up her daughter and went to find the mayor and town council. They confirmed that they knew of no ammunition or fuel caches, and Roma returned to the soldier to report her findings.   

    “Thank you, ma’am.”

    Roma then held out her hand. “Thank you. It is good to see you here.”

    The man grinned and briefly shook her hand.  

    But before they could go, Liliane said, “wait, Mama!” and she too held out her hand to the soldier, who gravely shook the little girl’s hand.

    “Beautiful little girl,” he said, then he and his men drove out of Beaumont-Lès-Valence.

    An hour later, Roma had finished working on the books and visiting with her friends, and was preparing to go home, when a small convoy of Germans came through.  She stood and watched them impassively, as they walked past her, boldly entering the town hall.  One stopped and looked at her, his gaze slowly sliding over her breasts and hips, before returning to her face. He glanced at the little girl standing next to her, hand held firmly in Roma’s. 

    Roma pushed Liliane behind her slightly. That seemed to annoy him.

    “Where your husband?” The man asked in bad French.

    “He is working in Germany,” Roma answered, just loudly enough to be heard.

    “I don’t believe you,” he said with a slow, ugly laugh. “He’s with the French Forces of the Interior.” 

    Roma’s heart started to pound and her stomach roiled. “What?” she asked, weakly.

    The man pulled out a wad of FFI armbands from his pocket and held them up. There were three of them, and they unfurled downward from his fist like tiny wrinkled French flags. The buckles clinked together, a muffled chime.  “Here are their armbands.  When we see them, we kill all of them.  Maybe one of these is your husband’s.”

    Roma’s heart skipped a beat, and she managed to stifle a gasp, but she couldn’t stop the involuntary tears from filling her eyes.   She couldn’t find a single word to say.

    The soldier seemed satisfied with the effect his petty cruelty had on Roma, gave her a mean grin, and then followed his officers inside.  

    Roma turned toward home and started walking as quickly as Liliane’s short legs would allow.  

    She was halfway home before she realized the armbands he held were a different style than Arthur’s.  She stopped, ignoring Liliane’s questions, and closed her eyes and breathed a long sigh of relief.  “Oh, Arthur, please come home to me.”

Simplicity 1800: Amazing FitPattern Line - Slim, Standard, or Curvy shape?

 I came across the new (to me) AmazingFit Collection from Simplicity, and this dress caught my eye:

I also liked that on their online site, Simplicity showed the dress both on a skinny model (on the pattern envelope) and also on a more normal-sized model and I thought it looked good on both of them:

Kivi liked the pattern too, both for the cool neckline, and for the pockets, and she approved a lovely light-weight batik I had in my stash from a failed closet ceiling covering experiment.  

I hated, HATED the fabric in the ceiling of my closet.

But, even thought the fabric failed to please me when it covered the ceiling of my fiber closet, it WAS a gorgeous fabric:

So, onward.  It's an unusual pattern in that it provided 4 different bodice pieces, for women with B, C, D, or DD busts.  It also gave very clear instructions on how to pick. Measure the bust as usual, and also high bust (the torso above the breasts, basically in the armpits). If the bust was 1-2" bigger than the upper bust, then use bodice B. If 2-3" bigger, then bodice C, and so on.

But it ALSO gave three different skirt back pieces, for a slim, average or curvy fit.  From the pattern envelope, it gave me finished garment measurements, but that just showed that the slim fit was 1/2" smaller than the average fit, and the curvy was 1/2" bigger than the average version.  The difference in circumference is fairly subtle; who's going to notice 1/2 - 1" difference in a skirt with more than 10" of ease. (I.e., the skirt is supposed to be 10" bigger around than the woman's hips.) I noticed one other thing - the curvy version had two darts on either side of the back zipper, whereas the average and slim had only one.  

But it gave ZERO guidance how to choose.  The fact that the curvy skirt had two darts instead of one, suggested it was for women with a bigger than average difference between hips and waist, but ... the lack of guidance felt like an oversight. Was it to fit differently? Or was it personal preference? Or was the skirt itself more or less full (no - I later verified that the skirts were the same circumference at the hem).

Turns out, it was an oversight.

I did some online research and I wasn't the only person befuddled by the omission, so I contacted Simplicity's customer service, and we managed to talk past each other for awhile. They kept telling me to refer to the pattern envelope and the sizing there, and I kept trying to reword my query so they'd understand and not jump to the wrong conclusion, and while that was happening, I posted about it on a sewing forum, and someone THERE found a discussion thread on a different sewing forum, and YES WE STRUCK GOLD.

In other AmazingFit patterns, the following blurb appeared:

DETERMINE CORRECT FIGURE TYPE Three separate pattern pieces have been given for the skirt back- slim, average and curvy fit. To determine which figure type you are, use the waist and hip measurements for the size pattern you have selected. Compare the difference of your hip measurement to the standard. If your hip measurement matches the standard or is within 1/2” (1.3cm) in either direction, then choose the Average pattern piece; if your hip measurement is 1/2” - 1-1/2” (1.3cm - 3.8cm) less than the standard choose the Slim pattern piece; if your hip measurement is 1/2” - 1-1/2” (1.3cm - 3.8cm) larger than the standard, choose the Curvy pattern piece.

Someone else paraphrased it:

• Average: hip measurement is within 1"-1 1/2" (2.5-3.8cm) in either direction of standard
• Slim: hip measurement is more than 1"-1 1/2" (2.5-3.8cm) less than standard
• Curvy: hip measurement is more than 1"-1 1/2" (2.5-3.8cm) larger than standard

I immediately shot off another email to Simplicity asking if this guidance holds true for this pattern as well. I got a quick response that they were checking with the design team and would get back to me.  I breathed a sigh of relief - that meant they'd finally understood the issue, and realized that I wasn't just another customer that hadn't RTFM.

Half an hour later, they emailed me again - yep, that is indeed the criteria I should use. The pattern was actually one of the very first in the AmazingFit line, and the criteria was added to later patterns.  (A not-so-private note to Simplicity: maybe consider publishing an errata and/or FAQ on your site for stuff like this?)

So onward. I'm making a size 18 (I do wish the pattern sizes matched retail sizing), D bust, slim-fit skirt.  Also, this page is a big help with sizing and it applies to all of their dress and top patterns:

https://simplicity.com/size-charts/ 

Unlike the pattern envelope which just lists bust, waist, and hip measurements to help determine which size to use, the site above also lists the upper bust measurement.  If someone is bigger than a B cup, they suggest sizing using upper bust instead of bust.

The pattern is also designed for the seamster to adjust the sizing a LOT to get a good fit. So it includes a 1" seam allowances instead of the usual 5/8", and it has you sew the front bodice as usual (princess seams, and darts), and the skirt as usual (pockets, and front pleats). But then things get weird:

You then sew the bodice front to the skirt front inside out (i.e. so the seam allowances are on the outside). 

Then you repeat for the back pieces, constructing the bodice back and skirt back normally (with darts on the inside/wrong side the fabric) then attach them inside out out again.  

Then you attach the front to the back inside out, then you construct the sleeves inside out and attach them inside out, all machine basted.

Then you figure out your adjustments, mark it on the seam allowances, UNPICK all the basting, then sew it together normally.  

I've read it and re-read it, and I can't figure out why this is better.  As far as I can tell, the only advantage is that you can try it on and do all your adjustments with the pretty (right) sides showing.  

But, why not construct the entire dress as you normally would (i.e. sewing with right sides together), but with basted seams.  Then just turn it inside out and put it on that way to do all the adjusting?  

You could make all your adjustments (pick out the too-tight seams and re-baste, or sew new tighter seams where it's too loose) with it inside out, then when it is right ... just sew over the basted seams with a normal machine stitch.  No wasted time picking out all the basted seams, and no risks of sewing it back together wrong. 

Another technique is to sew it the way they say (wrong sides together so it's inside out) but with 3/4" seam allowance instead of 1" and plan to make it a French seam. Once everything is right, you sew the vertical seams over the basting, trim the seam allowances to about 1/4" then you turn the dress right side out and sew them again with a 1/4" seam allowance.  That way the raw edges are fully enclosed and there's no chance of basted stitches showing on the outside.

My Tortilla Memoir: Mexican food and learning to make tortillas from scratch

Taco filling:
Beans, cheese, arugula, tomatoes, avocado lime crema.
Not shown: cauliflower, jackfruit, salsa, guacamole. 

On and off (mostly off) over the last decade, I've been teaching myself how to make corn tortillas from scratch.

It's pretty funny, considering that I have no tradition of Mexican food in my family;  I'm Polish-Jewish on Mom's side, English/Irish/Swiss WASP on Dad's.  None of those groups are known for their corn/beans/chile traditions.  My Polish grandmother was an excellent French cook (funny story - when I was about 14, my grandfather once said, "How come you never make me French food anymore?" and my grandmother replied, "Arthur, I only make you French food!"), and my mother is pretty great at cooking savory foods, but with zero bite (she hates spicy food).  So, spicy food and corn and beans (other than a 3-bean salad which I didn't care for) were not a big part of my childhood. 

In college, my friends introduced me to Taco Bell, which was pretty good for fast food, but nothing special. If you'd asked me then what my favorite ethnic food was, I'd probably have said Italian because of pizza, I guess?

And then in grad school, I met my my future husband, and he loved Mexican food.  He'd grown up in SoCal, and even though his family isn't any more Latin-American than mine, he lived in proximity to many Mexican restaurants. And unlike my family, his parents both tolerated some spice, and liked Mexican cuisine.  

Anyway, when we went out, he always steered us toward Mexican restaurants. Los Bandidos in Columbia, Missouri had the best spinach queso.  Blue Cactus had GREAT spinach enchiladas, but to his horror, I ordered mine in (gasp) flour tortillas because, for years, I preferred flour tortillas to corn, which Chris found unfathomable. I also grew up thinking I didn't really like beans, and after tasting frijoles from his plate a few times, I realized beans were pretty good, too. I love them now.

Back then, it seemed like corn tortillas came in two varieties: fried taco shells, which break as you eat them, or soft ones that break when you try to fold them up. I did figure out that if you wrapped the stack of corn tortillas in damp paper towels, set the stack on a plate, and placed another plate upside down over the stack, forming a covered dish, you could microwave it and that this would steam-soften them enough to eat as tacos without splitting. (Usually, anyway).

Somewhere along the way, I guess I picked up a wooden tortilla press at the grocery store - and Chris said I made them a couple of times, but they were pretty thick, as I recall, and I preferred the store-bought kind for their pliability. 

Then, about 8-10 years ago, I acquired a copy of Crescent Dragonwagon's The Cornbread Gospels, and there was a recipe for tortillas. I thought, what the hell, and gave it a try again using Maseca masa harina, which is a type of corn flour. You add water until it's the consistency of play dough, press it flat, and fry them on a griddle.  I knew I didn't like the wooden press which couldn't get them thin enough, so I upgraded to an inexpensive cast iron model (which I am still using) that was capable of getting them quite thin.  They turned out great, so I started making them occasionally as a treat.

Through all this, my dad was in declining health - he had an illness called multiple systems atrophy, which looks a lot like Parkinson's but is terminal, usually within 8 or so years of diagnosis.  In November of 2012, a family friend called me and said it was time to start driving home to see him more often and that it wouldn't be long; they were guessing a few months at most. So my brother and I made the 9-hour drive in November, January, and again in late February to see him as often as we could. In February, it became obvious that Dad would die soon, so we stayed for almost three weeks.  It was a painful time, but I'm grateful we could be together the way we were, to be there for each other, and for Dad as his life coasted to a stop.

On the Sunday before Dad died, I offered to make taco fillings and fresh tortillas (I'd brought my press and some masa harina along) if Mom made the taco meat. She agreed, and we invited a few friends over for an impromptu dinner party. Dad sat at the table in his wheelchair and didn't talk much, though he seemed to enjoy being surrounded by his family and friends.  Dad was under 100 pounds by then and wasn't eating much, but as he sat at the table for this last quiet dinner party, he ate a few bites of my fresh tortillas and taco fillings, and I will always remember his eyes widening as he whispered, "oh, it's good!" That night he went to bed, and never really woke up again (He did say "hi" to the hospice nurses on Wednesday, though).  He passed on Thursday, March 6th, 2013.

It gives me a sublimely painful joy knowing that I cooked my father's last meal, that I introduced him to fresh tortillas, and that he liked them, too.

I didn't make tortillas again for more than three years. It just hurt too much. But, about a year after Dad died, I decided that corn tortillas - even store-bought ones - really were superior to flour tortillas. While I liked flour for burritos, the flavor of corn was just so much better, and I will always remember Chris's delight - it was as if I'd seen the light, at last.

Then, in the spring of 2019, my daughter went to Costa Rica with her HS Spanish Club, and during the homestay, she was served fresh tortillas that were made from fresh masa, not masa harina, and they were even better than the ones I made.

So I did a little research: it turns out that masa harina isn't just finely ground corn meal; rather it is ground dried hominy. Hominy is corn that has been cooked/soaked in an alkaline solution, in a process called nixtamalization (note the the root word 'tamal;' it shares the same root as tamale).

Turns out that more than 1000 years ago, people figured out that if you cooked corn with wood ash or limestone, that made the corn healthier to eat, and safe to use as a staple food.  Today, we know that the process also reduces mold toxins present in the corn by almost 100%, so people are also less likely to get food poisoning, and it radically increases the bioavailability of niacin and other nutrients, including calcium.

During the Columbian Exchange, corn was taken back to the old world, but without the knowledge of nixtamalization, and where corn became a staple, people wound up with a niacin deficiency called pellagra that can be fatal. One of the weirder symptoms of the disease is light sensitivity, and get this - historians theorize that pellagra may be the origin of the vampire myth.

But ... wood ash. I wonder how they figured that out?  Cool that they did, though.

Anyway, the nixtamalization changes the chemistry of the corn enough that you can form a dough with the ground masa by adding a little water to it.  Can't do that with cornmeal, no matter how finely ground it is - it falls apart.

We wanted to experience real tortillas as Kivi had (but without the expense of flying to Central America).  I had to start from scratch, acquire some pickling lime, and use some plain yellow field corn I had on hand. It's pretty easy. Add 1.5 tsp of lime to a gallon of boiling water, then drop 4 cups of corn into it.  You know the solution is properly alkaline if the base of the kernels turns from white to yellow. Simmer it for 40 mins (until the corn is soft enough to break open with your thumbnail) and the inside is about 50% chalky/uncooked and 50% translucent from cooking. Turn off the heat, and let it soak in the alkaline solution overnight.

The next day, you rinse away a little of the pericarp (the clear shell enclosing the kernel) and grind the now-swollen corn. I did it in my food processor.  You have to add a lot of water when using that tool to get the corn to continue blending, and that makes it too wet (think hominy baby food). So then you add masa harina to it until it's dry enough to form a dough. From there, the process is the same. Form it into golf-ball-sized chunks, press it, and fry it on a hot, dry griddle. Wrap the cooked tortilla in a dish towel to steam.

And holy mackerel it was GREAT. Much better than when starting with masa harina flour.  And no comparison with the ones from the grocery store.  The corn aroma is stunningly strong with these tortillas. Kivi said they were just like the ones she had in Costa Rica.

I was so inspired by my results that I ordered a variety of 5-lb bags of heirloom corn varietals from Mexico from a distributor in California (Masienda) that had been bred for hundreds of years to be great in tortillas and tamales, etc. I figured that if my nothing-special yellow dent corn turned out so well, that actual Mexican corn varieties would be even better. Right?

I also ordered a Victoria corn mill because they've been successfully used for generations, too. Seems like it should be more consistent than my food processor, and with a proper mill, masa won't come out too wet. 

And … the next two batches were failures. Tasted like cardboard and they broke when bent around taco fillings. After spending several hundred dollars on fancy corn, it was … disappointing. I went into a 3 year tortilla sulk and I haven’t made them since. Part of it was the move - I just hadn't had time, and I didn't know where my press or my corn mill was, and the corn sat waiting for me in an airtight pet-food vault.

Then, a week ago, Kivi (who was evidently planning really far ahead), and requested them for her birthday dinner (in December) so I decided I needed to a) get over my sulk, b) start practicing, and c) figure out a trial-and error plan until I figured out how to make them right.  I nixtamalized the corn on Friday and yesterday afternoon, thinking that maybe I didn’t grind the masa finely enough before, I decided to put it through the grinder a second time. And maybe that WAS the issue because these turned out pretty well.  Soft enough to bend without breaking, strong enough to hold together until the taco is consumed:

Strong, yet tender and pliable.  

My goal is to make masa in bulk, and freeze it in meal-size portions. So when we want tortillas, just defrost the masa, adjust the moisture levels, roll into balls, press and cook.  Aside from the defrost time, it takes no more than 15 minutes to make enough for a meal, and that's totally worth it for such good tortillas.

1941: Hiding from Nazi Soldiers in a Labyrinth Under a French Convent

 So there is one story from my grandfather's oral testimony that is very exciting: When they were crossing from occupied to unoccupied France, they spent the night in a convent in or near Besançon. And during the night, the nuns took the men who were hiding there and took them into some sort of underground labyrinth to hide from the German soldiers. Here's how he described it:

         All right, so they took a … he gave me a false identity card, the man.  And in the train, first there was a control between Belgium and France, German control. Okay, so we passed it easily.

     And then to get unoccupied France, we – the train didn’t go – we had to go out, and be guided by a guide in the countryside. The guide was subcontracting from our guide who was supposed to get from France, from Belgium to France, from France to Spain, from Spain to Portugal, and then we go from Portugal to America, and my friends, they go from Portugal to the Congo.

    Well so we are told to spend the night in a monastery – sisters – monastery, and I don’t know what happened over there, but there were Germans were suspicious.

     So, they – I don’t know what happened to Mother and to Lillian, to Roma and to Lillian – but me, and many, many, many other men – the sisters came in a hurry and say, “Let’s walk,” – and we walk underground in some sort of a maze; labyrinth. Labyrinth, maze – is the same?  And going for hours and hours, and they told us we are walking that way, so as the Germans, who will go wherever they wanted, will never find us because we kept walking. And then after a few hours, we stopped and I slept somewhere, and in the morning we went. 

     Well, we went through; it was in Besançon.  It was in the French city of Besançon, and from there we went to … I think to the city of Artois by walking. 

 

It kind of reminds me of the scene in The Sound of Music where the sisters hide the von Trapp family.  It's interesting that my grandmother was separated from my grandfather that night.  I wonder if they just hid my grandmother in a cell in their dormitory, and pretended she was a nun? She had a 17-month-old daughter so maybe not. 

After trying and failing to figure out which French convent in or near Besançon has an underground labyrinth, I wrote to the Museum of the Resistance and Deportation in Besançon to see if they might know.  It took awhile, but I just heard back from them (translated via Google Translate):

Bonjour Madam,

Thank you for your message, which we read without problem. On the other hand, it is difficult for us to respond to your request because we do not know of a sufficiently large underground to correspond to your grandfather's description. At the time, there were indeed several monasteries known in the region such as Acey, Grace-Dieu, Mouthier, Baume les Dames, Luxeuil. Given that your grandfather came from Belgium and therefore from the north or north-east, it would be logical for the place you were looking for to be in Haute-Saône. I am thinking in particular of the former abbey of Bellevaux. There is also Montbenoît and Saint-Hippolyte. There would also be a long underground of several hundred meters on the side of Geneuille. We would have to know if it was a long underground, or rather a space like cellars forming a labyrinth. Did they then come out to walk uncovered to Besançon and if so for how long?

I had been looking up the various convents they mentioned, trying to figure out as best I could, whether any of them seemed like good candidates. I was able to eliminate at least one, because it was held in private ownership and wasn't in use as a convent in 1941.  Before I could respond with further questions, they wrote me again this morning, with more info and what I think is a far better candidate:

Bonjour Madam,

Following a call that I launched around me, I had the answer of a woman who did research on the undergrounds of Geneuille. I send you what she wrote to me. In addition there were also large underground passages leaving the Citadel of Besançon and probably joining the cloister just below. But was your grandfather outside or inside Besançon? That's what you should know. 

We found the entrance to the underground at the level of the former convent of the Chapter of Geneuille built in 1724 and the church of Geneuille (attested since 967 linked to the Chapter of Saint John) about 300 meters away in a straight line. No excavations having been made in this village, there is no archaeological evidence.

The nuns of the convent used it to reach the church without getting wet.

On Saturday 22/10/1870, the Prussian troops invade Geneuille: the Prussians searched in vain for the mayor of the time to shoot him but André Toussaint was able to hide in the underground. He never wanted to say where he had taken refuge and he died 6 months later with his secret.

The inhabitants of Geneuille have all heard of this underground without anyone being able to locate it.

It was during the renovation of the residential building that replaced the convent that the entrance to the underground was discovered. The first occupants lived there for 50 years. It was the investor who was alerted by his architect to the abnormal width of a cellar wall. The entrance was sealed off and the meter-wide hallway never explored.

The first garden to cross to go from the underground entrance to the church is 1 rue de l'abreuvoir. On the door, there is an engraved stone from 1727. Immediately after its portal, on the right, perpendicular to the axis of the underground, just below ground level, there is a rectangular room the size of a big car and about 1m90 high. It is entirely in stone, with no visible opening and no starting gallery.

Continuing in a straight line towards the church, you come across the Lyautey vault. Historically (until the construction of the new cemetery in 1878), there was a cemetery all around the church but only these few tombs remain, at the foot of the bell tower.

Not far in Chaudefontaine, there was archaeological research in 1996 which led to the discovery of a Roman road considered important because it could come from Lugdunum (Lyon), touching Vesontio (Besançon) crossing the countryside in front of In Marcaleo (Marchaux in 967) to very probably reach Epomanduodurum (Mandeure) via Rubeomonte (Rougemont) and the site of Loposagio (Luxiol).

 The Via Francigena passes through Geneuille.

Digging underground in waterlogged land is technically difficult to say the least. I don't believe that the undergrounds were dug but that there were corridors built which were buried to hide them, on the principle of what was done at the citadel.

So, if I'm reading this correctly, there are two possible locations, one within the city of Besançon, connecting the ancient Citadel of Besançon, to a nearby cloister (maybe St. Jean's Cathedral?). 

Citadelle de Besançon

And the other possibility for the convent that hid my grandfather in their underground tunnels was Église de la Nativité-de-Notre-Dame de Geneuille.  Geneuille is about 14 km north of Besançon, and is logically on the way from Brussels to Besançon. It had secret tunnels that everyone in Geneuille knew existed (like, for centuries), but no one ever found, until an entrance was recently discovered.)

 Église de la Nativité-de-Notre-Dame de Geneuille

If you like maps. This one shows the Geneuille church at the far north end, and the Besançon Citadel on the south. I had initially thought they were connected by long tunnels, but upon re-reading, I now think they are unrelated. Just two separate locations that had tunnels, one inside Besançon, one outside of it.

I'm leading toward the Geneuille location, as there was a strong German presence in Besançon particularly in/around the Citadel during the war, and it seems foolhardy to have stopped there.