Facing the Lion

“Keep an eye on Zita. She loves to make holes in the ground.” This wasn’t an easy job. When Zita smelled a mouse, she was determined, and she was strong too. I had a hard time pulling her out by her back legs.

Suddenly, night climbed up behind the trees. We gathered up the garden tools quickly. I had tied Zita on her leash for the walk back home. We heard noises like the wind and saw a fire-red sky. A dark cloud raced over our heads. Mother took me by the hand. We had to run for cover to keep from being harmed by the “fireworks.” A farm was ablaze!

Fiery sprays jumped out of the huge flames, sparking little fires in the dry grass. We saw chickens running all over the place; some were already on fire. The cows and the pigs couldn’t be saved. All the fire engines from the city arrived and sprayed water out of long hoses to wet down the farmhouse and the neighbors’ homes. The firemen’s helmets reflected the flames, their faces were red, their clothes dark. A terrible crash rekindled the fire, and the desperate cries of all the animals inside were silenced.

When we were permitted to pass by, the charred beams were still smoldering. The air was heavy with smoke for a long time.

I came home freezing. I couldn’t eat or play. Mother suggested I go to bed because I had a fever. Zita, too, was all upset and lay down next to my bed with wet eyes. It wasn’t bedtime yet, but Mother said, “Get a good night’s rest and you’ll feel better.”

But the night wasn’t “good.” I saw fire everywhere even when my eyes were closed. In my dreams I heard the terrible cries of the burning animals. Mother decided to sleep with me.

The next day was no better. “Mum, did Lucifer burn the barn and the animals in it?”

Mother named all the different ways that fires could start, but it didn’t take away my fear of hellfire. Dad tried to distract me by encouraging me to do some painting, but I was too restless.

Even though the weather was nice and warm, Frida was missing from school again. “Mademoiselle, why can’t Frida come to school?” Instead of answering she caressed my hair.

“Is she still coughing?”

“Oh, no, she’s not coughing anymore. She’s in heaven now.”

“That’s why.”

“Why what?”

“I saw the pots of white flowers.”

Passing in front of her modest home with the shutters closed, I started to cry. The flowers were withered. They too had died. I just couldn’t look at the house anymore. My sadness about her departure for heaven made me cross the street. Yet I was relieved for her. She didn’t cough anymore but would play harps sitting on a cloud. Could she see me?

Catechism class—what would the priest talk about today? “It is necessary to make a distinction between hell and purgatory. When a person dies and has committed sins, that person can avoid burning eternally in hell if he takes the last Sacrament. One has to call for a priest, the person has to confess all his sins without omission, and afterward he can eat the Communion. Maybe he cannot go to heaven right away, but instead will have to go to purgatory. It is a sort of an antechamber of hell. People suffer and burn, but they can get out after their sins have been purged. This time can be shortened if the family asks the priest to say Masses. The family has to make sacrifices and prayers for the dead.”

The night was terrible. I saw Frida in the flames, the lady with her burst tummy moaning. The firemen had tails like the Devil, their faces were fire-red, and the twins were drowning in a river of fire. The saints didn’t hear my prayers because of the roaring fire. I screamed and woke up. Mother was sitting on the edge of my bed, wiping the sweat off my forehead. My bed was a snarled mess of covers. Mum tucked me in again and kissed me. I fell asleep, but a similar dream haunted me. The following evening I didn’t want to go to bed. My bed had become hell.

Zita’s head went back to normal again. She had given birth to puppies! Soon after, on one sunny day, my fancy lady passed by pushing a baby carriage. She, too, had shrunk. Running to Mum I asked her, “Do mothers carry their babies in their tummies like Zita?” Mother’s answer made liars out of Mrs. Huber and Aline!

“But why do people say I should put sugar for the stork in order to get a sister?”

“That’s a story for little ones!”

Again, for little ones! I’m not a little one. “Why, Mum, why do adults lie?” I got no answer.

“Didn’t God say ‘You shall not lie?’ Aren’t they afraid to go to hell?”

That night, while under my covers, I decided to avoid Mrs. Huber. I was not going to talk to her anymore. But why didn’t Mother answer my question? Why do grown-ups lie to children? I would have to beware of them! That put me in a very bad mood.

Dad was a wonderful playmate—always encouraging me to try new things. I had some trouble with the spinning top Uncle Germain had made for me. It turned, slowed down, wobbled, and fell motionless. To get it started again I had to wind the string around it, put the point on a level place, and swiftly jerk the string to liberate it.

“Keep trying. You’ll do better next time,” Dad said from the balcony, where he stood watching me. No cars came down our block; I had the whole street to myself. Some of our neighbors, who spent their summer evenings leaning on cushions and looking out the window, kept on teasing me. They made me even more determined. But it was time for me to go to bed, even though the sun had not yet set. It was so hot that Mum had decided not to close my shutters completely.

“Mum! Dad! Hurry, help, help! There is fire everywhere!” A strong orange-red light had enveloped my room. Dad took me from my bed and brought me to the balcony. Mrs. Huber, Mrs. Beringer, Mrs. Eguemann—everyone had come outside to look at the spectacular light show. The sun had set, the blue line of the mountain had turned black, the sky was fire red, and, downstairs, our teenage neighbor John played the blues on his mandolin.

“Who opened the door to hell?”

“This is not hellfire. It’s a spectacular sunset!”

“But only a giant fire could send so much red light into the sky!”

Mum and Dad looked at each other and shook their heads.

“I know for sure it’s hell because the priest said that a person either goes down to hell or up to heaven,” I insisted.

Dad explained something about fire and lava inside the earth, convincing me about hell even more and making me even more terrified. Mother brought me back to bed. Sitting with me, she told me once more that it wasn’t hell; it was the sun.

“Don’t be so scared about hell. We have the saints to pray for us, and we have a guardian angel.”

It didn’t help because I knew how terrible it is to die unprepared.

How awful, how terrible if my parents would die during the night! Every night I would sneak into their bedroom and put my finger under their noses to find out if they were breathing. Only then could I go to sleep!

One Sunday, as usual, the three of us went for our afternoon walk. It brought us near a tavern with a garden. I remembered being there when I was about three years old. I had danced on a tabletop and the customers had applauded. Dad recalled my performance, too, and he said sternly, “Remember this place? Let it be said, I do not want you to become a show girl!”

Really! It wasn’t necessary for him to remind me. I was now a serious girl—nearly seven years old! I know about sickness, death, purgatory, hell, and God sending all kinds of situations to test us. My parents tried to cheer me up, but my innocent childhood free of sorrow was gone. My religious education at school taught me how painful life on this earth can be and what effort one has to go through to become a saint. That had become my chief concern.

One year of intense religious instruction had propelled me into a state of permanent fear, fear of God—the Father who was so severe, so exacting. I really had no desire to dance—how could I?

Sitting on a little footstool, I was holding class for Claudine, trying to teach her the pronunciation of the German alphabet. Mother was waxing the shared wooden stairs outside our apartment; it was her turn to clean them. She was always unhappy because our neighbor only used water to wash them down, while Mum believed in shiny wooden steps. I heard her talking to someone in the hallway; suddenly she came in to get something and went back out.

“I’ll read them,” I heard Mum say. “I believe our God is sleeping and doesn’t see what is going on. I wonder what you have to say.”[4] I couldn’t imagine why Mother would say something like that! Will she go to hell? I knelt down in front of my altar, begging the saints to ask God not to be angry with her! I was afraid for her soul!

That same day it was my turn to wash the dishes, but I just couldn’t scrub the burnt food off the bottom of the pans.

“We will put some water in them and soak them; it will come off easier later on,” Mum said absently. She put the pans on top of a shelf on the balcony, just behind a blind she had installed to keep people from gazing into our kitchen. For days, the pots remained there!

Mum was enthusiastic about the booklets she had gotten. She went to the bookstore to get a Bible. Day after day she would read and read and read—she barely cooked anymore. Ever since the day she had forbidden me to go to church alone, she hadn’t returned to our church for confession and communion. She started going to another Catholic church nearby. But, after a while, she decided that she wouldn’t attend Mass anymore. So Dad and I went together. He seemed really down, and I felt uncomfortable, too. Even the beautiful organ music didn’t make me feel better.

My mother also forgot how to cook. She reads too much, I said to myself.

One night as I was lying in bed, I could hear my parents’ voices. I stretched my neck and tried to listen in. I was convinced they had a secret I was not supposed to know. I had to discover it. Creeping alongside the wall, I tried to hear what they were talking about. Father’s voice was insistent; Mother’s was very firm, but in an undertone she said something about being free to worship according to conscience.

“We are Catholics!” Dad kept repeating.

“We all know that! What is Dad thinking?” I wondered. Mother’s answer was inaudible.

Dad got really irritated and insisted, “We have to stay faithful,” and he added something about a rock in Rome called Peter and the pope who sits upon it. All of a sudden Dad stood up. I quickly turned to hustle back to bed, but it was too late. He saw me. As he came out of the salon, disgusted, he said to Mother, “Do what you want!” He continued to walk away, then suddenly turned to Mum and added in an emphatic tone, “I forbid you to talk about your ideas and your readings to Simone!”

I was ignored, left out, treated like a baby! I felt like I would burst from anger. I was so mad at Dad. I was determined to resist.

“Mum, what do you read every day?” I asked her first thing the next morning.

“Bible literature.”

“What’s that?”

“The Bible is the Word of God.”

“I’ll read it too.”

“Later.”

“No, right now.”

“Simone, I promised your dad that I wouldn’t share a Protestant Bible or any literature with you.” I knew they were keeping something from me!

“But Dad isn’t here!”

“Yes, but I promised him.”

“Dad won’t see you, and I won’t tell him!”

“That would not be right; it would be lying. Child, your father is working hard to feed us and to pay the house rent. He has the right to make decisions concerning your education.” Inside I was burning up.

“But why? Why can’t I read what I want?”

A strange atmosphere had crept into our home. Mother still didn’t go to church, but at least she didn’t burn the food anymore. Father didn’t talk anymore, not even about socialism! His greetings to Mother were mechanical—no warmth, no enthusiasm, only questionings.

“Who have you seen? Where have you been going?” What foolish questions! Father knows that she sees only the grocer, the butcher, and the baker. Why does he bother her like that? But one time his questioning got worse.

“Do you mean the men who gave you those booklets didn’t come back?”

“No, and I feel bad about it. I have so many questions I want to ask them.” Dad didn’t like this either. They were so absorbed in their conversation they didn’t notice me. He kept on.

“Who brought you those other brochures?”

“I ordered them,” and nervously Mum pulled out a brown paper with stamps. “Here is the proof,” she said with annoyance.

“Why did you order so many, and where are they all?”

“I ordered three kinds. They sent me ten of each.”

“And what did you do with them?”

“I shared them with our neighbors in the apartment and down the street.” Dad shook his head angrily.

Sneaking farther back in the corner of the room, I said to myself, Dad has forgotten that I’m here. I’ll try to keep quiet.

He looked straight into Mum’s eyes and said, accentuating each word, “Are you spreading propaganda now?” Mother turned pale. Would she fight back? I would have! Dad was treating her like a child.

After a while she said, “Adolphe, people have the same right that each one of us has—the right to choose. But to do so, they have to have a choice; this is not propaganda.”

I thought, “Well done, Mum!” And without realizing it, I spoke up, murmuring that people have the right to read what they want, and I did too! Turning to gaze at me, both of them fell silent.

Books Broaden My View

CHAPTER 3

Books Broaden My View

A

fter we learned of Frida’s death, we remaining four girls walked on the other side of the street, along the apartment houses. A young girl I had never seen before lived in one of them. She was always coughing badly. Blanche knew her. Her name was Jacqueline. She had been sent away from home to live in a special house; she was older than we were, and she had tuberculosis. We wanted to know what kind of sickness it was. I promised the girls that I would look it up in my medical book because I was the nurse.

Standing way up on top of the ladder in Dad’s library, I felt my heart pounding. I could feel the beating in my temples. My hands trembled as I reached out for the red, leather-covered, heavy “house doctor” book. I decided to sit on the top of the ladder. That way, as soon as I heard Mum going down the cellar stairs to put the garden tools away, I would have the time to put the book back, climb down and put the ladder away.

My inner voice kept saying, “You didn’t ask permission. But if I ask Mum, she’ll say no! I’m the nurse; I have to learn. I’m not going to risk being told ‘no’!” My parents had already refused to let me read the book called the Bible. It was very exciting to do things on my own. I really liked the feeling of doing things in secret.

The doctor book became my favorite secret reading. I would have liked to copy the diagrams, but I might have been caught! And there were so many strange words. The description of the sicknesses usually ended with the same words: “It results in death.”

“Nothing happens outside the will of God,” our priest always said. “God decides on the hour of death.” But as pictured in this book, the means by which we can die were terrifying. Yet I had to understand the information. I had promised the girls. I decided to ask Mum.

Carefully, one day I asked, “Mum, what is tuberculosis?”

“A sickness. But where did you get that question from?”

I had to be careful how I answered. “Well, we talked about it when we passed in front of Jacqueline’s house. Blanche said she’s not allowed to go to school.”

“That’s right. She does have tuberculosis; she already had it when she took care of Frida as a baby.”

“Did Frida get it from her?”

“Probably. That’s called contagious. You see, Simone, when I constantly remind you not to sit on the sidewalk, it is not only because dogs ease themselves but also because some people spit!”

“Oh, yes! I read they even spit out their lungs!”

“What did you say?”

“I said I was afraid they spit out their lungs. Is it what Uncle Louis had, the sickness he died from?”

“It is.”

“Then does Aunt Eugenie have tuberculosis?”

“God be blessed, no!”

I got the information and the necessary explanation. I could go to school and tell the girls not to pick anything up from the streets because lungs might be lying there. As a nurse, it was my duty to make them fear tuberculosis just as I did.

Summer vacation had finally arrived, and Dad was on vacation, too—the first one he ever took. He didn’t want to take time off from work. “But I have to—the factory will close down for two weeks.” This was because, from 1937 onward, all factories in France were required by law to close down for vacation as a result of concessions won by the strikers. At least this forced vacation meant that Dad’s mood would improve.

Dad had something new to talk about. “Emma, what about buying those bicycles?”

“Can we afford it?”

My five-franc baby doll on the shelf gave me that uncomfortable feeling again.

“Well, we would have to take the money from the bank. I don’t like that idea because something unforeseen might happen. But on the other hand, bicycles are also an investment. We could cycle through the mountains with them.”

Our brand new bicycles were the admiration of our whole neighborhood. Both shiny cycles were dark red with gold trim and had three speeds. There was a special seat for me on the handlebars of Dad’s bike and another one on the rear of Mother’s bike. I would sit on Dad’s when climbing up the mountain, but sit on Mother’s when going down. We planned to go up to the Lakes Longemer and Gerardmer. Then I found out that we were supposed to take my cousin Maurice along—that was bad news for me.

Maurice was a tall fourteen-year-old with blond hair and steelblue eyes. He bragged constantly. Mum said he was a “poor orphan.” He would only go cycling with us, and we would bring him back before going to Bergenbach. This meant I had to endure.

I figured out how to handle him. I did whatever he did, climbing, running, never complaining. And when he said he was tired, I would say, “I’m not!”

Back at Grandma’s, I declared proudly to my astonished cousin Angele, “From now on, I’m a boy.” And in order to prove it, I climbed up a mirabelle tree to shake the small sweet yellow plums from the upper branches. When I jumped down, my dress got caught on a branch. I swung back and forth until the skirt pulled apart, liberating me. I fell to the ground flat on my stomach. Angele ran away screaming, and Joly, the Alsatian puppy, tugged at my dress, tearing it to pieces. I got slowly and painfully back on my feet. Do boys cry? I decided to bite my lip and pretend I was okay. I had my basket full of mirabelles. I dragged it home, struggling with the heavy load.

All of the animals on Grandma’s farm had to have nice faces. If they didn’t, Grandma would sell them. Joly was a beautiful, well-built dog. Joly was also very strong. I thought that it was a waste to have Joly only do the job of barking while Uncle Germain and Grandpa had to bring the hay down on a huge sled.

“Angele, we could train the dog to pull a sled, so we could load it!” We took Joly and Uncle Germain’s homemade sled and went uphill behind the house. We attached Joly to the sled. At first the dog refused to walk and we had to pull him. Then he felt that something was following him, and he started to run faster and faster downhill. We laughed, but only in the beginning. Soon our laughter turned to panic. Joly ran down the eight steps between Germain’s workshop and the farmyard. The sled banged down the stone steps. The terrific noise brought everyone outside, except for deaf Uncle Germain who was sawing wood. Joly was determined to get rid of his harness. He jumped into the granitehewn fountain, shattering the sled to pieces and splashing everyone. His wild eyes bulged, his tongue hung out. We both were sent to bed for what the adults called “mischief.” The adults just didn’t understand our brilliant idea.

Taking a big, black book out of her bag, Mum called to me. “Look what I bought, a Catholic Bible.”

“What’s a Bible?”

“It is the Word of God, written for men to guide their lives.” I tried to read from it, but the print was too small. I kept stumbling over the words.

“Every morning, while you eat breakfast, I’ll read to you.” At least my mother didn’t treat me like a baby!

“Sit down next to me,” she said, and turning to the first page, she showed me the signatures of some cardinals and bishops. “You see? This has the approval of the Catholic church and the pope. Every parish priest has a copy. Dad wouldn’t forbid us to read a Catholic Bible, would he?”

“He can’t.”

“I’ll leave the book here next to the radio. We won’t hide it, will we?”

“No. That way Dad can read it too.”

But he didn’t.

The weeks that Dad worked the morning shift, I got the promised Bible reading while I ate my jam-and-butter sandwiches and drank hot chocolate, which perfumed the whole apartment. Sometimes Mother would read a sentence or two twice and add, “Remember this,” or “Did you hear?” followed by the reading of a few words out of the previous sentence. This made it easier for me to learn verses and repeat them. On those Bible-reading days, I had something special to share with my classmates.

I thought that Dad might be sick—even contagious—because he started keeping away from us and even out of the sight of our neighbors. I worried a lot about him. Day after day, Mum would make Dad’s favorite dishes. Yet, day after day, it was the same scenario. With outstretched hand, a scowl, and a harsh voice, Dad would say, “Not so much; I’m not hungry.”

I felt bad. Dad was living on cigarettes. After supper he would quickly get up from the table to smoke a cigar and listen to the evening news. Zita looked up at him, waiting to be petted. Dad didn’t notice Zita’s imploring eyes. But when the time came to take Zita out, Dad didn’t ask me or Mum. He would go out, not for a short time but for a long walk.

We never seemed to talk anymore as a family. And even when I was gone, Mum and Dad had no conversation. I kept coming back to the same conclusion. Dad must be very sick, maybe even contagious. Whenever he was on the balcony, he stood behind the blind to avoid chatting with that curious neighbor of ours, Mrs. Huber. I kept thinking, our neighbors must think we are all contagious; they keep avoiding us.

At school, my popularity had dwindled. I wasn’t the leader or instructor anymore. Somehow my popularity had melted. Never mind, I reasoned. Mum always said, “You do not want to be like everyone else; you want to become a lady.” And for a long time, this had been another goal in my life. One day I, too, would wear crocodile shoes, a three-strand necklace, and gloves.

My wonderful mum helped me in many ways to reach my goal of becoming a lady. One day I was standing next to Mum in a fabric store, and she had me choose a piece of material. I needed a new Sunday coat, one I would not use during the week. While the saleslady took some pieces of material down, she said, “This is in style; everybody chooses this one or that one.”

Bending toward me Mum said, “Simone, you choose, but remember you do not want to be like everybody else; you want to be you. There is only one Simone Arnold. Each one has a personal taste, and you want to be a lady. Ladies do not copy, they create. They have personality.”

The elderly saleslady’s astonishment showed in her eyes. She just stared with her mouth hanging open; it’s a good thing there were no flies around!

“You are very young to make a personal choice,” she finally said. Didn’t she know I was not a baby anymore? I was seven years old!

“Quality and price are the only limits,” Mother replied.

“Please show us this one, that one and that one,” I said, pointing to some fabrics.

Mother asked the price, then she said: “This one is too expensive, Simone. I’m sure you wouldn’t like your father to work for a full week just for your coat, would you?” And she had it put back on the shelf. “You may choose among the others.” That was so exciting! I was going to be different; it would be my own taste.

“You shall not make any images—eyes they have and cannot see, ears they have and cannot hear. Those trusting in them will become like them.” That was the day’s Bible reading. Before Mum finished a second reading and before my cup of hot chocolate was empty, I had pulled off the medal with Mary that was on my necklace and the other one that was on my bracelet. I flushed them down the toilet. Then I ran into my room and crushed my altar to pieces. Mother was speechless, paralyzed. When I came back to finish my breakfast, Mum said, “We could have given those gold medals to Angele.”

“Mum, if God doesn’t want any images, it would be the same sin for Angele to have them!”

It was a Thursday. I was home when Dad came from work. For some reason he headed straight for my room. He turned white, just like the day he was almost electrocuted in Grandma’s kitchen. I was scared. Without a word, he went to the kitchen. Mother was silently preparing his meal. I decided to stay away; Father’s angry face reminded me of a storm.

“Where is Simone’s altar?” he asked roughly. Mother calmly continued fixing his food.

“She broke it into pieces.”

“You’re the one who told her to do that!”

“No, I just read the laws written in the Bible to her.”

“You told me you wouldn’t teach her. You promised me.”

“Adolphe, it’s a Catholic Bible, and Simone ran out before I ever finished my reading. I can’t understand you; you never liked Simone’s altar, her pictures and candles. Why, why, do you get so upset now?” And taking back his plate, she said, “I’ll warm it up once more. Please eat it for our sake.” Dad grumbled something no one could understand; it looked like the storm had quieted down, but my question again had no answer. Why did Dad get so mad? He really scared me. I wondered if those statues were very expensive. Had Dad spent many days working for them?

Our appointment with Aunt Valentine was a welcome change. It was a foggy October afternoon, and I was happy to get away from the awkward situation at home. Aunt Valentine was waiting for us at the streetcar stop. Around her neck, keeping her warm, was her fox fur with its staring glass eyes. The smell of mothballs surrounded her. Angele wasn’t with her.

I was to choose a gift that Aunt Valentine would get for me, and Mum would buy a gift for Angele. I selected a sewing kit.

The odor of the broiling chestnuts filled the air of the business section in Mulhouse. As we approached the station, we passed by a man who had a big iron pan upon a coal fire. Once in a while he would turn the chestnuts. Meanwhile, he made small cone-shaped cups from newspaper. Handing him some money, Aunt Valentine asked for some and offered me the hot grilled chestnuts. What a delightful afternoon! I forgot all about Father’s anger.

We hurried along because of the late afternoon hour. My gift made me so happy, especially because it was my aunt’s first gift to me, and I had been allowed to choose it! “Mum, Dad will be happy too, won’t he?”

“Certainly, but do you realize how tired he is? Lately he hasn’t played with you very much; he’s even skipped looking over your schoolwork. Maybe he doesn’t feel up to it tonight; so don’t insist. It might be better if you go to your room and have a chat with Claudine.”

The two flights of stairs seemed to be only a few steps. I ran up to Dad. “Look, Dad, look what I got!” I tore open my parcel to show him my gift. Dad sat in his armchair doing nothing. It was so strange. He always said that only bums and dead people do nothing. I handed my gift to him.

“Mm hmm.”

“Isn’t it lovely, Dad?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Aunt Valentine bought it for me.”

“Oh, did she?”

“But I chose it.”

“I see.” Mother’s blue eyes told me to let Dad rest.

I went to my doll Claudine and showed her my beautiful box covered with flowered fabric. Inside were colorful spools of thread and little scissors. At least she appreciated it.

A heavy silence enveloped our family. Mother didn’t try to communicate with Dad, who had no voice anymore. Dad’s sickness must have become much worse. My room too was strange, empty. The only thing left on my shelf after my destructive zeal was the innocent baby doll. It had always been in my way, and now it bothered me even more. It represented my conscience, a solemn thing to look at, but Mother had insisted that it stay there. The gloomy days seemed endless.

Back at school, Mademoiselle accepted my dahlias with indifference and put them in an ugly pot on the windowsill. She certainly doesn’t like dahlias anymore, I thought. I often used to give her flowers, and she would put them in a nice vase, while smiling and thanking me. But even flowers didn’t cheer her up anymore. She looked sick, too.

Finally, after many gray days, a pale white sun appeared. A timid ray of sunshine hit a parcel lying on the table in the salon. Mum took my schoolbag and pointing to the wrapped package said, “Dad has ordered a book from the Bible Students Association in Strasbourg.[5] This is a surprise; we won’t say a word. Perhaps he wants to read it in secret,” putting her finger on her mouth to indicate silence about the matter and taking an air of conspiracy, she added, “Shhh!”