Zahia Rahmani - France, Story of a Childhood

There are plenty of children, plenty of people around us. My father talks to many of them. I climb into the back of a Renault Dauphine. We leave the camp at Saint-Maurice-l’Ardoise.

I’m sitting on the lawn of the building where we live in the Oise region. I’m little. All the children are laughing. Making fun of me. It takes me a while to understand. I’m not wearing underwear.

I’m holding my schoolteacher’s hand. I always hold her hand.

I open the window, the shutters, and I climb over the sill. We live on the ground floor. My father doesn’t want us to go out. He took the key.

I go to the super. I ask him to open our door. He refuses, he fears my father.

I insist. “Tell him that he doesn’t have the right to lock us up. Tell him that it’s not allowed.”

He gives me the spare key.

I go see Isabelle. I show her the black patent leather shoes and the navy blue velvet dress with its bow tie of sky-colored ribbon that she gave me. I’m very pretty. It’s the first time. I hug her with all my might.

I’m coloring in a children’s book. I use lots of brown. I’m in the basement of a church. There’s a light on. It’s Thursday afternoon. The nuns are very kind. Sometimes they leave me by myself. I want to learn how to pray. They don’t want me to. I know he’s called Jesus.

A lady comes looking for me at school. She’s ugly. She scares me. She’s a witch. I run away until nightfall. I can’t go back home. I’ll be beaten. I make myself a bed in the cellar.

I’m at the seaside. It’s cold. My father is sitting in his swimsuit. He’s kept his shirt on. My mother is dressed. She takes a hard-boiled egg from her bag and gives it to him. I asked for ice cream. My father’s legs are very white. I wait.

I go to cross the street, there’s a loud noise, I find myself on the ground under an engine. I’m no longer moving. I hear people. They arrive, they come closer. Someone is talking to me. A fireman carries me. They bring me into a house. I pee, then someone gives me a cookie. “I saw the bus hit the eighteen-wheeler,” says one man, “and then the thing spun out straight at the little girl.” They’re looking at me. I still wonder how I made it.

I’m singing with Frédéric. We make it into a contest of French songs. We imitate pop duos Stone and Charden, Sheila and Ringo. We sing holding hands, L’avventura c’est la vie que je mène avec toi and Laisse les gondoles à Venise . The tar that separates the lawns is a river. All the children in the building are here and we’re very happy. I like Frédéric.

We break the windowpanes of the tennis clubhouse. We steal all the racquets and balls. We hate everyone who plays this sport.

I run to Madame Film’s house to watch television. They walked on the moon.

I climb trees and I say, “My name is Pippi Longstocking.”

Monsieur Tanguy’s son can’t speak anymore. He watches us from the window. His neck is as fat as his bulldog’s. He swallowed a wasp.

I get home from school and give a piece of paper to my mother. My big brother gets home from work. My mother hands him the paper. He reads it, takes the scissors, and cuts off my two braids. I don’t go to school anymore. I hide in the basement. I cry about my hair. I’m afraid they’ll say I have lice.

It’s eight o’clock, we’re sitting at the dinner table. It’s time for the TV news broadcast. Only my father is allowed to watch. We’re eating lentils. My brother tries his luck, he glances at the screen. My father takes his plate away. “Don’t move again,” he says. At the end of the meal, he closes the TV cabinet with a key. “You want to watch television? Well then watch it.” My brother is punished. He remains alone in the dining room.

The police are at school. They tell us to give back all the presents that Philippe gave us. We return the notebooks and pens. It’s too late for the candy. We ate it. Philippe stole the money from the cash drawer of the bus his father drives.

A large box comes into our house. My mother screams, she screams while clinging to the door. I rise on the tips of my toes to look inside. It’s my oldest brother with bandages around his head. People are arriving at the house. More and more arrive. I cling to the wood, I press myself against it, and look at my dead brother.

I’m standing in a bus, it’s night, my dead brother is holding my hand. He’s bringing me to see my other big brother at practice. I love him, I’ve always loved him. He’s my father, my only one. He squeezes my hand.

My father is yelling at my mother. He forbids her to speak to Madame Larbi, who came to see her. She’s an immigrant. An Arab woman, thin and dark, very gentle.

My mother is sick. Everyone says she’s going to die. There are lots of people around her bed and I ask her, “Where’s my sponsorship card, where’s my sponsorship card?” I climb on the bed and I yell at her in French, “Where’s my sponsorship card, where’s my card? . . .” They take me out of the room.

My brother broke the large glass windowpane of the building door. My father hits him and locks him in the storage closet. He says he’s a delinquent and that because of him we’re going to leave. Behind the door, my brother’s crying, our mother’s talking to him.

Tomorrow is Christmas. I place a branch next to my bed. Maman gives me what I need to buy some ornaments. I run. I buy three of them. I decorate my Christmas tree. My father enters my room. He crushes the tree with his foot. I cry. He insults me.

I won the big marble competition. I aimed from sixty feet and the shooter went into the hole. I don’t know how I did it, but it happened. I won. I know I’m not the best, but I am the champion. I accept that.

Ghislaine, Michelle, and I are making dresses for our dolls. We’ve settled in on the top stairs of the building. I cut out a piece of fabric, I sew a skirt for Ghislaine’s doll. We’re happy.

Everything is over. The apartment is empty. I’m hiding. They’re calling me, they’re looking for me. All the residents come down. They find me. I struggle, I say that I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave. The children are crying. We’re crying. I take Isabelle’s hand, I run off. My father catches up to me. I yell, “Isabelle, Isabelle!” She’s my friend, I love them all. “Isabelle, I don’t want to leave!” They push me into the car. I call to her over and over. We leave town for good.

I get up from my mother’s bed, the nurse has just arrived. She gives my mother a shot and leaves. I prepare her tea, I lightly butter her toast. I take her to the bathroom, I hold her, she washes herself. In the living room, she says her prayers. Seated, for a long time, pressed against the radiator. Standing back, I listen to her. From her lips only love. With one movement, she signals to me that she’s done. I help her walk to the table, she eats and takes her medicine. She lies down again. On the couch, I cover her, holding her tightly in my arms. I don’t want to lose her. I can’t.

I’ve just made a few francs. My first wages. I’m barely thirteen years old, I buy a book. From upstairs, in the small room in the attic, I can hear your footsteps. For the past few minutes, inside the house, you’ve been trying to find me.

Now you’re standing in front of me. I’m holding the book. A hardcover. A volume from the collection All Painted Works . I can sense your mood. Calmly you’re trying to find me.