by Joanna Gruda
It was getting noisier and noisier, with chanting, and music, and horns blowing. People were screaming slogans through loudspeakers. All around I could see all sorts of signs and banners, not all of them referred to the war in Spain. I eventually understood that some of the crowd were demonstrating in support of the striking farm workers, another important cause in those days.
Arnold led us to a group of adults he seemed to know well who were shouting slogans for France to intervene on the side of the Republicans. Then we found our place. Roger and I unfurled our banner. We got jostled this way and that, and it wasn’t easy to hold it above our heads, but in the end, two big kids who didn’t have anything to carry helped us out. Once we had everything worked out, I added my voice to the general commotion. In our group there was a man with a big mustache who seemed to have a monopoly on the slogans. It was perfect, all you had to do was listen to him and you knew what to shout. I loved it.
“Solidarity among nations!” “¡No pasarán!” and the same slogan in French, “Ils ne passeront pas!”—they shall not pass. “Bread, peace and freedom for our Spanish friends!” The songs were tougher, because in the general uproar it was hard to make out the words, and Arnold had neglected this very important aspect of our preparation as demonstrators. We managed to join in with the others all the same, on certain refrains, only a few seconds behind them in what was a chaotic choir. I told myself I would ask them to put the revolutionary songs on the program of the choir at L’Avenir Social, which I had joined not long before.
Right in the middle of all the fun Arnold told us it was time to leave. Some of the kids thought the atmosphere at the demonstration was very exciting and they said his decision was too hasty: they called for a vote. Arnold put on his loud voice (but I am sure I saw a twinkle of amusement flash furtively in his eyes) and declared that this was a good idea, but that if we didn’t want to miss the very last bus for the AS we would have to leave at once, unless we felt like walking all evening long and well into the night. His explanation won over the majority of the insurgents; only Marcel continued to shout, “Out of the question, democracy or death!” Geneviève went up to Arnold and murmured something in his ear. Arnold smiled and said, “Okay, those who want to leave now to catch the last bus, raise your hands.” Everyone except Marcel raised their hand.
And thus our participation in the demonstration came to a very democratic end.
CHAPTER 11
L’Avenir Social in Bloom
During my years at L’Avenir Social, there were a number of times when I went over the wall that separated us from the rest of the world. I knew we were not allowed to go out without permission. But if I thought it was for a good cause, and no one noticed my short absence, what possible harm could it do?
My first escapades were in the spring of 1938, under the reign of Feller, who replaced Henri at the head of L’Avenir Social for a few months. My relations with Henri had always been strained. I had never forgiven him for the extreme punishment I’d received at the beginning of my stay at the orphanage, and no doubt he had never forgiven me for my obvious hostility toward his son, Roland the owl. However, now when I think back on it, I tell myself that it wasn’t simply a war of pride between us: in fact, our personalities were not compatible. Henri was a very serious sort, with very little sense of humor and a narrow, authoritarian vision of his role as director of L’Avenir Social. So I greatly appreciated the “Feller months,” as we later called them among ourselves.
What I remember about Feller is that he was always badly dressed, his ginger hair was never combed, he had round blue eyes like marbles, and a good-humored communicative nature. I can still see him at his window calling to his wife, who was also his secretary, “Margot, come to the office!” to the tune of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. (I learned the name of the work and of its composer thanks to Arnold, who was a great music lover and who always tried, generally to no avail, to transmit his passion to the children.)
One day Feller decided to hold a gardening contest to encourage a love of and respect for nature among the children. There were two gardens on the grounds of the orphanage: the kitchen garden, where Gros Pierre, the gardener, grew the vegetables that ended up in our plate, and another purely decorative garden. Gros Pierre was always pleased when the children showed an interest in his work, and he loved explaining how to choose the seeds, how to fertilize the plants and how to care for them when they were sick. He was delighted when Feller came up with this idea of a contest, where each participant would have a little plot that he or she could plant as they saw fit.
I was one of the first to sign up. I always loved watching Gros Pierre diligently sowing his seeds, and he would come back every day to see how they grew, and to encourage them. I knew that sometimes you had to pull the uglier plants out to give the others a chance to bloom, that you had to separate the babies from their mother and that you had to rethink the entire disposition of the garden on a regular basis, depending on the color, shape, and height of the plants. That was the part I liked best, when Gros Pierre would stand back and look at his garden then lean to one side and examine it from every angle, knitting his brows, chewing with great concentration on his right thumbnail. It was as if I could see the plants changing position in his head, like pieces on a chessboard.
Feller and Gros Pierre, with great pomp, called a meeting among all the children who had signed up for the L’Avenir Social in Bloom contest. There were a dozen of us who came, only four boys among them: Bernard, my first friend at the AS, whom I had found much less interesting once I was able to understand everything he said; Philippe, the intellectual of the group of older boys, not always popular, but whose sense of the ridiculous made me laugh; Marcel, the braggart; and me, Jules. The rest were girls, particularly the older ones I didn’t know well at all, but there was also beautiful, shy Rolande, who was eight years old like me and had long brown curls: her presence sufficed to explain Marcel’s participation in the contest.
“I’m very happy to see there are so many of you who are interested in the little contest that Pierre and I have devised. This will be a nice way for you to do something useful and have fun at the same time. You will acquire some notions of biology and natural sciences, and everyone at L’Avenir Social will be able to enjoy the beauty of our enhanced flower garden. Pierre, would you like to explain the rules of the contest to our young enthusiasts?”
Marcel was trying to make Rolande laugh by imitating Feller’s big eyes and his excessive exuberance. At first Rolande blushed, then she gave him a very stern look, but Marcel seemed to interpret it as an invitation to continue.
“Marcel! This contest is open to everyone who wants to look after a garden. I must confess I have reason to doubt your motivation. Am I right?”
“Uh, no, I really like flowers.”
“A garden takes a lot of work, my boy, you really have to want to do it.”
“Well, yeah, I do want to do it.”
Some of the children giggled. Philippe rolled his eyes skyward. Gros Pierre tried to get back to more serious things.
“Feller, I could start by explaining the rules of the contest, and then the children will see if they want to take part, what do you think?”
“Yes, of course, go ahead.”
“So, here we go. We will start by preparing a plot of land in the park near the pond, where everyone will have their own plot of roughly twelve square meters. Obviously, you will all help to prepare the terrain. In roughly three weeks, you’ll be able to start sowing and planting. Before that, you’ll have to come to me with your questions and read books about gardening. I have a few right here. I will provide the fertilizer, the soil, and the garden tools. I should have a few plants I can share at the beginning of spring and some bulbs and seeds I don’t need, so there will be enough for everyone. Feller, do you have anything to add?”
“No. What about you, children, do you have any questions?�
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“I was wondering if it would be possible to take normal plants . . . well, what I mean is, the wild plants that grow on the property here, or in the ditches along the roadside?” asked Rolande in her quiet voice.
“I don’t see why not. What do you think, Feller?”
“On the grounds of the orphanage, that’s fine. Plants from outside, that might be more difficult. But then, why not? Though I wouldn’t like to see you heading off with a huge shovel every time we leave the grounds on an excursion. Is that clear?”
We nodded. Feller called an end to the meeting, and the gong for dinner went just then, so we got up without saying thank you or goodbye, and rushed to the refectory. I already had a few ideas for my garden. During dinner, Marcel regaled us with an imitation of Gros Pierre. He adopted his most sententious air and came out with his finest rolled r’s: “We are going to plant the garrrden, with the earrrth and the tools. It is verrry difficult. You’ll have to rrrread books. Marrrcel, do you think you can?” He was a real idiot, that Marcel, but he did have a gift for imitating people.
My mother was due to visit two days later, so I decided I would order my seeds through her; as she always came to the orphanage by bus, I couldn’t ask her to bring anything too cumbersome. I’d already begun leafing through Gros Pierre’s gardening books. I was very excited about the contest, and after that first official meeting I began looking closely at all the gardens on the way to school, obliging myself to form an opinion about each one: “I like this one,” or “That one is pretty but a bit too tidy,” or even “That is exactly what I do not want to do.” Since all the children at L’Avenir Social went to the same school, all I could use these gardens for was inspiration, without copying anything, because that would be too obvious and diminish my chances of winning.
For the first time since I had come to L’Avenir Social, I was looking forward to my mother’s visit. I had made up a list of the seeds I wanted her to get for me, in decreasing order of importance: “Poppies, pansies, zinnias, campanula, asters, and cosmos,” to which I added yellow or orange dahlia bulbs. I wanted a country garden, with bright colors.
My mother’s visit went fairly well this time; I was the one who did nearly all the talking. I showed her the garden, and explained the rules of the contest. I don’t know how much she understood, but thanks to my list, where everything was clearly indicated, she couldn’t go wrong. The only time I got a little bit annoyed was when I asked her to come back within four weeks and I could tell from her somewhat vague reaction that she wasn’t taking my request very seriously. Her usual “Oui, oui” really annoyed me, and I insisted and explained that otherwise she might as well not come at all, because it would be too late for the contest. She promised she’d be there “as soon as possible.” The way she put it was not precise enough to my liking, but there was nothing more I could do, other than to hope she would prove to me that I could count on her, in spite of all the lies she had told me when I was little.
So I was immensely relieved when roughly five weeks after this meeting, Arnold informed me that Lena would be coming the very next day. I had begun to think that she had forgotten all about me . . . but she hadn’t, and I felt bad about not trusting her.
“Hello, my little Julek.”
“Hello, Lena. How are you?”
“Fine, fine, and you?”
I resigned myself to joking about this and that with her; I would wait a while before referring to the matter that truly interested me. After a while she was the one who brought it up.
“I have this thing for you. You want?”
“Yes, of course!”
Lena took a little paper package from her big canvas bag. She handed it to me. I took it. And opened it. Little chocolate sweets . . .
“But you have my seeds, too, don’t you?”
“Oui, oui,” she said, somewhat surprised by my reaction.
“So where are they?”
She just stared at me.
“The seeds, remember, I gave you a list, flowers, the names of flowers on a piece of paper?”
“Ah, oui, oui, flowers! But I have chocolates. Flowers, after. Next time.”
I felt my ears go warm. I wanted to stand up, and take her by the shoulders, and shake her very hard. But I went on sitting there, not saying a thing, waiting for something to make this woman disappear from my sight. Since she didn’t know what else to say, Lena soon decided that it was time for her to leave. She gave me a kiss—how annoying—and smiled at me—how annoying—and gave me a hug—all right, is that it now?—and turned around and left.
I was furious. I went out into the park and ran to hide in my secret refuge. On my way I gave a kick to a huge rock. Ouch! The pain had a calming effect on my mind. I curled up in a ball and spent a long time mulling over all the reasons I had to be angry with Lena, and there were plenty of them. “I can never trust her. You can’t count on her, she doesn’t do anything I ask her to do, but she always says, ‘Oui, oui,’ because she doesn’t even have the balls to say, ‘You know, I don’t give a damn about your garden thing,’ which is the truth, because she doesn’t give a damn about anything concerning me. Well, she won’t get away with it, just because she’s too stupid to remember a little teeny tiny favor doesn’t mean I can’t still have the most beautiful garden in the contest.” I had to find a solution, and fast, because the planting period had already begun.
And suddenly the solution came to me, in all its splendor, its logic, and its simplicity.
The very next morning, straight after breakfast, I went down to the bottom of the garden, behind the pond, where the tall shrubbery concealed a stone wall. Clinging with all my strength with my little fingers to the few protruding stones, I hoisted myself to the top of the wall. Without even looking behind me, I jumped down to the other side, landing on an uncultivated plot of land between two houses with their gardens nicely arranged. No need to look any further on my first sortie. I headed to the right, keeping my eyes on the little white house half hidden by tall trees. This was perfect. I blended in with the shade of the trees, and no one could see me.
It became trickier when I got to the garden, which was located right out in the sunlight. I observed it from a distance, and gave some thought to what might interest me. As I hadn’t taken any tools, I would have to choose something I could dig up with my hands. Then I thought, I know, I’ve got it: irises. I recognized their long flat leaves in a shadier part of the garden. I glanced once again at the house, took a deep breath and rushed forward, practically crawling, as if I were about to ambush someone. First of all I tried to dig up some big iris plants, but the soil where they were planted was hard and compact, and I couldn’t get my fingers under the bulbs. I looked all around: in an airier corner of the garden that seemed to have been recently planted, I saw some little irises with very pale leaves, and crept toward them. This time, it worked! I dug up three or four at first and was getting ready to leave, then changed my mind, reasoning that it would be better to make the best use of the risk I was taking. I chose four more, which didn’t go with the rest of that garden anyway . . . and while I was at it, why not an additional three, and I buried them deep in my pockets.
Just as I was about to head back, I heard a door slam. Darn! I tried to disappear behind a little bush. I could hear a little girl talking. She seemed to be having a long conversation . . . The voice was coming closer, and before long I could make out what she was saying. “And if you disobey me one more time, you will stay in a drawer all summer long. Do you understand, Mathilde? In the meantime, I am taking you out to the garden to be punished.” I could hear the stifled sound of an object falling into the grass. “I’ll come back later to see if you have calmed down.” I waited a little bit longer. The door slammed again. I got up quietly, and stole slowly into the shade of the trees, and then I made a dash to the wall, climbed over, and soon I was back home at L’Avenir Social, and no one the wise
r!
The next day I went through the same rigmarole again, and the day after that. Each time, I “visited” a different garden to make sure I would have a nice variety of flowers. I was getting better organized. I took a little bag with me, and a little garden shovel, with which I could dig up some of the more delicate plants. On my fourth expedition, I was on my way back to the orphanage, being very careful not to damage the pretty anemone plants at the bottom of my bag, and when I reached the spot where I had to climb over the wall, I looked up, and there at the top, watching me, arms crossed and a half smile on his face, was Arnold.
“Good harvest?”
I was speechless.
“Come on, show me what you have hidden in your bag.”
I obeyed.
“Those are nice plants you have there. I don’t know much about them, can you tell me what they are?”
“Uh . . . anemones.”
“And they’ll grow into pretty flowers?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, wouldn’t you know, I’ve had some complaints from people in the neighborhood saying that one of our children has been raiding their borders. They’re none too pleased, as you can imagine, right? Well, we won’t make a huge thing about it. I want you to swear that you will never get up to these shenanigans again, that you will never steal any plants or anything else from the orphanage’s neighbors.”
“I swear.”
“Perfect. Now go and plant your little leaves whose name I’ve forgotten, and we won’t mention it again.”
In this whole garden contest business, the thing that made the strongest impression on me, besides Arnold’s surprising leniency, was the fact that I didn’t win the contest, in spite of the originality of my little garden. I didn’t even get second prize. I can’t remember who won, but I thought it was very unfair that I was not one of the finalists. It was only years later that I understood that I had been disqualified for having resorted to an illegal procedure.
