In the Moon

by Alan Holmes

  My classroom, with its single, small window set well above eye-level, a black slate-tiled floor and drab, gray walls, lacked any warmth or intimacy. For sheer grimness, it reminded me of the first school I had attended, and while that classroom had been little more than a shed, this one was nothing less than a dungeon.

  My second school, with its wide studio windows overlooking the Paris skyline, had permanently spoiled me. Here, at l’École Sugerre there would be no communist riots to watch as they took place on the Place de la Concorde, no mating pigeons doing their mysterious dance on the roof next door—absolutely nothing to distract me from my daily drudgery. All I could see out of that narrow, north-facing window was a scrap of sky, too often dreary and overcast. I felt trapped.

  I was looking forward to recess, happily anticipating playing games on that huge entrance lawn, but here, too, bitter disappointment awaited me. The convivial lawn was off limits to students. Instead, all of the hundred or so children in the school were confined to that carriage turn-around, a mere fifty feet in diameter. It was so crowded that making one’s way across it was like walking across a crowded jail yard.

  On rainy days, recess arrangements were scarcely better. The teachers herded us into a coal cellar lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Except for a furnace in one corner, this vast cellar was mostly empty, but there was one huge pile of coal roughly at its center. We were ordered to form a circle around the coal pile, holding hands. Just as in the first school I had attended, we skipped along sideways and danced up and down while singing songs.

  No attempt had been made to remove the vestiges of coal that remained in the corners and along the walls of this cavernous room. A fine black dust clung to the bricks and to the cobwebs that festooned them. If we touched anything, our hands became smudged with grime. I must now confess that I indulged a furtive pleasure on these occasions.

  At the time, I was mesmerized by the coal merchant who delivered coal to our house. He carried large sacks of coal on his shoulders and wore a special leather hood to keep the coal dust out of his hair and clothing. Beneath the hood, itself saturated with coal dust, the only parts of his face that weren’t pitch black were his eyeballs and his teeth, which shone a brilliant white in contrast. His total blackness fascinated me, and for some dark reason, I envied him. When someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I invariably answered, “charbonnier!” (“coal delivery man!”) to the considerable consternation of Mother. When I discovered a little later that my face could get just as black if I were a locomotive driver, I immediately switched my allegiance from coal delivery to locomotive driving. Driving a locomotive had to be a lot more fun than hauling sacks of coal.

  For this reason, the subterranean recess periods held a certain fascination for me. When I became filthy, no one caterwauled and scolded me. In a coal cellar, one could expect to become grimy. Furthermore, those black smocks absorbed and concealed most of the black dust.

  The teacher always made a concerted effort to get the odd “piglets,” such as myself, cleaned up before sending us home. When she scrubbed my face and hands muttering, “What a dirty little boy! Oh you filthy little boy!” she was merely stating an interesting and accurate fact. It didn’t bother me in the least; her words were music to my ears. If I’d been a cat, I’d have been purring. Of course, I never told Mother of such delights, as she might have found a way to put a stop to them.

  Our book satchels traveled with us wherever we went in the school, except during recess. They not only contained our various workbooks but also an elongated wooden box with a sliding lid. The wooden box was for our ink (dip) pens. We also carried a ruler for neatly underlining, in ink of course, at the bottom of any column of numbers that we were totaling. A long multiplication required two such underlinings. There were other important items in our book satchels: a blotter and un essuie-plume, a pen-wiper, which consisted of a stack of small square pieces of cloth stitched together at their center. Without these invaluable tools, no student could hope to lead a clean and blameless life in this world of dip pens and indelible black ink.

  I have already hinted that I was not overly obsessed with cleanliness, but I don’t want to give the impression that I was a continual and complete mess. My attitude in this matter was quite clear, at least to me: I arrived clean and left clean, and that seemed to me to be about fair. I felt that what happened in between these two events was strictly my business.

  Scholastically, my classmates marched doggedly forward with me, as usual, bringing up the rear guard. Arithmetic continued to be my best subject, though even here I was by no means in the vanguard. At the age of six, we were multiplying five-digit numbers by five digit-numbers, doing long divisions, and using the “proof-by-nine” to verify the answers in both processes.

  We were expected to use our rulers wherever a line should appear in these problems. I found this infernally difficult because the ink flowed under the ruler and smudged when I moved the ruler off the paper. In such cases, I was supposed to try again on a new sheet of paper—provided this was the first underlining of the multiplication problem. Often, I found myself working on my fourth sheet of paper before I even started the actual multiplying. If I got past that first underlining in a multiplication problem, it would be clear sailing until I reached the second underlining, but at this stage of the proceedings, there was no trying again. My chronic creation of ink smudges haunted my days. The proof-by-nine showed I could come up with the right answers, but the smudges marked me as a failure and earned me zeros. So much for being in the vanguard!

  We were introduced to French history and geography. I remember an engraving of Louis the XIV in my history book. He was wearing full-length white stockings that went all the way up to some bouffant knickers. On his long white legs, I inked in some men’s argyle socks, supported at the calf by modern V-shaped men’s garters like the ones Father wore. When the teacher saw my artwork, she scolded me severely for lacking respect. I tried explaining that I was concerned about King Louis getting cold feet and that I meant no disrespect. She didn’t buy that, and I had to spend two whole recess periods writing out a hundred times over, “I will not lack respect for Les Grands Personnages Historiques.”

  We ate lunch at the school, and the food was as dreary as was almost everything else about that place. Over all, the memories of my days at l’École Suggere are not happy ones, though I did enjoy the camaraderie of my fellow students, who were friendly and quick to make humorous comments about our teachers and the various silly routines to which we were subjected.

  Charlie Poujet was almost two years younger than I was, so we were not in the same class, but he dogged me like my shadow during recess. He was a pale and timid little boy who continually needed reassurance. I liked being a big brother to him and, because I played that role well, I soon became the leader of a group of the younger boys.

  As such, my duties were to decide what game we would play and to make assignments as to who would do what. We might be a band of cowboys fighting our way westward or a squadron of airmen dog-fighting over the trenches. For these games to work well, it required planning and coordination of the participants as we “flew,” arms outstretched, around the small play yard making loud airplane noises. And there were tactics and maneuvers involved if other groups of kids joined in. It was all good-natured play and devoid of any rough stuff. We used our hands and arms to represent pistols and rifles, and the cry was “Piff! Paff! Tu es mort!” the French version of “Bang! Bang! You’re dead!”

  One rainy, gloomy March day in 1937, I found myself in math class making my third try at underlining in a large multiplication problem. Failing once more to accomplish a smudge-free line and filled with despair and exasperation, I think I quietly went crazy.

  I remember becoming fascinated with the amount of ink that already stained my thumb and index finger. With a little wiping and smearing, the ink soon spread to
my entire right hand and with a couple of discreet dips in the inkwell, to my left hand as well. From there it was an easy leap of daring to wipe some ink onto my face. I had no mirror, of course, but I was sure I was achieving something quite special.

  The teacher was reading a book instead of keeping her usual vigilance over the class, thus allowing me enough time to achieve my goal, which was now fully clear to me: a totally black face—for indeed, the ink was jet black. Just when I felt certain I had completed the job, there was a piercing shriek from the teacher, who, for a moment, looked as if she had seen the devil incarnate.

  What followed amazed me. The teacher left the classroom in great haste, slamming the door behind her as if she feared the apparition would follow her.

  At first, my fellow-students sat in stunned silence, pondering what might have caused this strange occurrence. Since my seat was in the back of the class, they had no way of knowing. But someone eventually turned around, and his exclamatory gasp caused the other children to turn and stare in disbelief. Soon, their gaping wonder turned into smiles and then to a murmuring awe. For one brief moment, I felt as if I were basking in a sort of collective admiration.

  It was a short-lived thrill. The door opened, and a large group of adults—Madame Jaumont (the principal), my teacher and several other teachers, and even the janitor, the gardener, and the school cook—streamed in to stare at me. At first, I think they didn’t know who I was. Perhaps a total stranger had wandered in. Surely, no student of l’École Sugerre would be capable of such a dastardly act!

  Unfortunately, my teacher and the principal knew all too well who I was and, in short order, I was led out of the class by Madame Jaumont, who guided me by holding onto my ear, quite possibly the only part of me still unstained. Held at arm’s length and being removed from the company of my peers, I felt as though I had become contagious.

  Our procession—Madame Jaumont and I in the lead, and all the other adults bringing up the rear—marched right past my anticipated destination, the principal’s office, and headed on down a side corridor that was out of bounds to students. Our little cavalcade stopped at a door labeled remise (storeroom). Madame Jaumont unlocked the door and unceremoniously discarded me inside by brusquely releasing my ear as soon as she had dragged me across the threshold. She ordered me to stay there, pulled a string that turned off the ceiling light, and slammed the door shut. I heard the key turn in the lock and, among the words spoken outside the door, I heard someone say, “Il peut rester là, en prison.” (“He can stay there, in prison.”)

  In the overpowering darkness of that closet, the possibility that I had been truly naughty began to sink in. Until that moment, I had floated, entranced and above it all, savoring the amusement and admiration of my peers and intoxicated by the shock and outrage of the adults. But now I began to wonder how serious my misdeed might be and how much trouble I was in. Had I caused anyone any harm? No, but on the other hand, hadn’t I heard talk of prison? I knew very little about prisons. Mother had once pointed out a prison as we drove through an unfamiliar part of Paris; she had said it was where they put really bad people. Had I been really bad?

  There was in my history book a chapter about a prison called La Bastille, where the peasants had put the nobles, who were also supposed to be really bad. Would I be moved from this closet to La Bastille in a tumbrel, as shown in my history book illustration? And after prison came the guillotine. Wasn’t that the eventual fate of people they put in La Bastille?

  A second picture in the history book came back to me in all its gory clarity, of the guillotine with a headless man kneeling and bent over at its base, blood pouring out of his severed neck like water from a jug, his head lying in a basket beneath him. But now, in my mind’s eye, the face on that head was completely smudged with black ink.

  As these images coursed through my imagination, I began to panic. I wailed and pounded on the door with my fists, but no one came. Eventually, I calmed down and resigned myself to the idea that this closet was indeed a prison.

  A little light entered through the crack under the door, and my eyes must have grown accustomed to the near-darkness. I could just make out some brooms, mops, and pails. I turned over a pail and sat down on it to ponder my fate. The smell of cleaning products and moldy wet-mops was overpowering. The place was cold and dank, for the weather outdoors was wintry, and the closet had no heating. It felt as though darkness itself formed the prison walls around me. If I could only turn on the light! I arose and, standing on tiptoes, waved my arms over my head hoping to find the pull string for the light, but it was out of my reach.

  My misadventure had occurred during the first period of the day, so if I weren’t taken to La Bastille or the guillotine before Mother arrived, I had a long wait until she came to fetch me in the late afternoon. Or perhaps there were rules that said I would have to stay a certain period of time in prison, in which case Mother would have no say in the matter. She would be forced to leave me here, and I would have to stay in this dreadful little room after everyone else went home.

  I heard the mid-morning recess bell and the distant, boisterous voices of my schoolmates as they went out to play. None of them knew where I was, I supposed. Would they care, or miss my game planning? I realized for the first time how much I enjoyed the recess periods. I wondered if I were now forever banished from association with mes camarades—and I felt desperately lonely. The bell for the end of recess rang, and I banged some more on the door, hoping someone passing by might hear me. However, only the janitor ever came by this door, so my pounding and cries were in vain. I now pinned my hopes on the lunch bell. Surely, they would let me out then, if only to eat. That event, too, came and went with the rest of the world seemingly indifferent to my plight.

  Sitting on the upturned pail, I pulled my smock over my bare knees, for I was becoming cold and had started to shiver. In an effort to keep warm while sitting on the pail, I wrapped my arms around my knees, tucked my hands under my armpits and put my head on my knees so that I formed a tight ball.

  Sometime later, I awoke with a start as the door opened. It was Madame Jaumont, who ordered me to follow her to the school office. There, I saw mother and ran into her open arms, crying and begging her not to let them keep me in prison.

  After a moment, Mother released me and, sizing me up at arm’s length, exclaimed, “Mon Dieu! What have you done to yourself—and why?”

  I had completely forgotten that dirty little detail, as well as the various excuses and explanations I had conjured up and rehearsed in my mind during my imprisonment in the broom closet. My best explanation was that I had stooped over to tie my shoelace and, while doing so, had accidentally bumped the desk quite hard. The bumping had caused the ink to jump out of the ink well like a fountain, and it had hit me square in the face.

  I had also contemplated a second scenario: the sleeve of my smock had snagged on the hinged lid of the inkwell, so that the sleeve had become soaked in ink. When I had raised my hand to ask the teacher for help, the ink-soaked sleeve had dribbled all over my face, and since it stung my eyes, I had tried to wipe it off. I had debated the relative merits of both fibs but had not been able to decide which one sounded more plausible.

  Now, under the cold stare of Madame Jaumont, neither of these stories seemed plausible to me. Besides, she was already speaking, even before I had a chance to answer Mother’s question.

  “This child is obsessed with becoming a filthy mess. We simply can’t have him setting such a bad example for the other students. We have been watching him for some time, and he appears incorrigible. We want nothing more to do with him. We therefore consider him expelled and ask you to leave now and to take him with you, before classes are over.”

  Mother got out her old saw about being well rid of a situation in which I was under the influence of humorless teachers. Somehow, her words didn’t ring as true this time as they had when she had first
used this speech at l’École de la rue Pradier and, judging by her grim expression, she must have been a little short of humor herself at that moment.

  My book satchel had been placed beneath my hook in the front hall, and I gathered it on the way out. Mother and I walked down the long, winding driveway without saying a word. Then she and I sat silently in the car, waiting for Brenda and the two Poujet kids to be let out at the normal time, which wasn’t far off.

  After a while, Mother asked, “What on earth was going through your head when you committed this bêtise (stupidity)?”

  “I was getting angrier and angrier because I couldn’t underline without making ink smudges. Then I just gave up. I was fed up. After that, I don’t know what happened. I think I went crazy. There was ink on my fingers, and I started painting more ink all over my hands, just to sort of even things out. Then, it just seemed like fun to go on, so I painted my face as well.”

  That seemed to satisfy Mother. She put her arm around me and gave me a reassuring squeeze. “You know, Alain, you’re going to be seven years old in two weeks, and that’s l’age de la raison (the age of reason). Once you reach that age you can’t go on doing unreasonable things, such as painting your face black. So it’s just as well you got it out of your system. And now you’ve also learned that such bêtises, though fun at the time, aren’t worth all the trouble they cause you later—are they?”

  I couldn’t have agreed with her more. Nevertheless, did Madame Jaumont know that I wasn’t even seven years old and hadn’t yet reached “the age of reason”? Surely, this was a logical explanation for my bêtise. Under those circumstances, wasn’t it unfair to put me in prison the way she had? That prison business was still preying on my mind. I very much wanted Mother’s clarification of the matter and framed the question for her, adding, “Was I really, really bad? Would I have been forced to stay in prison longer if I were seven instead of six years old?”