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.
The Threat of War
CHAPTER 4
The Threat of War
„G
randpa, are you still sure that we aren’t going to have a war?”
“Hard to say, but I hope not.” After a silence, he said bleakly, “Who knows? The nations are so fickle!”
“But Grandpa, you said...”
“Yes, yes, I know I said, but, Simone, even priests have fought in Catholic Spain!”
“I saw a picture somewhere with priests in their long robes standing behind cannons.”
“I did too. Maybe it was in Consolation.” Consolation was the magazine of the Bibelsforcher.
“Grandpa, you read Consolation?”
“Your mum subscribed for me, and since I go to the village to get the bread I also pick up the mail. So I put the magazine in a hiding place,” adding in an undertone, “I’ll show it to you.” His red mustache twitched as he whispered: “It’s there by the toilet.” After a long pause, his mustache moved again and he said: “If your grandma ever found out, oh, my!”
He suddenly became very serious. “She is working in the farthest field today. I’m surprised that she didn’t drag you along. Lately she really loads you down with work, you poor kid!”
“But I love it! I’m a big girl, Grandpa!”
Grandfather got up and went over to the milk cupboard. I told him that I had walked along the former French-German border up on Felleringerkopf and the Drumont Mountain but this time I had not seen any skull.
“A skull?” Grandfather asked while carefully taking down a large bowl of the morning milk. He took a piece of bread and swished it around in the cream. His mustache pointed upward, his eyes narrowing to slits. Putting the bowl back, he said jokingly, “This is Grandma’s Most Holy. No one else has the right to touch, eat, and enjoy it. If she comes, you’ll have to disappear through the window in the back!” Putting one finger to his lips, he added, “I’ll steal some more.”
He took another bowl. “You see, in this glass bowl I have some leftover Muenster cheese. I’ll put some cream on it, cover the bowl,