Grandma was treating me very differently from the way she treated Angele. She put me to work. “You are old enough to go down to the village to get our two loaves of bread.” Skipping joyfully downhill, I wondered if I had sprouted invisible wings.
Strangely, everyone in the village seemed to whisper as I went by. “Isn’t she quite little?” Quite little? My cousin—she was the one who was quite little, almost two months younger. But I had grown overnight like mushrooms do, and my Grandma recognized it. So did the cows. I had to lead them to the pasture ground, enjoying the music of their different bells. The cows could see that I wasn’t little anymore. Why couldn’t people see that I was a big girl?
But struggling back up the hill with two fresh-baked five-pound loaves, I wished I hadn’t grown so fast. I had to put my hands under the straps of my rucksack because of the burning hot loaves and the blazing sun. A few times I had to put down my load altogether. The babbling of the brook called to me, tempting me to come and cool off. But in my head I heard Mum’s warning: “When you’re sweating, never cool off your feet or you’ll get sick. Look at my arthritic feet and hands—that’s how I got them.”
Facing that steep path leading up to the farm, I could have cried. But when I heard the dogs barking, the chickens squawking, and the gurgling of the fountain, I had renewed energy. I stuck my nose in the air when I saw my little cousin, who hadn’t grown overnight as I had.
Grandma was more irritable and melancholy with each passing day. Aunt Valentine, her favorite daughter, would soon depart for Cusset, near Vichy, where Aunt Valentine’s husband had found an apartment.
Even Aunt Eugenie had no riddles, no games, no songs for us anymore. When my aunt’s employers, the Koch family, also moved to France, to the safety of the intérieur, Grandma ordered Aunt Eugenie: “You stay here! There’s nothing for you in France!”
Rumors about war filled the air. Grandpa didn’t believe in war; Grandma did. Downstairs, the conversation among the four women flared up again.
“Angele, don’t worry. My father can stop a war. He says that to stop it, just take away men’s uniforms and let them go around in their underwear.” We both were sure that remedy would work!
The last family gathering was one of broken hearts around a festive dinner table. It didn’t affect Angele and me. We had a solemn ceremony to perform in the afternoon. Once more we went to the attic, putting on our dresses, ladies’ shoes of the last century, ribbons and laces to perform a sacred vow. It was in this attic that we had learned a lot from those stacks of yellowed newspaper stories, novels, happy ones, sad ones, and even Inquisition dramas. But those were over now. It was a time to make a solemn vow to keep faithful to each other. We promised to exchange our dolls’ homework by mail.
Downstairs, the conversation among the four women heated up.
“Bibelforscher are Communist agents!” Grandma shouted.
“You must earn lots of money running around like you do,” Valentine yelled.
“Yes, for that you have good feet,” added Aunt Eugenie. “You fool! You only make those American leaders rich,” Aunt Valentine said sarcastically.
“You are paid by the Jewish world power and are undermining the Church,” said Aunt Eugenie.
With a threatening voice, Grandma said emphatically: “If you want to stay a member of the family, you keep away from that sect.” Aunt Valentine, Aunt Eugenie, and Grandma kept up the attack of words.
All of a sudden, I bolted downstairs and burst into the room. “You are all mean, unfair liars!” I screamed.
Mother interrupted me, leading me outside by the hand.
“Go play in the barn; this is none of your business!” she said, calling Angele out. My curly-haired cousin was all inflamed by what she had heard.
“I’m not going to play with a heathen!”
“I’m a Christian!”
“You’re a heathen!”
“I’m...”
Mother had to separate us. Angele went back into the house singing her favorite song, the French national anthem, the Marseillaise. This kindled my Grandma’s uncontrolled temper even more.
“Dad just went down to Krüth to see your godfather. Go with him,” Mum ordered. What a good idea! I loved being with my godfather. He was such a gentle man, and so brave. He had a nice garden and fruit trees, and my cousin Maurice wasn’t at home anymore. I could enjoy myself in peace.
Godfather’s plums tasted like honey. I went up to the window and looked inside. On the table, I could see two glasses with a little Kirschenwasser, cherry liqueur, and a book, a gift Dad had brought along.
“Take this away or I’ll burn it!”
“But it’s a Catholic Bible.”
“Anyone can say that!”
“I’ll show you,” Dad said, taking the Bible. “Look, here it says the same thing as in the gospel reading at the church. The problem is that they read it but don’t apply it.”
My gentle godfather jumped to his feet and turned stiff like a statue. He threw the Bible outside and pointed to the door. Dad got up slowly, white and speechless. Godfather grabbed Dad by the belt and threw him out of the front door. As I came around the front of the house, I saw it happen. My father had glassy eyes and stood there without saying a word.
“I never should have raised you! Never will you see my face anymore unless you repent and come with me to confess and take Communion in my presence. Don’t send Emma or Simone to see me. As long as you don’t return to church, your family doesn’t exist anymore! You will be doomed!”
We were in danger of being killed with an ax by Mr. Eguemann in Dornach. We were the constant target of the parish priest, who crossed the street just to spit at Mother’s feet, even when I was with her. Now, being outcasts from both parental homes made us feel like we were really “doomed!”
FALL 1938
My parents searched for reconciliation without compromising. But didn’t our relatives make the price out of reach? How could we possibly fake our return to church just to appease them without sacrificing peace in our hearts? How could we deny Bible truth? After many efforts to talk with them, it became very clear that they were unmovable. To open their doors and their hearts to us, they demanded that we had to return to church.
Dad concluded, “I cannot act against my conviction, or I would be a hypocrite!”
And Mother said: “Even if my mother casts me out for getting baptized, I’ve already made the vow. I’ll do it, no matter the cost.”
The Witnesses held a convention in Basel that autumn. Standing next to the pool in Basel, I was cuddled up in Dad’s arms, feeling sad because the baptism wasn’t for me, still a “young child”! Dad held me close. I could sense his deep emotions as Mother stepped into the pool. Then a tear came down his cheek and he whispered, “It is accomplished.” Looking at me, he added, “From now on, your mother will put God before everyone else, dying for him if necessary.”
“And you, Daddy?”
“I’m not ready yet.”
Later, I asked, “Mum, what does he mean, ‘I’m not ready yet’? Doesn’t Dad love God?”
“Your father takes everything seriously; he has very high standards. As soon as he is baptized, he will also take on heavy responsibilities in the congregation. He feels that he is not ready for that yet.” Was it because