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 25th 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