SEXTOY: A spiritual journey from darkness to light

By Daniel Layac

Mama no, I don't want to do that!

SEXTOY is a riveting new memoir, a story of incest survival that you won't soon forget. The chilling truth about the chameleon that lurks within a family.

September 30, 1943 was the day, Micheline, entered a private clinic where her son was born. He was named Jean Marie but later he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel & Gloria Layac
• Release date: Mar 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994088918

Book preview

PREFACE

A feather in the sky . . .

November 16, 2002.

Good evening, sir, welcome aboard KLM. This way please.

The thrust of the engines launches us into the night sky. In nine to ten hours the plane will touch down on the runway in Amsterdam. Then I will need to walk at a fast pace across the vast airport terminal to board the plane heading to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. Sir, may I get you a beverage? jolts me out of my thoughts. I look up to see the young flight attendant smiling. Her name tag reads Jacqueline. I ask for an apple juice and a tall glass of water. Thank you, Mademoiselle. Blinking her long lashes, Jacqueline acknowledges, Certainly, sir, then continues to walk up the aisle.

A short time later, the sound of the cart being pushed around awakens the baby a few rows back. Jacqueline places the beverages in front of me and, putting a finger on her lips, quietly giggles then pushes her cart forward. The young lady’s expression brings a smile to my face. I sip my juice, and as I look out the window, drift to thoughts of my life partner.

The night was cool. As Gloria leaned in for warmth, we walked in silence along the water’s edge and listened to the sound of waves splashing against the logs before sliding back into the sea. Thank you, my love, I said in a whisper, for understanding why I need to do this on my own this time. She smiled, then pointed to a solitary cloud floating above us. Look, my darling . . .

I looked into the night sky and saw the most beautiful white feather. It was so close I thought I could touch it. Mesmerized, I reached out towards it. This is my Eagle Spirit, I said to Gloria, letting me know it’s time to write my story.

Her eyes on mine, she said softly, Yes. And I’ll be with you.

Reclining my seat, I am overcome by a sudden sadness as my thoughts turn to an innocent little boy who loved his Mother and received . . . I reach over to open my briefcase on the empty seat beside me and pull out a pad of paper and a pen. Sitting back as I prepare for the long journey, a flurry of images hurtles me back in time . . .

PART 1

ONE

It was said that our family was rolling in gold as people heard of our abundance of wealth. With thanks to my Grandpa’s hard work, our lives were filled with luxury.

My grandfather, Jean Marie Layac, was an amazing man. He had the aura of a giant, and I was told he was brilliant. A true Auvergnât, Grandpa had dark hair and eyes with the typical build of the inhabitants of Auvergne, a rustic, unspoiled region of France where earth, water, wind, and fire, centuries ago, had carved a backdrop of sleeping volcanoes, tranquil lakes, magical forests, and meadows full of wildflowers.

He was a handsome man, a three-piece suit kind of guy. On his vest, the thick chain of his gold watch was a permanent fixture. Elegant, a man of good taste, he took pride in his collection of antique furnishings and fine pieces of art. A respected entrepreneur, honesty and fairness always preceded him in business affairs. And he was a kind man, I heard.

I never had the privilege of meeting my grandfather. I’d heard from family members about him in the remote past, but had no knowledge of his life the way I do today. Jean Marie was born in Paris on February 19, 1876; he and his parents lived in the Mars Valley of Auvergne. This region has long been described as the heart and head of France. He was the oldest of three children. His brother Louis was the middle child and his sister Marie was the youngest. In those days the family farmed a piece of land that had passed down through generations. For the land to produce the bare essentials needed to feed the family, it required a lot of hard work. Harsh conditions forced Jean Marie to work the farm alongside his parents. Consequently, going to school was never an option for him.

Jean Marie was a young boy when his mother passed away and, soon after, his father also died. Orphaned, he was left alone to care for his two siblings. At the age of fourteen, Jean Marie made a promise to his brother and sister that no one would ever separate them. Soon after the burial of his father, fully aware that he had two youngsters to feed, he left the farm in trusted hands and traveled to Paris to speak to his aunt.

She was a widow with three young children. In the small house she inherited from her husband, Jean Marie’s aunt and the children lived carefully on the scanty pension she received from her husband’s estate. Her below modest income didn’t prevent her from offering a place in her home to Jean Marie, Louis, and Marie.

Already an independent young man, Jean Marie declined his aunt’s kind gesture. Not wanting to impose, he countered with a proposal of his own, asking if he could build a shelter for the three of them in the tiny yard attached to his aunt’s house. With a smile on her face, his aunt accepted the offer. It didn’t take long for Jean Marie to set to the task of building the shelter, made easier by his aunt’s offer to look after his brother and sister. Once it was completed, Jean Marie went out on the streets of Paris looking for work. Having heard the adage; An Auvergnât in Paris is never alone, Jean Marie knew he could count on that very old brotherly tradition among fellow Auvergnât. With a gleam of hope he set off for the docks along the Seine. In the region of Bercy he met with success in the form of a Bougnât, the descriptive name in the old Auvergnât dialect given to a coal broker.

For years, Jean Marie worked for the Bougnât delivering bags of coal to the households of the wealthy on his push cart. It was a filthy and backbreaking job. When he was finished his deliveries, he returned to the docks in the evening to take advantage of an opportunity he had discovered. The docks were littered with pieces of broken briquettes that had been abandoned by the brokers. Jean Marie collected this bounty. After providing briquettes to his aunt to keep the children warm and for cooking, he piled the rest in the back yard. In his spare time, he would bag and sell them to less fortunate people for a low price.

Years of hard work finally paid off and Jean Marie fulfilled the promise he’d made to his siblings. He provided Louis and Marie with a good education, bought his own home, and built his own coal brokerage company in Paris. He had succeeded! He was a Bougnât now . . . but he never forgot his humble beginnings. Jean Marie’s drive and determination were fortified by a wisdom that went beyond what formal education could offer.

In 1911, at the age of thirty-five, Grandpa met the beautiful woman who was to become my Grandmother. They met in the quaint little town of Montigny le Gannelon, one hundred and fifty kilometers southwest of Paris. Something about the place appealed to Jean Marie on one of his many excursions, and he became a regular visitor. There he met Yvonne, who lived with her parents. Yvonne’s sweetness quickly won Jean Marie’s heart. He found that he had fallen in love with both Yvonne and Montigny. The courtship was short; they married on February 22, 1913. Spending their weekdays in Paris, they traveled to Montigny to relax for the weekends, a great way to escape the rigors of Grandpa’s active business.

Their first child, Rose, was born in February, 1914. Tragedy struck late that summer when the brutality of World War One ripped the happiness of the era to pieces. What began as a local disturbance in Southern Europe eventually spread into a worldwide struggle which produced two of the greatest bloodlettings in history: the battles of the Somme and Verdun.

Paris became an important economic center for wartime industry. No one was exempted from conscription and mandatory military service was in force. Jean Marie and Louis traded in their business suits for uniforms and went off for basic military training. Marie, now a certified accountant, took responsibility for the prosperous business while her two brothers were away. Every sector of life was disrupted: families were separated and money was scarce. In a military compound, Grandpa wrote this letter to his wife:

My beautiful darling Yvonne: I am happy to have received your letter this morning telling me that you do the best you can under the circumstances. Please try to continue this way until I return. We are pacing back and forth in this military compound all day long, having to practice marching in an orderly manner. I am bored to tears having so little to do. I must go now my darling. Please keep me informed about the state of our horses. If you must sell them please do so. Give a big hug to my aunt and give a special kiss to my little Rosette for me. I cannot stop looking at the tiny picture I have with me. Write soon please, and inform me how the war is doing. I must say good-bye for now, I love you. Jean Marie.

Jean Marie and Louis completed their training and were granted leave for a few days prior to reporting to their unit at the front line. France was in total, utter chaos; the country desperately tried to get men and materials to the front line to defend the country. Troops used any means of transportation available to report to their units. Jean Marie and Louis traveled by taxi and were dropped near Verdun, where the brutality of war was far too obvious. The forces involved began entrenching in the face of more lethal concentrations of firepower, and the war of the machines and trenches had begun.

It was apparent that Grandpa Layac’s platoon was ambushed when I read the second letter he wrote to my grandmother. These two war-time letters are in my possession today.

My little darling Yvonne: Time is dragging and I am very lonely without news from you. Our platoon was ambushed and we are now in this German prison camp, and cannot go out. If you could write to me often, it would give me much joy. I count on you for this. I cannot tell you much more because of being kept in the dark. Please take care of everything for us. I love you. Big hugs and kisses to everyone. Jean Marie.

When Jean Marie escaped from captivity, he returned to Paris and, seemingly, a normal life. Within a short period of time, he guided his business to new heights. Their first son, Jean Louie, was born in January 1917. The future seemed bright, with a son to carry the family name, paving the way for a new dynasty.

The Layac family was even more blessed with the arrival of a second son, Maurice, born on April 1, 1918. This happiness was short-lived, however, as tragedy struck again; the young infant contracted meningitis and was overcome by the disease three weeks later. Distraught by the loss, Yvonne pleaded with Jean Marie to have Maurice buried in Montigny. A few days later, in a private ceremony with family and close friends, Jean Marie and Yvonne traveled to Montigny with a tiny casket carrying their beloved child and laid him to rest.

In the days following the funeral, Jean Marie visited with the family for a few more days, then was forced to return to Paris to take care of business. Yvonne, unable to part from Maurice, stayed in Montigny for several weeks.

On the train back to Paris in an unheated railcar, grieving the loss of her infant and still fatigued from the rigors of childbirth, Yvonne contracted pneumonia and became very ill. Jean Marie did everything in his power to provide his Yvonne with the best of care; but to no avail. Yvonne was twenty-five years old when she died. Grandpa’s grief was immense. He never did heal from his loss, never remarried, and never fell in love again. At night until the end of his life, before Grandpa fell asleep, Tante Rose could hear her father sobbing in his bedroom which was next to hers.

Rose was six and Jean Louie three when their mother passed away. Shortly after the funeral, Grandpa approached his sister-in-law Berthe to ask if her daughter Simone would come to Paris to be their nanny. He desperately needed help to raise his children. In a heartbeat, Berthe accepted. The following weekend, Tante Rose told me Simone boarded the train to Paris where a big responsibility awaited her. Simone was appointed guardian to Rose and Jean Louie, and was expected to care for and nurture them as they grew up.

The death of Yvonne was a devastating loss to Jean Marie; now amassing wealth seemed to become his sole goal in life. To secure a comfortable future for his heirs, he focused exclusively on his work.

In Paris, the sun didn’t shine on the city until the Armistice was declared on November 11, 1918. The citizens went wild with excitement. The masses cheered and the streets were filled with waving French, English, American, and Canadian flags. Finally ended, the Great War had caused millions of deaths on the Western Front alone. Europe and the World would never be the same.

Jean Marie was ready to leap into an opportunity he had already identified on the battlefields—ample amounts of scrap-metal that were free for the taking. The old fields of honor had become desolate moonscapes littered with wreckage: abandoned military hardware, damaged bridges and railroad tracks. His plan was to salvage the scraps of metal and sell them for recycling.

That summer, Jean Marie and his brother Louis sang along with Maurice Chevalier as they transported their harvests between the recent warfront and Paris. In Jean Marie’s scrapyard, he and Louis joked and laughed together as they piled their harvests of abandoned goods.

For years, Grandpa sold, traded, and invested, and he saved, saved, saved. His quick thinking and great work ethic enabled him to become one of the wealthiest men in the city. His goal of securing the financially safe future of his heirs was accomplished. His children, Rose and Jean Louie, grew to become elegant, young adults with fine manners.

When my father Jean Louie, in his early twenties, expressed an interest in engineering, Grandpa ensured that his son was enrolled at the Polytechnique in Paris, a highly regarded faculty of engineering. After receiving his degree in Electrical Engineering, he traveled to Germany to further his education in Frankfurt. There he lived with a host family, a warm and caring couple. Victor was a Jewish professor at the university and his wife, Ika, was a homemaker. The couple had two sons, Heinrick and Ludwig. Jean Louie talked highly of Victor and how much he enjoyed the evenings spent in philosophical conversations with the professor. He also enjoyed coming home from his classes to wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen.

Two years had passed since father arrived in Frankfurt. Hitler had risen in power and enacted some of his political tactics. Banned from holding jobs, the Jewish community was isolated, ‘encouraged’ to leave Germany, and were subject to assaults and humiliation on a regular basis. The warm atmosphere of the host family’s home was soon to be invaded and disrupted. Late one evening, Jean Louie returned to what he had come to know as his home. He hung his jacket on a hook in the foyer before entering the living room. Ludwig and his mother were in an agitated state. Things became clear when Heinrick came downstairs proudly wearing his uniform with the now familiar Swastika armband. Standing arrogantly in front of Jean Louie, he peered through the thick lenses of his glasses and proudly announced that he had reported his father to the Gestapo. He then snapped his heels, raised his right arm in the Nazi salute, and shouted Heil Hitler.

Jean Louie’s safe haven was coming apart.

As the war amplified in Europe, the situation in Germany took a turn for the worse. Father’s wish had always been to one day join the military, part of the reason he attended the Polytechnique. He saw the impending threat of war as an opportunity as he left Germany and returned to Paris.

A few weeks after he returned, Jean Louie enrolled in Ecole De La Cavalerie. Also known as Le Cadre Noir, this prestigious military academy trained officers for the Armed Corps division of the army. Steeped in tradition, the academy was situated in Saumur, a historical city on the left bank of the Loire River.

In the spring of 1940, now a Second Lieutenant, Jean Louie received his orders to report to the first Armored Division. Upon arrival, he was given command of a squadron with six armored vehicles. Within days, he strategically placed his squadron along the Moselle River. His objective was to hold back the constant assaults of Hitler’s Panzer Divisions which were punching their way to Paris and the Normandy coast. Battles were fierce.

In the city of Valenciennes, where my maternal grandfather Henri was born and raised, life was about to change. My mother, Micheline, was born there. Her parents came from a long line of successful white-collar professionals. My maternal grandfather, after graduating with a degree in pharmacology, established a pharmacy in the heart of the city, and my grandmother Marie-Thérèse, a descendent from fine stock, was prominent in fashionable society.

Valenciennes sits in a rugged region of France, an industrious city that was once rich in coal mines which were later abandoned. It’s still surrounded by steel smelters and fields of sugar beets. The dark, heavy clay soil stuck to your shoes and the constant dust from mining and smelting added oppressiveness to the air. And it rained often, turning the soil to a soupy mud.

A classy lady with an aristocratic appearance, my grandmother, Bonne-Maman, always wore her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her stylishness was enhanced by the tailored suits she wore, and the reading glasses poised on the tip of her nose made her appear austere. But she was a good-natured woman. Growing up in a small town not far from Valenciennes, she loved to brag about the town she came from. She used to tell anyone who would listen that Quiévrechain sits on the border between Belgium and France, and some of the houses have the border running right through them. You eat in France and sleep in Belgium! she would say.

A tall, slender, distinguished man, my grandfather, Bon-Papa, was soft-spoken and kind. He told the story of May 12, 1940. The German War Machine was on the move. Within days, Hitler’s Panzer divisions reached the River Meuse. Belgium, Holland, Luxembourg, and France had fallen to the enemy. It was a terrifying Sunday.

Valenciennes was heavily damaged from the bombardment and suffered heavy casualties. Many buildings were reduced to rubble and others burned to the ground, leaving behind smoldering skeletons. The city was declared unsafe and the panic-stricken populous fled, seeking refuge elsewhere.

The intense and constant bombing by Hitler’s regime resulted in the loss of my grandparents’ home, and the ultimate destruction of their pharmacy. Forced to leave the city they loved dearly, Bon-Papa chose to move to Auvergne, where his family would be relatively safe and would likely avoid German occupation. This was emphasized by Bon-Papa’s friend Pierre, a doctor in Valenciennes.

Pierre offered to help by driving Bon-Papa and his family to the demarcation line. It was a long journey and they knew it would be dangerous. They set their plan into action with ingenious means in the midst of difficult times. Many items were rationed or restricted. Gasoline was hard to obtain, and there were harsh punishments for anyone caught with contraband. Yet Bon-Papa and Pierre managed to acquire and store enough to help them on their journey.

When it was time to go, the gasoline cans were hidden inside two suitcases and roped securely to the roof of the car. Pierre, Bon-Papa, and Bonne-Maman sat in the front seat of the Citroën, while Micheline, who was thirteen at the time, sat in the back seat. Crammed around her were boxes and cases of all the worldly possessions that my grandparents could transport.

The trip was long and arduous. They were faced with many dangerous encounters along the way, having to negotiate their way through enemy checkpoints and past enemy positions. At times they had to detour around raging battles or wait for them to finish. Frequently they had to pull to the side of the road to let a military convoy pass. Progress slowed to a crawl in places as they wove their way through masses of refugees also on their way to the free zone. It was at times like these that the four, somewhat secure in the car, were reminded of their relative good fortune compared with those traveling on foot and carrying their possessions on their backs.

Each time they encountered a battle Pierre would find a wooded area where they were able to hide. At times they had to crouch in muddy ditches at the side of the road or were forced to run across open fields, hands protecting their heads, in the hope of reaching the safety of trees on the other side of the field. They would later speak of the futility of using their hands as protection from bombs and bullets. The whistle of falling and exploding shells was shockingly loud and frightening. There were mangled bodies everywhere, limbs tossed here and there. The never-ending, ear-piercing pleas and screams sent a chill through Henri and Pierre, they explained later.

Night time offered little in the way of security. Troops, tanks, and warplanes were as vigilant in the dark hours as they were during the day. The four of them maintained a total blackout, even fearing clear, moonlit nights. As they got closer to the line they heard horrifying accounts of the treatment of those traveling without proper permits. Because they had no papers themselves, their detection would result in their immediate execution. They heard stories of German soldiers and their vicious dogs patrolling the demarcation line, the