The day was luminous and brisk as we climbed broken steps. Entering the cemetery we found ourselves in front of a map listing names of the cemetery’s “notable” deceased. We planned to visit three sites.
The tombs of Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf were unexpectedly modest in size and design, whilst Oscar Wilde’s tomb was suitably audacious. A vast modernist angel, spotted with lipstick marks from Wilde’s admirers, dominated many of the surrounding graves.
I thought I remembered seeing a photo of Morrison’s tomb desecrated with lipstick marks and messages from fans, but on this visit there were not any fan-scrawlings in sight. His grave was cordoned off with a metal barrier and a patrolling guard observed visitors suspiciously.
Piaf’s tomb, so diminutive and unassuming, also contained the bodies of Anita Maillard, her mother, Marcelle Dupont, her daughter who died during infancy, and Theo Lamboukas, her last husband who was killed in a car crash in 1970, seven years after her death.
Any feelings of foreboding I may have felt before arriving at the cemetery were replaced by a strong sense of calm. Rather than being morose, Le Père-Lachaise is a peaceful place, offering mourners and visitors alike a sanctuary for quiet reflection.
As we prepared to leave the cemetery we came across an area devoted to Holocaust memorials. Large sculptures of ravaged, emaciated figures loomed over us. The Holocaust memorials, as severe and bewitching as they are, demand more than quiet reflection, confronting our anxieties and evoking a deep sense of hopelessness. This part of the cemetery is not characterised by serenity, peacefulness, stillness, but rather it leaves you with a lump in your throat.
