school in the afternoon. I had missed her badly, and I had to give my sandwich to another girl. I couldn’t eat buttered bread in front of so many poor girls.
The following Monday, it rained again, and Frida was absent from school. She is made of sugar, I said to myself. Why is she scared when it rains? Our rain-soaked hooded capes, drenched hair, and wet shoes made the whole classroom smell like a stable. Our four big windows were of no use this morning. The light bulbs behind their dishes gave us a yellow light, just enough for the Monday morning check-up ritual.
Blanche and Madeleine chattered excitedly about the firemen, the ambulance, and the police we had seen that morning. “Mademoiselle is coming!” someone warned us. We scrambled to our desks and put our things in order—the slate with its scrubbed white wooden frame, the clean sponge, and the folded handkerchief. Even our ten fingers had to be placed properly on the desk. When she entered the classroom, silence fell over it like a switched-off radio. It took a while until she went through the whole class, checking our shoes, our skirts, and even our ears!
That day, I couldn’t get my mind off the river flowing behind our house, the one that disappeared underground. I had seen a light-blue thing floating downstream and two men with hooks trying to pull it to shore. “Simone, quickly go inside,” Mother ordered. Later I heard the neighbors talking about three-year-old twins. The body of one baby boy had been found; the other had been swallowed up by the swirling abyss.
“Mum, where are the twins now?”
“In heaven. They are angels now.”
While walking up and down the rows, Mademoiselle explained to us the danger of the river. “The shore can be treacherous. You may step on it and it will cave in.” It was obvious that today she wouldn’t talk about saints, their lives, or their sacrifices. This time the subject was drowning and death, not religion or saints. I missed our religion lesson.
Coming home in the late afternoon, I always felt sad to leave Frida behind. She had no mum waiting for her, no soft music filling the air, no hot tea or cold drink to refresh her. She didn’t even have a little dog like Zita jumping up to welcome her. If it rained, Mum always had a hot footbath and a tasty piece of bread with jam ready for me. I loved our intimate chats. I could talk with Mum, opening my heart wide—or almost. I had a little secret, a secret “love.” I wouldn’t tell Mum. I didn’t want her to be jealous!
A young, well-dressed lady had moved to our street. I admired the beautiful, distinguished lady; she became my model. She had a set hour to come by, and I would run to the window with a racing heart. I longed for the moment I could be close, very close to her.
Dad took my homework very seriously. He just wouldn’t accept any scribble, and he wouldn’t let me put it aside even if I tried to be stubborn. He liked to say, “I know you can do better, and you carry my name.” His authority was quiet and gentle, and I always felt ashamed after rebelling, telling myself, “Why did I stand up against my dear dad?”
Discovering Death and Life
CHAPTER 2
Discovering Death and Life
T
he days grew shorter, fog crept through the fields, the dahlias hung their heads. We children ran after leaves and gathered chestnuts. The boys used them like missiles, forcing us girls to hide. I just hated them!
People headed toward the cemeteries in carriages full of white and pink chrysanthemums. It was Halloween and people were going to visit the graves of their loved ones. This meant another family gathering. Even Aunt Eugenie would come from far away.
Again our neighbors would mistake her for Mum. That tickled me. She had the same black hair, yet her complexion was more like her amber necklace, and her eyes were like dark cherries. But her cheerful personality made her look like Mum’s twin sister. And that was the way both sisters felt. She was like a second mother to me.
Grandma and I went to the Oderen cemetery to clean the graves. Aunt Eugenie carried a huge pot of chrysanthemums. She went to her husband’s grave and cried and prayed.
“Grandma, why does she cry?”
“Your uncle died not long ago. They were only married three years.”
“Did he drown in the river?”
“No, he died of tuberculosis.”
“Mum told me death is the door to heaven.” I was a very little girl when by mistake I had gone in the room of my grandmother’s father. He was lying with his eyes closed and looked like he was praying, surrounded with crowns made of artificial flowers. Four huge candles gave a soft light, and the smell of incense filled the room. He was on his way to heaven, they told me. But now in front of the grave, my feelings changed.
“Grandma, is the tomb the door to heaven?”
“It also can be the one to hell.”
“I have seen the smoke of hellfire coming from the basement of Dad’s factory. I always make a big detour when I see it!” Grandma smiled, took my hands, and said a prayer, and Aunt Eugenie joined in with us.
“Why do you pray? Do the dead hear?”
“Yes, they do, and they can help us if they are not in purgatory.”
“Purga– what?”
“Purgatory is a place where the mean things we do, called sins, are burned up by fire. Only saints go to heaven right away.”
“Who kindles the fire?”
“Lucifer, the archangel. Because he was full of pride, he had to leave heaven and become the guardian of hell and purgatory.”
“Grandma, it’s cold here. I’m shivering. Let’s go!”
We called the cemetery the “church court” in Alsace. When we left, the graves were in the shadow of the church; there were so many flowerpots, all those people must have been saints!
When we arrived back at Grandma’s house, my cousin Angele had not yet arrived.
The family finished preparing for Halloween. Uncle Germain carried the table and chairs into another room. Grandpa brought in big logs for the fire. My mother and Aunt Valentine prepared chestnuts for roasting, while Grandma lighted a big candle next to a crucifix that had been placed between the two windows. The whole family got down on their knees. A person’s name was called. “We pray a Rosary for his soul.” Those prayers sounded like a murmuring complaint; the sighing wind in the chimney and the crackle of the fire made it seem even gloomier. I studied each one’s attitude.
Peeking, I saw Uncle Alfred’s eyes open. “Uncle, why don’t you pray correctly?”
“You wouldn’t see me if you would do it properly yourself,” was Uncle Alfred’s quick reply. But I knew how to do both—pray and peek. The firelight of the lone candle danced on the ceiling. Was it the fire of hell? Purgatory maybe? Outside, a pale moon darted in and out of the clouds, casting strange, spooky shadows. Were they ghosts? An uncomfortable
