Simone Arnold-Liebster - Facing the Lion

On Adolph Koehl’s face, a sharp-cut little black brush moustache underlined a well-sculpted nose that carried a bold forehead with overgrown edges. Behind his black wild eyebrows, sparkling sapphire eyes flashed with meaning. His fine lips spoke cheerful words, practical wisdom, and humor. The man behind the face was slender and nimble. His wife, Maria, standing beside him, was even smaller, her presence almost imperceptible. She had a welcoming smile on her lips when she greeted the clients. Maria reminded me of one of those painted Chinese ladies on our teacups. Her husband said jokingly: “She is so frail that a breath would tip her over!”

After he groomed both of us, Mr. Koehl would take Dad behind the curtain. I’d sit on one of the chairs, the one nearest to their conversation to make sure I could get some scraps out of their undertone exchange. I always had my weekly Mickey Mouse magazine to read. I also used it to hide my face whenever a client turned to look at me in the huge mirror that covered the wall in front of me. I could hide behind it when I would see Mr. Koehl’s finger moving the edge of the curtain back just a bit to check on happenings in the shop while he himself kept out of sight. When Dad subscribed to the “Mickey Mouse” journal for me, he said: “You are a serious little girl, far too serious for your age. But life is also made of fun and laughter. Learn to laugh, Simone. Look closely at the drawings; they tell you a lot more than the words! We’ll have some fun together!”

It had become a semimonthly habit. Thursday, my day off from school, was the day my journal arrived in the mail. It was also the day for the barber. Adolphe’s place became a source of encouragement and a well of practical counsel.

I heard Dad’s weary voice as he complained to the barber, “Those long hours alone, listening to the telephone conversations, wearing my heavy khaki outfit, made me feel uncomfortable. My conscience has been in a turmoil,” Dad confessed, “and I asked myself if any apostle would have done what I did.”

My father’s confusion was very troubling to me. How could he act against his conscience, he who constantly insisted on the need to be at peace with oneself? Why didn’t he follow his own prescription for peace: ‘Stop the war by making everyone walk around in their underwear!’

“Do you believe the first Christians would have performed activity like I did?” The barber’s answer was inaudible, but I said to myself, “There cannot be anything wrong with catching traveling words!”

“For sure the first Christians didn’t fight in the Roman Army!”

Behind my “three little pigs” story, I agreed. Mademoiselle had told us in school how a Roman soldier had quit the army and was sentenced to the arena. Finally I understood Mr. Koehl: “It is not easy to find out what belongs to Caesar and what belongs to God. We have to pay the things to Caesar but also the things to God. This is a personal decision.”

My parents never told me that there is a Caesar today, I thought. I never heard it in school either. I knew about the King of England, the French President, the German Führer, the Duke in Italy, the Spanish Caudillo, and wondered where Caesar lived.

CHAPTER 4

The Threat of War

„G

randpa, are you still sure that we aren’t going to have a war?”

“Hard to say, but I hope not.” After a silence, he said bleakly, “Who knows? The nations are so fickle!”

“But Grandpa, you said...”

“Yes, yes, I know I said, but, Simone, even priests have fought in Catholic Spain!”

“I saw a picture somewhere with priests in their long robes standing behind cannons.”

“I did too. Maybe it was in Consolation. ” Consolation was the magazine of the Bibelsforcher.

“Grandpa, you read Consolation ?”

“Your mum subscribed for me, and since I go to the village to get the bread I also pick up the mail. So I put the magazine in a hiding place,” adding in an undertone, “I’ll show it to you.” His red mustache twitched as he whispered: “It’s there by the toilet.” After a long pause, his mustache moved again and he said: “If your grandma ever found out, oh, my!”

He suddenly became very serious. “She is working in the farthest field today. I’m surprised that she didn’t drag you along. Lately she really loads you down with work, you poor kid!”

“But I love it! I’m a big girl, Grandpa!”

Grandfather got up and went over to the milk cupboard. I told him that I had walked along the former French-German border up on Felleringerkopf and the Drumont Mountain but this time I had not seen any skull.

“A skull?” Grandfather asked while carefully taking down a large bowl of the morning milk. He took a piece of bread and swished it around in the cream. His mustache pointed upward, his eyes narrowing to slits. Putting the bowl back, he said jokingly, “This is Grandma’s Most Holy. No one else has the right to touch, eat, and enjoy it. If she comes, you’ll have to disappear through the window in the back!” Putting one finger to his lips, he added, “I’ll steal some more.”

He took another bowl. “You see, in this glass bowl I have some leftover Muenster cheese. I’ll put some cream on it, cover the bowl, and put it in a secret sunny place to let it ferment. One day we will have it together when Grandma is not around. Don’t be afraid. She is like an old hag; she always finds out my mischief. When the thunderstorm breaks out, I just let it go by.”

His blue eyes opened wide, and his mustache turned down-ward. He said with a conspiratorial voice, “As soon as I can, I just start off again!” My wonderful grandpa! But he asked again, “Now, what’s this about a skull?”

“Our class went for an outing to the mountain that you can see from our balcony. You know, it has a blinking light at night.” Grandpa seemed to know about it.

He said, “People say it is for secret war communication.”

“What’s the name of the place?” I asked.

“It’s the Hartmann’s Willerkopf.”

“Have you been there?”

“No, but it was the site of the greatest battle between the French and the Germans during the Great War, killing thousands. It was called the Verdun of Alsace.”[9]

“Grandpa, why isn’t there a forest anymore? We had a hard time finding some shade to eat our lunch.”

“War kills more than men; it kills all the vegetation too.”

“You know, we saw a rusty helmet right by where we were sitting. And when I went to have a closer look, I found a skull inside it. Grandpa, tell me—was he young? Did he have children? How did he die—by bullet or by bayonet? Was he French or German? Catholic or Protestant? Who was he?”

“It doesn’t really matter, Little One. He was just a man.”

“Grandpa, you know what the Catholics say? If it’s a Frenchman, he’s up in heaven.”

“Little One, you know they said just the opposite during the Great War.”

“Grandpa, I know he will be resurrected. He’s just sleeping.”

Grandpa looked up to heaven and shrugged. I could feel his breath on me as he heaved a sigh. After a long silence, he finally opened one of his jars filled with cheese, inhaling with delight the escaping aroma.

“Doesn’t it taste wonderful?” Grandpa asked. The cheese had ripened, and we had our secret snack and little chat. True, it smelled awful to me, but what a creamy taste! And above all what excitement—all of this behind Grandma’s back!