Simone Arnold-Liebster - Facing the Lion

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.