Facing the Lion

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, yet they did! Don’t climb up the ladder, but they did!

In spite of the cold weather, Father had decided to take another route home. He said that no one would disturb us. “How come your classmates came to that conclusion? How did that happen?”

“It’s because I refused to recite a poem with my doll.”

“What do you mean?” Again Dad’s voice got tight.

“We had a doll in class, and we had to act with it while reciting. Mademoiselle asked me to recite the third verse. It was the doll’s morning prayer. I just refused.” Dad’s eyes seemed to turn dark, with his eyebrows making their famous question mark.

“Did Mum tell you to refuse?”

“Oh, no, she never heard the poem.”

“And?”

“I couldn’t do it!”

“And why not?” He stopped walking and looked down at me.

“Because Claudine has no heart to pray to God, and it is not right to play with a prayer. Claudine does not pray; she has ears but cannot hear, and legs but cannot walk. She is only a doll. Dolls do not pray, Dad!” This ended his suspicious questioning for now.

Returning home, we smelled the wonderful aroma of Mum’s Sunday cooking as we came into the house. She had prepared one of Dad’s favorite meals, Bergenbach sauerkraut, and linzertorte— a tasty pie—for dessert. But Dad’s sickness was not over yet; he hardly ate. Leaving the table, he went into the salon to smoke his cigar and drink his coffee. Zita did not lie on his feet because Dad was too restless. As soon as Mum sat down beside him, he burst out and accused her violently: “You are teaching Simone behind my back!” I had to rescue my mother, I decided. My heart was full of hatred for my stubborn father.

“I will never play with you anymore; you don’t believe me!” I screamed, “and I will never go with you to church again,” underlining my saying with a stomp. “I am not a Catholic!” Dad stood up, as tall and erect as a statue.

Slowly he raised his arm and pointed to my room. With authority he said, “You stinky little girl, go to your room to get over your rebellion. I do not want to see you anymore today!”

I walked off, just about to say something back. “And not another word out of you if you don’t want me to give you a spanking!”

He did not move from his place until I dashed into my room. I was furious. I sat down on the carpet, leaning on the bed and crying, more out of defeat than because of the punishment.

My parents debated heatedly—they talked fast, too fast for me. The only things I heard were what Dad said when he was near my door; once in a while, a word of Mum’s came through.

“Adolphe, I’m surprised how unreasonable you can become! Why do you not read the Catholic Bible? Check for yourself!”

Full of spite, almost contempt, he said, “You know-it-all! Of course, since you started reading that Bible, you think you’re smart!” I was burning in my room. Never had I heard such language!

Mum said, “Let me ask you one question. Why do the priests not teach what is in the Bible?” That question made me jump.

“Priests have studied for years; they are the guardians of tradition. To them belong the teachings. What are you? You left school at age twelve.” How Dad humiliated Mum! He had changed so. And I wasn’t allowed to come out of my room and tell him a word!

Finally Mother stood up and defended her actions. A strong voice full of determination hammered her words home, “Adolphe, I know how to read French and German. And when the Bible writes the words of Jesus, ‘Call no one on earth your father,’ or, ‘My Father in heaven is greater than I,’ or, ‘you are my friends if you keep my words,’ tell me, what has to be explained in those words? Do you need someone to help you understand them?”

Well done, Mum, you got it! I cheered silently in my room.

“Look at this. When Jesus says, ‘In your hand I entrust my spirit,’ is he talking to himself? And where is the third person of a so-called Trinity?”

“Shut up with your Bible texts!” How awful Dad talks against the Catholic Bible! Dad left the house in a fit of anger, Zita following him. Mum brought me a piece of cake and a cup of tea.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I muttered.

“Don’t worry, I’ll continue to read the Bible to you, but you have to obey Dad. You can compare what we read together and what the priest says. Learn both and choose.” She left, telling me, “Play with Claudine,” and she went back into the salon.

I was extremely unhappy. I didn’t want to obey Dad. And yet I had received the order from Mum. What a frustrating situation!

Later on, Dad came back home, still upset. With an attitude bordering on contempt, he muttered, “I’ll investigate that book of those Bible Students, those Jehovahs.” And laughing, he added: “They must write lots of nonsense in that Jehovah’s Witness Creation book.”

“Claudine, did you hear Dad? Finally he will open the book that he got in the mail. Dad is very keen on astronomy; he studies books. Sometimes, before he was sick, he would take me on his lap and show me pictures. Claudine, did you know Saturn has a ring around it? I’ll teach you.”

Sometimes late at night I would have to go to the toilet. Dad would still be reading and smoking. The following morning, he would be reading and coughing. Every morning he had that same terrible cough. Maybe he, too, had specks in his lungs. I knew he was sick; he was pale and crotchety, and he even got mean. I tried to get by without being seen.

In school, the priest talked a lot about the nativity, the day God came down to earth and chose Bethlehem in the land of the Jews. But they had no room, no house for him and Mary and Joseph. The holy family had to go to a stable, and Jesus had to be warmed up by the breath of a cow and an ass. “And remember,” the priest said, “the Jews killed Jesus, the incarnated God, and asked that his blood come upon their children. That’s why the Jews are condemned for eternity.”

At home, the smell of the anise cookies had replaced the smell of the waxed furniture. Mother was busy finishing baking the different traditional cakes and cookies. They were spread out on a white cloth on the dining room table. The end of the year with its festivities was at hand. It was going to be a wonderful Christmas. Ever since Dad read the Creation book, he had recovered and was enjoying food and games again.

Mother called me to come to the dining room. She had put the Christmas tree in the corner next to the wooden carved cupboard. In her hands she held a big box. “Come and help me,” she called. She put the whole package on the sofa and opened the lid. She had saved all the colorful glass balls from the previous year.

“You saved them; this way the Christchild won’t have to bring more!”

“Simone, we have always celebrated Christmas, but there is no such person called Christchild. For the French it is Père Noël; every country has its own fairy tale. Look how I do it; you never put two of the same color together, and we will put the candleholders here.” It was fun, and it smelled like Grandma’s forest. A little shy ray of sunshine reflected in the glass and made the “angel hair” glitter.

“Our priest told us that Christmas is the day of Jesus’ birth. That’s why there is a manger set up in the church next to the altar. A baby is lying in the manger with lots of animals all around.”

“December 25^th isn’t Jesus’ birthday. And besides, Jesus is not a babe anymore. Like you, he has grown up. Then he died, was resurrected, and is now a King in heaven!”

“Mum, Zita wants a cookie. Can I give her one?”

“One, no more.”

The tree was almost finished before I realized what Mum had told me.

“But if it isn’t Jesus’ birthday, why do we put up the tree? When was Jesus born?”

“Jesus was born in the autumn, not in the winter.”

“What does that tree stand for?”

“It has nothing to do with Jesus; it comes from ancient pagan times.”

“Then why do we do it?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

I had the golden glass ornament in my hand, ready to put it on the top. “Mum, does God accept a pagan tree?”

“I guess not.”

I let my glass ornament fall, and I took all the other ones down and began trampling them to pieces. I was shaking all over.

Silently, Mother swept up the broken glass and put the fir tree back on the balcony.

That night, under my bed cover, disappointment and anger invaded my heart. Adults just lie. The stork and the baby, the fairy tale about the Christchild, the tree that is not really for Jesus but is pagan, and they say it’s just a nice story like the Grimms’ fairy tales! They make religion into a tale. My anger grew.

Mother explained herself. “Yes, we have been cheating you. People who do not study the Bible don’t think that it is bad to make a pagan feast, and they do not know that Christmas started with the Roman sun feast. You made the right choice; always go according to your conscience. Together we will work to get all the fairy tales and lies out of our worship.”

I was appeased, but something was broken in my heart. My parents had been lying to me for seven years, and the priest still did! From that day on, I was even more suspicious because I realized grown-ups can tell tales, grown-ups can cheat, grown-ups can mislead.

It was impossible to reach Bergenbach; it was buried in snow. We would go in the spring. Dad played with me and Zita; he threw snowballs in the air, and Zita chased them. At the end of that wonderful vacation, Dad said: “Tomorrow, Mum will go with you to school. Your classmates are right. You, we, are not Catholics anymore. Your mum has found the truth: the Bible is the truth, and we all will hold to it as closely as possible.”

Music, laughter, and games had returned to our home. Dad was happy again, pampering me whenever possible; he was as jovial as ever. His return to painting and the violin indicated the extent of his healing. He had even stopped smoking. Because I had put some chocolate cigarettes in his tobacco box to tease him, he had proclaimed to Mum, “I’ve always condemned priests who smoke, so I have to stop, too. And Simone needs to have a father who sticks to what he says!” Dad never smoked again, and his terrible morning cough went away.

With much enthusiasm, he brought the new cotton print fabric for my room, the one he had promised long ago and had forgotten for months. Humming along with the sound of the sewing machine, Mother cheerfully made my curtains and bed cover. Our young downstairs neighbor John would soon wallpaper my room while we were away in Bergenbach. Dad gave me some lessons about cold and warm colors, and then had me choose the color for my room. I decided not to have blue because I did not want to freeze in my room.

At school, no one wanted to hear my Bible quotations anymore, and my teacher’s reaction was a sample of how people would view my family. I was no longer her favorite. Whenever possible, Mademoiselle ignored me, and she seldom gave me an opportunity to answer questions in class. But the peaceful, happy atmosphere at home outweighed the cold one in my class. I realized that the same thing had happened in the past. My teacher often talked about the first Christians in the time of the Romans. Whenever we children had done a fine work, she would relate the story of Fabiola, Nadine, Ben Hur, and the famous “Quo Vadis.”

At home among Dad’s art collection, we had a reproduction of an Italian painting picturing the first Christians in the Roman arena, ready to be eaten by lions or to die by fire rather than give up their belief. From my very first school year, it had been my aim to be like them. But I couldn’t understand one thing: Why didn’t anyone want to hear more about the Bible? It got even worse. As soon as my parents took me out of catechism, the class started hating me. The same children to whom I had given my bread, cookies, and chocolate now turned against me. Why do they do that? I asked myself. What had changed?

When the priest held catechism classes, I attended special civics lessons given to me by the school director. One day after catechism, the children were waiting for me outside in a half circle. Both sets of stone stairs were blocked. I was trapped. As soon as they saw me, they chanted in unison: “Heathen, you are a heathen, heathen!”

Then someone else shouted, “You don’t go to church anymore!”

Another one screamed, “You don’t attend catechism!”

Still another yelled, “You’ve become a Communist!”

I stood all alone on top of the steps and shouted, “I am a Christian!” This made them mad.

“Then tell us why you do not attend catechism!”

I had read in the Bible that God does not live in man-made houses. So I pointed to the church and said, “God cannot be in there because it’s full of idols, which have eyes but cannot see and ears but cannot hear, and God forbade us to have such idols in the second commandment and . . . ” I stopped short and all the children were silenced when suddenly, we heard somebody clapping hands. Across the street, in an expensive villa, a finely dressed lady got the children’s attention.

“Let her go. Don’t you see she has a devil’s face coming out of hell? Escape, she is dangerous!”

Immediately one ran away in fear, screaming, “Run! Run!” Soon the others followed, even Blanche, Madeleine, and Andrée. I was left alone. I turned around and saw Mademoiselle standing in the hall—stiff, cold, and silent.

When I got to the corner of the street, another smaller group of children confronted me. Some of the boys jumped at me, circling around me like bees swarming around candy and calling me “dirty Jew, dirty Jew.”

Why do they call me a Jew, and why dirty? I wasn’t either one! Passersby finally chased the children away.

Mother’s Bible reading in one of the Gospels was about persecution, hatred, and insults. I felt confident in my beliefs that came from the Bible. But I wanted to know, “Why dirty Jew?” Our butcher was Jewish, and he was very clean. Mother liked him because he was honest and kind. I felt terrible about the accusation without understanding why.

Sitting on my father’s lap, and listening to my mother reading the Bible to me, I learned the meaning of this expression. At the table one day they explained, “As you learn more about history, you’ll find out that so-called Christians wouldn’t let the Jews have jobs as craftsmen or similar work. They were kept in special sections of town, being accused of killing God.”

“I knew that. The priest told us about it.”

“But God never came to earth to be killed by men. How could the Almighty, the Source of Life, be murdered? He does not punish by evil. He doesn’t make a distinction between races, colors, rich or poor, because Jehovah is not unjust. He is love. Those who do not follow this teaching are under the power of evil and can do and say bad things, thinking they are right.”

Little by little, the children tired of chasing me on the street. I had told them that Jesus, the son of God, was a Jew, and being called a Jew is an honorable statement. I was proud of it; all of the apostles and Bible writers had been Jews and I wanted to follow them.

SPRING 1938

Spring had spread flowers over the land just like the blue and pink and yellow dots on my new wallpaper. Mum and I went up to Bergenbach while John wallpapered my room. Dad would come up on weekends. When Uncle Alfred arrived, another verbal table war about French and German ideologies again spoiled the family’s noon gathering.

Another argument, this time a religious one, broke out in the afternoon. The men had gone out for a walk, while the women stayed behind talking. I had a hard time understanding what was going on.

What was Grandma talking about? Then Aunt Valentine said, “The Bible is a Protestant book.” Mother showed her the Catholic cardinal’s signature in the front of the Bible. Aunt Valentine replied, “Anyone can sign anything!”

Aunt Eugenie added: “We Catholics have the Gospel, not the Bible!” Mum tried to show them that the Gospels are in the Bible, but no one wanted to see.

“Get that Protestant book out of here.”

“But it’s accepted by the church.” I felt I had to step in.

“Grandma, the priest has the same Bible.”

“He has the right to have anything, to read everything.” Looking at us she insisted, “You are my daughter, and you had better stay Catholic if you want to keep up a good family relationship!”

The men had come back, still talking about that mysterious word Lebensraum[6] that had started the men’s verbal war around the table. When Dad overheard the women fighting about religion, he said, “I’d better take the next train and go back home. I don’t like the inquisition spirit.” And he left us in that “wasps’ nest,” as he would call any argument. Mum and I stayed a few days longer.

A few days before Easter, Mum and I went up to Bergenbach for spring cleaning. Grandma decided to get her yearly baby pig and to exchange some eggs to introduce new “blood” into her farm stock.

We climbed to the top of the mountain. The sun was shining brightly. Grandma called it “a biting sun” and, according to Grandma, the cloud formations foretold a change of weather. At the end of our two-hour walk, we ended up in a small, serene green valley with only a few big farmhouses. At the end of the valley was a mountain bluff named Felleringenkopf (after the village), our favorite place to search for blueberries. It was a great relief to finally reach the place called Langenbach.

During our journey Grandma insisted, “Bring your mother back to church; she will bring evil upon the whole family.”

“But the Bible is not a bad book.”

“The Devil wants you to go out of the church; he wants your soul! He will send you right down to hell.”

“There is no hell. And I don’t have a separate soul—I am a soul.”

“This is exactly what the Devil does. He takes away the fear of hell, and he will bring you right into it.” She told me some scary stories about how charming the Devil could appear and how he could even act as a lure.

Grandma’s cousin was happy to get some news from the other side of the valley. Some money and eggs exchanged hands, and we went to look for the baby pig. The nice little pink animals were running around. We chased a squirmy little thing and tied its legs despite its grunting protests. We put it in a sack that hung around Grandma’s neck. Her cousin pointed to a tiny cloud and said, “You’d better go.”

A small cloud above the mountain grew very fast. By the time we reached the top, we both were sweating. Grandma’s pace was so rapid that I had a hard time keeping up. As soon as we reached the Thalhorn, the promontory from which we could see both valleys, a terrible cold wind caught us. Grandma said, “Let’s run so we don’t catch a cold in the lungs!”

In front of us, a big brown cloud was coming straight toward us. Soon the entire valley was hidden, and hail started to fall. There was no place for protection on this barren mountain slope, so we had to go on. The poor little hog being beaten by the hail started to complain, adding its squeals to the sound of the howling wind. We couldn’t see our path anymore, but we had to keep going. At first I didn’t cry (I was a boy, wasn’t I?), but I was cold and soaking wet. My handknit woolen dress was torn and full of holes. I was tired and out of breath, barely able to resist the strength of the storm, and now caught in the dark cloud that covered the mountainside. It wasn’t long before tears came to my eyes. Grandmother told me to hang on to her apron, because she had to use both hands to hold the squirming animal in the sack around her neck.

As we came down the slope, we came underneath the cloud and could see Bergenbach. The smoke was slithering down the roof of the house like a big serpent.

“We made it! Thank God.” But I knew that Grandma believed it was God’s punishment. Whatever happened came from him, especially storms. We still had to walk for a while through a marshy area.

“Look, our path is over there.” We had deviated from the path quite a bit. Now, we were stumbling with great difficulty through the marsh grass. Every time we put our foot on a flat rock, the water would squeeze out of our drenched shoes with a squishing sound. Finally we made it home.

“My dear child, your dress has turned into a sieve.” Warm underwear, heated in the baking stove, awaited both of us. A warm footbath got my blood moving, and with excitement and pride, I recounted our adventure. Grandma looked at me. I could see in her eyes how disappointed she was. My enthusiastic report was not what she had expected. She kept silent while she worked to revive the poor stiff little hog.

The odor of fresh paint got me all excited. I ran upstairs as fast as I could to see what John had done. He was so proud to have had the opportunity to do his first room as a professional. He had even painted my wardrobe light green. Dad had moved my bed to a different location and put flowered material on the wall around the bed to match my bed cover. Above it, John had painted the Seven Dwarfs and put them under glass. I was delighted! What a wonderful room it was—if my door were kept open, everybody who would come into our apartment could see it.

Mother gave me realistic advice. “It’s your room. You keep it clean; you make your bed. The way you leave it in the morning, that’s the way you’ll find it at noon. If you want to have a good reputation, you know what you have to do.”

Mum and Dad had given John a Bible. Dad told us that John was very happy about getting it, but that his mother had become upset and had made a scene. She treated him like a schoolboy. “Maybe because she’s a widow, she wants to hold on to her authority,” Dad explained.

As usual, early one morning Dad had gone down to get the milk can and the bread hanging in the basket next to the basement door. When he came back, he was as white as chalk. He was breathless and sat down as beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Dad told us that he had been downstairs when suddenly the door swung open. There was Mr. Eguemann standing in front of him with an ax raised over his head.

“I ran outside and down the street with my milk can and spilled some of it. He ran after me screaming, ‘You traitor, you should be killed!’ He only gave up chasing me when he saw somebody coming.”

“Emma,” he continued, “you’ll have to buy milk and bread in the shop. I’m sorry for the extra work, but with an alcoholic like him, we have to be careful and smart. I’ll ask for a change in my work shift. That way I won’t meet him alone on the way to work. No use taking a chance.”

What a shock! A good Catholic man like Mr. Eguemann trying to kill my dad! My heart started burning against them. Trying to calm me down, Mother read to me the words of Jesus: “You will be objects of hatred by all the nations.” Then she said that the Apostle Paul said, “Return evil for evil to no one.” Dad would be very careful when he left the house, and we would too. We stopped talking to the Eguemanns to avoid a sudden violent reaction. Zita had to be taken out secretly. Whenever possible, we took her down in the daytime and stayed in the front of the house where passersby would serve as protection. I had never forgiven him for demanding to have me punished in front of him. Now I really hated him!

The last day of second grade was a hot summer day with pouring rain. After the usual admonition to “buy a vacation text and notebook and review one lesson as well as the catechism every day,” the time had come to say farewell to Mademoiselle, who was retiring. Each girl went up to the pulpit, and she had a nice cheerful word for everyone, or rather for almost everyone! In the autumn, we would get a new teacher. What a relief for me!

The gutters were overflowing. Since I was wearing rubber boots, I decided to walk right into the puddles. As long as Mum couldn’t see me from the window, I wanted to be a savage girl, free to do things on my own. I gleefully splashed everyone on the sidewalk because vacation was at hand. But once around the corner, I had to behave like a civilized girl! But my underwear told on me; everything was saturated with mud and water!

The vacation ahead meant a different schedule for us. My parents had finally contacted the Bibelforscher (Jehovah’s Witnesses) and were attending their meetings. A few families, people who loved to study the Bible, met in the city hall. There they learned about a Sunday school held by a retired nurse. Her name was Laure. About eight children attended the classes on Sunday mornings and answered the questions from a textbook called The Harp of God. I got to go. I was offered a Bible with a black cover and red edges. It was the greatest gift—I treasured it! It was my Bible. How different from catechism! Finally, I could freely ask any question and would be shown in my Bible how to find the answer. The hour was always too short for me, but too long for some others. And there were even some complaints when Laure ran overtime.

Aunt Eugenie was upset when she heard about the school. She had made an appointment with Mr. Koch and her brother-in-law. Mr. Koch, as an educated man, would be able to get Father back where he belonged, in the Roman Catholic Church. But his efforts were in vain.

“Adolphe is a poor victim of you, Emma,” Aunt said, wagging her finger in Mum’s face. She continued in a scolding voice, “Mr. Koch told me, ‘Mr. Arnold gave in because his wife wears the pants and he prefers peace in the house!’” How could she say that? Why do grown-ups judge without knowing the facts? My father certainly wasn’t weak. He was the one who took me out of catechism. He stopped smoking in just one day. He was the one who took us to the meetings. He was the one who introduced prayer at our meals. He was the one who asked me to attend Sunday school and to go out with Mum visiting people. But my aunt acted like her mother—she closed her ears tightly, accusing further, “It is a shame to drag Simone from house to house like a beggar.”

“But Aunt Eugenie, I love it,” I protested. Her ears were shut. Her eyes narrowed.

“You’re already poisoned by your mother’s fanaticism!” I learned a new word, “fanaticism.” But as soon as I found out what it meant, I came to the conclusion that it applied more to my aunt and to my grandma!