I lived as if Georges had gone off on a trip. I didnt touch anything. Photo: Ed Alcock for the Guardian
When police dedicated her Georgess possessions his container, marriage ring and diary a pen was missing. She thinks he likely died with that pen in his hand.
Ten months later, on the night of 13 November, when gunmen killed 130 people across Paris in three hours, spraying cafe terraces with bullets and firing into the crowd at a concert, Wolinski was in bed listening to the radio. My daughter called and said, Mum, turn off the radio. I didnt, I kept listening and my anger intensified, she says. I said to myself, they havent learned the lessons of January its terrible. Theyre building the same mistakes with the families, the wives, the children. It emerged that in the summer, a jihadi returning to France from Syria had told police about dialogues between jihadis about attacking a rock concert in Europe. She believes that, like Charlie Hebdo, the Bataclan concert hall was a sensitive site that should have been protected by police. When I heard about all the relatives who had searched for hours for their loved ones before being told they were dead, that increased my fury, she says.
One family of a victim of the November attacks afterward told how, guided by officials, they had maintained vigil for hours by a severely maimed body in hospital, before subsequently detecting it was not their deceased sister but someone else. Families of the November victims lately gave evidence to a parliamentary investigation on what they deemed the states numerous mistakes, poor support, unanswered emergency phone lines and absence of humanity towards them.
After the one-year commemorations of the Charlie Hebdo carnage Wolinski let out a sob when “shes seen” her husbands name had been misspelled on a plaque she says she will continue her own investigations into the attack. Like many in France, she presumes there are more terrorist attacks to come. Its not finished yet, she says.
In the first few months after the Charlie Hebdo attacks, she would imagine the shooting each night before she went to sleep. But I lived as if Georges had gone off on a trip. I didnt touch anything , not even a jumper on the back of a chair. When she lately moved, she had the contents of his examine, complete with his drawing board, moved to a museum in central France. But in my wardrobe Ive hung up one of his jackets, his hat and a pair of shoes.
She misses the style he used to look at her. I dont know how Im going to live without his gaze. Its not very feminist to say that, but thats just how it is. It was a gaze that instilled confidence, a love for life. It was very important to me. For years, Georges Wolinski quipped that, when he died, his wife should have him cremated and throw his ashes down the lavatory, so I can see your arse every day. She raises an eyebrow. No, I didnt respect that at all.
Georges was cremated, but his urn was buried in Montparnasse cemetery in Paris, where people still leave pencils, pens, drawings and flowers. She doesnt want his tomb decorated in this way, but accepts that people want to remember him. When I go there, I clear it all away, Maryse says. She favor his marble mausoleum left for the most part plain, almost like a blank page. A final chapter, left empty.