“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,