Facing the Lion

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!”

When Dad came home from the morning shift, he entered the salon, took the book, and let it drop noisily on the table. “They really are in a hurry! I only wrote a few days ago.”

For days, the parcel just sat there waiting to be opened, and the intensity in Mother’s eyes told me to keep silent and wait.

Whenever somebody knocked at the door, I wasn’t allowed to open it. Mum had explained, “You are a well-mannered girl and you only open when I ask you to do so.” I was to go into one of the rooms because “it is very impolite to be curious and step out in the hall to see who has come.” But what my mother didn’t know was that I would go to a place where I could see who was at the door by looking in the mirror!

Uncle Germain had come for the last time before the snow would close in on Bergenbach for the winter. I came running out of the room. Mum’s glaring look was sufficient to turn me back, but this made me even more suspicious and curious. Uncle Germain was loaded down. Quickly Mother took him through the kitchen to the balcony, where she stored our food until the weather outside was freezing. When they had deposited everything, Mum called out to me, “You have no business on the balcony— Dad’s orders!”

Dad makes our life restrictive, I said to myself. Sometimes I can go; sometimes I can’t. How inconsistent adults can be!

Uncle Germain had brought some wonderful red apples and nuts, and they filled the place with the scent of Bergenbach. I tickled him, surprising him and making him laugh. Through the kitchen window I saw a Christmas tree! “What is it doing out there?” I gave myself the answer: The Christchild has too much work, so my parents provide the tree for him. Didn’t he forget something last year and bring it to the Kochs’, knowing that I was invited? But why did the tree come so long before Christmas?

I had decided I would stay home with Mum and not go to church. Mother looked at me in surprise, while Dad said with a very stern voice, “And why?”