Facing the Lion

OCTOBER 1, 1936

The cool morning breeze helped me to open my sleepy eyes. Even though I knew the way to school, Mother had to come along. The girls’ school was next to the church. The school was a three-story pink sandstone building. We all gathered in front of the stone steps. On the top step stood the teacher and the supervisor, who had a list. Only a few girls had brand-new book bags. When we bought mine, Mum had said, “It has to be good-quality leather, because it has to hold up for the next eight years.”

“School from 8 a.m. to 12 noon and 2 p.m. to 4 p.m., Thursday off,” read the circular. “The child must have a book bag to be carried on the back, a slate with a dry rag fastened to it, and a wet sponge. The child must wear a blouse with long sleeves, closed with buttons in the back. It has to cover the dress and have two pockets, with one handkerchief. The blouse will be left at school and must be washed and ironed over the weekend.” Three blouses, one pink, one light blue, and one light green flew out of my mother’s fairy fingers—my mother worked magic with her sewing machine. My blouses had big seams “to grow with me for at least two years.”

“Simone Arnold.” I was the first one to be called. I stepped forward and looked up at Mademoiselle, starting from her half boots and following the hem of her long gray dress. She had an unforgettable stature, like the pictures of Dad’s mother in our photo album. The white lace collar and her light-gray hair tied in the back made her face look as round as the full moon. Behind round glasses her deep-blue eyes looked like Mother’s. Her skin was dotted with warts, white hairs sticking up in the middle, just like my Aunt Eugenie’s. She was an old lady like Grandma, but she had authority like Dad! I felt at ease, because she was the combination of all my loved ones.

Mademoiselle pointed out my place next to Frida. “This desk is rather new and has no ink spots. Sit here in this second row, because you are among the smallest pupils.” I knew right away that I had her favor. The first day finished quickly.

Four other girls in my class lived on my street. Andrée, Blanche, and Madeleine lived past my house, but little Frida’s house came first. Frida always trembled like a poplar tree leaf. I felt I had to protect her. She was so frail. Her blond hair, her translucent skin with her little red cheeks, and the black rings around her burning eyes gave her a frail look.

“Children who wear gray or dark blue blouses are from poor families,” Mother had explained. Not only was Frida’s blouse blue, but it was baggy and frayed, and her book bag was worn out.

We walked as a group along our mile-long street, Rue de la mer rouge, passing the railroad station. Next came the section with some very small and rundown factory buildings, the bakery, the haberdashery, the grocery, and the milk store. Then the street name changed to Zu-Rhein, the name of a noble family whose house was in a big park, and on the other side of the park to the right were some very fancy homes with big balconies.

“Adolphe, did you read this circular?” asked Mum. It said the class was to have a collective shower on Friday—no exceptions. Soap and bathing trousers would be provided. All welfare children were to get a bowl of milk and a roll at ten o’clock.

“We didn’t have those advantages in our youth,” Dad said, “but I’m not surprised. Mulhouse is a socialist town.”

“Dad, what’s a socialist town?”

“It’s a town where workers get together to defend their rights and fight for justice. Their wages are so low that it is a plain injustice.” “Dad, what’s an injustice?”

Dad pointed to a five-foot oil painting hanging in our little salon. It represented a shepherd praying the Angelus at noon. He had painted it at art school when he was fifteen. “It was shown in an exhibition and I got the highest score. But when the prizes were distributed, I got a silver medal instead of the gold one. Gran’papa went to the school supervisor to find out about it.” Dad sat down and took me on his lap and became very bitter.

“Remember, Simone, for your whole life, remember the school supervisor’s answer: ‘It is just unthinkable that we give the gold medal to a unknown little mountain lad whose name doesn’t mean anything. The gold goes to the son of Mr. So-and-so, who is our sponsor and a famous man in town!’” A long silence followed.

“He even said to my stepfather, ‘If you take it badly, I won’t force the boy to take the silver one either.’” Opening the drawer, I examined the silver medal while Dad repeated, “Injustice—yes, this is what the workers fight against. This is what being a socialist means.”

In the school yard, the lime tree turned yellow and the wind snatched the leaves, playing with them before we could catch them for our toys. But Frida never chased after them. She would just watch us play while she ate my butter and jam sandwich, which I exchanged for her dry roll; I did not feel comfortable with my pink blouse. I did not want to be considered a “rich girl.”

“You look tired, Frida,” I told her.

“I just don’t like the wind,” she said between coughs.

“Where does your father work?”

“In the garden.”

“He doesn’t get any salary in the garden, does he?”

“No, he is an invalid.”

I will have to find out what kind of factory that is, I thought to myself. She couldn’t explain it. She was so bashful. On Monday morning, she was absent from school. The little house where she lived always had its shutters closed on the street side. Happily though, Frida came to school in the afternoon. I had missed her badly, and I had to give my sandwich to another girl. I couldn’t eat buttered bread in front of so many poor girls.

The following Monday, it rained again, and Frida was absent from school. She is made of sugar, I said to myself. Why is she scared when it rains? Our rain-soaked hooded capes, drenched hair, and wet shoes made the whole classroom smell like a stable. Our four big windows were of no use this morning. The light bulbs behind their dishes gave us a yellow light, just enough for the Monday morning check-up ritual.

Blanche and Madeleine chattered excitedly about the firemen, the ambulance, and the police we had seen that morning. “Mademoiselle is coming!” someone warned us. We scrambled to our desks and put our things in order—the slate with its scrubbed white wooden frame, the clean sponge, and the folded handkerchief. Even our ten fingers had to be placed properly on the desk. When she entered the classroom, silence fell over it like a switched-off radio. It took a while until she went through the whole class, checking our shoes, our skirts, and even our ears!

That day, I couldn’t get my mind off the river flowing behind our house, the one that disappeared underground. I had seen a light-blue thing floating downstream and two men with hooks trying to pull it to shore. “Simone, quickly go inside,” Mother ordered. Later I heard the neighbors talking about three-year-old twins. The body of one baby boy had been found; the other had been swallowed up by the swirling abyss.

“Mum, where are the twins now?”

“In heaven. They are angels now.”

While walking up and down the rows, Mademoiselle explained to us the danger of the river. “The shore can be treacherous. You may step on it and it will cave in.” It was obvious that today she wouldn’t talk about saints, their lives, or their sacrifices. This time the subject was drowning and death, not religion or saints. I missed our religion lesson.

Coming home in the late afternoon, I always felt sad to leave Frida behind. She had no mum waiting for her, no soft music filling the air, no hot tea or cold drink to refresh her. She didn’t even have a little dog like Zita jumping up to welcome her. If it rained, Mum always had a hot footbath and a tasty piece of bread with jam ready for me. I loved our intimate chats. I could talk with Mum, opening my heart wide—or almost. I had a little secret, a secret “love.” I wouldn’t tell Mum. I didn’t want her to be jealous!

A young, well-dressed lady had moved to our street. I admired the beautiful, distinguished lady; she became my model. She had a set hour to come by, and I would run to the window with a racing heart. I longed for the moment I could be close, very close to her.

Dad took my homework very seriously. He just wouldn’t accept any scribble, and he wouldn’t let me put it aside even if I tried to be stubborn. He liked to say, “I know you can do better, and you carry my name.” His authority was quiet and gentle, and I always felt ashamed after rebelling, telling myself, “Why did I stand up against my dear dad?”

Discovering Death and Life

CHAPTER 2

Discovering Death and Life

T

he days grew shorter, fog crept through the fields, the dahlias hung their heads. We children ran after leaves and gathered chestnuts. The boys used them like missiles, forcing us girls to hide. I just hated them!

People headed toward the cemeteries in carriages full of white and pink chrysanthemums. It was Halloween and people were going to visit the graves of their loved ones. This meant another family gathering. Even Aunt Eugenie would come from far away.

Again our neighbors would mistake her for Mum. That tickled me. She had the same black hair, yet her complexion was more like her amber necklace, and her eyes were like dark cherries. But her cheerful personality made her look like Mum’s twin sister. And that was the way both sisters felt. She was like a second mother to me.

Grandma and I went to the Oderen cemetery to clean the graves. Aunt Eugenie carried a huge pot of chrysanthemums. She went to her husband’s grave and cried and prayed.

“Grandma, why does she cry?”

“Your uncle died not long ago. They were only married three years.”

“Did he drown in the river?”

“No, he died of tuberculosis.”

“Mum told me death is the door to heaven.” I was a very little girl when by mistake I had gone in the room of my grandmother’s father. He was lying with his eyes closed and looked like he was praying, surrounded with crowns made of artificial flowers. Four huge candles gave a soft light, and the smell of incense filled the room. He was on his way to heaven, they told me. But now in front of the grave, my feelings changed.

“Grandma, is the tomb the door to heaven?”

“It also can be the one to hell.”

“I have seen the smoke of hellfire coming from the basement of Dad’s factory. I always make a big detour when I see it!” Grandma smiled, took my hands, and said a prayer, and Aunt Eugenie joined in with us.

“Why do you pray? Do the dead hear?”

“Yes, they do, and they can help us if they are not in purgatory.”

“Purga– what?”

“Purgatory is a place where the mean things we do, called sins, are burned up by fire. Only saints go to heaven right away.”

“Who kindles the fire?”

“Lucifer, the archangel. Because he was full of pride, he had to leave heaven and become the guardian of hell and purgatory.”

“Grandma, it’s cold here. I’m shivering. Let’s go!”

We called the cemetery the “church court” in Alsace. When we left, the graves were in the shadow of the church; there were so many flowerpots, all those people must have been saints!

When we arrived back at Grandma’s house, my cousin Angele had not yet arrived.

The family finished preparing for Halloween. Uncle Germain carried the table and chairs into another room. Grandpa brought in big logs for the fire. My mother and Aunt Valentine prepared chestnuts for roasting, while Grandma lighted a big candle next to a crucifix that had been placed between the two windows. The whole family got down on their knees. A person’s name was called. “We pray a Rosary for his soul.” Those prayers sounded like a murmuring complaint; the sighing wind in the chimney and the crackle of the fire made it seem even gloomier. I studied each one’s attitude.

Peeking, I saw Uncle Alfred’s eyes open. “Uncle, why don’t you pray correctly?”

“You wouldn’t see me if you would do it properly yourself,” was Uncle Alfred’s quick reply. But I knew how to do both—pray and peek. The firelight of the lone candle danced on the ceiling. Was it the fire of hell? Purgatory maybe? Outside, a pale moon darted in and out of the clouds, casting strange, spooky shadows. Were they ghosts? An uncomfortable feeling came over me. And there was no end to the praying. My knees were hurting. The last log burned down. No more exploding chestnuts. The room got darker. The candle started to shiver, like me. A long black column of moving smoke made all kinds of figures. The flame was now down to the holder, its very last flickerings illuminating the picture of Mary. There she was, neatly framed. She held the babe Jesus, who had a ball in his hands. Her chest was open, showing a bleeding heart. As I looked at the heart, it was quivering and bleeding even more. Then she finally disappeared in the darkness.

Somebody got up and switched the light on. Uncle Germain brought the table and chairs back; cups and milk were brought in, while my mother and Aunt Valentine peeled the roasted chestnuts. To me, the nuts had no taste.

DECEMBER 1936

As I stood on a chair, my mother knelt down, pinning the seam of the vaporous white tulle angel costume with two wings attached to the back. I repeated my lines over and over again. Mademoiselle had asked my parents if I could be in a group of Catholic youth called the “Skylarks.” Under the direction of our parish priest, I was chosen right away to have a part in a theater play for Christmas—as Gabriel the archangel. Little by little, I got so involved that my Halloween nightmares of hellfire were extinguished. I felt sunny again.

I was so excited that it was hard to sleep. It was December 24th, the night the Christchild would come. I was determined to stay awake. In the middle of the night, Mother called me out of bed. A soft light flowed from the dining room. Mother combed my hair, had me put on my housecoat, and said, “The Christchild came by. Let’s go and see what he brought you.”

I hardly could believe it! In the corner of the room, he had put a small pine tree adorned with little burning candles reflecting in glass balls and covered all over with glittering wreaths. Under its branches were some oranges and nuts. As I got closer, I found a baby carriage and a beautiful doll. “Mum! Dad! Look! the Christchild knew exactly what I wanted!” Mum was right when she told our curious neighbor who had asked what I had ordered: “A gift cannot be ordered, and the Christchild knows what Simone desires and deserves!”

The doll sat there with outstretched arms, pleading for a mum. And the Christchild knew I yearned for a daughter. I took my doll and right away named her Claudine.

The next day was our Christmas performance. The curtain fell after the first act. More than the applause from the audience, the teacher’s congratulations gave me confidence for the longer act to come. So many times I had dreamed that I was on the stage with an open mouth and no voice!

During the intermission, Aunt Eugenie came to get me. “Leave your angel wings here and come with me. You have plenty of time.”

Aunt Eugenie worked as a governess for the Koch family. “The Kochs want to meet you. They are with your parents in the loge on the balcony.”

In the dim light, I could hardly see the balcony. It had a strange musty odor and red velvet chairs; the place was tiny. Mr. Koch got up, bent over, and extended his right hand to me. He said, “I’m honored to meet such a nice, capable little lady.” He took my hand and kissed it gently. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Happily, Mrs. Koch added, “and how beautifully dressed too!”

“Yes, I am, because Mum made this dress for me!” I loved my black velvet dress with a garland of little pink roses all around the little jacket, and I was proud to let everyone know about it.

Suddenly the loge door opened. Henriette, a poor mentally ill girl, stood in the doorway, a basket hanging around her neck. She trembled all over. With begging eyes, she pushed the basket under someone’s nose. “Buy a little raffle, please, please. You will win.” Everyone in the loge bought one, then she ran out. She went to the next loge. A solitary man waved his hand and shook his head “no. ” She blushed and ran away. Poor girl! How terrible! I felt so bad for her. Mother, disgusted, stared at the man. I followed Mother’s eyes and recognized our parish priest.

The bell rang for the next act. I had to leave. The lights slowly dimmed. I passed Henriette, coming back down the hallway. The priest had called her back in.

Simone with Claudine, her doll, Christmas 1936

The play was a success. The curtain fell after the last act, but rose again right away. We were called back onto the stage. Some of us had to step forward. The applause filled my eyes with tears. The city theater was packed and everyone was clapping. I felt like running away, yet my feet were as heavy as if they were nailed down. The red velvet curtain came down again. Everyone left, but someone had to take me by the hand. I was worn out and I longed to go home and crawl under the covers.

Mum, who had come behind the stage, kissed me and took me in her arms. I felt her body, stiff and tense. Something had made Mum very upset. With indignation, she said to the theater manager, “Simone will not be in the play again, and I am taking her out of the Skylark girls group. I do not raise a girl to expose her!”

“What do you mean?” the manager asked with surprise.

“You should have seen what happened in the loge next to us!” (The priest had abused Henriette.)

As we walked away, Mum said to me, “Now, you have your daughter, Claudine, waiting for you at home. She needs you. This is better than the Skylarks!” I was so tired. Mother could tell. She was wonderful!

“Yes, I have to take care of Claudine. Poor girl, she is all alone at home!”

Claudine sat next to us while I learned how to knit. Zita was there too. Looking out the window, I saw snow mixed with rain.

The rain spoiled the beautiful, smooth white blanket of snow. Our feet got wet and cold walking in the slush on the way to Aunt Eugenie’s. Her mistress, Mrs. Koch, had asked her to invite me for their Christmas Eve, some days after the 24th of December.

Mother had given me a lot of orders—always the same ones over and over again. I knew them all. Be polite. Don’t put one foot on the top of the other when you stand. Don’t touch the furniture. Don’t serve yourself. Don’t chew with your mouth wide open. Don’t go in a room if you’re not invited. Don’t put your elbow on the table and hold your head. Don’t play with your hair. Don’t swing your legs when you sit. Don’t, don’t, don’t!

The big villa with marble steps, crystal mirrors, and a colorful carpet made me feel embarrassed. The odor of pine, candles, chocolate, and cake; the loud laughter of the three sons and their cousins; a pine tree reaching up to the ceiling, underneath a mountain of colorful parcels—I wanted to run away.

“Come in, Simone. Don’t be shy. The boys won’t hurt you.”

Aunt Eugenie introduced me to the three boys and their cousins, who clearly were not interested in meeting a girl. Boys are all the same, just like the ones at school who threw chestnuts at us girls. I don’t like boys, I thought.

I sat on a chair so high that my legs dangled. My hair bothered me. My aunt smiled and gently but firmly put one hand on my knee to stop the swinging. She took my hand out of my hair. I blushed. Did anybody else see it?

Mrs. Koch, wearing a wonderful lace dress with a long, three-row necklace, sat next to me. Speaking in French, she said: “Simone, Father Christmas (Père Noël) has brought something for you.” And taking my hand, she led me to the beautifully adorned pine tree standing opposite a big lace-covered table. The crystal glasses and silverware reflected the dozens of candles on the tree. This fascinated me more than searching for my gift among the many packages under the tree.

My aunt came to my rescue. “Simone, look for your name.” Under the tree was a manger like the one we had at Christmas in church, but today was not Christmas anymore. Why was it there? My gift was a small box; in it was a wooden man, 20 centimeters high, with a slot in his back. “This is a money box. You put your savings in that slot.” I opened it. It was empty.

I went back to my seat holding my package tightly. The maid in her black dress and white apron came and offered me some sweets. My aunt encouraged me to take one. I was very uncomfortable.

Finally Mrs. Koch said, “Eugenie, in ten minutes a streetcar will be leaving for Dornach. You may accompany the young lady.” What a relief! The maid brought my winter coat, my little polecat fur, and my felt hat. She tried to dress me.

“Oh, no. Please, I’m a big girl now. I can do it myself.” Everybody smiled.

“A true little lady,” Mrs. Koch said. She followed us to the door. Through an open side door, Mr. Koch nodded his gray head to me. Behind him I saw a table with drawers and golden feet and bookshelves up to the ceiling. What kind of room is this? I wondered.

Snow had fallen again. The yellow light shining through all the many windows made the Koch’s house look like a home in a fairy tale.

On the way home, I asked Aunt Eugenie why the Koch’s called the Christchild “Father Christmas,” why he brought me a gift at the Koch’s home instead of mine, and why he came on a different day. Aunt’s answers seemed incomplete. I was totally confused.

I was happy to return to school after the holiday. However, the classroom was cold. It took quite a while for the newly lit fire to give off some heat. Madeleine, Andrée, Blanche, Frida—none had had a pine tree for Christmas. Each only got one orange and one apple with some nuts, “because,” said Mum, “they are poor.”

That night, under my covers, I accused the Christchild. “Why do you treat rich and poor differently? Why did you give the Koch boys trains, books, games, cars? They got so many presents that they were tired of opening them—and yet you brought nothing, absolutely no toys, to most of my schoolmates? This is injustice, yes, injustice!” Wasn’t that how Dad had explained injustice— favoring the rich over the poor?

I decided to correct that terrible injustice. So every day I bought chocolate or cookies to give out at school. One day, passing by a toy shop, I saw a little doll sitting on a baby chair. I decided to buy it for Frida. She had been completely forgotten at Christmas. I went in and asked for the price: five francs. “Please hold it for me. I’ll get it this afternoon.”

I went home for lunch. After lunch, Madeleine came to call for me so we could walk back to school together. But Mum asked her to come upstairs. “Madeleine,” she said, looking at me, “would you have a thief as a friend? Please tell Mademoiselle that Simone will come to class later.”

Obviously Madeleine didn’t understand. Me, either! She left without me.

“Give back the money you have stolen.”

“Mum, I did not steal!”

“Don’t make it worse by adding a lie.”

“I am not lying. I didn’t steal anything.”