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.
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