Читать книгу Facing the Lion - Simone Arnold-Liebster - Страница 12

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?”

“Because I’m not a Catholic!”

Dad said harshly, “As long as I have a word to say in this house, I am the one to decide what you are. I give the orders!”

My mother’s order followed swiftly, “Simone, hurry up and get dressed to go with Dad to church!”

Hiding under our umbrellas facing wind and icy November rain, Dad asked, “Did Mother tell you that you are not Catholic?”

“Oh, no, my classmates did!”

“Because you talk about religion with them?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So Mother teaches you?”

“Yes, every day she reads a part of the priest’s book, the Bible.”

“That’s all she does?” his voice full of doubt.

“No, sometimes she reads the same words two or three times, so I can learn them and repeat them correctly like they are in the Catholic Bible.” Dad was silent. “Daddy, they say I’m not a Catholic. Am I?”

“You are a Catholic, and I will certainly see to it that you stay one!” I was fidgety during Mass. Wherever I looked, I saw eyes that couldn’t see and ears that couldn’t hear. All of those saints and angels in the house of God were haunting me. Here God’s word said that images were forbidden, and yet His house was full of them. Finally, I came to the conclusion that God was being like my parents: Don’t touch the fire, yet they did! Don’t climb up the ladder, but they did!

In spite of the cold weather, Father had decided to take another route home. He said that no one would disturb us. “How come your classmates came to that conclusion? How did that happen?”

“It’s because I refused to recite a poem with my doll.”

“What do you mean?” Again Dad’s voice got tight.

“We had a doll in class, and we had to act with it while reciting. Mademoiselle asked me to recite the third verse. It was the doll’s morning prayer. I just refused.” Dad’s eyes seemed to turn dark, with his eyebrows making their famous question mark.

“Did Mum tell you to refuse?”

“Oh, no, she never heard the poem.”

“And?”

“I couldn’t do it!”

“And why not?” He stopped walking and looked down at me.

“Because Claudine has no heart to pray to God, and it is not right to play with a prayer. Claudine does not pray; she has ears but cannot hear, and legs but cannot walk. She is only a doll. Dolls do not pray, Dad!” This ended his suspicious questioning for now.

Returning home, we smelled the wonderful aroma of Mum’s Sunday cooking as we came into the house. She had prepared one of Dad’s favorite meals, Bergenbach sauerkraut, and linzertorte— a tasty pie—for dessert. But Dad’s sickness was not over yet; he hardly ate. Leaving the table, he went into the salon to smoke his cigar and drink his coffee. Zita did not lie on his feet because Dad was too restless. As soon as Mum sat down beside him, he burst out and accused her violently: “You are teaching Simone behind my back!” I had to rescue my mother, I decided. My heart was full of hatred for my stubborn father.

“I will never play with you anymore; you don’t believe me!” I screamed, “and I will never go with you to church again,” underlining my saying with a stomp. “I am not a Catholic!” Dad stood up, as tall and erect as a statue.

Slowly he raised his arm and pointed to my room. With authority he said, “You stinky little girl, go to your room to get over your rebellion. I do not want to see you anymore today!”

I walked off, just about to say something back. “And not another word out of you if you don’t want me to give you a spanking!”

He did not move from his place until I dashed into my room. I was furious. I sat down on the carpet, leaning on the bed and crying, more out of defeat than because of the punishment.

My parents debated heatedly—they talked fast, too fast for me. The only things I heard were what Dad said when he was near my door; once in a while, a word of Mum’s came through.

“Adolphe, I’m surprised how unreasonable you can become! Why do you not read the Catholic Bible? Check for yourself!”

Full of spite, almost contempt, he said, “You know-it-all! Of course, since you started reading that Bible, you think you’re smart!” I was burning in my room. Never had I heard such language!

Mum said, “Let me ask you one question. Why do the priests not teach what is in the Bible?” That question made me jump.

“Priests have studied for years; they are the guardians of tradition. To them belong the teachings. What are you? You left school at age twelve.” How Dad humiliated Mum! He had changed so. And I wasn’t allowed to come out of my room and tell him a word!

Finally Mother stood up and defended her actions. A strong voice full of determination hammered her words home, “Adolphe, I know how to read French and German. And when the Bible writes the words of Jesus, ‘Call no one on earth your father,’ or, ‘My Father in heaven is greater than I,’ or, ‘you are my friends if you keep my words,’ tell me, what has to be explained in those words? Do you need someone to help you understand them?”

Well done, Mum, you got it! I cheered silently in my room.

“Look at this. When Jesus says, ‘In your hand I entrust my spirit,’ is he talking to himself? And where is the third person of a so-called Trinity?”

“Shut up with your Bible texts!” How awful Dad talks against the Catholic Bible! Dad left the house in a fit of anger, Zita following him. Mum brought me a piece of cake and a cup of tea.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I muttered.

“Don’t worry, I’ll continue to read the Bible to you, but you have to obey Dad. You can compare what we read together and what the priest says. Learn both and choose.” She left, telling me, “Play with Claudine,” and she went back into the salon.

I was extremely unhappy. I didn’t want to obey Dad. And yet I had received the order from Mum. What a frustrating situation!

Later on, Dad came back home, still upset. With an attitude bordering on contempt, he muttered, “I’ll investigate that book of those Bible Students, those Jehovahs.” And laughing, he added: “They must write lots of nonsense in that Jehovah’s Witness Creation book.”

“Claudine, did you hear Dad? Finally he will open the book that he got in the mail. Dad is very keen on astronomy; he studies books. Sometimes, before he was sick, he would take me on his lap and show me pictures. Claudine, did you know Saturn has a ring around it? I’ll teach you.”

Sometimes late at night I would have to go to the toilet. Dad would still be reading and smoking. The following morning, he would be reading and coughing. Every morning he had that same terrible cough. Maybe he, too, had specks in his lungs. I knew he was sick; he was pale and crotchety, and he even got mean. I tried to get by without being seen.

In school, the priest talked a lot about the nativity, the day God came down to earth and chose Bethlehem in the land of the Jews. But they had no room, no house for him and Mary and Joseph. The holy family had to go to a stable, and Jesus had to be warmed up by the breath of a cow and an ass. “And remember,” the priest said, “the Jews killed Jesus, the incarnated God, and asked that his blood come upon their children. That’s why the Jews are condemned for eternity.”

At home, the smell of the anise cookies had replaced the smell of the waxed furniture. Mother was busy finishing baking the different traditional cakes and cookies. They were spread out on a white cloth on the dining room table. The end of the year with its festivities was at hand. It was going to be a wonderful Christmas. Ever since Dad read the Creation book, he had recovered and was enjoying food and games again.

Mother called me to come to the dining room. She had put the Christmas tree in the corner next to the wooden carved cupboard. In her hands she held a big box. “Come and help me,” she called. She put the whole package on the sofa and opened the lid. She had saved all the colorful glass balls from the previous year.

“You saved them; this way the Christchild won’t have to bring more!”

“Simone, we have always celebrated Christmas, but there is no such person called Christchild. For the French it is Père Noël; every country has its own fairy tale. Look how I do it; you never put two of the same color together, and we will put the candleholders here.” It was fun, and it smelled like Grandma’s forest. A little shy ray of sunshine reflected in the glass and made the “angel hair” glitter.

“Our priest told us that Christmas is the day of Jesus’ birth. That’s why there is a manger set up in the church next to the altar. A baby is lying in the manger with lots of animals all around.”

“December 25^th isn’t Jesus’ birthday. And besides, Jesus is not a babe anymore. Like you, he has grown up. Then he died, was resurrected, and is now a King in heaven!”

“Mum, Zita wants a cookie. Can I give her one?”

“One, no more.”

The tree was almost finished before I realized what Mum had told me.

“But if it isn’t Jesus’ birthday, why do we put up the tree? When was Jesus born?”

“Jesus was born in the autumn, not in the winter.”

“What does that tree stand for?”

“It has nothing to do with Jesus; it comes from ancient pagan times.”

“Then why do we do it?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

I had the golden glass ornament in my hand, ready to put it on the top. “Mum, does God accept a pagan tree?”

“I guess not.”

I let my glass ornament fall, and I took all the other ones down and began trampling them to pieces. I was shaking all over.

Silently, Mother swept up the broken glass and put the fir tree back on the balcony.

That night, under my bed cover, disappointment and anger invaded my heart. Adults just lie. The stork and the baby, the fairy tale about the Christchild, the tree that is not really for Jesus but is pagan, and they say it’s just a nice story like the Grimms’ fairy tales! They make religion into a tale. My anger grew.

Mother explained herself. “Yes, we have been cheating you. People who do not study the Bible don’t think that it is bad to make a pagan feast, and they do not know that Christmas started with the Roman sun feast. You made the right choice; always go according to your conscience. Together we will work to get all the fairy tales and lies out of our worship.”

I was appeased, but something was broken in my heart. My parents had been lying to me for seven years, and the priest still did! From that day on, I was even more suspicious because I realized grown-ups can tell tales, grown-ups can cheat, grown-ups can mislead.

It was impossible to reach Bergenbach; it was buried in snow. We would go in the spring. Dad played with me and Zita; he threw snowballs in the air, and Zita chased them. At the end of that wonderful vacation, Dad said: “Tomorrow, Mum will go with you to school. Your classmates are right. You, we, are not Catholics anymore. Your mum has found the truth: the Bible is the truth, and we all will hold to it as closely as possible.”

Music, laughter, and games had returned to our home. Dad was happy again, pampering me whenever possible; he was as jovial as ever. His return to painting and the violin indicated the extent of his healing. He had even stopped smoking. Because I had put some chocolate cigarettes in his tobacco box to tease him, he had proclaimed to Mum, “I’ve always condemned priests who smoke, so I have to stop, too. And Simone needs to have a father who sticks to what he says!” Dad never smoked again, and his terrible morning cough went away.

With much enthusiasm, he brought the new cotton print fabric for my room, the one he had promised long ago and had forgotten for months. Humming along with the sound of the sewing machine, Mother cheerfully made my curtains and bed cover. Our young downstairs neighbor John would soon wallpaper my room while we were away in Bergenbach. Dad gave me some lessons about cold and warm colors, and then had me choose the color for my room. I decided not to have blue because I did not want to freeze in my room.

At school, no one wanted to hear my Bible quotations anymore, and my teacher’s reaction was a sample of how people would view my family. I was no longer her favorite. Whenever possible, Mademoiselle ignored me, and she seldom gave me an opportunity to answer questions in class. But the peaceful, happy atmosphere at home outweighed the cold one in my class. I realized that the same thing had happened in the past. My teacher often talked about the first Christians in the time of the Romans. Whenever we children had done a fine work, she would relate the story of Fabiola, Nadine, Ben Hur, and the famous “Quo Vadis.”

At home among Dad’s art collection, we had a reproduction of an Italian painting picturing the first Christians in the Roman arena, ready to be eaten by lions or to die by fire rather than give up their belief. From my very first school year, it had been my aim to be like them. But I couldn’t understand one thing: Why didn’t anyone want to hear more about the Bible? It got even worse. As soon as my parents took me out of catechism, the class started hating me. The same children to whom I had given my bread, cookies, and chocolate now turned against me. Why do they do that? I asked myself. What had changed?

When the priest held catechism classes, I attended special civics lessons given to me by the school director. One day after catechism, the children were waiting for me outside in a half circle. Both sets of stone stairs were blocked. I was trapped. As soon as they saw me, they chanted in unison: “Heathen, you are a heathen, heathen!”

Then someone else shouted, “You don’t go to church anymore!”

Another one screamed, “You don’t attend catechism!”

Still another yelled, “You’ve become a Communist!”

I stood all alone on top of the steps and shouted, “I am a Christian!” This made them mad.

“Then tell us why you do not attend catechism!”

I had read in the Bible that God does not live in man-made houses. So I pointed to the church and said, “God cannot be in there because it’s full of idols, which have eyes but cannot see and ears but cannot hear, and God forbade us to have such idols in the second commandment and . . . ” I stopped short and all the children were silenced when suddenly, we heard somebody clapping hands. Across the street, in an expensive villa, a finely dressed lady got the children’s attention.

“Let her go. Don’t you see she has a devil’s face coming out of hell? Escape, she is dangerous!”

Immediately one ran away in fear, screaming, “Run! Run!” Soon the others followed, even Blanche, Madeleine, and Andrée. I was left alone. I turned around and saw Mademoiselle standing in the hall—stiff, cold, and silent.

When I got to the corner of the street, another smaller group of children confronted me. Some of the boys jumped at me, circling around me like bees swarming around candy and calling me “dirty Jew, dirty Jew.”

Why do they call me a Jew, and why dirty? I wasn’t either one! Passersby finally chased the children away.

Mother’s Bible reading in one of the Gospels was about persecution, hatred, and insults. I felt confident in my beliefs that came from the Bible. But I wanted to know, “Why dirty Jew?” Our butcher was Jewish, and he was very clean. Mother liked him because he was honest and kind. I felt terrible about the accusation without understanding why.

Sitting on my father’s lap, and listening to my mother reading the Bible to me, I learned the meaning of this expression. At the table one day they explained, “As you learn more about history, you’ll find out that so-called Christians wouldn’t let the Jews have jobs as craftsmen or similar work. They were kept in special sections of town, being accused of killing God.”

“I knew that. The priest told us about it.”

“But God never came to earth to be killed by men. How could the Almighty, the Source of Life, be murdered? He does not punish by evil. He doesn’t make a distinction between races, colors, rich or poor, because Jehovah is not unjust. He is love. Those who do not follow this teaching are under the power of evil and can do and say bad things, thinking they are right.”

Little by little, the children tired of chasing me on the street. I had told them that Jesus, the son of God, was a Jew, and being called a Jew is an honorable statement. I was proud of it; all of the apostles and Bible writers had been Jews and I wanted to follow them.

SPRING 1938

Spring had spread flowers over the land just like the blue and pink and yellow dots on my new wallpaper. Mum and I went up to Bergenbach while John wallpapered my room. Dad would come up on weekends. When Uncle Alfred arrived, another verbal table war about French and German ideologies again spoiled the family’s noon gathering.

Another argument, this time a religious one, broke out in the afternoon. The men had gone out for a walk, while the women stayed behind talking. I had a hard time understanding what was going on.

What was Grandma talking about? Then Aunt Valentine said, “The Bible is a Protestant book.” Mother showed her the Catholic cardinal’s signature in the front of the Bible. Aunt Valentine replied, “Anyone can sign anything!”

Aunt Eugenie added: “We Catholics have the Gospel, not the Bible!” Mum tried to show them that the Gospels are in the Bible, but no one wanted to see.

“Get that Protestant book out of here.”

“But it’s accepted by the church.” I felt I had to step in.

“Grandma, the priest has the same Bible.”

“He has the right to have anything, to read everything.” Looking at us she insisted, “You are my daughter, and you had better stay Catholic if you want to keep up a good family relationship!”

The men had come back, still talking about that mysterious word Lebensraum[6] that had started the men’s verbal war around the table. When Dad overheard the women fighting about religion, he said, “I’d better take the next train and go back home. I don’t like the inquisition spirit.” And he left us in that “wasps’ nest,” as he would call any argument. Mum and I stayed a few days longer.

A few days before Easter, Mum and I went up to Bergenbach for spring cleaning. Grandma decided to get her yearly baby pig and to exchange some eggs to introduce new “blood” into her farm stock.

We climbed to the top of the mountain. The sun was shining brightly. Grandma called it “a biting sun” and, according to Grandma, the cloud formations foretold a change of weather. At the end of our two-hour walk, we ended up in a small, serene green valley with only a few big farmhouses. At the end of the valley was a mountain bluff named Felleringenkopf (after the village), our favorite place to search for blueberries. It was a great relief to finally reach the place called Langenbach.

During our journey Grandma insisted, “Bring your mother back to church; she will bring evil upon the whole family.”

“But the Bible is not a bad book.”

“The Devil wants you to go out of the church; he wants your soul! He will send you right down to hell.”

“There is no hell. And I don’t have a separate soul—I am a soul.”

“This is exactly what the Devil does. He takes away the fear of hell, and he will bring you right into it.” She told me some scary stories about how charming the Devil could appear and how he could even act as a lure.

Grandma’s cousin was happy to get some news from the other side of the valley. Some money and eggs exchanged hands, and we went to look for the baby pig. The nice little pink animals were running around. We chased a squirmy little thing and tied its legs despite its grunting protests. We put it in a sack that hung around Grandma’s neck. Her cousin pointed to a tiny cloud and said, “You’d better go.”

A small cloud above the mountain grew very fast. By the time we reached the top, we both were sweating. Grandma’s pace was so rapid that I had a hard time keeping up. As soon as we reached the Thalhorn, the promontory from which we could see both valleys, a terrible cold wind caught us. Grandma said, “Let’s run so we don’t catch a cold in the lungs!”

In front of us, a big brown cloud was coming straight toward us. Soon the entire valley was hidden, and hail started to fall. There was no place for protection on this barren mountain slope, so we had to go on. The poor little hog being beaten by the hail started to complain, adding its squeals to the sound of the howling wind. We couldn’t see our path anymore, but we had to keep going. At first I didn’t cry (I was a boy, wasn’t I?), but I was cold and soaking wet. My handknit woolen dress was torn and full of holes. I was tired and out of breath, barely able to resist the strength of the storm, and now caught in the dark cloud that covered the mountainside. It wasn’t long before tears came to my eyes. Grandmother told me to hang on to her apron, because she had to use both hands to hold the squirming animal in the sack around her neck.

As we came down the slope, we came underneath the cloud and could see Bergenbach. The smoke was slithering down the roof of the house like a big serpent.

“We made it! Thank God.” But I knew that Grandma believed it was God’s punishment. Whatever happened came from him, especially storms. We still had to walk for a while through a marshy area.

“Look, our path is over there.” We had deviated from the path quite a bit. Now, we were stumbling with great difficulty through the marsh grass. Every time we put our foot on a flat rock, the water would squeeze out of our drenched shoes with a squishing sound. Finally we made it home.

“My dear child, your dress has turned into a sieve.” Warm underwear, heated in the baking stove, awaited both of us. A warm footbath got my blood moving, and with excitement and pride, I recounted our adventure. Grandma looked at me. I could see in her eyes how disappointed she was. My enthusiastic report was not what she had expected. She kept silent while she worked to revive the poor stiff little hog.

The odor of fresh paint got me all excited. I ran upstairs as fast as I could to see what John had done. He was so proud to have had the opportunity to do his first room as a professional. He had even painted my wardrobe light green. Dad had moved my bed to a different location and put flowered material on the wall around the bed to match my bed cover. Above it, John had painted the Seven Dwarfs and put them under glass. I was delighted! What a wonderful room it was—if my door were kept open, everybody who would come into our apartment could see it.

Mother gave me realistic advice. “It’s your room. You keep it clean; you make your bed. The way you leave it in the morning, that’s the way you’ll find it at noon. If you want to have a good reputation, you know what you have to do.”

Mum and Dad had given John a Bible. Dad told us that John was very happy about getting it, but that his mother had become upset and had made a scene. She treated him like a schoolboy. “Maybe because she’s a widow, she wants to hold on to her authority,” Dad explained.

As usual, early one morning Dad had gone down to get the milk can and the bread hanging in the basket next to the basement door. When he came back, he was as white as chalk. He was breathless and sat down as beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Dad told us that he had been downstairs when suddenly the door swung open. There was Mr. Eguemann standing in front of him with an ax raised over his head.

“I ran outside and down the street with my milk can and spilled some of it. He ran after me screaming, ‘You traitor, you should be killed!’ He only gave up chasing me when he saw somebody coming.”

“Emma,” he continued, “you’ll have to buy milk and bread in the shop. I’m sorry for the extra work, but with an alcoholic like him, we have to be careful and smart. I’ll ask for a change in my work shift. That way I won’t meet him alone on the way to work. No use taking a chance.”

What a shock! A good Catholic man like Mr. Eguemann trying to kill my dad! My heart started burning against them. Trying to calm me down, Mother read to me the words of Jesus: “You will be objects of hatred by all the nations.” Then she said that the Apostle Paul said, “Return evil for evil to no one.” Dad would be very careful when he left the house, and we would too. We stopped talking to the Eguemanns to avoid a sudden violent reaction. Zita had to be taken out secretly. Whenever possible, we took her down in the daytime and stayed in the front of the house where passersby would serve as protection. I had never forgiven him for demanding to have me punished in front of him. Now I really hated him!

The last day of second grade was a hot summer day with pouring rain. After the usual admonition to “buy a vacation text and notebook and review one lesson as well as the catechism every day,” the time had come to say farewell to Mademoiselle, who was retiring. Each girl went up to the pulpit, and she had a nice cheerful word for everyone, or rather for almost everyone! In the autumn, we would get a new teacher. What a relief for me!

The gutters were overflowing. Since I was wearing rubber boots, I decided to walk right into the puddles. As long as Mum couldn’t see me from the window, I wanted to be a savage girl, free to do things on my own. I gleefully splashed everyone on the sidewalk because vacation was at hand. But once around the corner, I had to behave like a civilized girl! But my underwear told on me; everything was saturated with mud and water!

The vacation ahead meant a different schedule for us. My parents had finally contacted the Bibelforscher (Jehovah’s Witnesses) and were attending their meetings. A few families, people who loved to study the Bible, met in the city hall. There they learned about a Sunday school held by a retired nurse. Her name was Laure. About eight children attended the classes on Sunday mornings and answered the questions from a textbook called The Harp of God. I got to go. I was offered a Bible with a black cover and red edges. It was the greatest gift—I treasured it! It was my Bible. How different from catechism! Finally, I could freely ask any question and would be shown in my Bible how to find the answer. The hour was always too short for me, but too long for some others. And there were even some complaints when Laure ran overtime.

Aunt Eugenie was upset when she heard about the school. She had made an appointment with Mr. Koch and her brother-in-law. Mr. Koch, as an educated man, would be able to get Father back where he belonged, in the Roman Catholic Church. But his efforts were in vain.

“Adolphe is a poor victim of you, Emma,” Aunt said, wagging her finger in Mum’s face. She continued in a scolding voice, “Mr. Koch told me, ‘Mr. Arnold gave in because his wife wears the pants and he prefers peace in the house!’” How could she say that? Why do grown-ups judge without knowing the facts? My father certainly wasn’t weak. He was the one who took me out of catechism. He stopped smoking in just one day. He was the one who took us to the meetings. He was the one who introduced prayer at our meals. He was the one who asked me to attend Sunday school and to go out with Mum visiting people. But my aunt acted like her mother—she closed her ears tightly, accusing further, “It is a shame to drag Simone from house to house like a beggar.”

“But Aunt Eugenie, I love it,” I protested. Her ears were shut. Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re already poisoned by your mother’s fanaticism!” I learned a new word, “fanaticism.” But as soon as I found out what it meant, I came to the conclusion that it applied more to my aunt and to my grandma!

I often went with Mum as she visited the neighbors. Listening carefully to the remarks of the people helped me to clear up many questions I had asked myself. Strange ideas, like the one of that pastor who tried to defend the Trinity. Trying to prove the equal might, position, and eternity of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, he said, “Take three eggs and make one omelet. It is still three eggs.”

Just as confusing to me was the idea that the soul would be judged right after death while the body was reserved for judgment at the end of the world. “When a person sins, which part commits the sin—the brain or the body? Can the body sin by itself?” The conversations started at people’s houses would continue at home around our table.

I also wanted to go alone to some farms to present a booklet about Cure for all Nations. It told about the wonderful prospect that under Christ’s rule the earth will become a paradise, no more death, no more sorrow. I had a keen desire to share this peaceful Bible message with the farmers—they were all very nice to me and gladly accepted the booklets. An hour or so later, as I returned to the village, the booklets came flying out of one house. The farmer hollered, “Doomed Bibelforscher! It’s a shame, a shame to exploit children!” Couldn’t they see that I wasn’t a child? I was eight years old! All by myself I had decided to visit those people!

I gathered up my booklets, raised my head high, and walked on, slowly repeating to myself, “The slave is not greater than his master.” I felt proud as I met the group who had called on other farms.

Why did all the Catholics say that the Bible is a Protestant book, looking at it like something damned? Later that day, Dad took a history book and sat down with me, helping me to find the true answer.

“The Bible used to be in Latin. Some Catholic priests translated it against the will of the Roman priesthood, which believed in keeping it in the Latin language. The love of its contents was stronger than the ban. Look here at that image—it shows the night of Bartholomew, the day Protestants were killed by the order of a Catholic government (August 24 and 25, 1572, when French Huguenots were massacred by Roman Catholic nobles and other citizens of Paris). During the Inquisition, the church tried to do away with its opponents. They were often burned alive, like the 15^th-century Czech religious reformer John Hus and others.”

“I thought the inquisition was against the Jews.”

“It was against anyone who didn’t think according to the church teaching.”

I came to love our little Bibelforscher congregation. I had two young playmates, André Schoenaur and Edmund Schaguiné. I also gained a surrogate grandpa—Mr. Huber, a retired engineer who was a widower. He was a white-haired, well-mannered, fatherly man with a golden chain attached to a watch in his vest pocket. Marcel Graf was an office clerk at the potassium mines—tall, bald, and a real talker. The Zinglé couple often wore knickers because they were Swiss mountain climbers. Mr. Lauber, a widowed father of two small children, had lost one leg in the war. He faithfully attended all activities of the congregation, coming with his five-year-old Jeannette sitting behind him on a very old bike. There were the Dossmanns, whose son was in the Paris office of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and some others coming from outside the city.

Mum, with her missionary spirit, played a big part in the group’s activities, visiting many families, helping people like the Saler family to live a better life, getting them out of their needy situations. She believed not only in teaching but doing charitable work. Among the people she visited was Martina Ast, the lively 20-year-old maid of a Jewish family who owned the Galerie Lafayette, the main department store in Mulhouse. I loved to go visit her. She always had interesting Bible questions, but she also had nice pastries! She would even play with me sometimes.

Among our many friends, one couple was really special—the Koehls. One day when they were to be our guests, I eagerly waited for them at the window. They came in spite of the freezing weather. Adolphe, a barber, with the same name as my father, gently held his wife Maria’s elbow with one hand, and led their dog by the leash with the other. Maria’s hands were tucked in a fur muff that matched her silver fox collar. Both looked like they had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Seated in our little salon, the two Adolphes got into a spirited conversation. Meanwhile, Mum and Maria exchanged recipes in the kitchen. After I played Maria’s favorite song, “La Paloma,” on the piano, Mum told me to serve the tea. My ears navigated between the two groups. But for some reason the left ear was “bigger” than the right. It stretched toward the two Adolphes.

“Who does he think he is—a god?” one said to the other.

“He’s just a puppet in the hands of the demons,” the other answered.

“He claims himself to be Germany’s savior—Heiland. He’s just a worm.”

“A very harmful worm, one made of rotten material.”

“He goes from victory to victory.”

“He does, but he will never prevail over Jehovah’s Witnesses.”[7] I just wondered who was this “he” that they were speaking about. In the center of the conversation was a book that our visitors had brought, Crusade Against Christianity.[8] They had it open to a drawing of some kind of camp.

“The information we learn from this book is very important. It will help us to become cautious like a serpent, and yet innocent like a dove,” both Adolphes agreed.

As the Koehls departed, they left behind the perfume of their barbershop. But they also left a big emptiness. I somehow felt that I now had another set of parents.

I returned to Bergenbach with Aunt Eugenie, who had decided not to come to our place anymore. I noticed that Grandma was treating me very differently from the way she treated Angele. She put me to work. “You are old enough to go down to the village to get our two loaves of bread.” Skipping joyfully downhill, I wondered if I had sprouted invisible wings.

Strangely, everyone in the village seemed to whisper as I went by. “Isn’t she quite little?” Quite little? My cousin—she was the one who was quite little, almost two months younger. But I had grown overnight like mushrooms do, and my Grandma recognized it. So did the cows. I had to lead them to the pasture ground, enjoying the music of their different bells. The cows could see that I wasn’t little anymore. Why couldn’t people see that I was a big girl?

But struggling back up the hill with two fresh-baked five-pound loaves, I wished I hadn’t grown so fast. I had to put my hands under the straps of my rucksack because of the burning hot loaves and the blazing sun. A few times I had to put down my load altogether. The babbling of the brook called to me, tempting me to come and cool off. But in my head I heard Mum’s warning: “When you’re sweating, never cool off your feet or you’ll get sick. Look at my arthritic feet and hands—that’s how I got them.”

Facing that steep path leading up to the farm, I could have cried. But when I heard the dogs barking, the chickens squawking, and the gurgling of the fountain, I had renewed energy. I stuck my nose in the air when I saw my little cousin, who hadn’t grown overnight as I had.

Grandma was more irritable and melancholy with each passing day. Aunt Valentine, her favorite daughter, would soon depart for Cusset, near Vichy, where Aunt Valentine’s husband had found an apartment.

Even Aunt Eugenie had no riddles, no games, no songs for us anymore. When my aunt’s employers, the Koch family, also moved to France, to the safety of the intérieur, Grandma ordered Aunt Eugenie: “You stay here! There’s nothing for you in France!”

Angele and Simone, “The Oath” 1938

Rumors about war filled the air. Grandpa didn’t believe in war; Grandma did. Downstairs, the conversation among the four women flared up again.

“Angele, don’t worry. My father can stop a war. He says that to stop it, just take away men’s uniforms and let them go around in their underwear.” We both were sure that remedy would work!

The last family gathering was one of broken hearts around a festive dinner table. It didn’t affect Angele and me. We had a solemn ceremony to perform in the afternoon. Once more we went to the attic, putting on our dresses, ladies’ shoes of the last century, ribbons and laces to perform a sacred vow. It was in this attic that we had learned a lot from those stacks of yellowed newspaper stories, novels, happy ones, sad ones, and even Inquisition dramas. But those were over now. It was a time to make a solemn vow to keep faithful to each other. We promised to exchange our dolls’ homework by mail.

Downstairs, the conversation among the four women heated up.

“Bibelforscher are Communist agents!” Grandma shouted.

“You must earn lots of money running around like you do,” Valentine yelled.

“Yes, for that you have good feet,” added Aunt Eugenie. “You fool! You only make those American leaders rich,” Aunt Valentine said sarcastically.

“You are paid by the Jewish world power and are undermining the Church,” said Aunt Eugenie.

With a threatening voice, Grandma said emphatically: “If you want to stay a member of the family, you keep away from that sect.” Aunt Valentine, Aunt Eugenie, and Grandma kept up the attack of words.

All of a sudden, I bolted downstairs and burst into the room. “You are all mean, unfair liars!” I screamed.

Mother interrupted me, leading me outside by the hand.

“Go play in the barn; this is none of your business!” she said, calling Angele out. My curly-haired cousin was all inflamed by what she had heard.

“I’m not going to play with a heathen!”

“I’m a Christian!”

“You’re a heathen!”

“I’m...”

Mother had to separate us. Angele went back into the house singing her favorite song, the French national anthem, the Marseillaise. This kindled my Grandma’s uncontrolled temper even more.

“Dad just went down to Krüth to see your godfather. Go with him,” Mum ordered. What a good idea! I loved being with my godfather. He was such a gentle man, and so brave. He had a nice garden and fruit trees, and my cousin Maurice wasn’t at home anymore. I could enjoy myself in peace.

Godfather’s plums tasted like honey. I went up to the window and looked inside. On the table, I could see two glasses with a little Kirschenwasser, cherry liqueur, and a book, a gift Dad had brought along.

“Take this away or I’ll burn it!”

“But it’s a Catholic Bible.”

“Anyone can say that!”

“I’ll show you,” Dad said, taking the Bible. “Look, here it says the same thing as in the gospel reading at the church. The problem is that they read it but don’t apply it.”

My gentle godfather jumped to his feet and turned stiff like a statue. He threw the Bible outside and pointed to the door. Dad got up slowly, white and speechless. Godfather grabbed Dad by the belt and threw him out of the front door. As I came around the front of the house, I saw it happen. My father had glassy eyes and stood there without saying a word.

“I never should have raised you! Never will you see my face anymore unless you repent and come with me to confess and take Communion in my presence. Don’t send Emma or Simone to see me. As long as you don’t return to church, your family doesn’t exist anymore! You will be doomed!”

We were in danger of being killed with an ax by Mr. Eguemann in Dornach. We were the constant target of the parish priest, who crossed the street just to spit at Mother’s feet, even when I was with her. Now, being outcasts from both parental homes made us feel like we were really “doomed!”

FALL 1938

My parents searched for reconciliation without compromising. But didn’t our relatives make the price out of reach? How could we possibly fake our return to church just to appease them without sacrificing peace in our hearts? How could we deny Bible truth? After many efforts to talk with them, it became very clear that they were unmovable. To open their doors and their hearts to us, they demanded that we had to return to church.

Dad concluded, “I cannot act against my conviction, or I would be a hypocrite!”

And Mother said: “Even if my mother casts me out for getting baptized, I’ve already made the vow. I’ll do it, no matter the cost.”

The Witnesses held a convention in Basel that autumn. Standing next to the pool in Basel, I was cuddled up in Dad’s arms, feeling sad because the baptism wasn’t for me, still a “young child”! Dad held me close. I could sense his deep emotions as Mother stepped into the pool. Then a tear came down his cheek and he whispered, “It is accomplished.” Looking at me, he added, “From now on, your mother will put God before everyone else, dying for him if necessary.”

“And you, Daddy?”

“I’m not ready yet.”

Later, I asked, “Mum, what does he mean, ‘I’m not ready yet’? Doesn’t Dad love God?”

“Your father takes everything seriously; he has very high standards. As soon as he is baptized, he will also take on heavy responsibilities in the congregation. He feels that he is not ready for that yet.” Was it because it looked like there might be a war?

Hitler’s demand of autonomy for Germans in the Sudeten region precipitated an international crisis. At the Munich Conference, September 28 and 29, 1938, the leaders of France, Great Britain, and Italy met with Hitler. As a result, the Sudetenland was annexed by Germany on October 10, 1938.

During the Sudeten conflict, Dad had accepted a military noncombatant assignment. He was stationed at the Mulhouse post office, monitoring telephone conversations. I didn’t understand how the telephone worked—we didn’t have one—only the rich had telephones. I decided that Dad had to catch words coming along an electric wire.

Even though the danger of war had subsided, tension still hung in the air. Dad had come home and put on his civilian clothes, but, he fell silent just like before. His appetite was gone. Zita couldn’t get his attention. The days grew shorter, the leaves started to turn brown, and we felt more and more gloomy. Was it because we felt like outcasts from our family?

Maybe our relatives thought that this isolation would bring us back to our senses and make us return to the Catholic Church. But how could we ever go against our conscience? My parents were determined to stick to the Bible. The small congregation of Bibelforscher filled our needs. They had become close and dear to us.

The main street leading to the railroad station of Mulhouse followed alongside a square garden. It was surrounded by arches that cast a cool shadow upon the sidewalks. In the nice shade, we could stroll along the row of shops. Among the boutiques was a barbershop with three armchairs and three waiting chairs. The place belonged to Dad’s barber, his close friend, Adolphe Koehl. He was going to become my barber, too.

Nearing the shop, I could smell a delightful aroma of eau de cologne floating over the sidewalk. Opposite the entrance a big curtain separated the salon from the service room. It was a little place with a table piled up with towels; one chair was in front of it and a stool was underneath it. Between the last steps of a winding staircase going up to the apartment and a door leading out to the inner courtyard, there was just enough room for three people. Every Thursday was children’s haircut day, the day the two Adolphes chose to meet. I got my haircut at the same time. It was easier for Adolphe to leave his employee to tend the shop by himself on that day. Children seldom asked for the owner himself. That was not the case with his most select clients: doctors, judges, managers, and so on. Many asked to be groomed by the gentlemanly owner who had such a charming personality.

On Adolph Koehl’s face, a sharp-cut little black brush moustache underlined a well-sculpted nose that carried a bold forehead with overgrown edges. Behind his black wild eyebrows, sparkling sapphire eyes flashed with meaning. His fine lips spoke cheerful words, practical wisdom, and humor. The man behind the face was slender and nimble. His wife, Maria, standing beside him, was even smaller, her presence almost imperceptible. She had a welcoming smile on her lips when she greeted the clients. Maria reminded me of one of those painted Chinese ladies on our teacups. Her husband said jokingly: “She is so frail that a breath would tip her over!”

After he groomed both of us, Mr. Koehl would take Dad behind the curtain. I’d sit on one of the chairs, the one nearest to their conversation to make sure I could get some scraps out of their undertone exchange. I always had my weekly Mickey Mouse magazine to read. I also used it to hide my face whenever a client turned to look at me in the huge mirror that covered the wall in front of me. I could hide behind it when I would see Mr. Koehl’s finger moving the edge of the curtain back just a bit to check on happenings in the shop while he himself kept out of sight. When Dad subscribed to the “Mickey Mouse” journal for me, he said: “You are a serious little girl, far too serious for your age. But life is also made of fun and laughter. Learn to laugh, Simone. Look closely at the drawings; they tell you a lot more than the words! We’ll have some fun together!”

It had become a semimonthly habit. Thursday, my day off from school, was the day my journal arrived in the mail. It was also the day for the barber. Adolphe’s place became a source of encouragement and a well of practical counsel.

I heard Dad’s weary voice as he complained to the barber, “Those long hours alone, listening to the telephone conversations, wearing my heavy khaki outfit, made me feel uncomfortable. My conscience has been in a turmoil,” Dad confessed, “and I asked myself if any apostle would have done what I did.”

My father’s confusion was very troubling to me. How could he act against his conscience, he who constantly insisted on the need to be at peace with oneself? Why didn’t he follow his own prescription for peace: ‘Stop the war by making everyone walk around in their underwear!’

“Do you believe the first Christians would have performed activity like I did?” The barber’s answer was inaudible, but I said to myself, “There cannot be anything wrong with catching traveling words!”

“For sure the first Christians didn’t fight in the Roman Army!”

Behind my “three little pigs” story, I agreed. Mademoiselle had told us in school how a Roman soldier had quit the army and was sentenced to the arena. Finally I understood Mr. Koehl: “It is not easy to find out what belongs to Caesar and what belongs to God. We have to pay the things to Caesar but also the things to God. This is a personal decision.”

My parents never told me that there is a Caesar today, I thought. I never heard it in school either. I knew about the King of England, the French President, the German Führer, the Duke in Italy, the Spanish Caudillo, and wondered where Caesar lived.