Читать книгу Facing the Lion - Simone Arnold-Liebster - Страница 10

CHAPTER 1

Life Between City and Mountain Farm

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ntil World War II intervened, I was a happy, outgoing child. Little did I know that my life course would be dramatically altered by the war. The Nazis took over our town, my parents were put in concentration camps, and I was put in a home for delinquent girls because I had defied the “Lion” of the new Nazi order. It was a crushing experience that scarred me for many years. Yet my survival is also a testament to the adaptability of the human spirit. My wish is that my story will help others triumph over whatever “Lions” of the future may threaten the human spirit anywhere.

JUNE 1933

My parents and I had come from a village called Husseren-Wesserling in the Thann Valley in the Vosges Mountains near Grandma and Grandpa’s farm. There we had lived in a wonderful cottage surrounded by rose hedges and meadows. We lived in Alsace Lorraine, a region that lies on the border of Germany and France. Ownership of Alsace Lorraine had been disputed for centuries.

I was almost three years old when we and my little dog Zita moved to the third floor of the apartment building at 46 Rue de la mer rouge in the town of Mulhouse. My world was my family. I could not have anticipated the pain, hardships, and terror that lay ahead.

The name of our street, Rue de la mer rouge—Red Sea Street—could serve as a symbol for the fate of my family. Despair. Partings. Journeys. Hope. I wonder if my parents ever remarked upon the street’s name.

The railroad station at Mulhouse-Dornach marked the beginning of Rue de la mer rouge, a long street that wound its way through gardens and fields, past a neighborhood of family homes and apartment houses. Number 46 was a four-story building with eight apartments. It housed workers from the Schaeffer and Company factory, a world-famous manufacturer of textured fabric. Dad was an art consultant for Schaeffer and Company.

Here in the city, I was not allowed to get close to the windows or go out to the street on my own. How sad for a little country girl...even the flowers on the balcony were prisoners of their pots!

Happily, we often returned to my grandparents’ farm. We’d get off the train at Oderen, where there was a chapel for the Virgin Mary. The footpath scaled the mountain; it passed a cool mountain stream and, climbing sharply, followed a rocky cliff to a plateau of green meadows. The meadows were strewn with many different kinds of fruit trees. This isolated area was called Bergenbach.

In the midst of rocks, ferns, and undergrowth, stood my grandparents’ house. After entering through the tiny door, a person’s eyes would have to adjust to the dim light before it was possible to make out the huge black chimney in the corner. Into this chimney, a big kitchen stove had been set. The odor of smoke mixed with the aroma of hay and cereals was the best of fragrances to me. Outside of the house was a stone-hewn fountain. The sound of the bubbling water in the fountain had been a soothing lullaby for generations.

Oil painting of Bergenbach by Adolphe Arnold

In the 1890s, my grandmother Marie had left the ancestral home only to return widowed with two girls—Emma and Eugenie, my mother and my aunt. Remy Staffelbach, my grandmother Marie’s second husband, fathered my Aunt Valentine and Uncle Germain. Remy was a true grandpa to me.

Grandma was a very industrious woman who took care of all of the animals and the garden while the men went off to their jobs.

Grandpa was a color mixer in the printing factory, and Uncle Germain hewed stone in a quarry. Grandma always fretted about Uncle Germain. Because he was deaf, she worried that Uncle Germain might not get the message that the rock was about to be dynamited. Whenever she heard a blast from the quarry, no matter where she was or what she was doing, she would stop and say a prayer for her son.

With tears in her eyes, Grandma would tell me the same story over and over again: “Your mother wanted to become a nun, a missionary in Africa. We went to the convent to see about it, but the required donation was just too high. We would have had to sell all our cows.” I wondered to myself why it was necessary to sell cows to serve God.

“The family decided that she should work and use some of her earnings to pay for Germain’s boarding school. That’s how she became a weaver of damask and met your father, Adolphe. He was a penniless orphan and an artist—not a farmer—but at least he was a strong Catholic.”

Uncle Germain and I communicated easily. I enjoyed his lively homemade sign language.

Uncle Germain also did carpentry work, stone carving, and tree grafting. He had ten beehives. Each time we came for a visit, he showed us his latest achievement with a broad, happy grin. His joy in life was to be productive. Germain was very attached to his mother and, because of her, he was very religious. So was I.

When she was young, Grandma must have been beautiful. Her attractive features had hardly diminished with age. Her deep blue eyes paled next to her sunburned complexion. A small chignon of white hair on top of her head looked like a halo. During the week, Grandma wore a stern black dress covered by a big apron. But on Sundays, she wore a flowered dress with tiny pink or lilac flowers that softened her serious face.

Grandma was a little heavy, yet always quietly on the move. As soon as I came into the kitchen, she would launch into lively talk. “Let’s get the soup done for the little hog—with some potatoes.” She would mash them in her hand. “We will get some bran, our leftovers from the noon dishes, no bones, and the whey from the cheese...come, Little Girl, we’ll pour it into the manger...” The hog’s pink nose went in the soup...ch-ch-ch. “Look how foolish—it searches for the best pieces first!”

All of the chickens would gather in front of the kitchen door. “It must be five o’clock. We’ll give them some corn.”

“Back, back,” she’d say, clapping her hands and sending the vigorous ones flying onto each others’ backs. “Little Girl, see that! Just like people, no consideration for the weak.”

“Now let’s call the cats. ‘Busala busala, come...here is your milk.’” It was the foam of the milk from the cow that Grandpa had just milked. I had already had my share in a special black cup, my cup. The cats rubbed up against our legs and purred. One of them let her little one drink first. “You see, that is a true mother, and most everyone says thank you.”

Whenever possible, my parents and I would go to Bergenbach on weekends. I got to attend the great Mass with Grandpa, which was such a treat. Uncle Germain would leave the house after us, but somehow he would always beat us to church. After Mass, we three would go to the café where all of the men of the village gathered. They often talked politics, either that or about farm animals: “I bought a cow from the horse dealer.” “Which one? The Jew or the Alsatian?” “From the Jew, and he cheated me again!” “Why don’t you go to the Alsatian?” “Well, he’s too expensive. He always inflates the quality and price of his animals. He is dishonest!” I couldn’t follow their reasoning. Why did they hate Jews and yet prefer to buy from them? It didn’t make any sense.

Climbing the mountain back up to Bergenbach, at high noon in the summertime was, as Grandma said, penance that added more value to our church attendance. She must have been right, but in the summer I wished it weren’t quite so hot!

Grandpa’s face was almost as red as his hair. He wore a dark brown velvet suit with a golden chain for the watch he kept tucked in his vest pocket. He would undo all of the buttons and with his handkerchief, constantly wiped off his neck. Uncle Germain always headed home ahead of us, running off like a gazelle; then he would hide and wait for us. As we passed by, he would jump out at us with his special “horse laugh!”

Aunt Eugenie with Simone and Grandfather-Godfather Paul Arnold, August 1930	Father and Mother with Simone

(from rear left) Mother, Father, Grandpa Remy, Aunt Eugenie, Grandma Marie, and Uncle Germain; Simone in center

Grandma attended the early Mass so she could be home in time to cook our delicious Sunday meals that included special homemade pastries of all kinds. At the meals, the chats were always interesting and lively, but always peaceful, as long as we were six at the table. How different when Grandma’s youngest daughter, my Aunt Valentine, came with her husband, Alfred, and my cousin Angele. Alfred, a tall man, always took over—he knew it all! While Alfred talked and talked, my father sat there silent. I didn’t like that. My father was smarter—why didn’t he speak up?

Drawing battle lines seemed to be Uncle Alfred’s regular goal, and it wasn’t hard to accomplish. Grandpa disliked the harsh German authority. He had served in the German maritime service for four years and had seen with his own eyes how a rebellious sailor was punished: A rope was tied around his waist, and then he was thrown into the sea and dragged behind the ship for hours. I thought that those sailors must have been very fast swimmers to be able to keep up with the ship!

Grandma always picked on the French, calling them lazy. She hadn’t forgotten that during the Great War, the French army had fed on her cows and never compensated her for them. But she had nothing but glowing praise for Hitler’s achievements in Germany.

When the verbal wars ended, usually Grandpa seemed to shrink, while Grandma seemed to grow taller. Her hands would stiffen as she angrily snatched up the dessert dishes from the table. The lacy antique dishes were beautiful and delicate, and I was always afraid that in her anger she would break them to bits.

Father, Mother, Uncle Alfred, Aunt Valentine, Simone, Angele

After dessert, Angele and I would go out to play. I’d make a doll from a little round potato, two tiny stone eyes, a stick fixed to a carrot body, with a big leaf serving as a dress. My city-girl cousin didn’t appreciate my doll. She soon would lie down and close her little blue eyes. Her red eyelashes looked like a hand-stitched seam; her mouth shrank and looked like a strawberry. Her round red cheeks surrounded her tiny freckled nose while her beautiful curly locks spread over the green grass like rays of sunshine. In her light-blue dress with her ribbons, she became my doll.

My doll needed my care. I would search for a big leaf to make an umbrella, then I too would lie down under the fern enjoying its familiar scent. I lay there, listening to the buzzing bees, watching the rolling clouds, once in a while catching sight of a grasshopper. I would think about the adults’ conversation and try to figure out what it meant.

Grandma had given me another picture of a holy image to add to my collection. Father’s round face stretched long. He raised his eyebrows, pulling his eyelids up, while his lips rounded into a dot. I saw a question mark on his face. Mother’s face was neither serious nor smiling. The corners of her mouth drooped and her eyes were drawn inward. She waved her right hand a little bit, spreading all five fingers. Obviously, they were not enthusiastic about my holy image!

“Put it in your missal,” Dad ordered. I had received a white pearly missal—my own prayer book— before I had started school. I replied with a determined, “No.” That image had been blessed by the priest and was given to me by Grandma. I wanted to make it part of the altar in my room. “Grandma said it will chase evil spirits away,” I protested. “She even put a few like it over the doorway of the shed!”

Father didn’t insist. He let Mum have the last word, which meant that I could put the image on my private altar. It was good that way. Ever since she bought her new sewing machine, Mum used my room for sewing. She would benefit from the protection of the saint who dominated my altar.

Sitting on the floor with my teddy bear, I was fascinated by the big wheel of the sewing machine that Mother worked with her feet. No one could do it faster than my mother! I loved the sound of the sewing machine and Mum humming. I was inspired by the sight of fabric turning into beautiful clothes and wonderful shirts that made Dad look like a great man.

JUNE 1936

One day, Mother was not humming. She dragged her feet as she walked, and she would stop once in a while and put her face in her hands! She got up and looked out the window. When I asked, “Mum, are you sick?” she shook her head, and turned away. I sat down next to her; she stroked my hair.

Dad left at 1:30 to work the afternoon shift. I waited in vain for Mother to play with me as usual. Bedtime arrived. She came to my room and had me take holy water and make the sign of the cross. Then she said a prayer and kissed me while tucking me in.

Mum would usually close the shutters, but this evening she sat at the edge of my bed. Slowly the night fell and the moonlight shone on my mother’s black wavy hair. Her ivory complexion became even whiter. I couldn’t see her deep blue eyes, but I felt them. Slowly, her silhouette vanished. I fell asleep. It was eight o’clock, my regular bedtime.

Most nights I would wake up at a quarter past ten to the hum of bikes as the workers came home from the factory. I would hear Dad stowing his bicycle in the garage, climbing the creaking wooden staircase, turning the key, and opening the door ever so quietly. My dog, Zita, slept next to the entrance by the toilet, and would jump high up to Dad’s waist and follow him to the kitchen. There, Dad would take off his shoes, put on his slippers, and hang up his jacket. This was the signal for me to pull my bed cover over my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. Then came the delightful moment when Dad would enter my room, lean over me, his warm breath brushing my face, and place a warm kiss like a butterfly upon my forehead. His hands like a breath would caress my short hair. I would feel his loving gaze while I pretended to sleep, enjoying that exquisite moment to the full.

That night, I suddenly awoke with the distressing feeling that I was alone. I called out desperately, and Mother came running into my room in her nightgown, a hair net holding her wavy hair.

“Where is Dad? He didn’t come to kiss me.”

“Shhhh, it’s past three o’clock. Dad must be sleeping. You must sleep too!” She sat next to me stroking my hair, which was soaked by the sweat of my terror.

The following morning, Dad was not at the breakfast table, and there was not even a cup ready for him.

“Dad will be away for a few days,” Mother said, trying to hold back her tears.

Dad has left us! Dad has run away! That’s why he had seemed unusually quiet, sad, and tense. I remembered a conversation between him and Mum. “It was an error; it should not have happened,” he had said quietly to Mum.

“Adolphe, don’t worry; everybody makes mistakes.”

How could Mother accuse Father, saying that he makes mistakes? Dad never makes mistakes. I knew it! Dad must have run away from her.

Where did he go? He must have gone to Krüth, the village at the end of the valley. It was one of my favorite places. I wished I could have gone with him, to get away from my mean mother.

Krüth was where Dad’s stepfather and uncle, Paul Arnold lived. He was my “Grandpa-Godfather.” He would stand in the small doorway of his house, his right hand holding the door post, just underneath the stone-hewn cross with numbers on it. He would smile, his eyes disappearing in all those crinkles and wrinkles. He was so old and dried out, just like a prune! He rolled his trousers several times around his belt. I would like to have visited Grandpa-Godfather again.

Why didn’t Dad let me go along?

I sat in my room sulking. After a while, I started to cry.

“Adolphe, Adolphe, you’ve come home!” Mother’s excited voice woke me up. Was I dreaming? I jumped up and ran into my father’s arms. Mum quickly went back to the kitchen to prepare him a warm meal.

Dad explained what had happened. “The workers shut down the factory and stopped the printing plant without even taking the fabric off the presses! Everybody ran out, but the ones with white shirts had to go back in. Some were even beaten. No one could go in or out anymore.”[2]

“How did you get out?”

“I had decided to sleep among the fabrics along with the engineers. We could hear the workers’ threats and their slogans. It was quite frightening, I’ll tell you! At 2:00 p.m., I figured that my working crew—the printers, the men in the ink shops, and the engravers—would be at the gate. I went down. As soon as they saw me, they opened the gate. They said, ‘He is on our side in spite of his white shirt. Let him go home.’ But I needed their protection against the workers who didn’t know me.”

My father needed protection? He was afraid? He slept in a shop among ink and didn’t have spots on his shirt? So strange!

Father ate and talked all at once, using strange words. I had never seen him so agitated. His face turned red and his voice was tight. I was afraid that he might drop dead.

He continued his speech. Such strange words: proletarian, communists, socialism, slogans, claims, salaries, human rights, dominating class, confidence.

I got tired of listening to all that nervous talk. I went out onto the balcony. The kitchen light shone on the blue and white petunias and the red geraniums, but the night had silenced the birds and the bees.

“Daddy, look! The sky has put on its velvet evening dress with its diamonds.”

Dad finally stopped talking and came out; he lifted me up in his arms, while Mum took the dishes away.

“Simone, those diamonds are stars. They are very big, but they are far away.” Pointing to some of them above our heads, he added, “See those four stars in a square with three stars as a tail?”

“Oh yes, it’s a pan.”

“Those are called the ‘big bear.’”

“I can’t see a bear!”

“You can’t because we cannot see all the stars.”

“Oh, I understand—the bear is in the pan!”

From then on, I kept looking in the dark velvet sky trying to find the “big bear,” but every evening the pan stayed empty.

SUMMER 1936

During summer vacation, Mum and I went up to Grandma and Grandpa’s place. The summer slowly passed away, taking along the hot sunny days. Mum had almost finished her sewing work. Uncle Germain was happy with his new shirts, Grandpa was pleased with his new velvet trousers, and Grandma enjoyed her remodeled church hat. It had lilac ribbons and flowers. She would cause a sensation when she attended Mass.

For the last time that year, Grandpa diverted the cold mountain water from the trough. The water warmed up in the midday sun, and my cousin Angele and I would cool off in it. But first we had to rest, lying on the couch, between holy Joseph and holy Mary. The light was subdued because of the half-shut blinds; beneath them a row of jam-filled jars were cooling off. The colors, from wine red to bright yellow, caught the rays of sunlight. Some of the jars had gold and others had rubies. I listened to the buzzing of the bees and flies trying desperately to come through the window. It was one of my favorite melodies! I dreamed with open eyes, picturing myself as a saint in heaven.

I was glad when Mum said, “Tomorrow, Dad will come here. Afterwards, he will go to Mass in Krüth.”

Early the next morning, Grandpa stood at the fountain washing himself. He plunged his head and torso into the cold water. Then looking up at the sky, he announced that he would not go down to Mass, but rather would try to gather the cows before the black clouds hanging over the forest between Oderen and Krüth overtook the Bergenbach farm.

“I hope Adolphe makes it. It looks like a very bad storm is building.”

I was disappointed. I loved to go to church with Grandpa. Grandma and Mum came up from church, Grandma holding her new hat against the wind, and Mum fighting with her dress. They both arrived out of breath, as did the excited cows. Everyone wanted to get inside at once. Aunt Valentine, who had kitchen duty, got all the candles ready in case the electricity was cut off. She ran out to the garden to get some lettuce before it was all destroyed by a hailstorm.

It wasn’t raining yet, but the rolling of the thunder signalled that the storm was near. Grandma ran to the most secret place of the farm, taking along her rosary. Her fear was contagious. Angele started crying, her mother trembling. Uncle Germain turned white and sent me inside. He pointed to the dog, who had gone into his house and put his head between his front legs. He looked at us with wet, imploring black eyes. The rooster was the last one to enter its coop, a squall of shameless wind blowing its tail feathers like a fan.

A big drop fell on my head and another one on my nose when a flash illuminated the Bergenbach. “One, two,” the thunder drummed. “Only two kilometers away,” said Grandpa. I sat down on the sill separating the kitchen from the next room and looked at Mum’s face. She had that same inward-turned face I had seen when Dad was locked in the factory.

Then the downpour began. “If Adolphe is in the forest right now, it will be dangerous.” Aunt Valentine’s voice was dramatic as she continued, “If he is out of the forest, he won’t be able to take shelter under the tree.” And turning toward us two girls she said, “Remember, girls, never go under a tree when there is lightning.” She pulled the meat soup aside to keep it from boiling over. She added to her silent sister, “and if he runs to escape, the flash may hit him.” While loading the fire with a damp log, she went on. “And never run, never use an umbrella.”

Mum was roaming from one place to the other. So was the dog’s bowl in the courtyard.

A silhouette sneaked under the vine and up to the door. Dad looked half his size, standing there soaking wet. But what a relief when he entered the house!

Firelighter

A flash came that gave us no time for counting. “That one,” said Grandpa, “hit the rock behind the house.” Dad unfolded himself as he entered the kitchen. He was careful because of the porcelain dish that hung down from the ceiling and served as a shade to the electric bulb. Mother took his wet jacket off and went to get some old dry clothes, while Aunt Valentine served him a bowl of hot soup.

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Simone and Father in the Oderen valley, 1935

Dad started eating. He asked Uncle Germain for a cigarette even though, like everyone else, he vigorously condemned the young abbot who smoked secretly. On the wall was an electric fire lighter. At the very moment Dad went close to it to light his cigarette, a flash struck the apple tree in front of the house just next to the electric wire. Dad was thrown up to the ceiling. He landed on his back on the floor. Everyone shouted, “Adolphe, Adolphe!”

Aunt Valentine lit the candles. In the flickering light, Father lay on the floor looking whiter than chalk.

“He’s breathing,” said Aunt Valentine to Mum, who had just come back with dry clothes. Both sisters said, “Thank God.” Slowly Dad opened his eyes.

“Can you move your legs?”

He tried and they worked. Mine didn’t—I was paralyzed.

“I’m all right, just a little dizzy,” he said, and to prove it he got up, hung up his wet clothes and drank the famous Sunday meat soup.

Another flash made us all tremble, but the next one hit the other side of the valley. The rainfall weakened. In the garden, the plants, overloaded with water, were tired and were lying down for a rest. Grandma came out of her hiding place, went to the holy water basin, and made the sign of the cross. “We have escaped fire with all that warm, fresh hay upstairs,” she said.

The meal tasted even better after the heavens had been appeased. Grandma made a cross with her knife on the fresh loaf of bread before cutting big slices. Outside, the trees slowly emerged from the fog like phantoms.

“Girls, if you want to play, you may go to the attic,” said Grandma. Going to the attic was a treat—there we could get away from the boring conversation about the strike.

“First I want another piece of cake,” demanded Angele. And she got it! My mother would have turned a deaf ear to me had I asked for it that way! “Ladies never say ‘I want...,’” Mum told me, “They say ‘I would like.... ’”

The stairs to the attic were in a corner of the house. To the right, in the attic, some hay was stored. To the left, just above the dining room, was the chest with all the precious souvenirs with which we could play. Voices, cigarette smoke, and the smell of coffee rose up to us through the floor. We emptied a part of the trunk that had old dresses, and we played with cups and plates from the last century.

We heard Grandma’s voice from below: “If we were Germans, we wouldn’t have any strikes! On the other side of the Rhine River, no one strikes!”

“Remember,” Grandpa answered his wife, “when Adolphe’s mother was a leader in the very first socialist strike, we were Germans.”

“That was before the Great War, but now, under Hitler’s leadership, Germans have work and good pay. They are prosperous.”

The rain returned, hammering on the roof. Downstairs they drank more coffee and some liquor—homemade sweet wine for the women but a strong drink for the men.

Grandma started complaining again. “Adolphe, it’s because of the French and their allies that German money has lost its value, not because the Germans are lazy! The French are lazy,” she asserted. “They are slow, unorganized . . .” She was talking and talking—only there was no argument because no one replied.

“Mother, it would be fairer of you if you read other newspapers also, not only one kind that speaks for Germany,” someone said.[3]

“Simone! Angele! Come down from the attic. It’s not raining anymore.”

Someone suggested that we take advantage of the sunshine. We all went out. But as soon as we came to the crossroad, Grandpa, looking up to the mountain top, said, “We’d better stay near the house.”

We walked up toward the end of the meadow, where Uncle Germain had installed a wooden bench and planted three pine trees at the edge of the cliff.

It was too wet for anyone to sit down, but from that place we could see the whole valley: Krüth, where Dad was born; Oderen, our village; Fellering, with its two churches—the Catholic church in the middle of the village and, at the outskirts, a Protestant church.

I asked Grandma what was the difference between the churches. “Protestants are enemies of Catholics.”

“Girls, you’d better go on your way.” Grandpa pointed to the violet-colored clouds.

“Yes, and you see that fog?” added Grandma. “It’s coming up—that means that it will come down again as rain. If you hurry, you can catch the earlier train and avoid getting drenched.”

The first thing Mother did when she arrived home was to cut some flowers from our garden “to put life in the place.” Red and yellow dahlias in the gray and blue Alsatian clay vase started our city life on a familiar note again.

“Simone, let’s prune the petunias on the balcony.”

“Mum, look! My sugar is gone!” I had left a sugar cube on the balcony before we had gone to Grandma’s.

Mother smiled. “Did the stork take it?”

“Yes,” came the answer from the other balcony. The voice belonged to one of our neighbors—Mrs. Huber—who added, “They’re gone. You’ll have to wait for your little sister or little brother. The stork will return in the spring and may bring a baby for you.”

Here in Mulhouse, the storks bring the babies, but, in Wesserling, babies choose their mothers by hiding in a big cabbage. But here in Mulhouse, cabbages never have babies, they only have worms! I knew a baby would come. I was sure of it because I had chosen the best mother in the world! I wanted a baby brother or sister so badly.

No. 46, Rue de la mer Rouge

Once in a while, other children came around. Mr. Eguemann, a neighbor, had two grandchildren who visited sometimes. “Take the dog downstairs and play with them,” Mum would say. “They can be your younger brother and sister.”

But I wasn’t comfortable with them. Their grandfather made mean eyes toward me every time he saw me, ever since the day I had caught him stealing. It was early one morning. Mother had asked me to bring up the bread and the milk. Every family would hang up a basket and a pot with the money for the milkman and baker in the entrance of the house—eight baskets for our apartment house. When everyone was still sleeping, the milkman with his carriage pulled by two dogs, and the baker with his harnessed dog, would fill each one’s basket according to how much money had been left. That morning, I caught Mr. Eguemann with his hand in somebody else’s basket.

But we managed to have a good time, Mr. Eguemann’s grandkids, Zita, and I. We were so involved in playing that I didn’t hear Mother call me for supper. The following day it happened again.

“Now listen to me,” she warned. “Again I called you three times. What will people think? ‘Mrs. Arnold’s child is disobedient, and Mrs. Arnold is weak and cannot make the child obey her!’” With dark eyes amid serious wrinkles, she added slowly, “If this happens again tomorrow, then we’ll have to deal with you like we do with Brumel the cow.” After a long silence, she said, “Woe to you if I have to call a third time!”

I was downcast and hung my head. Would Mum treat me like Brumel? She had never spanked me before; neither had Dad. But I knew she had the authority. She might do it.

I was sure of one thing—Mum meant what she said—and obedience was especially important now that I was a big girl—I was six years old! So when the supper call came, I had to be ready.

The following day when Mother called me, I hurried to gather my toys. They were spread all over the place. The second call came. I started for the house when one of the little girls ran in front of me and fell, her elbow bleeding. We both started crying. Then the third call came. I left the little girl there and ran upstairs terror stricken. The door was open, and I saw the Ping-Pong paddle lying on my bed. I turned white. Before I knew what was happening, Mum took me by my sweater to my room, stretched me out on the bed, took off my panties, and without a word paddled me firmly. As she went out, she said, “As soon as you’re finished crying, you may come and eat your soup. If you wait too long, it will be cold.” I stayed face down, crying and sobbing. The worst was the shame of my bare buttocks and the pain in my heart because she didn’t know that I had been ready to obey!

I heard the doorbell ring. It was Mr. Eguemann, demanding that I be punished in front of him for pushing down his granddaughter. I was terrified. Mother answered with a very firm voice, “Mr. Eguemann, punishment is my business, not yours!”

“Your child had better not play with my grandchildren anymore!” he threatened.

Now, Mother figured out what had happened and why I had not answered her supper call. She came quietly in my room, turned me around gently, and sat down next to me.

“I’m so sorry that I made a mistake. I feel very bad about it. Will you forgive me?” My mother was asking me for forgiveness— that stopped the tears! “Come eat your soup, I’ll heat it for you.” Even though my buttocks were still burning, I felt much better. And with Dad at work, I had Mum all to myself.

Usually after supper, Mum would spend some time with me. She’d have me come to the little room my parents proudly called “the salon.” There was only enough space for the green couch and the armchair, and a half-moon table leaning against the wall. A big orange silk lampshade, mother’s handiwork, gave a warm sunset light. The door had been removed in order to put a stove in the left corner. Next to it was a shelf with a globe and a radio. In the hallway, a mirror above the small table reflected the bouquet of dahlias, the balcony window, and the lampshade. It doubled the size of our tiny, cozy family room. Zita would lie at the very spot where Dad usually put his feet while reading or when “traveling” by using the map.

What a day it had been! I had learned the importance of obedience and respect. I had learned how humble Mother was; she acknowledged her misunderstanding and asked me to forgive her. That event taught me a lesson, one that would be valuable later in my life.

I was a happy little girl by the time Mum tucked me in bed. Her deep-blue eyes, her tender kiss, and her last words, “Good night, my treasure,” made it a memorable day.

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?”