Simone Arnold-Liebster - Facing the Lion

I decided to correct that terrible injustice. So every day I bought chocolate or cookies to give out at school. One day, passing by a toy shop, I saw a little doll sitting on a baby chair. I decided to buy it for Frida. She had been completely forgotten at Christmas. I went in and asked for the price: five francs. “Please hold it for me. I’ll get it this afternoon.”

I went home for lunch. After lunch, Madeleine came to call for me so we could walk back to school together. But Mum asked her to come upstairs. “Madeleine,” she said, looking at me, “would you have a thief as a friend? Please tell Mademoiselle that Simone will come to class later.”

Obviously Madeleine didn’t understand. Me, either! She left without me.

“Give back the money you have stolen.”

“Mum, I did not steal!”

“Don’t make it worse by adding a lie.”

“I am not lying. I didn’t steal anything.”

Quickly she put her hand in my pocket and pulled out a five-franc piece.

“And what is this?”

“I took it, but I did not steal!”

“Can you explain that?”

“Yes! I just had to correct the Christchild’s terrible injustice to Frida. I wanted to buy the doll for her.”

To my surprise, Mum bought the doll and put it on my shelf next to my bank from Mrs. Koch.

“Girl, stealing is taking something that is not yours, no matter what you do with it. This doll is going to remind you. It will stay there. Don’t dare take it away. As long as you leave it there and do not steal again, I won’t tell Dad. You know, he had to work many hours, yes, days to earn five francs. It is going to be our secret between us two. You know how your father stands for honesty. You watch it. He has never spanked you before, but for sure he will. Never remove that doll from there if you don’t want to have a problem!”

Thursdays, we had no school and sometimes my cousin Angele would come over with her doll while I was holding class with my doll, Claudine. I took it all very seriously, repeating Mademoiselle’s civic lessons. But I had trouble explaining to the dolls the idea of conscience. I didn’t understand what it was, how it worked, how a person could lose it, or even be without one in the first place.

So one day I asked Dad, “What is a conscience?”

“It is a voice inside you that tells you what is good or what is bad.”

“Dad, my teacher said that each evening we should think about our day and what we have done.”

“This,” Dad said, “is called the examination of one’s conscience. As you grow, you’ll be able to do that. Little ones can’t do it yet.”

“I don’t hear anything. Every evening I listen. No one inside me talks. Where can I find it?” I did not want to be a “little one” anymore.

“Continue searching and listening. One day it will come. It is in you.”

“Daddy, last night in bed my legs talked!”

“What did they tell you?”

“That they wanted to turn.”

“And how did you answer?”

“I changed position.”

“Those are your muscles. But, someday, the same feeling will pop up in your thoughts, and you’ll have to listen to them and do what they tell you.”

Teaching Claudine was a serious matter to me. I was sitting in my “classroom” one day, watching Mum sew. When Dad stepped in, I was happy—until I saw his gaze fall on the little doll sitting on the shelf. I felt like Zita who, when she had done something bad, crawled under the bed!

“Where did that doll come from?”

I knew I was in trouble.

“Isn’t it cute? It is Simone’s taste,” Mum answered without taking her eyes off her work. I got stiff and ducked out of Father’s sight.

“It must have been expensive, because a miniature is always very expensive!” I was doomed! I stared at Mother. She continued sewing.

“By the way, Adolphe, talking about being expensive, did you check on the price of a new bicycle?”

“Yes I did. We can’t afford it. It’s much too expensive.”

“How long do we have to save?”

My dear mother had kept our secret. What a relief! That evening in bed, I looked at the doll and thought of my cookie and chocolate distribution; I remembered the happy faces of my classmates. Then my heart started pounding. All that money I had taken could have bought a bicycle for Dad. My heart was beating even faster. Was that my “conscience?” How could I know? I couldn’t ask Dad without giving away our secret. It was a painful situation!

The next morning, I pushed the doll out of my sight. I did so every day for days. But every evening it was back in its place. Each day my heart beat more wildly. I trembled in the morning when I would hide the little doll away on the shelf. One day I just couldn’t do it anymore. My mother’s presence became unbearable; her silence a load. I had become conscious of my conscience!

Back in the classroom, a breathtaking vision unfolded before us as Mademoiselle vividly described God’s throne. Full of enthusiasm, she spoke about the angels that God had specially created. Playing divine music on golden harps, they surrounded his throne. I yearned to be there.

“Men cannot see them because they are spirits. We cannot see spirits. They have big wings and fly through the heavens.”

After that inspiring talk, I had a hard time concentrating on arithmetic. After two hours of class work, the priest came for our religious lesson, the catechism.

He entered class at 11 a.m.

“Blessed is the one that cometh in the name of God,” he said in a ceremonial voice.

The class stood up and said, “Amen.”

“How can we get into heaven?” he asked.

That was just what I wanted to know.

“The best way is to suffer,” he answered. “Each time a person suffers, he gets chastised by God, and God chastises everyone whom he loves. So be happy and rejoice when you suffer.”

After class I went up to the priest. “My Father, why did God create angels right away in heaven while we have to suffer to get there?”

The face of the priest became menacing, his eyes fiery. With a trembling voice, he said loudly, “You are just six years old, and you dare judge God?”

“My Father, I just...”

“Shut up! You have a rebellious spirit; you are on the way to hell if you continue like that! Learn your lesson and never question it!”

I walked away slowly. I was crushed. I thought, I’m so ashamed of myself. I won’t tell Mum about my religion class today. It will make her feel bad. The thought made me cry. From then on, I never felt at ease in my catechism classes. The priest’s dark eyes and threatening voice upset me. It seemed he only knew how to talk about hell. I preferred to go to church.

FEBRUARY 1937

On Sundays, we walked down the street dressed in our best clothes. Mother had a nice hat. Dad always wore a smart beret that he touched with his right hand when people would greet him. I held on to Dad’s left hand and held my pearly covered missal in the other hand. Mother clutched her purse and her missal tightly to her chest. She greeted everyone with a nod and a smile.

“It must be ten o’clock. The Arnolds are on the way to church,” some of our neighbors said. I was very proud to see how people greeted my parents courteously.

Our church was impressive. The door was wide open. The sun’s rays came through the high windows, illuminating the golden altar and making the light from the candles almost invisible. But it was not quite the same anymore. I looked at the images. They all had dramatic faces. I could no longer look at the priest and his assistant during the Eucharist, but I kept beating my chest like everyone else while repeating, “It’s my fault, my fault, my fault only.”