“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 feeling came over me. And there was no end to the praying. My knees were hurting. The last log burned down. No more exploding chestnuts. The room got darker. The candle started to shiver, like me. A long black column of moving smoke made all kinds of figures. The flame was now down to the holder, its very last flickerings illuminating the picture of Mary. There she was, neatly framed. She held the babe Jesus, who had a ball in his hands. Her chest was open, showing a bleeding heart. As I looked at the heart, it was quivering and bleeding even more. Then she finally disappeared in the darkness.
Somebody got up and switched the light on. Uncle Germain brought the table and chairs back; cups and milk were brought in, while my mother and Aunt Valentine peeled the roasted chestnuts. To me, the nuts had no taste.
DECEMBER 1936
As I stood on a chair, my mother knelt down, pinning the seam of the vaporous white tulle angel costume with two wings attached to the back. I repeated my lines over and over again. Mademoiselle had asked my parents if I could be in a group of Catholic youth called the “Skylarks.” Under the direction of our parish priest, I was chosen right away to have a part in a theater play for Christmas—as Gabriel the archangel. Little by little, I got so involved that my Halloween nightmares of hellfire were extinguished. I felt sunny again.
I was so excited that it was hard to sleep. It was December 24th, the night the Christchild would come. I was determined to stay awake. In the middle of the night, Mother called me out of bed. A soft light flowed from the dining room. Mother combed my hair, had me put on my housecoat, and said, “The Christchild came by. Let’s go and see what he brought you.”
I hardly could believe it! In the corner of the room, he had put a small pine tree adorned with little burning candles reflecting in glass balls and covered all over with glittering wreaths. Under its branches were some oranges and nuts. As I got closer, I found a baby carriage and a beautiful doll. “Mum! Dad! Look! the Christchild knew exactly what I wanted!” Mum was right when she told our curious neighbor who had asked what I had ordered: “A gift cannot be ordered, and the Christchild knows what Simone desires and deserves!”
The doll sat there with outstretched arms, pleading for a mum. And the Christchild knew I yearned for a daughter. I took my doll and right away named her Claudine.
The next day was our Christmas performance. The curtain fell after the first act. More than the applause from the audience, the teacher’s congratulations gave me confidence for the longer act to come. So many times I had dreamed that I was on the stage with an open mouth and no voice!
During the intermission, Aunt Eugenie came to get me. “Leave your angel wings here and come with me. You have plenty of time.”
Aunt Eugenie worked as a governess for the Koch family. “The Kochs want to meet you. They are with your parents in the loge on the balcony.”
In the dim light, I could hardly see the balcony. It had a strange musty odor and red velvet chairs; the place was tiny. Mr. Koch got up, bent over, and extended his right hand to me. He said, “I’m honored to meet such a nice, capable little lady.” He took my hand and kissed it gently. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Happily, Mrs. Koch added, “and how beautifully dressed too!”
“Yes, I am, because Mum made this dress for me!” I loved my black velvet dress with a garland of little pink roses all around the little jacket, and I was proud to let everyone know about it.
Suddenly the loge door opened. Henriette, a poor mentally ill girl, stood in the doorway, a basket hanging around her neck. She trembled all over. With begging eyes, she pushed the basket under someone’s nose. “Buy a little raffle, please, please. You will win.” Everyone in the loge bought one, then she ran out. She went to the next loge. A solitary man waved his hand and shook his head “no. ” She blushed and ran away. Poor girl! How terrible! I felt so bad for her. Mother, disgusted, stared at the man. I followed Mother’s eyes and recognized our parish priest.
The bell rang for the next act. I had to leave. The lights slowly dimmed. I passed Henriette, coming back down the hallway. The priest had called her back in.
The play was a success. The curtain fell after the last act, but rose again right away. We were called back onto the stage. Some of us had to step forward. The applause filled my eyes with tears. The city theater was packed and everyone was clapping. I felt like running away, yet my feet were as heavy as if they were nailed down. The red velvet curtain came down again. Everyone left, but someone had to take me by the hand. I was worn out and I longed to go home and crawl under the covers.
Mum, who had come behind the stage, kissed me and took me in her arms. I felt her body, stiff and tense.