I wanted to pay tribute here to my father, Charles Joseph Wind, born in 1935 in a small village in Alsace, in a sibling group that exceeded ten children, which was common at the time. I think my father had a happy childhood, even though the family was large. I had the opportunity to spend a few weeks of vacation in my father's village, and I really enjoyed it. The countryside, the animals, the freedom to come and go, the village family atmosphere. We knew each other, we exchanged, we helped each other, we gathered. My father had very good academic results. His school teacher predicted a career in teaching for him, which was no small feat at the time. But in large families, one does not pursue studies – one goes to work. And that's what my father did, at a brewery near the village. Then came the period of mandatory military service, and finally the meeting with my mother, who had come from Moselle to work seasonally with the hops in my father's village. It was a love marriage, two months after their first meeting, as my older cousins have told me. My sister was already on the way, so there was no question of a white dress. It was another time... My parents had been living in my grandparents' family home for a few months when a dispute, the origin of which I do not know, made them decide to leave the village for the city of Strasbourg. And off they went, my mother pregnant, penniless, towards an unknown world. A very dilapidated room without comfort in a pension/restaurant for a few months, until they were allocated social housing. The family then grew, and my parents took on their responsibility, relying only on each other to support the family, consumed by the anxiety that accompanies all people with modest incomes, and respecting the docility that was customary at the time, instilled from an early age both at school and in the family: one complied with the order and did not complain. My father spoke little and virtually not at all. He would come home from work exhausted and only wanted to rest. I later understood that his hard work as a laborer, the constant struggle for survival, the continual subordination to those in power, seeing the humiliations of a work world, of a ruthless society had rendered him somewhat mute. After all, what would he have had to say? That he was disillusioned, that he led a harsh life, full of privations, that he physically suffered from carrying coal sacks in apartments without elevators... that after 20 years of this hard labor he was dismissed because his back was broken. That afterward, he took on many jobs according to physical ailments to provide, with the help of my mother, for the needs of our family, which included 4 children. That following a traffic accident, he suffered a double skull fracture, underwent surgery for a brain clot, balanced between life and death for several days, and did not accept being declared disabled because it was not enough to meet the family's needs, and so he had to continue working, and that at night because he could no longer stand the daylight that gave him headaches, among other trials. Only after many years, due to increasingly serious health problems, did he accept to undergo the humiliation of the disability commission twice (yes, humiliation because of the staging with a dozen doctors on a stage surrounding my father alone in the middle of the room, asking leading questions and showing no empathy). This commission granted him a disability rate of 78% the first time, while a rate of 80% was needed to receive an income. It was only granted after an appeal. He was finally able to rest and regain strength for a few months. He rented a family garden and spent most of his time maintaining it, being rewarded by the city hall for his know-how. These were peaceful years shared with my mother, allowing themselves a few tourist outings by bus in the region. This also allowed them to have practically non-existent social contacts in the past. My father even began to speak... finally! even if it wasn't in great outpourings. After these few years of happiness, the disease returned and took him away. I am full of gratitude for this father who endured so much, as did my mother, to make us what we have become. There was sacrifice in what they did. He was a good man, not wanting trouble with anyone. His sign of recognition was the beret he always wore. He was a man of the earth, an excellent gardener. It was a celebration when he sometimes cooked for the family on Sundays. His dishes were famous. When I left my father, he would give me his hand, this warm hand charged with the history of his manual labor. He would say in Alsatian "mach’s gut," take care of yourself, but in fact, he was saying in his own way, I love you. "Mach's gut," Dad.