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!
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.
tlc
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,