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One day we were French, the next: German.

For my grandmother this was nothing new. Her nationality had already changed twice since she was born, back in 1870. I think she preferred French, but it's too late to ask now.

In 1940 the change was like a rolling tide, wave after wave. First came the soldiers, then the doctrine. I remember seeing my brother running beside the motorcycles in excitement, happily chomping on the chocolate they gave to he and his friends, so different to his anger and terror when his draft notice arrived. He was still a boy when they sent him to the front, or tried to.

For me too, it was a time of change. Some of that was my choice, but a choice made in the innocence of youth. I'd take it all back if it didn't mean losing the person I love most.

I don't think that any of us knew who we were during those years though, not really. The Reich stripped our identities down to the bone, replacing French joie de vivre with German Selbstdisziplin – similar to what the English call a “stiff upper lip”. Even our names were changed, both Christian and family: born Elise Berger, I was suddenly Liesl Schaefer. My brother Jean was now Johann, nicknamed Hans. We also had to carry an Ahnenpass, a portal family tree that listing proof of four generations' Aryan heritage. I didn't even know what Aryan meant, back then.

Other changes were just as fundamental. The French language was banned outright, even on road signs. Alsatian, our local dialect – not the dogs – was also disapproved of, despite being very similar to German. Those of us who had never lived under Berlin's rule before had to catch up, quickly, and our teacher father was sent into Germany proper for retraining. No French teaching methods for the young Bevölkerung, oh no. My parents were also ordered to wear their rings on their right hands, as per German tradition, and our bathroom taps had to be replaced to protect us from the illegal chaud and froid markings.

The list went on, each and every rule affecting who we were and what we believed in. By the time liberation came, transforming us back into French citizens, there wasn't a single one of us who didn't know a dozen Nazi marching songs. Many of our younger children barely spoke French, let alone knew how to write it.

But at least I got my name back.