A Pocket Full of Seeds Page 3

  “I think from Maman,” I said. “I think I’m a lot like her.”

  “I think so too,” Papa said. “And that’s a good thing. But Maman never says anything that hurts anyone.”

  “She hurts me.”

  “And Maman never had your chance—and neither did I—at a good education. Both of us hope you will grow up to be an accomplished, educated woman but in order to do that you have to listen now more than you talk.”

  “But, Papa, I have a lot to say.”

  “It’s a problem, I admit,” he said.

  “Come in now, David,” Maman soon called. “Everything is ready.”

  Papa stood up.

  “Please, Papa, can I come and sit with you while you eat?”

  “If you think you can sit there and not make your mother angry.”

  “I’ll try, Papa,”

  Maman had the table set for Papa. She had a bowlful of soup, some bread, and a large piece of Camembert.

  Papa began eating, and Maman said to me, “Are you hungry, Nicole? Would you like some cocoa?”

  She was smiling. Maman never stayed angry once she had exploded. It was as if she had forgotten all about our argument.

  “Yes, I am hungry,” I said. “And may I have some bread and cheese, too?”

  I resolved not to be so free with my opinions, even though they were usually right. In the days that followed I found myself choking down most of the suggestions I wanted to make to my mother and swallowing all of the others. And still my mother complained that I had a big mouth.

  My friend Françoise did not think I had a big mouth. She agreed that my mother was being unreasonable. Françoise said that even though my mother was unreasonable, hers was even more so. Francoise was rich. Her father was a doctor and her mother stayed at home, and didn’t have to do anything. There was a servant to take care of Françoise and her little sister, Monique, and another servant to clean the house and cook the meals. Françoise’s mother, Mme. Rosten, was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. All of her was always in place—her hair, her blouse, her stockings, her shoes. Nothing ever wrinkled or looked worn. In the summertime she was always cool, and seemed untouched by the heat.

  I had visited Françoise’s house a number of times, and had occasionally eaten dinner or supper there. It was a great, big, rich house, and I never knew which spoon to use when we were eating, or how to answer the questions Dr. and Mme. Rosten asked me. They were very kind but I always felt clumsy and stupid. Mostly I giggled when I spoke to them.

  Françoise loved coming to my house, and most of the time, when we were not out of doors, we spent on the veranda,

  “There,” I said, “Mme. Fiori is sweeping her steps again. Two times a day, Mme. Fiori sweeps her steps. Once in the morning, when Lucie and Antoine leave for school, and once in the afternoon, when they return.”

  “Let’s play Aux Dames,” said Françoise, not even looking.

  “Sometimes Lucie has to sweep, but she never does, I mean, she just pushes the broom down the steps, and watches the window in case her mother is looking out. But she never really sweeps anything up.”

  Francoise was setting up the board. “I want black,” she said. “Will you take white?”

  I was interested in everything that concerned Lucie and her family. Lucie was the girl in the blue and white beret whom I hoped would be my first friend. But she did not become my first friend. She hated me and I never knew why. To me, everything about her was fascinating—the way her dark hair curled toward her face on the right side, and away from it on the left, how she walked with strong, hard steps, her skirt slapping against her legs, and the strange way she had of laughing, with her lips parted but her teeth clenched.

  She was admired by the other girls, but not as much as Marie or Françoise. And here was I, a newcomer to the school, lucky enough to be singled out by one of the most admired girls in my class for a friend. I knew I was lucky. I was happy and comfortable with Françoise, and always looked forward to our times together.

  But I longed for Lucie’s friendship. I ached for it. Perhaps because she was the first girl I had noticed when we first came to stay with our parents, she seemed to mean something very special to me. When Lucie spoke to me (and she never did unless she had to), or passed me some paper in school, I was happier than if someone else had paid me a compliment.

  I tried to please her. I laughed at her jokes, agreed with her opinions, and copied the way she walked. But she seemed to loathe me. She went out of her way to insult me and to point out to others how stupid I was, how clumsy, how old my clothes were. Some days when I tried particularly hard to win her favors, if I offered her a sweet, or admired something she was wearing, and she could not find any reason to be nasty, she would just turn away, but I could feel the anger inside her.

  And I never knew why.

  Lucie did not interest Françoise at all. We seldom spoke of her. It would have been impossible, in any case, for me to tell another person how much I admired Lucie and how interested I was in anything that concerned her.

  I watched Lucie’s house every opportunity I had, and I had many from my veranda. I knew all about the outside of the house, and as much as I could about the inside. I knew the color of the curtains at each window, and I also knew that there was a piano in front of the living room window downstairs. I knew that Lucie’s grandmother sat in a rocking chair at one of the upstairs windows and seemed to watch everything that happened on the street. Often she seemed to be looking at me, and in the beginning I would smile at her or wave, but she never responded. I thought perhaps it might be a family trait to dislike me, but I learned later that the old woman had cataracts and did not see very well.

  I watched as Marie or Georgette or Suzanne entered the house after school. Once there was a party that even Françoise attended, and many others in my class—but not me, never me. Sometimes I would lean my head against the glass windows of the veranda, and concentrate hard on the living room curtains. And then it would happen. I would go beyond them, into a lovely room with bright, new furniture and a shining piano. Lucie would be seated at the piano, playing, and she would smile at me and move over on the piano bench so that I could sit down next to her and watch her quick, slim fingers pressing the keys. And she would play any song I liked.

  The veranda was the best part of the house. There were four chairs and an old table with a white porcelain top that had numerous black chips (I counted them—there were twelve large chips and twenty-three small ones). That was all the furniture, but Françoise and I could play Aux Dames or cards around it. Maman could do her hand sewing, and the whole family used the table as a desk. Every Sunday, except for the very hottest or the very coldest days, we ate our dinner on the veranda.

  The veranda was where I went when I wanted to be by myself. I would gather up some pillows and perhaps an old blanket, and tuck myself into one corner of the back wall. From down there, I could see the sky, and I could read or think or cry and be alone.

  Even if Maman was in the room, sewing or talking to Jacqueline, the corner still belonged to me, especially if I had a book in my hands. As long as Maman saw me reading, she seldom disturbed me. Sometimes Jacqueline insisted on sharing the corner with me, but most of the time she would be busy playing with her doll, and begging Maman for scraps of material.

  “See, Maman, Danielle needs a pink hat with a little piece of veil, and then she will be all dressed and ready to go to church.”

  “Well then, she shall have a little piece of this pink satin, and if you go and look in the small blue box in my bedroom, there are some scraps of black and white and maybe blue veiling.”

  “I know, Maman. I just looked, and may I have a piece of the white veiling?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have all of the white veiling?”

  “You just said you wanted only a piece.”

  “Yes, but Danielle wants a shawl to go with her hat, and then she will be the fanciest lady in the whole world.”
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br />   “Then I think she had better have it.”

  “Maman.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t we go to church any more, the way we used to when we lived with the Durands?”

  “Because the Durands are Catholic, and believe it is important to go to church every Sunday.”

  “Aren’t all of us Catholic?”

  “No, ma poupée, we are Jewish.”

  “And don’t we have to go to church too?”

  “Many Jewish people go to church, only they call it synagogue. But your Papa and I don’t believe that we have to go to synagogue.”

  “I’m glad, because I hated going to church. It was boring, and Mme. Durand always pinched my legs just because I moved a tiny little bit.”

  “I think perhaps you may have moved more than just a tiny little bit. But now that you’re home with Papa and me you can wiggle as much as you like. That is, until you start school. Then you must sit still, and listen to your teacher.”

  “Will she pinch me if I don’t?”

  “I don’t think she will.”

  “Nicole, does your teacher pinch you ?”

  “No, but she raps my fingers with her ruler, and she makes me stand in front of the class if I don’t do the work exactly as she says. I hate her. I hope you have Mlle. Martelle or Mme. Chardin. Anybody but Mlle. Legrand.”

  “Nicole,” Maman says, looking at her sewing, and snipping off a piece of thread, “Mlle. Legrand may be strict but it is for your own good. You say you want to be a doctor when you grow up, and Papa and I think that would be wonderful, but in order to be a doctor you must be very disciplined. You must read and write and understand mathematics. You must not fight your teachers, but accept their lessons gratefully ...”

  “Mlle. Legrand is a vieille—”

  Maman sat motionless for a moment, frozen, waiting for me to finish. But I did not.

  After a moment she said, “Mlle Legrand is possibly not the most understanding person in the world or the kindest, but she is a very highly educated person who really cares about her students’ progress. We are lucky to have her in the school.”

  “I don’t want to go to school, Maman,” said Jacqueline, “and when I get to be six, and it is time for me to go to school, I’ll run away with Danielle and nobody will ever find us.”

  “You won’t get very far,” I said. “The gendarmes will come looking for you, and they will find you, and put you in prison if you won’t go. They will put you in the dungeon, and—”

  “MAMAN!”

  “What is that you are reading, Nicole?”

  “Le Comte de Monte Cristo, Maman.”

  “I thought so. Why don’t you go on reading, chérie, and be quiet.”

  “Yes, Maman.”

  “But Maman, Maman, will they come and put me in jail, in a dungeon?”

  “No, ma poupée.” Maman laughed. “All that is in Nicole’s book, but I really don’t even think she is able to read it yet. She is just looking at the pictures now, but one day, after she has been in school a while longer, she will be able to read it. And you too, Jacqueline, after you go to school, you will be able to read many wonderful, exciting books. Just like Nicole.”

  “But I never will read that book Nicole is reading. I will only read happy books.”

  Maman gave Jacqueline a piece of pink satin, and Jacqueline wrapped it around her doll’s head, and hummed as she played. Maman’s scissors snipped, and sometimes her chair squeaked as she changed her position. I looked at another picture in Le Comte de Monte Cristo. They were throwing a sack with a man in it off a wall into the water. I closed the book, and lay back on a pillow, and watched the sky darken. Soon, it would be too dark to read or sew or see a pink hat on a doll, and soon Papa would be home.

  December 1939

  “You must have done something for her to say such a thing to you,” Papa said. “Try to remember.”

  And I did. But I had done nothing.

  We had been singing the carols that morning, and Mme. Claude, the music teacher, kept nodding at us, and pointing upwards. And all the high voices had gone up, higher and higher, while those of us, like myself, who sang the alto parts tried to sing with deep, round sounds,

  “Il est né, le divin enfant

  Jouez hautbois, résonnez musettes

  Il est né, le divin enfant

  Chantons tous son avènement.”

  ["He is born, the Divine Child

  Play the Oboe, ring the Musettes

  He Is born, the Divine Child

  Let us sing his Advent."]

  “Today,” said Mme. Claude, “you are quite good. Except for a little weakness in the alto section, I cannot complain.”

  Which meant we had been outstanding. I turned to smile at Lucie, who had been placed next to me, and she said, “Dirty Jew!”

  “What did you say?” I asked, still smiling, not understanding.

  “I said you are a Dirty Jew,” she said in a whisper, but quite clearly.

  I nodded, meaning that I had heard her. But as she continued to look at me, waiting for me to respond, I tried to think of something to say. But all I could do was giggle.

  It was not the right thing to do, because there was a bad feeling that stayed in my stomach the rest of the day. There was something that I should have said in reply instead of giggling, but I didn’t know what.

  I told my mother that afternoon. “Lucie Fiori called me a Dirty Jew.”

  “And what did you say?” she asked, her face angry almost immediately.

  “I didn’t say anything. I laughed.”

  “Laughed!”

  “But Maman ...” I knew she was angry at me—disappointed, too. “I didn’t know what she meant so I didn’t know what to say. What is a Dirty Jew? She is certainly mistaken about me because I am not a Dirty Jew. But I don’t know who is.”

  “Nobody is. Nobody is,” Maman said. “Never mind. It doesn’t mean a thing. Just forget about it.”

  But as soon as Papa came home that night, she let it all out for him, and that was when he asked me what I had done or said to Lucie to make her call me a Dirty Jew.

  “Nothing, Papa. She doesn’t like me, I know. And she always insults me, even though I would like to be friends with her, and always try to be nice.”

  “Don’t try any more,” my mother said. “I want you to keep away from that girl. I want you to ignore her, and not to speak to her, and never to invite her here.”

  Which was funny, because even if I did invite her, she wouldn’t come.

  “But, Papa, what is a Dirty Jew ? Is it a Jewish person who isn’t clean?”

  “No, Nicole. I’m afraid in the eyes of some people it is you and Maman and me and even Jacqueline.”

  “But I am not dirty, Papa.”

  “I know that, but there are people who hate the Jews, and make up all sorts of lies about them which are not true.”

  “Well, I had better tell Lucie that she is mistaken, and that she should not listen to lies.”

  “I don’t think it would do any good, but you can try. It’s always worth trying to make things better than they are.”

  “She doesn’t have to try anything,” Maman said. “I will handle the whole situation.” She was busy, moving around the room, picking up the newspaper and putting it down, straightening the doilies on the furniture, plumping up the pillows.

  “What will you do?” Papa asked.

  “I will go to school tomorrow, and speak to Mlle. Legrand.”

  I sat on my father’s lap, and asked, “Is Mlle. Legrand a Jew?”

  “No, Nicole. In this town there are very few Jewish families. Besides ourselves, there are the Rostens—Françoise’s family, the Simons, the Morels—a few others. Nearly all of our friends are not Jewish. The Henris are not, the Latours, the Bernards ...”

  “I don’t think I want to be Jewish,” I said, and Maman said, “Shame on you. Just because some ignorant little fool insults you, you are ready to run away and be like eve
rybody else.”

  “I want to be like everybody else,” I said. “Yes,” said my father, “and so do we all. But I’m afraid you can’t stop being Jewish as long as other people think you are Jewish.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Now look here. Your mother and I came from very religious families. When we were your age we went to the synagogue, and prayed, and followed all the religious customs. I even thought I would be a rabbi. But when I grew up a little, I no longer wanted to be a rabbi, and I no longer wanted to go to the synagogue. But that doesn’t mean because I no longer practice the religion that I stop being a Jew. I can’t stop, even if I wanted to, because as long as people hate Jews, they will always see me as a Jew whether I call myself one or not.”

  “But nobody ever called me a Jew before.”

  “And nobody will again,” Maman said, her mouth very tight, “when I am finished saying my piece tomorrow. This is not Germany where people allow that kind of thing. Thank Goodness we live in a country where a Jew is as good as anyone else.”

  “Maman,” I asked, “do you think the reason Lucie Fiori hates me so much is because I am Jewish?”

  “I am sure of it,” Maman said.

  “But she likes Françoise, and Françoise is Jewish. She admires Françoise, and I heard her bragging to Huguette about how splendid Françoise’s house is, and how she had been there many times. But Françoise says the truth is that she has been there only once.”

  “Well, well,” Maman said impatiently, “even bigots make exceptions. But I am certain, if she has always been so nasty to you, that it must be because you are Jewish. What other reason could there be?”

  I found my mother’s opinion encouraging. If the only reason for Lucie’s dislike was my Jewishness, well then there was hope. I could always say to Lucie, “I won’t be Jewish any more if you will be my friend,” But after thinking about it for a few minutes, I said, “No, Maman, she doesn’t hate me only because I’m Jewish. She just hates me for everything I am. Even if I wasn’t Jewish, she would hate me for everything else I was.”