Dinner starts with soup, certainly made with the stuff we threw away at lunch, mixed with water and boiled. The potatoes have mostly melted but there are still gristly bits of veal floating in it. At our table, only two girls seriously try to eat some. The others taste it and moan. I’m trying not to breathe. Coralie looks at her soup with a wide-open mouth and furious eyes. Sister Bri comes by and says we all have to eat up what’s in our plates. Sylvie says she can’t, and Sister Bri gives her the usual blah-blah about hungry children in China. As if our making ourselves sick with this pig-swill could be of use to anybody, let alone Chinese kids.
The nun is gone. One of the patro girls takes out a plastic bag from her skirt pocket, and deftly pours her soup into it. She passes it on to the next girl, and so on. Sylvie and Coralie are grinning. I’m last: “What shall I do with it?” I whisper. The bag is half full by now. “Keep it on your thighs, with your skirt over it,” Delphine says. “If your skirt isn’t long enough, pass it on to Lauriane.” But my skirt is long enough, and I might need the bag later.
Delphine takes the empty dish to the kitchen and brings back a pasta gratin covered with stale-smelling cheese. Everybody else looks happy with it. Lauriane, after the first forkful, says, “It’s not as good as my grandmother’s, but definitely better than what we get at the canteen, don’t you think?” “Yes, more cheese than at Assomption,” another girl says. The rest agree.
“Are you at the Assomption school?” I ask.
“Yes,” they all nod. “Except for the five of you, everybody here is from Assomption. The patro goes with the school. On Thursdays some little girls stay at home, but most of us go to the patro. All the boarders anyway.”
So that’s it? But Assomption is where Anne-Claude’s supposed to go in October! And I don’t think she’s aware of the connection.
“Are any of you boarders?” I ask.
“Most of us. In the nursery and elementary sections, if your parents live in town you can go home in the evening, but starting in sixième you have to be a boarder.”
After dinner we sit on the grass outside and sing. We don’t know the songs, but they’re easy, and surprisingly refreshing. Au bord de la rivière, m’allant promener, “As I walked along the river”. Maybe tomorrow we’ll find a river, water we can drink, water in which to swim and forget.
In the dorm, there are no lamps apart from the night light above the door. I’m not sleepy at all and, as soon as Sister Bri leaves us, I go and sit in a bathroom stall with Marjorie Morningstar.
Marjorie is studying to become a biology teacher, but what she wants to be is an actress. Meanwhile, she goes riding in the park with boys. She seems to be enormously interested in clothes, and in making boys fall in love with her, especially boys who go to Columbia or live on the Upper West Side. Her fiancé is in the Bronx, though. There seems to be a huge difference between these neighborhoods, and I think it has to do with money, but not only.
The neighborhoods are stacked on top of each other. “Above the West Side, the older and wealthier Jewish families of the Upper East Side. Still above, the well-to-do Christian families of Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue.” Is New York built on a hill? I’d need a map. And does this mean that people of different religions live in different parts of town?
Is “Jewish” the opposite of “Christian”? I know there are several religions, but I don’t know anybody who isn’t a Catholic or an atheist or an agnostic. I’m trying to remember my catechism: there are heretics who disagree about some tenets of Catholicism, schismatics who don’t want to obey the Pope, apostates who have left the church... for another religion? And infidels! I think infidels are people who have never heard of Jesus. But the Jews have heard — they’re in the Gospels.
Marjorie’s mother is called Rose and when she was young she spoke Yiddish. Yiddish? In Brooklyn. I stand up, close my book, lay it on the toilet seat, stretch my arms, pronounce the exotic words a few times: Yiddish, Brooklyn, Bronx.
But I am sleepy now.
The next day, there’s milk for breakfast, in large metal jugs, and the girls say it tastes fine. But I don’t drink milk. Milk smells like the inside of someone else’s body. Which it is. Still, breakfast is by far the best meal here: good bread (though it’s rather hard now), okay plum jam. I try to swallow some water, but I give up, the aftertaste is so dire.
The good news is, we won’t have to take a nap today. Just after breakfast, the nuns give each of us a paper bag (“your lunch”) and we trudge down to Lourdes with our backpacks. The patro girls, in their patrols, sing loudly, and we bring up the rear, shaking our heads and giggling. We wouldn’t giggle if we knew what’s in store for us.
As soon as we enter the streets of Lourdes, I want to run back into the woods. Lourdes must be the ugliest place in the whole world. Every house in it is a café, a restaurant, or most likely a souvenir store. The streets are packed with people, mostly moving in herds, like us. Wheelchairs, crutches, distorted bodies and faces, but also many ordinary-looking people who don’t seem particularly in need of miracles.
We are taken to the Grotto. Now we all have to hold hands in case some of us get separated from the group, the crush is so bad. We hardly get a glimpse of the Virgin in a little hole above the entrance to the Grotto before Mother Ho leads us around and behind the rock. She looks excited. “You’re going to walk the Stations of the Cross,” she says. “On your knees.”
It sounds like the privilege of our lives. Some older patro girls mutter that they’ve done it before, but we all get on our knees and start. Coralie is lucky, she’s wearing trousers. But I have a flimsy cotton skirt that doesn’t want to stick under my knees. Nobody looks uplifted. Anne-Claude, behind me, whispers, “Why don’t the nuns do it themselves if they think it’s such a treat?”
I’m thirsty. God, the sun is burning now. And I need to pee, but there are people all around us, and no public lavatory in sight. After the Way of the Cross, the nuns say we’re going to a park for a picnic. The park turns out to be a bare piece of ground with one bench (for the nuns). We sit in the trodden grass, and open our paper bags: there’s a sandwich in there, soaked with runny omelet. I shut the bag fast, and hide it behind me. Most girls eat a few mouthfuls and throw the rest into the garbage can. The nuns made us put water in our flasks, which I use to wash an apple I retrieve from the bottom of the paper bag, all sticky with omelet juice. After I dry it with my skirt, it’s fine.
A crowd of Spaniards marches into the park, and I slip away. There’s a grocery shop further up the road. I buy two bottles of Vichy water, and I ask the woman about a public lavatory. She say’s there’s one near the parking lot, then decides to let me use hers at the back of the shop. The water there is okay, so I drink a lot of it, and fill up my flask — I’ll keep the Vichy in my backpack, for later. I’m all set now, practically happy.
When I get back to the park, Mother Ho is explaining that we’re going to take a look at the souvenir stores. We’re not supposed to buy anything until later, but she’s sure we’ll be interested in checking out the wares.
So we visit three of these emporia, with the nuns, each time, waiting for us outside. Rocks with a Virgin in the background, figurines of saint Bernadette, shells, crucifixes, shawls, brooches. When I see dolls dressed in Pyrenean costumes, I think of Eléonore’s collection. I wonder if I’ll get her one. I so object to the whole idea. Collections. Showcases. Junk. At least I don’t have the kind of parents who would want grottoes and Bernadettes. Or any kind of souvenir. Grandmother might like something, though. But what? Everything here is so ugly. So I have two problems on my hands: Eléonore, and Grandmother. And nearly two weeks to decide. God, two weeks of this!
Waterfall
We plod back up to the camp in the heat. When we get to the forest everybody wants to rest, and the nuns agree — it must be worse for them with their long dresses, wimples, and veils. I find a bush to hide behind, take out one of my bottles of Vichy and discreetly offer it to Coralie and our friends.
Anne-Claude declares that I’m a genius. “Hush,” I whisper. Sylvie and Coralie kiss me, then start building something with pine cones. Anne-Claude and I are sitting against tree trunks.
“I heard that the patro is part of the Assomption school,” I say. “So some of these girls are going to be in your class, I guess.”
Anne-Claude looks up, startled. “Who told you that?”
I tell her about the conversation at dinner. “Delphine is going into cinquième, but Lauriane is your age, I think.”
Anne-Claude gives a long sigh, then lies down, her head on her backpack, her yellow cardigan hiding her face. “These girls might be okay, don’t you think?” I say. “In school they’re not going to do the Guide stuff. Only on Thursdays.”
Anne-Claude stays silent for a long time, and I hold her hand. But here is Mother Ho’s whistle, followed by her screech: time to go. We stand up.
Back at camp, we’re all sweaty and exhausted. I ask Sister Gisèle if I can have a shower and she says no, we’re not allowed upstairs during the day.
“Why not?” I ask. She looks embarrassed.
“It’s a rule. We can’t have girls running all over the house. You’ll wash at the basin this evening. Showers are on Saturday mornings.”
Does she mean we won’t shower tonight? Last night, we did go to bed directly after brushing our teeth. I didn’t pay attention then, because everything was so strange.
“Why can’t we shower every day?” I ask.
Sister Gi hesitates. “Hot water is expensive,” she says.
“I can use cold water, I don’t mind at all.”
“You should learn to abide by the rules,” the nun says. “You argue too much. Be careful, you could get into trouble with Mother Honorine.”
“What kind of trouble?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m curious. How could Mother Ho make this Gehenna worse? Is she going to lock us up in a cell, beat us?
Sister Gi looks at me pensively. “You’re not used to this, are you?” she finally says.
After the goûter, the patro girls get ready to line up in their patrols, run up and down, dance to the whistle. This time we sit behind the house, out of sight. There’s a smell of disinfectant and turnips coming from the kitchen, but we’re too discouraged to go into the woods. “This place is like Les Malheurs de Sophie,” Coralie says. “Mother Ho would be madame Fichini. She really likes to make girls suffer.”
“And the worst thing is,” Anne-Claude says, “these girls look like they’re used to it. It makes you wonder. Can people get used to just anything? After a while, do you automatically line up and jump to the whistle? Are we going to like this water eventually? I mean, not like it, but... drink it without disgust?”
“I’m already eating some of their food,” Coralie says. “I can’t do without food. But it makes me sad. It’s the first time I’ve ever eaten meals without enjoying them at all.”
“Same here,” Sylvie says.
Françoise, who seemed to have joined the patro pursuits, is now plodding towards us. “How are you?” I ask as she sits down against the wall.
She shrugs. “Fine, thank you. Actually, you were quite right to stay here. I tried. And it was okay for a while, but now they’re meeting in small groups and they say I can’t sit with any of them because I’m not a member.”
“A member?” Anne-Claude asks.
“It isn’t their fault. They have all these rules. They made a promise — it’s a solemn ceremony, where you recite the law, you get a totem, whatever. They said I could become a member, but it’s a whole... It takes a lot of time, months, years maybe. So here I am.”
“Are you going to join?” I ask.
“No. If I could do it here, today, I would, but according to them it’s completely out of the question.”
“At Assomption, in October, we’ll have to,” Anne-Claude says.
“I’m not going to Assomption,” Françoise says. “I live in Berlin. I go to the French lycée.”
“Berlin!” Anne-Claude says. “The capital of Germany?”
“Used to be. Now it’s more complicated, with the division... East Berlin is the capital of East Germany, but I live in West Berlin, in the French sector.”
“Are you a boarder?” I ask.
“No, there are no boarders in our lycée. It’s around the corner from our house. What I love is that we have a German-style timetable: we start earlier than here, at 7:30, but at 1 we’re free. We have the whole afternoon to do what we like!”
“Amazing!” Anne-Claude says. “What do you do in the afternoon?”
“Long-distance running, swimming, chamber music — I play the cello. In winter, ice-skating...”
“You’re so lucky!” Anne-Claude says. “Your school sounds like the exact opposite of... ours.”
“I want to go to the lycée! I want to live in Berlin!” Coralie cries.
Françoise laughs. “You don’t have to live in Berlin, there are lycées in France too. My father went to the Lycée Arago in Perpignan. He was there at the same time as Charles Trenet, can you believe it? Not in the same class. Charles Trenet was older.”
“Father’s favorite singer!” Sylvie says.
Coralie leaps up and starts singing, Boum! Quand notre coeur fait Boum! She jiggles and jumps from foot to foot. Tout avec lui dit Boum! Et c’est l’amour qui...
The bell. As we walk towards the refectory, Anne-Claude presses my arm and sighs. “Looks like I’ll have to go through the whole rigmarole then, promise-patrol-totem... Tita, pray for me.”
Before bed, while we’re all brushing our teeth in front of the basins, I take off my skirt, my blouse, and start soaping my shoulders. I’m not even naked, I’ve kept my underpants on, but the girls around me mutter, “You’d better not, careful, she’s coming,” and two seconds later Sister Bri is behind me. “What are your clothes doing on the floor?” she asks.
I go on lathering my arms and torso. “I didn’t know where else to put them,” I say.
“You shouldn’t take them off until you go to bed and change into your nightgown.”
“Am I supposed to wash with my clothes on?”
“You will wash in the morning,” the nun says. “With your nightgown on.” I turn to look at her. Again I’m staring at a nun, and I know I shouldn’t, but I want to make sure she’s joking. She isn’t. “Tomorrow you’ll wash your face and neck, your hands, your feet; and you’ll have a shower on Saturday.”
“I can’t stay all dirty until Saturday,” I say. The nun gives me a tense little smile.
“Well, you’ll have to, like everybody else. You shouldn’t worry so much about your body. Just make sure your soul is clean.”
I’m not sure my soul is so clean, but I can’t stand the smell of my body. So I wait until everything’s quiet in the dorm, and take Marjorie Morningstar to the bathroom with me. Also a towel, and soap. But I can’t go to the showers — they’re at the end of the passage next to the nuns’ rooms. In front of a basin, I lather my whole body up, very fast, with my hands. But then, how can I rinse it? If I wet my towel, I won’t be able to dry myself.
There are quite a few flannels hanging from pipes under the basins. I borrow one. When I’m done, I wash and rinse it carefully and put it back on the pipe. Perfectly dry, in my nightgown, I can go and sit in a toilet stall with Marjorie. I feel so comfortable now. I take out the scented card with which I mark my page, an ad for Roja Flore brilliantine featuring a bunch of blue, red and yellow flowers, and start reading.
Marjorie too is going to camp! In Camp Tamarack, she teaches dramatics to “twittering little girls”. Like us. Except nobody here teaches us dramatics, which I suppose means acting. A pity. But I’m not sure Marjorie is a good instructor. She doesn’t seem to pay much attention to the little girls. In fact, the novel tells us nothing about her work and practically nothing about Camp Tamarack, except that Marjorie is extremely disappointed when she realises it has a rule that forbids its counsellors from going to a place called So
uth Wind, an “adult camp” on the other side of the lake. South Wind is what Marjorie is really interested in — the real reason she took the job at Camp Tamarack.
I wonder why adults would want to go to camp. Finally Marjorie’s girlfriend who works with her at Camp Tamarack takes her to South Wind at night, secretly, on a boat. They have to go, because so much is happening there (as opposed to nothing at Camp Tamarack with the little girls).
There they are fascinated by a “celebrity” called Noel Airman, “a thin man in a black turtleneck sweater”. I don’t know what a turtleneck is exactly (I’ll ask Justine), but I decide that I’ll wear a black turtleneck sweater. I like the idea, and I’ve never had anything black. Noel Airman writes songs and holds forth about his audience, “college kids” he describes as the new leisure class, “a transient class but a solid one,” living “off the sweat of parents” as callously as the French aristocracy used to exploit its peasants.
I’d never thought of this. Leisure classes. Even though most of them can’t be called aristocrats, there are people around me who don’t have to work, who don’t really work, like Bertrand, or Anne-Claude’s father. Propriétaires, who could be said to live off the sweat of peasants. And most bourgeoises don’t work, even if their husbands and fathers do.
I’m going to work, as soon as I can. I want to study too, but I’ll work at the same time. I know some children actually make money picking grapes. I’ll ask Loli, and Simone. They both do the grape harvest every year. Practically everybody does, in Cugnac, except the bourgeois.
I don’t want to live off the sweat of anybody. Not that my parents sweat much, now that they no longer play tennis.
The next day, first thing after breakfast, we’re detailed to peel potatoes and scrape carrots. All the girls, in circles in the yard, around big pots. Delphine has a great scraping technique, which I try to imitate.
“You’re good at this,” I say. “How did you learn?”
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