Moosemeat, Turnips & Betsy

By Jenny Boniface

An immigrant's family struggles against the elements, poverty and the onslaught of World War 11. Six children, one of whom is developmentally delayed ensures an uncertain future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jenny Boniface
• Release date: Mar 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465912800

Jenny Boniface

The author, a retired teacher-librarian, lives in British Columbia's Fraser Valley, has four grandchildren and a sibling with developmental delays.

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

Draining the last dregs of his cold coffee, Paul carefully butted a roll-your-own cigarette into an emptied Rogers’ Golden Syrup tin. The time was near. He had been at this point before, not that that made it easier. He would not allow himself to think of the outcome if he remained the only assistant. Romeo was reliable and would postpone any activity in which he was engaged, in order to assist in an emergency. Whatever his pursuit it could not be more crucial than the crisis unravelling in the next room. What could possibly take so long? Surely James and to a lesser degree Romeo understood the urgency, grasping the certain disaster that could ensue without outside intervention.

Once again a muffled scream propelled him hurriedly to the bedroom. Cautiously Paul approached, agonizing over her grueling battle, painfully aware of Celina’s escalating struggle for each breath, riding out one pain before the next engulfed her. Hesitantly he kissed her heated cheek, praying to subjugate the abysmal drama unfolding before his anxious, troubled eyes.

What can I do ma chère? he whispered imploringly, kneeling by her bedside, fluffing the quilt, plumping the sausage shaped eiderdown bolster and extra pillow. Etched in inconceivable pain, her unresponsive face distorted in a tortuous grimace failed to convey reassurance.

His voice strained, mouth dry, barely able to elicit words he blubbered pleadingly, Ma chérie, talk to me, say something, anything, please.

Struggling against mounting panic, Paul’s exterior reflected his inner turmoil. He had witnessed the scene before but this was different, terrifyingly different. The previous encounters had proceeded without complications albeit in the presence of qualified medical assistance. Now he and Celina were alone, no maternity staff, no conveniences, nothing except the two of them trapped in a drafty, dilapidated, log cabin.

He paced, running long slender fingers through his thick black hair, fussing with the bedclothes straightening the rubber sheet strategically placed under Celina, reaching momentarily for Celina’s hand before changing course, to once again pace, agitated, angry and afraid.

He placed a damp cloth on her perspiring brow before Celina slowly, deliberately allowed it to slip through her weary fingers, exposing dry cracked skin around the thumb. Paul made no effort to retrieve the wet face cloth choosing instead to clutch her hand seeking assurance. With her ebbing strength she silently pulled away.

With the next pain ripping through her, she screamed inhumanly, the likes of which Paul had never witnessed. Oh, God, don’t let her die, he panicked silently. He could not recall any screams in the French hospital, not like this one, not from his wife, not from anyone.

Why didn’t they come? The entire distance could have been covered on foot in the elapsed time Paul reasoned. Normally Ole’ Bill Landers would have been at the Post Office arriving in plenty of time after rattling down the road in the old Model T. Unfortunately, Bill languished in hospital, his wife had reported, presumably suffering from pneumonia. Paul thought it a ruse believing alcohol poisoning closer to the truth. So by the process of elimination Romeo LeBlanc was selected but had to be notified. That is where James came in. Where was he? Glancing at the alarm clock ticking loudly from the kitchen table provided no clarification for Paul could not recall James’ departure time.

Holding up a hand, James struggled to regain his breath, He’s not home. He is out somewhere doing whatever it is game wardens do. His wife said she would give him the message as soon as he returned. I am sorry, Paul. It’s the best I can do. It is not my fault.

More calmly, Paul reached for James’ shoulder. I am sorry too but we need help badly. Worriedly the two men entered the log cabin reaching Celina’s bedside simultaneously, Paul puffing on another cigarette.

A shrill shriek resounded and Paul knew. He could not deny reality much longer. Celina was not only in distress she was beyond transporting anywhere. Once again he butted his half-smoked cigarette mindfully into the tin. What can I do? James weakly questioned.

I-I-I don’t have any idea, Paul rubbed his eyes and then brightening, added, Boil water. I think someone always boils water. Yes, why don’t you boil some water? Paul said blankly. As an after thought he added, And maybe bring some wood in.

Present at the birth of their other children, but only as a spectator, fearfully he imagined himself severing the umbilical cord, knowing it would become reality if no one appeared to assist. And what did one do with a severed cord? Celina could conceivably hemorrhage once the cord was separated from the baby. But what if he did nothing? Even more fearfully, his thoughts raced. What if there were complications? Celina was in unbelievable pain, Paul appalled at the suffering women endured during childbirth, frightfully studying Celina as each contraction, more intense than the previous racked her body. Reassuringly he blurted, Ma chère, I love you so much, I can’t bear to see you suffer so. A futile comment, he reasoned but better than standing totally speechless.

Just leave me alone! she hissed. He pushed her damp dark hair from her face. Between pains, breathing laboriously, she added a little less harshly, I don’t think it will be much longer. But as the next pain ripped through her, she screamed uncontrollably temporarily blotting out any love for him, remembering angrily without his participation she would not be convulsed in torture.

The pains almost continuous, beyond timing. If all went well, the baby should arrive any moment, Paul’s previous experience told him that much. If nothing happened soon, he dared not imagine the consequence. Please oh please, Paul silently begged, come now.

Celina wrestling for breath rode out one pain before the next engulfed her. No breath left to speak, her face in a tortuous grimace. Perspiration dripping. Paul wept for his wife and unborn child. He did nothing but stare helplessly blinking back tears -tears of intense love, mingled with fear and sympathy. Nothing could happen to the woman he worshipped and adored more than life itself. Without her he could not survive.

Thoughts of Carlo clouded his judgment. Visions of their devastated friend swam before his eyes. But this was not Carlo and yet Marie-Jo had had the security and expertise of a maternity hospital. And still that had not been enough. Paul had nothing at his disposal. But Carlo’s experience was not Paul’s. Exercising immeasurable mental strength he cast parallels aside, refusing to speculate on potential analogies.

Again Paul searched anticipatorily for any sign of the baby. Nothing! He checked more closely. For a moment he was unsure and then witnessing a slight further dilation he knew! The appearance of crowning—the crowning of jet-black hair where there had been nothing a moment earlier sent his heart soaring. The baby was here. At least a section of its head was! His heart thumped loudly against his ribs, this the critical moment. Once the head materialized the baby could at least breathe but it was taking too long. He wanted to yell, to direct Celina to push but dared not. But if Celina did not thrust and thrust hard the baby could well suffocate. If only he had paid closer attention to the previous births.

With no reserve, Celina straining to her limit forced one tremendous effort, an almighty unbelievable push. Her face contorted, her breathing uncontrolled, another incredible thrust. The infant’s head all but clear, slowly surfaced when Celina ceased pushing. Not a sound echoed in the room save for Celina’s heavy uneven breathing. Lightly Paul touched her flushed cheek to which Celina did not react. Waiting but a moment Paul frantic, yelled, Damn it, for Christ’s sake push. Celina remained immobile. Unsure of what to do he stretched his fingers almost into Celina’s body in order to reach into the baby’s mouth to clear the airways if indeed they needed clearing. Again he turned to Celina for guidance. Nothing! Push! he implored quietly but emphatically, desperation surfacing.

I-c-a-a-n-’t, she forced a whisper. And in the next split second it was no longer Celina’s decision; a last excruciating contraction compelled a mighty final propulsion.

And in that tremendous expulsion of blood, mucous, water and umbilical cord, a new life ejected free of the parent body. Clutching their newborn upside-down, gently with raised hand preparing to spank the baby’s bottom Paul was upstaged by the baby’s lusty cry. Exercising great care he held his tiny daughter wiping away the blood enveloping her skin, with a ragged towel and within minutes, the infant lay warm and content wrapped in a worn flannelette sheet, umbilical cord holding mother and daughter as one.

Outside playing Louie heard that cry. The others may have known from whence it came. They were old enough to understand their mother’s condition. Louie, however, was stunned. There were no babies he knew of anywhere, much less in his house. There were no other people let alone babies for miles. Something was wrong. A baby here and a crying one at that was not conceivable in his limited experience yet Joanna and Charles displayed no alarm, his siblings continuing to play with what had once been a rusty dashboard of a vehicle long since abandoned.

Had they heard? Maybe he was dreaming but thought better of asking his siblings. A second cry. It could not be his imagination. Glancing over his shoulder, Joanna and Charles continued playing. He looked back at the log cabin, smoke curling lazily from the metal pipe protruding through the tarpaper roof. Nothing appeared different than before the cries. He started toward the house but Joanna, taller and stronger, blocked his passage. You are not allowed to go in the house, she ordered towering menacingly above him.

Timidly Louie cried, But I want to see Mum.

Exuding authority, Joanna, hands commandingly placed on her hips ordered, Well you can’t see her. She’s busy. Louie dared not challenge his older sister. His curiosity still piqued, though he made no further protest. Trouvé came to him, wagging his old tail. Seeking comfort and solace, Louie wound his arms tightly round the old collie. Charles surveyed his surroundings pensively before returning to his make-believe automobile.

The early October snow fell silently around the drafty log-chinked cabin while Paul surreptitiously took inventory of the infant’s toes and fingers just as he had done on previous occasions. Immediately Celina pounced admonishingly, Must you always do that?

It’s just what people do when a child is born. Don’t take it personally for it has nothing to do with you. It’s not intended to be facetious, Paul hedged.

It has everything to do with me. I feel like a freak when you check each time.

Do you still want to name her Gina? Paul asked, changing the subject as quickly as he could.

Yes, of course. Why? Have you had a change of heart? Celina questioned.

No, not at all. As much as I want her to have our friend’s name, Gina seems like a grown-up name for such a tiny baby. I think of big Gina, not little Gina. But she can grow into her name. If she becomes anything like her namesake she will be a joy to behold, Paul reflected affectionately.

She already is, Celina smiled defensively despite the arrival of one more unplanned mouth to feed and care for.

And then in the next moment she switched from the baby back to the reality of the moment. The bread, I forgot all about it. Did you remember to punch it down and form the loaves?

P-l-e-a-a-s-e, Paul clearly showed his exasperation. You are in no shape to do anything but rest. I know you think you’re ready to continue your normal workload but we are managing and at this moment James is attending to the bread. That brother of yours may not be a farmhand, but we may make a baker out of him. God knows it looks like bread which is more than I can do.

Celina smiled knowingly.

Thankful her baby appeared normal, albeit exhausted, Celina’s thoughts surprisingly, initially lay not with financial matters. Her thoughts turned instead to her other children, wondering what their futures would hold. Maybe she had done them a disservice. Life in Canada was not providing the good things Celina had anticipated. Hopefully Joanna would retain some memories of France. And Charles and Louie? Their culture would be shaped only by their present environment, saddening Celina. And Betsy, well... her slower development, although a concern, probably would not amount to any permanent deviation. Children grow mentally and physically at different rates, Celina comforted herself. The other children had walked by their first birthdays. Indicating not the slightest interest in walking, Betsy would be two years old in a few months.

Celina knew she was deceiving herself. Having experience with her other children she accepted that skills developed at different times, Betsy’s progress, however, or more accurately her lack thereof, was beginning to be more than a concern. That the child did not walk was the least of Celina’s worries. Her lack of intelligible speech coupled with her emotional and physical detachment was, however, disquieting. It was difficult for Celina to grasp much less explain to anyone. Betsy appeared not to feel for another person. She sat in the midst of her family unwilling or unable to be a part of her surroundings. She never smiled or laughed, but was most capable of displaying anger and frustration. On occasion she would shriek. Celina sought the source of her irritation but always came up empty. When the wailing began, Celina attempted to appease her, scooping her into her arms, pacing the floor, soothing her brow, speaking softly, reassuringly, tenderly. In most cases the howling accelerated. In desperation Celina had taken Betsy the twelve miles to the doctor.

You have been spoiled by your other children. This one appears to have an unusually strong temper but will probably outgrow it. Dr. Green shrugged, peering over his half-glasses trying to be patient. You modern mothers always look for a reason, some exterior cause for what is a behavioural problem, he concluded adamantly, removing his glasses for emphasis.

Why would she scream for no apparent reason even if I concede she is bad tempered? Celina continued. She must be experiencing some irritation, however minute to provoke such bizarre behaviour. Can you be sure this is not a physical problem? Celina struggling with the English words she had rehearsed so diligently most aware her receptive language far outstripped her expressive language.

Celina was not about to mention other developmental delays, but now challenged by the doctor’s easy dismissal of the problem, she continued. What about her not walking or talking? Celina demanded, although these were not her primary concerns.

She has three older siblings who will do her bidding. She probably needs only point and someone will fetch.

Dr. Green did not know everything! Betsy did not even point much less interact with her siblings. Unwanted misgivings crept from the recesses of Celina’s mind.

However, by the time she rose to leave the doctor’s office, studying Betsy sleeping peacefully, angelic and beautiful, her blond ringlets framing her chubby face, Celina condemned her overreaction, promising no longer to compare her children’s progress. After all Charles at six was still wetting his bed angering Celina, which led Celina to believe it attention seeking. He appeared normal in most ways and she hoped the behaviours would extinguish themselves. But Betsy was an enigma. At least Charles did not attempt to eat his own feces.

Now looking at her brand new daughter, Celina pledged again to stop drawing parallels. It was neither fair to herself nor her children. Each is an individual, unique onto himself.

A car door slammed. Romeo must finally be here Celina judged by muffled greetings exchanged and footsteps coming her way. The medical bag entered the bedroom first, followed by a broad smile before the black bag came to rest on the floor next to Celina’s ornate feather bed.

Dr. Green, Celina smiled. I didn’t expect you. How did you know?

Well when the message finally got through, Romeo realized he would be too late to get you to the hospital, so I decided I should come here. Smiling broadly he asked, How are you? His manner gentle and sympathetic.

Never felt better and if you will kindly disconnect Gina from me I can get on with my work, Celina announced.

I was afraid you would react that way, makes me want not to sever the cord. That way you would get the rest you need.

We both know you wouldn’t do that, Celina teased. Dr. Green reached into his bag, producing a stethoscope employing it to check

Celina carefully before turning his attention to Gina who immediately began to wail.

Upon the successful separation of mother and daughter, Paul placed a cup of tea in Dr. Green’s hands, thankful the job had after all not been his to perform, aware finally why one boiled water at births!

I am most grateful you took the time to come. I did not expect this. I did think Romeo would arrive after the fact and I would be stuck with the scary task of severing the cord. Much obliged," Paul said relieved.

Well it wouldn’t be the first time I had seen a home-made job. One father used his shoe lace to tie the cord and I must say it worked effectively, added Dr. Green. I do try to get where I am needed, but I have a practice to run and patients expect me in my office. Today was not too busy, so I cancelled my appointments. Glad I could help. Dr. Green drained the last dregs from his cup before checking on Celina one more time.

She’s asleep, he reported, quietly taking his leave. She must be exhausted.

But her sleep was short lived, Gina stirred awakening Celina. She rocked her ever so gently relieved when the baby closed her eyes drifting back to sleep, while Celina reminisced desolately.

Financially, thought Celina depressingly, conditions haven’t changed. Here we are with five small children and little money in a foreign country without family support.

France had culture, France had family, no matter how dysfunctional, and France had inside plumbing! Canada provided isolation, frostbite in winter, sunburn, menacing up-your-nose blackflies and irritating mosquitoes in the short summers, a few distant neighbours and precious little else. Returning to France inviting, had there been the remotest possibility.

Celina understood life in this new country would not be easy in the beginning. They had arrived with limited resources and four small children. The farm was the best they could afford consisting of approximately 30 acres of partly cleared land, a few out buildings and the log cabin in which Celina lay.

Their first winter had been brutal. Snow began falling in late September, preceded by heavy frosts in August. December found the mercury plunging to -54 Fahrenheit. Relentless cold, relentless snow, frost so thickly glued to windows that peering out was often accomplished by the application of a child’s hand that soon became numb when held firmly against the pane. An ancient, inefficient wood cook stove provided little heat. Cows starving. Not enough hay. Not enough anything. And still the winter dragged on. Children cooped up in the cabin, too cold some days to be outside except to use the outhouse.

And the outhouse! One could suffer frostbite during the compulsory trip not to mention additional hardship befalling one during his self-imposed exile while seated in the tiny shack. Even with a two-holer the excrement at times formed frozen stalagmites so solid that unless one was extremely resourceful, remained steadfast, refusing to be dislodged, lying in wait threateningly for one false move from its victim’s most vulnerable body parts.

But the outhouse was not Celina’s biggest concern on this day. Plagued with morning sickness, she, however, eventually opened the door to the cold outside announcing lunch ready, temporarily halting the children’s play for a short time. Moosemeat soup, the bone rescued from yesterday’s roast provided the base to which a few turnips had sparingly been added for the crop had been meager. With the addition of rice and barley a reasonably satisfying lunch resulted. Not that the children commented for their interest lay most often, weather permitting, in returning outdoor.

Slow down, Louie, please. This is not a race, his mother chided. And Charles, bring the spoon to your mouth—not your mouth to the bowl. Joanna received no direction. Older with some etiquette established in France, Joanna required no coaching at this point, Celina ever mindful, instilling manners in her children. Living in relative isolation, did not mean poor manners would flourish or even be tolerated.

With lunch behind them, Charles and Joanna piled back into awkward snowsuits anxious to return outdoors. Help me, Louie whined unable to scramble into his snowsuit, fearing exclusion.

Sit on the floor and I will help, his sister directed, but in no time she had reached frustration level. Gee, don’t just sit there, push your feet into the pant legs. What do you think you are, a doll?

Be patient with him, he’s just little, Celina pleaded clearing the soup plates, leaving the saucepan on the side of the kitchen stove. Paul feeding the cattle would be hungry when he came in. Celina though nauseous, stacked the dishes by the washbasin, not rinsing the few resting on the counter, preserving precious water.

Instead she busied herself preparing a week’s provisions to keep Paul supplied in camp where the men concentrated their efforts with the production of railway ties. Equally important she included coal oil, lamps, bedding and the never to be forgotten tobacco can and cigarette papers. Thank God, Celina reflected, Paul didn’t use snuff or snoose.

Cab would be picking him up right after evening chores and all must be in readiness.

A slight breeze adding to the plummeting temperature sent the children indoors in short order, Celina confronting them at the door with the empty boiler. Before you come in will you fill this, please? Make sure you pack it down well or we will not have enough water. Remember, no yellow snow.

With a small shovel, Joanna began filling the boiler. Charles and Louie used their mittened hands to add their contributions. Louie pushed the snow down, Joanna packing it harder, whacking the snow with the shovel. Grab the other handle, Joanna directed Charles when the boiler was heaping.

Can I ride on the top? Louie asked.

Again his sister took command, No, you are too heavy and Mum will kill us if we bring her dirty snow. And so the procession arrived at the cabin door where Celina rescued the boiler, placing it on the hottest section of the stove.

Stamp the snow from your boots outside please. And don’t forget to use the broom too, Celina ordered, speaking from the stove. And for God’s sake, close the door, she added. We have enough trouble heating the house, let alone the whole of BC.

Now can we dig? demanded Louie.

OK, but wash your hands first. We don’t want dirty water, Celina concluded wearily.

With that Louie and Charles washed their hands, at least paying lip service, the water in the washbasin not appearing any less clean. Using a large wooden kitchen spoon, Louie stood on a chair and began making tunnels in the mound of snow in the large galvanized container. It would take much time for the snow to melt at the top so there would be plenty of time for play. Charles, considerably taller reached the same level standing on a block of firewood.

***

Whenever possible building snowmen and forts, engaging in snowball fights, and sledding on a makeshift sleigh continued to occupy the children. On days when the sun shone brilliantly and nights were cold, a thick crust of snow allowed not only walking on its surface, but as winter wore on, held animals and vehicles. Lakes froze to great thicknesses, reducing what in summer were long trips around bodies of water. Now horses, sleighs, heavy equipment and motor vehicles, in fact anything and everything could now be transported over the frozen expanse.

But as winter days stretched into tiresome weeks and longer, more wearisome months, the initial novelty long past, the children grew bored of relentless cold and continuous snow.

Cows unaccustomed to remaining in the barn twenty-four hours a day, lacking sufficient exercise and feed, weakened, producing ever less milk. The team of horses and Joanna’s newly acquired pony, whom she called Ben, mostly had to forage for themselves, pawing through deep snow when conditions permitted. Desperate for fodder, animals took reluctantly to consuming willow branches.

Celina and Paul, when he was home, took turns filling the stove during the nights. At least wood was attainable albeit green most of the time. Not the best burning wood and most of it poplar. As long as one stayed near the source of heat one could keep warm. It was not uncommon to see the nails on the walls furthest from the stove covered in frost.

One Sunday as Paul was leaving for tie camp, he turned to Celina worriedly, Don’t forget about the few pieces of anthracite coal we have. If it gets colder use them. And then they hugged deeply as if they would never see each other again.

And on the Friday Paul returned. It had been brutally cold in camp so he knew it had been every bit as frigid on the farm. So why didn’t you burn the coal? he puzzled. I told you if it got colder to use it.

Well, how did I know it wouldn’t get colder? Celina projected.

Paul simply shook his head pulling his wife tightly to him.

I think winter is going to drag on forever. At times like this I can’t imagine green grass and warm weather, added Celina forlornly.

No dairy cow was bred to thrive in hostile conditions and the purchase of a few Holsteins, native to Holland was fast proving a huge error in judgment. With insufficient and poor quality food the animals were incapable of producing the amount of milk they would have done under ideal circumstances. Potato peelings, any scraps that could be salvaged were fed to the cows. Even their own milk was delivered back to them, leaving enough for the family but not enough to enable cream to be shipped, another crippling loss in an already fragile financial environment.

Upon hearing the creaking barn door opening, the weakening cows turned their heads, sad eyes searching Celina for answers to their worsening plight. Her meagre offerings of potato and turnip peelings disappeared quickly as she dropped them into the manger.

Guiltily she took the three-legged stool and began milking, leaning her head into the first cow’s flank praying spring and warmth would soon return.

Yes, that winter was most memorable, the cold and snow holding on with a firm grip, not allowing spring an inch, let alone a foothold. The season whose rightful place it was fought a courageous battle forcing small inroads of warmth during the day only to have winter vengefully return each night; spring unable to secure its status.

Seasons change gradually; Celina understood that, until in the end, no remnants of the previous season remained. Perhaps this was an example of the year with two winters to which the natives referred. But surely to ‘everything there is a season’ and Celina determinedly shouldered on, camouflaging her inner thoughts, presenting only her resolute fortitude to the outside world.

One dark morning after retiring to a cool winter’s night, a most unfamiliar light tapping sound ushered Celina into wakefulness. It didn’t appear to be rain, though it would be most welcome. Peering through the window into darkness solved nothing. Curious, Celina leapt from her bed, flinging wide the cabin door to be struck by an ameliorating temperature and a soft warm breeze before she felt the water dripping freely from the snow-laden roof. Spring in all its embryonic splendour paraded its undeniable and most welcome rebirth. But still winter teased, withdrew, returned and retreated most gradually.

And not long after, the warming earth surrendered its first crop of eatable greens. Painstakingly Celina harvested a bowl of dandelions, which after much cleaning became a salad, a celebration her family had not enjoyed since the previous fall. Surely winter had spent its last breath.

And eventually spring arrived in earnest. The newcomers began preparing the hardly thawed soil for crops. Eagerly, daily and sometimes more often they checked for signs of growth, seedlings beginning to poke through the soil. Several frostless nights. Potato plants, peas, turnips and carrots peeking their young tender heads through, searching for light and warmth.

On a bright sunny morning Celina completed her eager inspection of the garden. The potatoes were still there, as were the carrots, but nothing else. Mystified, Celina puzzled as to what varmint could be devouring their precious garden. Kneeling, she could see what once had been seedlings, appearing as if someone had poured boiling water over them. Summoning Paul, Celina learned the devastating truth.

That was a heavy frost last night, no doubt the last vestige of winter. We still have time and enough seeds to replant, Paul commented encouragingly placing his arm reassuringly through hers.

Celina added with considerable naivety, Frost? You mean these plants will not recover? We have to start again?

And now we are in danger of our renewed efforts never coming to fruition, Paul remarked shaking his head dejectedly.

The second crop fared somewhat better. And then the dry spell began. No irrigation, crops dependent solely on God. Not only vegetables but hay on which they were even more dependent lay exclusively in the hands of nature’s whim. In good years timothy flourished and in the lean years was paltry. Still intermittent frost. No month could be counted on not to produce frost while no month guaranteed rainfall.

Celina laughed recalling Paul’s concern when they first arrived. We will be late for spring planting, he had said. Oh, well, he added, harvesting will be late too! How long ago and naïve that seemed now.

And unplanned, the last thing needed to add to their tenuous lives, in this hostile environment, another baby arrived. The contrast between Gina’s birth and that of the other children’s almost more than Celina could bear. The French hospital offered the latest technology and a bed for Paul allowing him to spend the nights if they chose. Internalizing her present surroundings, the flour sack curtains framing the small crude bedroom window, protruding nails holding the glass in place, the once chinked logs with barely a trace of the original material in evidence along with roughed planked flooring consumed Celina. Cracks of daylight played between the logs allowing moisture and cold to enter.

Chapter Two

At the age of nine Celina lost her father. Life had been full and satisfying until then. Servants abounded. Maman busied herself keeping up appearances in her social circles provided by Papa’s lucrative liqueur manufacturing firm, bestowing her daughter with as little of her time as she could justify.

When Celina required new fashions, which happened more often than Celina cared to think about, Maman would arrange meetings which meant occasionally, fleetingly, her mother flitted in and out, Celina aching to have more of her mother’s time—but at least caught glimpses of her smiling insincerely in the presence of the seamstress. And yet the previous afternoon, like so many others, Celina had been banished to her room without supper, not to be granted exit until morning for reasons she never learned, transgressions of which she was innocent.

Come, Celina, the seamstress is here. Maman smiled deceitfully, yet enthusiastically. We must choose new dresses.

It did not end with dresses. Matching hats, shoes, stockings and on it continued. Endless fittings! Endless choosing of fabrics—Mother’s, not Celina’s choosing. Endless buttons on dresses as well as shoes. Celina co-operated, lifting an arm or turning her head, standing still when necessary, while pins were placed strategically, she never consulted as to her likes or dislikes. It mattered not. The more I comply, the sooner I will be free, thought Celina.

And free she was. She could do as she pleased as long as her mother was neither disturbed nor embarrassed. Punishment, when the line was crossed, was administered swiftly, severely; the most common retribution imposed was lengthy periods of isolation. Her bedroom became a detention center, devoid of any source of entertainment, not even a book.

But the highlight and salvation of her young life was precious infrequent time spent with her father whose long workdays afforded him little time with his children. But most Saturday mornings she accompanied her father to his office situated in the heart of Paris.

It’s a good thing Mother is not with us, or we would have to travel by taxi. Can you imagine her, this near a horse? he asked as the buggy continued through the busy streets.

Celina giggling, silently agreed applauding Maman’s absence but not for the reason Papa gave!

Following his business, the two would on occasion visit Monsieur Chibain in his lawyer’s office. From there he joined them as they sought a sidewalk cafe along the Champs Élysées. Invariably Papa chose sherry, or occasionally beer, Monsieur Chibain, a Dubonnet, while Celina usually opted for an ice cream parfait or on special occasions, just an empty glass into which Papa poured a small portion of his drink.

Monsieur Chibain, a source of endless delight never failed to greet her warmly, affectionately. Today was no exception, smiling broadly he acknowledged Celina. Well, I see the boss is here today.

Celina laughed enthralled, barely able to contain herself. Monsieur Chibain, she exploded testing her latest riddle, How would you get down from an elephant?

That is easy, replied Monsieur Chibain, a twinkle in his eye. I would jump off.

It’s too far to jump, a giggling Celina replied. Guess again!

Okay, then I would use a ladder.

Wrong answer. Do you give up? Celina laughed swinging her short legs enthusiastically.

No, a teasing Monsieur Chibain continued maintaining the light mood, I’ve got it now. I would make the elephant kneel and then get off.

Squealing with delight, ice cream on her nose, Celina gave an emphatic resounding, NO! Give up now?

Papa reaching for his huge white linen handkerchief wiped the ice cream from the tip of Celina’s nose, and the trickle that was making its way to her chin.

Monsieur Chibain pretending devastation at the defeat replied softly, acquiescing, Okay.

Triumphantly Celina announced, You don’t get down from an elephant.

You mean you stay there the rest of your life, if you happen to be moronic enough to get on one in the first place? Monsieur Chibain questioned with an affected air of ignorance.

Silly, of course not, Celina rocked delightedly in her high backed chair, Papa again wiping the ice cream from her chin and nose. You don’t get down from an elephant; you get down from a goose.

Throwing his hands in the air, Monsieur Chibain conceded in a jocular vein, Ma chère Celina you are a genius. No wonder you are the boss. Perhaps you can give your father a job and teach him how to run a business. What do you think, Jacques?

I’ll be a good worker, Papa promised, beaming at Celina.

With the air of royalty, Celina extended her hand to Papa, Then you are hired.

From there father and daughter, her young hand disappearing in Papa’s big protective one, strolled to the Musée Crevin.

He sure is a funny man, Celina announced.

Yes, petit chou, he is, but he is also a kind man who loves you very much and would do anything for you."

Celina skipped along the sidewalk trying to miss the cracks. Anything? she asked puzzled.

What I mean is if you ever needed help, like, well, it’s hard to make you understand. Just think of him as a good friend. You could ask him anything you would a friend.

Okay, I get it,’ Celina answered proceeding to the entrance of the darkened wax museum, He is someone who will listen to my troubles if I ever have any."

Papa squeezed her hand more tightly, blinking back tears of intense love. Yes, something like that, he submitted proceeding deeper into the wax museum.

Celina waited, anticipating the scene that would no doubt unfold. Here Celina’s father often took the stance of one of the wax figures while a grinning anticipatory Celina stood by studying the proceedings. Eventually an unsuspecting patron would touch Papa stating, My, this one is most realistic! If one did not know better, one would think it was alive. Papa’s timing exact. An ever so slight movement, a wink, a nod, a hint of a smile! It always worked. Celina convulsed while the art connoisseur quickly withdrew. Happy days. Gloriously happy times.

Celina, the only daughter, with three older brothers, obviously the apple of her father’s eye, not welcomed by her mother, treated Celina accordingly. Why her mother disliked her would remain a mystery. Perhaps she feared competition from another female and as a result ignored her as much as possible. But because her father adored her, Celina remained relatively unscathed by her mother’s indifference. All abruptly changed the day her father was rushed from his office to the Paris hospital diagnosed with a burst appendix and in due time underwent an emergency appendectomy.

No one showed great concern although appendectomies occasionally resulted in death. Visiting him shortly after the surgery was nonetheless a frightening experience for Celina had never even glimpsed the inside of a hospital. White walls, white uniformed nurses, sterile room and a pale white Papa smiling faintly from beneath paler sheets. If not for the perfectly white teeth exposed in that smile, Celina would have doubted his identity; she touched Papa’s arm for reassurance.

Petit chou fleur. I will be fine. Don’t you worry that pretty little head. Next Saturday you and I will go on our excursion again. Celina reached as high as she could to the edge of the elevated bed to caress Papa’s ashen cheek. Slowly he responded, enfolded her hand, his touch lacking warmth.

You must go now, a most serious voice whispered from above as a hand was firmly placed in the middle of her back escorting her from the darkened room.

Turning back for one more look, she found her voice. Bye Papa. I’ll visit again as soon as Maman lets me.

A bientôt, ma chère petite fille, Papa’s voice filtered ghostlike suspended in the choking air. Those were the last words she would hear from Papa. Gangrene claimed its victim.

Her brothers viewed the body. She did not question why she was not permitted assuming it had to do with being younger than her brothers.

Walking in unison, slowly, each pallbearer grasped a brass ring, the oak coffin proceeded haltingly along the aisle. Celina’s eyes riveted, Papa lying inside the casket, so close and yet so distant. She expected Papa to sit up, declaring it was a just a deep sleep or better still, one of his practical jokes. He could not be dead. She loved and needed him so. Monsieur Chibain, no smile today, displayed only tears trickling down his cheeks, his knuckles white, holding his brass ring tightly. Glancing at the other pallbearers, Celina recognized no one else.

I wish I could help carry him. Tears spilled over, Grandmère holding her closely while the casket slowly settled on the white clothed pedestal at the front of the church, made no reply. Flowers-flowers everywhere. Lilacs, lilies, carnations, sickly sweet smell of death. Preponderance of lilacs.

All but one pallbearer backed slowly to his pew but Monsieur Chibain turned to join Celina, wiggling into the seat, carving room for his rather large girth, his outstretched arms enveloping her and her coursing tears.

Celina your father loved you more than anyone in the world. You must believe that. He really, really did. He will watch over you from heaven. And I will always be here for you," he whispered softly to the top of her bowed head.

Celina’s sobbing did not allow words but she hoped Monsieur Chibain was right and that Papa would watch over her. She hugged him back, her young arms reaching only part way around the wide girth of the kind, portly man.

But she would never need him—she didn’t love him like Papa. It was Papa she needed and wanted. Why did God take him away? God is love. God is good. She learned that in Sunday School but it did not make sense. A loving God would not claim your father especially not when you needed him so desperately.

Maman adamant praying brought results. Maybe Celina had not prayed enough and God was teaching her a harsh lesson.

Grandmère lovingly, knowingly, drew her close. You’ve always got me, little one, never forget that. Soothing Celina’s brow, rocking her back and forth as if she were a baby created a small degree of comfort.

Hymnal held firmly, Maman rose stoically, tearlessly. Casting her eyes heavenward, she sang wholeheartedly, accompanying the mournful organ music all but joyously, Amazing Grace, how sweet thou art...

Celina following her mother’s lead got to her feet sobbing, singing totally eluding her.

Michel moved between G’mère and Celina to place a reassuring arm around his little sister. He whispered, It’s OK to cry. It is worse for you because Papa loved you more than anyone in the world.

Celina cried harder.

The pastor continued, We are here today to celebrate a life—a life cut short by fate. God has chosen Jacques to live with him in eternity. Family and friends will miss him but please remember this is God’s will and Jacques is free from earthly ills, so we celebrate his acceptance into a higher plane.

Celina tried to be happy for Papa, but she could not. She loved and missed him so. Could he really be happier in heaven without his little girl?

The minister paused a moment while the congregation hushed. To conclude this service, will you now join me in the Lord’s Prayer? Our father who art in Heaven...

Mourners streamed past the closed coffin, continuing to the family’s receiving line. Strangers and near strangers kissed Marie-Louise, offering condolences to a grieving young widow and her four children. Everything a blur... and then it was over. Celina fatherless, stunned and disbelieving. One minute she had a father, the next he was gone.

And all around her the outside world unfolded as if nothing had happened. People laughed and talked walking along the streets. Didn’t they realize Papa was dead? Surely the entire universe would want to share her sadness by cancelling all events and paying respect.

Chapter Three

Grieving his death would be complicated by problems precipitated by the event. With her husband’s passing, Celina’s mother could no longer ignore her daughter but not wanting her social life compromised wasted no time searching for a suitable academic placement for Celina, a placement appearing to be in Celina’s best interest. Residential schools were researched with a fine one discovered a few miles from their home but Marie-Louise could hardly justify Celina’s enrollment in a boarding school in close proximity. Explaining a boarding school within easy access of commuting would be impossible. Even societal friends, who also did not want to be overly encumbered or restricted by their children, would not take kindly to the placement and would not hesitate to voice their disapproval or worse exclude Marie-Louise from their inner circle.

She had toyed with the idea of residency in an elitist residential school in Neuchâtel. Although cosmopolitan, this institution usually accepted students from a more international base. Acceptances from contiguous European countries (other than Switzerland) were rare. The further afield the clientele, the more prestige the institution exuded.

I think this is the finest school and it would be a wonderful opportunity for my only daughter, Marie-Louise baited her societal associates. It is unfortunate they seem so willing to take students from afar and almost shun us who are next door so to speak. What right have they, not to accept us, of equal aristocracy? I would move mountains for her acceptance for I believe there she would receive the finest education available. Marie-Louise scrutinized her best friend praying Chantelle would rise to the occasion.

You know Marie-Louise my husband plays a significant role in selecting instructors at that very school. I am sure something can be done, Chantelle replied. Marie-Louise smiled victoriously.

I would be most grateful for your assistance. Marie-Louise gushed, unaccustomed to the subservient role. No price, however, too high to rid herself of Celina. Neuchâtel would be sufficiently distant to not allow Celina’s frequent return home. Not weekends, nor holidays. The world would not learn why she wanted to be free of her daughter. Instead Celina’s best interests must appear to be served.

No doubt Henri would be pleased with Celina out of the way. Marie-Louise was not prepared to confide in anyone, certainly not her societal acquaintances, and certainly not yet. It was too early. How would people re-act especially with her husband so recently in his grave?

Marie-Louise was an only child. Celina’s father had also been an enfant unique! Marie-Louise, however, never outgrew the selfishness and self-absorption which often accompanies that position. Longing to achieve her own ends she would persevere relentlessly until she succeeded in banishing Celina from her life. Her sons were easier to deal with but they too would soon encumber her life style.

Ultimately her fate lay in Chantelle’s hands. Resisting contacting Chantelle was difficult. Not wanting to appear overly anxious, she waited impatiently for word from Chantelle. At anyone’s mercy was an unfamiliar position for Celina’s mother. But wait she did. Precious time marched on alarming Marie-Louise as she envisioned her daughter’s reaction of open hostility upon learning the truth. Acceptance in that school must be forthcoming or the search would begin again.

The day came when a letter arrived. Although it was postmarked Switzerland, Marie-Louise knew it could not be the much-awaited letter. This would not be how she would hear the news. It must filter through Chantelle. With her ivory handled letter opener, Marie-Louise slit the envelope. She expected no correspondence directly but nonetheless her curiosity piqued especially as it bore no return address. Allowing the business envelope to flutter to the floor, she began to read:

Dear Madame,

It has been brought to our attention you have a daughter you wish enrolled in our fine school. Madame Chantelle Lesage has informed us thusly.

While it is not our policy to accept students from adjacent countries, we are prepared to make an exception if your daughter meets our criteria.

Your position and that of your late husband’s will assist in her acceptance and for that reason we will waive the lower age limit.

If you would be so kind as to complete the registration form, we will give it our earliest attention.

Yours truly,

L. Leduc

Marie-Louise could hardly contain her elation. She had not expected to deal directly with the author, feeling certain it would be handled through Chantelle. Even more impressed by Chantelle’s position and the power she wielded, Marie-Louise was humbled. In Chantelle’s debt and a step down in the socio-economic world was neither a familiar nor a comfortable position. However, the result was worth the slight humiliation.

Of this Celina was told nothing but her mother emerged inexplicably happier, smiling more often.

I guess she is forgetting Papa already. I certainly don’t feel any happiness and I never shall, she told James, older and wiser than she.

Maman is still a young woman. She may meet a new man, her second eldest brother observed.

That’s silly, she would never do that.

You wait and see, James said, anything can happen.

What a fortunate child, Marie-Louise’s friends nodded in agreement. Few young girls in that era were given any kind of an education much less such a prestigious one. So under the guise of a caring parent, Celina’s mother quickly, efficiently found a way to rid herself of her embarrassing shadow for at least a few years.

***

Celina arrived in Switzerland with her three brothers and Maman on what she believed was a rare family holiday. She had been to Switzerland only once with Papa on a business trip when he had taken Michel and Celina

***

Celina, a young child of tender years banished to life without family or friends. Long weekends, holidays and even Christmas came and went and Celina remained at the boarding school. Other students went home from time to time. Celina did not. She hated the school. It didn’t help that she was the youngest person there. Her mother had successfully pulled influential strings achieving her acceptance though she was two years younger than the youngest of the students.

Chapter Four

So here she was in boarding school without Brigitte, her only friend gone. For the first time seeds of doubt sprouted and Celina began wishing Brigitte had spent time teaching her mathematics.

Celina did not have a glimmer of mastering division, lacking totally the preceding skills, the educational building blocks. Her chances of success would be equivalent to deciphering Mandarin without a translator in sight. Instructors either assumed she knew or they were unskilled in recognizing her arithmetical deficiency. Additionally Celina could not learn at optimum level with a heavy heart.

She did not understand ‘goezinto’. The teacher asked, Twelve ‘goezinto’ one hundred forty-eight how many times? For comfort Celina deduced Brigitte probably did not know ‘goezintos’ either!

Division was not the only educational stumbling block. Celina was at a pronounced disadvantage in reading and spelling skills because her competition was two and three years older. The curriculum was the Gospel. No instructor gave individual differences a thought. Neither did teachers take the time to assess the achievement level of each student. As a result Celina’s problems magnified, convinced her lack of intelligence was the problem.

I can add in my head and I can subtract, but I can’t do the other stuff teachers want me to. Why can’t I be smart like the other kids? Maybe that is why my mother does not want me. I am so stupid I embarrass her. I don’t blame her for sending me away. It’s not her fault that I am not good at anything, Celina berated herself internally.

Margot had little time for Celina who appeared a mere child to a sophisticated, young teenager. From the beginning Margot dispatched ridicule swiftly, What are you? A freak? Look at you, absolutely lacking any indication of the existence of breasts, she jeered inspecting her chest at close range.

I don’t know, I think I will grow some when I am older. Celina murmured, defensively attempting justification for her escalating feelings of inferiority, both intellectually and physically.

I doubt it, added Geneviève sneering smugly. You’re just built strangely. You don’t even look like a girl.

Checking her breasts, or lack thereof, frequently under the covers at night when sleep would not come she discovered regrettably Margot was right, not even a lump growing there. Absolutely flat.

Maybe I am part boy, she reflected anxiously. I have spent my life with my brothers and Papa and Maman doesn’t like girls, definitely not stupid ones! Could I be growing into a male? She shuddered, Margot was not to blame; she simply echoed the evidence at hand.

Margot, including her friends, taunted Celina unmercifully without the slightest provocation, most pronounced during the compulsory group shower following gym class. Look, Celina has no pubic hair. She’s a freak I tell you, Margot maintained, her eager companions joining the cruel assault.

She is a carpenter’s dream, Olga teased, waiting until her audience focused before adding, a flat board.

Margot quickly took up the bait, She’s a pirate’s treasure. The fervent listeners waited, hanging expectantly for Margot’s punch line and she did not disappoint. You know, a sunken chest.

With the exception of Celina, the girls laughed contemptuously.

Yah, Geneviève added mockingly as if Celina did not exist. She is stupid too; she can’t do the school work either. And then addressing Celina directly, she questioned rhetorically How were you ever allowed to come to this school?

No wonder she never has visitors, Leona ridiculed, continuing to ignore Celina’s presence. Her folks probably enrolled her to dispose of family embarrassment.

She never goes home during term breaks either, jeered Geneviève, Obviously no one cares or wants her and who could blame them?

Celina absorbed the spiteful taunts, assimilating their truths, not for one moment doubting the validity of her classmates’ accusations. Her evaluation ran parallel, substantiating the pre-existing evidence that her character, physically, intellectually and emotionally lacked any degree of acceptability.

Silently Celina toweled, returning forlornly, despondently to her dormitory with no place to hide, to be alone, or to cry in solitude, yearning with all her heart to have a room of her own.

Maman repeatedly emphasized prayer the key to salvation. Kneeling by her bed, she began, Dear God, make me a better person, please. Make me the kind of person my mother would love. And please help me learn ‘goezintos’. Amen.

To vent her mounting frustrations, she wrote Grandmère when time permitted. However, the day lice erupted amongst the girls, Celina gleefully, rebelliously penned her first missive to Maman.

Dear Maman,

Today Marie-Jo, Jeanne, and Geneviève were diagnosed with lice. Of course all is hush, hush. I thought you would like to know!

I miss father.

Your daughter

Celina

Of course Maman did not reply directly; Celina did not expect her to, but her mother would be sufficiently disturbed to contact the proper authorities to register her annoyance, and demand retribution. Maman would not tolerate her daughter’s residence in a lice infested academy despite the attendance concession.

The episode caused Celina slight comic relief. It wasn’t much but it provided a brief diversion from her repugnant, most intolerable existence.

But a potentially more ominous encounter lay in wait. One morning an agitated Mme Prud’Homme pounded at the dormitory door, nostrils steaming, Celina, come to the office immediately.

What have I done? Celina asked, timidly, cautiously but her question hinted at guilt.

Mme Prud’Homme strutted ahead, her breathing laboured, struggling to distance herself from her lowly student. Someone wants to see you, she uttered threateningly, her bulging Adam’s apple prepared to vault from its moorings.

For what? asked Celina perplexed, confused and frightened, Margot and her cohorts no doubt the cause of her summoning. Celina knew the transgression would land squarely on her shoulders for no one sought her side of accusations. When any misdemeanour was discovered, the girls framed Celina. She shouldered the culpability always while any protest translated to increased guilt.

Walking dejectedly behind Mme Prud’Homme, timid shoulders sagging, the impending sentence mushrooming as the dreaded office drew nearer with each step. What privileges would be suspended? Possibly all liberties revoked for weeks. No revocation Celina could imagine would inflect more pain than that of her present existence including the whispered horror of the cane’s administration. Stoically, without flinching mentally she prepared for the lashing. Rumours abounded: six strokes if one did not flinch or cry out; ten if one succumbed to either. Submission not an option! However, punishment could result in the withholding of incoming mail or worse the sending of, which there was precious little, other than Grandmother’s letters, occasionally a letter from James; neither Michel nor William wrote.

Downcast, snail like, Celina reached the formidable office, her anxious eyes fixated on the marble flooring.

Salut, petite soeur. How are you? he cried, kissing Celina on both cheeks.

Oh my God, she wept, unable to believe her misty eyes. Is it really you? I must be dreaming! I can’t believe it, is it really you? She asked incredulously, her previous fearful speculation dissolving.

It’s me all right, but why the tears? Are you OK? his worried expression escalating.

Taking her brother by the arm, glancing at the gawking office staff, she whispered, Let’s go outside.

I hate this place, she sighed. I hate it, hate it, hate it!

Tell me what the problem is, maybe I can help, inquired James protectively, hugging his fretful younger sister, talking more openly by the time they reached the school gates.

You can’t help, no one can. The girls are awful. The teachers are mean. I can’t do the lessons. I am stupid. But most of all I want to go home but Maman doesn’t want me. Oh, please help me get out of here, Celina babbled, the floodgates bursting.

Believe me you are better off here. What’s there to go home for? Trust me you have not been singled out. Maman is sending us all away because with Henri around she does not have the time of day for anything or anyone else.

Henri? What are you talking about? Celina’s brow wrinkled bewilderedly.

Didn’t you notice her preoccupation before you left and didn’t you see her talking to Henri at church, flirting with him? I tried to hint at it but you seemed oblivious. Didn’t you notice anything? James questioned exasperatedly. He was at the funeral, too, James added gingerly, speculatively.

Well, yes, I didn’t put it into words, but now that you mention it I did notice Maman talking to some man but that is nothing to base an opinion on, she muttered defensively.

Come, there is a café just over there, James pointed, incorporating her distress. Reluctantly Celina followed awash in James’ revelation, her mind refusing assimilation, not giving thought to her absence without permission.

James ordered a coffee, Celina a glass of milk before James continued, Maman is sending me to Africa, William to Australia. As I was born in Australia, I thought she would send me there. But we know our mother’s mind works in mysterious ways. Then there is Michel who she intended to banish to South Africa, but Michel being Michel has other ideas. He refuses to go, James finished smiling approvingly at his younger brother’s resolve.

Good for Michel. But how does he get away with it while the rest of us submissively do as she bids? I admire his courage. I wish I could stand up to her the way he does, Celina added longing for