Jean-Claude Benguigui aged five, Albert Bulka aged four and Paula Mermelstein aged 10 have one thing in common. They were three of 105 Jewish children, rescued by a Polish lady called Sabine Zlatin and bought to a country hideaway high in the hills above Chambery during the war.

Tragically on April 6th 1944 two truckloads of Gestapo soldiers arrived under the orders of Klaus Barbie and rounded up the three mentioned along with 41 other children. “Are you their parents?” they asked the seven adults looking after them. “No, but we will stay with them,” they said. On the journey the children sang defiantly  “You’ll never keep Alsace and Lorraine.” They were all in Auschwitz 10 days later, where they were gassed. Out of the adults one survived but the rest were taken to places as far away as Estonia where they were shot.

Our visit to the beautiful house where these children lived their last happy, tranquil weeks before deportation just outside the village of Izieu was prompted by Bea. She saw a picture of a concentration camp in the museum in Chambery and wanted to know all about the war. We told her as best we could, we drew maps showing how the Germans swept through Europe, explaining that it was a little like her taking over Olivia and Leo’s rooms. Hitler was hard to explain. “Is he more evil than Captain Hook?” asked Leo. “Why did he kill all those people?” asked Bea.

I had heard about the house before and always wanted to visit but never had the courage. Once I had children of my own, anything sad involving any children makes me weep. I did weep. I wept at the little innocent letters written by the children to their parents (who were in camps heaven knows where), to their adored teacher, the wonderful drawings they drew. But it was also an inspirational visit. I was inspired that there are people who will risk their lives for others, who rather than hiding from evil fight it. And I loved the idea that whatever horrific fate awaited the children, they had been rescued from certain death (mainly from the Herault, where we live) and had some weeks of security, peace and loving in the most beautiful surroundings beforehand. And let’s not forget the 60 or so, who thanks to Mme Zlatin, did survive.

We walked up the hill behind the house after our visit, still talking about the war. Bea went to bed reading the Diary of Anne Frank. This topic seems to have gripped her like no other. If you are ever in this region then do visit the Maison d’Izieu. And take your children. I think the house rather enjoys the sound of small feet running around it and laughter.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

Remind me to avoid Geneva airport in the future. Coming back from a meeting about an exciting new book deal in London (which I will tell you all about once it is signed) I flew into the scene of my handbag abduction episode. When I parked that morning (at 6am so I was a little bleary-eyed) I opted for the unlimited car park. I carefully wrote down Red 17 so that I would be able to find my car again.

I trudge towards the car park in my pink heels which after a day in London are hurting like hell. It is odd, I think to myself, that when I arrived the car park seemed so close, and now it seems so far away. I finally get there, heave a hugh sigh of relief and put the ticket in the machine. “Your ticket is not valid in this car park” it tells me. I look at my ticket. Unlimited Car Park number 1 it says. I am in unlimited car park number 51. This could explain it.

So I trudge back, swearing at my own idiocy, unaware that this episode is totally minor compared with the self-inflicted suffering I am about to come up with.

It is now ten to nine. I landed at 8.20 pm. I have an hour and a half drive ahead of me. The children are waiting up to say goodnight. I am about to throw my shoes away they hurt so much. To say I am keen to get home is an understatement.

I finally get back to the right car park and put my ticket in. It won’t let me pay with a card and I root around my newly-found handbag for any Swiss francs in a total blind panic before I realise the machine takes euros. Phew. I find Red 17 without any further mishaps and sink thankfully into my car. I set Titty (the GPS navigator) to my beloved Blanchiniere and plug in my phone. Ready to go!

Now all I need is the car parking ticket. It has vanished. Much like my handbag days before, it has been abducted. I literally turn everything upside down. I even crawl under the car, cursing and shouting at myself. I am in total disbelief. It HAS to be here. But it’s not. So I look for the office of the car park, there is none. I decide to drive to the exit and explain what has happened.

But when I get there and the man asks me where my ticket is I am just too ashamed to tell the truth, to tell him (even if he is hidden inside a machine) that I have no idea, that somewhere between paying for it and getting to my car I lost it. He’d think I am a fool, which I am, but why should he know that? So I lie. I cross my fingers and tell him the machine ate it. I get very Italian and shout about the machine. And the fact that my handbag was stolen last time I was here, and that I just WANT TO GO HOME. Eventually he releases me. I blow kisses to the invisible man in the machine and head for the motorway.

At home the children are asleep but Rupert is waiting with candles and a glass of red wine. I am so relieved to be there I almost weep. On Wednesday we go back to Geneva Airport to drop Bea off. I think I might stay in the car.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

The Savoie is idyllic. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to, rather like Devon on steroids but with mountain ranges. But this tosh about a peaceful life in the country is, well, tosh.

I am pleased to report that the well-known and well-documented international terrorist conspiracy to keep me awake has another victim: Rupert. I never thought I would see the day but since we have been here he has been woken up by:

An over-sexed or over-something moth living in the beams

Rats or some rodent with fast friends running over our heads

Cows mooing (I am not joking, it woke me up too)

A neighbour’s dog running upstairs

Lambs bleeting (I noticed he ate his roast lamb with particular gusto on Sunday)

Dogs barking (no change there, we are in France after all)

Tractors racing (or at least that’s what it sounded like)

Birds singing

Cockerels crowing (to be expected)

It feels like we’re living in a mini-farm. But I love it. I have invested in some multi-coloured ear-plugs and am fighting the forces of evil. Rupert says he can’t wait to get to London next week for a bit of peace and quiet. I might just stay here with my earplugs in.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008