A Pocket Full of Seeds

by Marilyn Sachs

  Mme. Durand broke in. “Jacques,” she said, “it was neither Jacqueline or Célestin. Jacqueline was in bed all day yesterday with a cold, and Tante Louise took Célestin away with her for the day.”

  “Ah!” M. Durand waved away the two youngest, and concentrated on the three eldest. He walked up and down, considering, and then finally he faced us, smiling. But it was not a pleasant smile.

  “Stay here I” he ordered.

  He approached the plundered cheese, and cut three pieces out of it.

  “Here!” he said, returning to us. “I want your opinion of this cheese. You first, Nicole. Take a bite out of this piece—a big bite—right here.”

  I bit without thinking. I nearly choked on it. By this morning I had lost my taste for cheese.

  “Gabriel, here!” Gabriel bit.

  “Jean-Pierre!” The same.

  “Aha I” M. Durand carried the three pieces over to the large cheese, and compared them with the original bite. “Madeleine,” he said, addressing his wife, “come here!” She joined him, and looked. Without a word, they both turned and faced me.

  “NICOLE!”

  M. Durand did not break every bone in my body, nor did he crack open my head, but my rear end was sore that day, and Mme. Durand pinched my arm several times and said that if I stopped eating like a bird at mealtimes, and took more nourishment, I wouldn’t have to go around committing crimes in between meals.

  They were strict but they had taken care of us since we were babies, and treated us like their own children. Which wasn’t good, but at least we never felt we were treated worse than their own children. Actually, M. Durand probably was nicer to me than to any of the others. Sometimes I even sat in his lap after supper, and he patted my shoulder and jiggled me on his knee.

  I was used to them, and I was not unhappy. But every Friday night when our parents came to see us, starting from when I was six or seven, I would ask, “Why can’t we live with you ?”

  “Because we can’t afford it yet.”

  “Why can’t you afford it? Georges Morel at school, lives with his mother. His father is dead and his mother is a laundress. They are very poor, but Georges and his two sisters, Louise and Eugénie, are at home.”

  “Soon. We are doing the best we can.”

  “But why do we have to wait? I can take care of the house while you and Papa work. I can boil eggs and make coffee.”

  “We have no room for you. You know that Papa and I live in that one tiny room in the boardinghouse.”

  “Jacqueline and I won’t mind. We can sleep on the floor, and we don’t eat much. Mme. Durand says we eat like birds.”

  “Now listen to me, Nicole. As soon as we can, we will. Papa and I are just as anxious as you to be together again.”

  “No, you are not. If you were, nothing would stop you. You just don’t care for us.”

  “Now, Nicole, I don’t like the way you are talking. Sometimes, I’m afraid you forget yourself.”

  Then one night, Maman told us that she had found an apartment, and that the following week would be our last with the Durands. They would come for us the next Friday night and we would go “home.” I thought about “home” all through that week, and imagined how it would look with new and bright furniture and pretty pictures hanging on the walls.

  It was disappointing when we walked into the apartment on the Avenue du Petit Port. There were four small rooms, and a tiny, dark kitchen. None of the furniture was new, and there were no pictures hanging on the wall.

  Jacqueline didn’t mind. She bounced up and down on the large double bed that she and I would share and which took up most of our room.

  “Come here, Nicole,” Maman said. She opened the doors of the living room, and we were outside on a veranda, an enclosed sun-porch with windows on all sides that could be raised way up.

  “Wait until the morning,” Maman said. “You will be able to see Mont Revard.”

  Everything seemed so strange the next day. Papa had already left for work, but Maman was staying home to get everything in order. She sent me down to the crèmerie to buy some Brie cheese, and she gave me a milk pail which I was to have filled with milk.

  I had never bought anything in a store before. Mme. Durand baked her own bread, and milk was delivered by a local farmer. Maman showed me from the veranda how I must walk up to the end of the street, turn the corner, and there in the middle of that street was the crèmerie.

  I held the coins tightly in my hand and walked slowly up the street. This was my street. All the trees and the houses with their red-tiled roofs and the people who lived inside them belonged to me now. I felt happy and important. I had a street, and an apartment, and a mother and father who lived with me. My mother had sent me out with money in my hand to shop for her. It was all so beautiful—the bright, clear day, the fine street, the feel of the hard coins in my hand. And times like this were now forever.

  In the crèmerie, two bright-eyed, skinny, little women stood behind the counter. They looked like twins, but they were only sisters. Mlle. Hélène and Mlle. Jeanette Frenay, owners of the store.

  “Yes?” demanded Mlle. Hélène.

  “Please, Madame,” I said, “may I have a piece of Brie cheese.”

  “What is your name?” asked Mlle. Jeanette.

  “Nicole Nieman.”

  “Where do you live?” continued Mlle. Hélène.

  “Around the corner—on the Avenue du Petit Port.”

  “I have never seen you before,” said Mlle. Hélène.

  “No, Madame, we just moved in yesterday.”

  “Ah, and what rental do you pay?” asked Mlle. Jeanette.

  “I don’t know, Madame.”

  “Well, well ... and what do you want?”

  “A piece of Brie cheese.”

  “It’s not very good today,” remarked Mlle. Hélène.

  I glanced at the large, round Brie cheese in one of the cases. It had a triangular piece cut out of it and looked creamy and smooth inside.

  “My mother told me to buy a piece of Brie,” I insisted.

  Mlle. Jeanette picked up a knife. “The Camembert is delicious today,” she said.

  “But Madame, my mother ...”

  She sliced a piece off the Camembert, wrapped it in white paper, and said, “Your mother will appreciate the Camembert. What else do you need?”

  I handed her my milk pail, and she filled it with milk.

  “My greetings to your mother,” said Mlle. Jeanette, taking my money. “We will look forward to meeting her.”

  Maman thought the Camembert was delicious, and said she had heard from the landlady that the two sisters in the crèmerie were strange, but that their cheeses were excellent.

  Jacqueline and I sat at the table in the kitchen while Maman fixed our café-au-lait, and cut us large slices of bread and cheese. She fussed over us, asking us if the coffee was too hot, or if we wanted more cheese, but she didn’t insist that we eat anything. Jacqueline kept kicking her chair but Maman didn’t even notice. She was laughing and talking to us about how much fun it was going to be, and how once we had some money, we would buy new furniture, and maybe even a rug for the living room. Maman’s hair and eyes were very dark, and her face always seemed to be moving.

  After breakfast, I helped Maman unpack the dishes and the pots and put them away in the pantry. Maman had part of a set of beautiful china dishes. They were white with a border of tiny, delicate roses around the rim. The cups were very fancy. There were only five of them with gold twisted handles and little gold legs.

  “There is a china closet I have my eye on,” Maman said. “If we continue to do as well as we have been doing, perhaps one day I can buy it and display some of our pretty things.” She wiped the cups carefully, and began to put them away.

  “Maman, may I hold one too?” I asked.

  “Yes, Nicole, but be very careful. They are quite delicate.”

  I held the cup in my hands and ran my fingers all along the border of little ro
ses, and underneath I touched the tiny gold feet.

  “Oh, Maman, it’s so beautiful!”

  “Maman, I want to hold a cup too,” said Jacqueline.

  Maman hesitated.

  “Don’t let her, Maman,” I said. “She’ll drop it. You can’t trust her.”

  “Yes I can. I can.” Jacqueline cried.

  “Of course you can,” Maman said. “Come here, near me, and you can hold it over these towels. Be careful now.”

  Jacqueline held the cup very carefully over the towels on the table. She was smiling. Then she looked over at me, and made a funny face.

  “Maman, Jacqueline made a funny face at me.”

  Maman took the cup from Jacqueline. “Who wants to put away the sheets and pillowcases ?” she asked.

  “I do.”

  “I do.”

  It was a happy day—putting everything away, dusting the furniture, cleaning the floors of our apartment. It was a happy day, especially for me. But for Jacqueline, it was not all happy.

  Around three in the afternoon, she stood with her back against the living room wall, and said, “I want Hitler.”

  “What?” said Maman. “You want what?”

  “Hitler,” Jacqueline said. She began whining and stamping her foot. “I want Hitler! I want Hitler!”

  Maman looked at her, very puzzled.

  I started to laugh. “She wants our dog—I mean the dog we had at the Durands. She always played with him a lot, and M. Durand said he liked her the best.”

  “I want Hitler,” Jacqueline shouted.

  “Now, chérie, you know you can’t have a dog here. But we will go and visit the Durands very often, maybe even this Sunday.”

  “I want him now! I want him now!” She was stamping her feet and really shouting.

  “Now,” I told Maman, “it’s time for her nap. Jacqueline, go and lie down and take a nap.”

  “No!”

  “Well then, Maman will have to smack you or pinch you.”

  “Nicole!” said Maman.

  “Oh, but that’s the only way to handle her,” I told Maman. “You don’t know what she’s like when she’s tired. Mme. Durand always gave her a little pinch or smack when she didn’t listen, and you’ll see, once she has her nap she will be much nicer.”

  Maman was looking at Jacqueline helplessly. By now Jacqueline was jumping up and down and screaming.

  “Just do what I tell you, Maman. I really know her better than you.”

  “Do you?” Maman said. She moved forward and reached out for Jacqueline, who put up her hands to protect herself. Maman picked Jacqueline up, kicking and struggling, and spoke softly to her. “Now, now, ma poupée, now, now.”

  She sat down, and held her in her lap, and Jacqueline sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

  “Maman,” I insisted, “if you would only ...”

  “Be still, Nicole, you don’t always know everything.”

  After a while Jacqueline stopped sobbing, and struggling. She put her finger in her mouth, and lay her head against Maman’s shoulder, and fell asleep.

  Maman smiled at me and whispered, “You see.”

  I felt foolish and went out onto the veranda. We had raised the windows because the day was warm, I leaned out, and looked at Mont Revard off in the distance, the train track up the street, and all the little houses with plane trees in front of them. I could hear the train approaching and concentrated on the sound of its wheels coming closer and closer, its whistle blasting in the air. Across the street, a man looked out of a window and smiled at me. I waved at him and he waved back. I could see some children coming up the street now on their way home from school.* Tomorrow was Sunday, and on Monday I would start school too.

  * French children go to school on Saturday, and stay home on Thursday.

  Maybe one of those children would be my friend. I watched them walking up the street. There was a boy walking by himself. Behind him came two boys together, and behind them, four or five girls. One of the girls—she was wearing a blue coat and a blue and white beret—ran into one of the houses across the street. She looked about my age, and she had dark hair like me. As she was just about to go through the door of her house, she turned and looked right up at me. I wanted to smile or wave, but I felt shy, and turned in the direction of the train tracks. Soon the train came jugging by, and when I turned back she was gone.

  I watched as other children came up the street, and as some of them were absorbed into the houses. Then I thought about the girl in the blue and white beret. I leaned on the partition and I watched the street. Sure enough, there they came—two girls, walking together, arms around each other. One was the girl across the street in her blue and white beret, and the other—was me—wearing a new beret. It was blue and white too. I had to lean all the way out because they stopped downstairs in front of my house. They laughed, and pushed each other, and then they both came running into the house. I could hear their footsteps coming up the stairs, their laughter, the door to the apartment opening. I wheeled around to watch them come in.

  There was only me, leaning against the window wall, and smiling at myself for being such a silly daydreamer. But perhaps on Monday ... Now that I was with my parents, anything could happen.

  I walked back into the apartment. Maman was still sitting in the chair holding Jacqueline, fast asleep, her thumb still in her mouth.

  “Why don’t you put her down on the bed, Maman? She might sleep an hour and a half or even two hours.”

  Maman shook her head, smiled at me, and then looked down, smiling at Jacqueline. Around her lay the boxes of belongings still to be put away. I shook my head, gathered up an armful of towels and walked toward the cupboard. Somebody had to see that things got done.

  November 1938

  “I am not,” I said out loud, but nobody heard me.

  “... bossy, and lacking in respect toward grownups.” My mother was excited, and she was speaking very quickly, slurring some of her words.

  “I am not,” I said, but this time I said it loud enough so they could hear.

  “Be still!” Maman said. “You’ll wake up Jacqueline.”

  I climbed out of bed, and padded into the living room where both of my parents were sitting, talking about me. My mother always spoke openly when she was angry. She never kept secrets, because she couldn’t keep secrets. All day long her annoyance had been buzzing around me, and tonight as soon as Papa came home she had let it all out completely.

  “You have no idea how embarrassed I was,” said Maman. “Mme. Thibault was waiting for me to finish the hem on her skirt” — Maman now did sewing at home — “and began to talk very pleasantly with Nicole. When I was finished, she tried on the skirt, and Nicole said, ‘Mme. Thibault, I don’t think you should wear colors like red and white. You should wear dark blue because fat people look better in dark blue or black,’ “

  “And it’s true,” I said.

  “Yes, but nobody asked you for your opinion,” said Maman. “And if you keep on giving it, I will lose all my customers, and what will happen to us then?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and put my face into the Who Cares look. I put my hands on my hips, and stood there with my legs spread apart.

  “Well,” said Papa, “perhaps it only happened this one time. I’m sure that after this Nicole will try not to be so outspoken.”

  “Oh?” said Maman. “If it was only this one time, I wouldn’t be so annoyed. But Nicole is very free with her mouth, and her opinions are numerous. She is continually telling me how to clean house, how to cook, how to take care of Jacqueline ...”

  “I’ve been with Jacqueline all these years so I know her best.”

  “Be still,” Maman shouted. Her cheeks were very pink, and her eyes looked even darker than usual. She was angry. I looked down at my shoes and shut up.

  “There is no subject on which she is not an authority. Even at school, Mlle. Legrand tells me there are problems. She does not read as well as the other children. As a matter
of fact, she hardly read at all when she first started school. Mlle. Legrand says she cannot imagine what they taught her in the other school. And her handwriting—Mlle. Legrand says it is worse than all the other children, even the seven-year-olds, and Nicole is nearly nine. Mademoiselle says there are days when Nicole simply will not learn. Even when she raps her knuckles, Nicole will just look up at her with that face she’s wearing now, refusing to learn. And sometimes, she even tells Mlle. Legrand—”

  “I hate Mlle. Legrand. She’s a vieille vache.”

  Maman slapped me, and I started crying. “You see, you see,” she said to Papa, and Papa was talking to both of us at the same time. “Don’t be so fresh ... best thing is not to lose your temper ... where did you ever learn such an expression ... she’s very intelligent and independent. She can be reasoned with ... stop crying like that...”

  My father had a long face. His hair was red, but not bright and shiny like Jacqueline’s. It was a quiet red, and his face was a quiet, mournful face. Maman’s face always showed how she was feeling, but Papa’s thoughts lay inside him, hidden.

  I was weeping noisily but watching him carefully from under my wet eyelashes.

  Maman was watching him too. He looked at me, and then he looked at her. I sniffed loudly, and I watched as she wrinkled up her forehead and waited for him to say something.

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  I stopped crying, and Maman repeated, “Hungry?”

  “Yes, Henriette. Remember, I’ve just come back from Paris, and I didn’t have time to eat anything there what with buying all the new stock, and getting it to the station in time to make the train.”

  “Oh, you poor man!” Maman said apologetically. “And as soon as you come in, I fill your ears with all sorts of silly little things. Ah—what’s the matter with me! But wait, just a minute—I’ll have some soup for you and cheese and fruit.”

  Maman hurried into the kitchen and Papa beckoned for me to come to him. He put an arm around me, shook his head and said, “I cannot imagine where you get such a big mouth from.”