With Roots in the Alps: A Memoir of an Unusual Childhood

By Annelou Perrenoud

The fortuitous nature of life cannot be better exemplified than through this fascinating account of one young woman's experiences and travels in Switzerland and Europe during the tumultuous times around World War II.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496915610

Annelou Perrenoud

Annelou Perrenoud spent her youth in some of the most picturesque Alpine regions of Switzerland. Growing up through wartime in a “neutral” country made for gentler but no less engrossing adventures. In 1957, she moved with her husband to Denver, Colorado, USA, where she raised her two sons. After a divorce and a twenty-two year career as a massage therapist, she retired to a small mountain town, until the call to be near family brought her to Beaverton, Oregon, where, in her 80’s, she lives a happily busy life.

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© 2014 Annelou Perrenoud. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   06/05/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1563-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-1561-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014909749

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

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Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter 1 Beginnings

My Maternal Roots

My Parents

Chapter 2 Monruz, 1934-1939

The Place

The Kitchen Gardens

Recreational Areas

Our home in the Château

Other Rooms in the Château

The Ground Floor of the Château

The Maison

The Halls

The World Beyond Monruz

Chapter 3 Meggen, 1939-1941

Gottlieben

Grosy

Opa

Autumn 1939

The Early Months of 1940

First Grade

My Religious Education

Expanding Horizons

Family Matters

Chapter 4 Feldis, 1941-1945

Alpine Wonders, Spring 1941

The Kinderheim

Life in the Kinderheim

People and Activities

Vacations in Monruz, Summer and Winter 1941

The Village

Second Grade – Winter 1941-1942

Meggen, Summer 1942

Monruz, Summer 1942

The End of 1942

The Beginning of 1943

Feldis, Summer 1943

Meggen, Summer 1943

Memories and Reflections

Beginning of 1944

Winter Memories

Meggen and Monruz, Summer 1944

The End of 1944

First Part of 1945

Chapter 5 Rivapiana, 1945-1950

Kinderheim Rivapiana

Mü: Housemother of Kinderheim Rivapiana

My education, 1945-1950

My Religious and Spiritual Education, 1945-1950

My Cultural Education, 1945-1950

Family Matters

Discovering the Ticino

Vacations in Monruz

Vacations with Mü

Gaby Neunzert

Chapter 6 Apprenticeships, 1950-1953

Chesières, Winter 1950-1951

Burgdorf, 1951-1952

Oxford, 1952-1953

Monruz, Summer 1953

Chapter 7 Geneva, 1953-1955

The First Year, 1953-1954

Weekend Activities

Easter Break, 1954

Loquémeau, Summer 1954

The Second Year, 1954-1955

Chapter 8 Internships, 1955-1957

La Chaux-de-Fonds, Autumn 1955

Gaby Returns

Rolle, Winter 1956

Aegeri, Spring 1956

The Wedding

Bellinzona, Winter 1956-1957

Chapter 9 Taking Wing

Aschaffenburg

Lampertheim

To Golden, Our New Home!

List of Names

Dedicated to my family:

Michael and Caroline, Martin and Arleigh,

Afina and Sonya

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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My most profound gratitude goes to my writing coach, Marie-Michele Landon, who guided my efforts with patience, respect, and a deep understanding of what I wanted to say. Michou’s solid grasp of the English language and her unflagging insistence on clarity have been invaluable. She was the person who kept me on track during this five-year journey.

Arleigh and Martin Neunzert deserve my deepest gratitude for taking time out of their busy lives to provide technical support. I am especially grateful for their assistance in preparing the manuscript and the photographs for publication.

Periodic encouragement by the members of the Beaverton Lodge Let’s Write Group, has also been much appreciated.

Last, but not least, I wish to commend AuthorHouse for providing a clear, comprehensive path to self-publishing, and for their ongoing support. I could not have produced this book without the help of my professional team. Warm thanks to all of you.

INTRODUCTION

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Everything about my upbringing defied the norm, whether measured by Swiss standards or American ones. Like so many other children, I was a pawn in my parents’ life-drama, but rather than suffering hardships, I enjoyed unforgettable experiences in some of Switzerland’s most beautiful places. Though it is a small country (only the size of Maryland), Switzerland has many different geographic regions, each with its distinct character, architecture and culture. I was fortunate to have lived in several different ones. And since my relationship to nature was what grounded and sustained me, I always bonded deeply with the land, no matter where we lived. Along the way, I picked up four languages, as well as an archive of cultural information that is in danger of disappearing into history.

The buildings we lived in also fascinating me – large establishments that reflected the needs of that era. As a small child, deprived of siblings or playmates, I explored these premises thoroughly, making them the stage for my imaginary games. Some of those structures are now gone, so I treasure their memories.

There were no social luminaries in my family, no writers, artists or academics. They were just educated middle class folks – solid to the core, but adaptable and creative when circumstances demanded it. My grandparents were entrepreneurs and innovators, people with vision and the tenacity to follow through. They imbued me with their industriousness, and with their down-to-earth practicality, which left me with a grab-bag of skills and time-tested principles.

From my mother I inherited the restless, questing spirit that still drives me to explore new frontiers. My father’s passion to chronicle and make sense of things runs in my veins, as well. I’m told that I started writing before I understood what writing was all about, before I had learned any alphabet, French or German. Seated at an improvised little desk that my father had arranged, I passionately scribbled my thoughts and stories onto scraps of paper. Later in life, I recorded events and happenings in letters and journals. This memoir, beginning with my adventure-filled childhood, is the harvest of those observations.

To make the account as authentic as possible, I have used actual geographical names, even though their pronunciation may elude English-speaking people. I have, however, embedded pronunciation tips in the text whenever names were important to the story.

This memoir about my youth includes the years of courtship and the first two years of married life. The marriage ended in divorce twenty-two years later, and there has been no contact between me and my former spouse since. His recollections are not included and might differ widely from mine. With Roots in the Alps is my story, based on my own personal views.

CHAPTER I

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Beginnings

My Maternal Roots

When I arrived on May 22nd, 1933, they named me Anne-Louise after my two grandmothers. Right away they found this appellation too long and abbreviated it to Annelou. The shortened version still served as a bridge between my French-speaking paternal family and my mother’s Swiss-German clan. To me, these were two very different, sometimes conflicting, hereditary streams, and reconciling them within myself – be it linguistically, socially or culturally – would be an ongoing challenge.

The main players were my parents: René W. Perrenoud, originally from Neuchâtel in Switzerland, but temporarily living in Northern France, and his wife, Berty Amrein, who hailed from a village near Lucerne. It was there, in Meggen, that I struggled my way out of her womb, assured of Swiss citizenship.

The hosts of this event were my grandparents Anna and Joseph Amrein, fondly called Grosy and Opa. Although both were rooted in the old farming tradition of the area, they had managed to distinguish themselves in a society that was striving for progress and modernity, by becoming entrepreneurs and running a resort hotel. Anna had been orphaned early in life. She had been shunted around among relatives until she grew useful, then placed with an uncle who owned Hotel Kreuz in Meggen. Conditions were bleak for Anna. She slept in the hay barn and worked in the kitchen all day. Building on that experience, she later went to apprentice with the respected chef of a large hotel in a resort across the lake.

Turn-of-the century hostelries in that region usually catered to well-to-do customers – many of them from abroad – who favored lengthy vacations in the country. Coal-burning factories polluted most large cities, so the guests came to enjoy clean air, pastoral landscapes, and the vicinity of the lake. The long, leisurely sojourns were also a genteel way to socialize and to make one’s position in society known. For the women, who were still restricted by cumbersome fashions, it was an opportunity to stroll along groomed paths and show off their fineries.

When Anna returned to Meggen for a visit, a relative introduced her to Joseph Amrein, a young teacher who had recently been certified to teach at the local high school. Tall and dignified, he certainly made a good impression on Anna. What appealed to her most, however, was that he came from a solid family of landowners, teachers and local officials. In her view, this made him a good catch, but it also assured her that he would be a good father for her future children.

They were married in 1899, rented a small upstairs apartment in a nearby villa, and added two new members to the family in quick succession. But Anna was not content with being a stay-at-home mother. When Hotel Gottlieben, situated just down the road, was rumored to be for sale, she set out to convince Joseph that this was their opportunity. Not that they had the where-with-all to buy the place, but Joseph’s Aunt Schaerer, a wealthy widow whose husband had made his fortune in the wine-import business, liked the idea and agreed to help them get started. As a child, I heard innumerable stories about this enormously wealthy and generous person. Even though I never met her, in my mind I kept her on a very high pedestal.

Gottlieben had grown from a modest roadside tavern into one of those resort-type hotels described earlier. Accessible from Lucerne by either coach or steamboat, it lent itself equally well to weekend excursions or to leisurely vacations. The building was rather utilitarian, but a previous owner had elaborately landscaped the vast terrain that sloped down toward the lake, thus creating a beautiful park. It included a huge fountain, formal gardens, large meadows, graveled paths and a stately collection of unusual trees. Completing the picture were a commercial-sized vegetable garden and a patch of forest leading down to a creek. Gottlieben was undoubtedly the epitome of elegance and comfort during that first decade of the twentieth century and it enjoyed a very good reputation.

Anna was in her element. Never one to just delegate, she rolled up her sleeves and tackled whatever job needed doing. There is no doubt that she was responsible for making Gottlieben a success. She worked tirelessly from morning to night, yet managed to bear three more children and rear all five of them. Joseph, who lacked any kind of practical skills, found great satisfaction in assuming the posture of director, doing his best to entertain his guests, especially when the weather turned bad. In a region known as the wettest part of Switzerland, this must have required considerable ingenuity and imagination. He had no concept of what it meant to run the place, however.

The First World War (1914-18) changed everything. The trickle of lucrative foreign visitors dried up completely, and the Belle Époque came to an end. For a while Gottlieben was turned into an infirmary for wounded prisoners of war, but after the war the property was leased to someone who turned it into an apartment complex. Later they leased the upper three floors for use as an old-folks home.

Opa and Grosy remained as caretakers. What had once been the grand ballroom of the hotel was reconfigured to become the Amrein residence. Unfortunately, this was done during the last throes of the Victorian era, by folks with phenomenally bad taste. I always suspected that someone had tried to liquidate old wallpaper stock while there was still a chance to sell it, albeit at a discount. How else would one explain that garish jungle of saucer-sized, stylized mums, roses and lilies, which climbed toward the ceiling on improbable vines? Or the classical landscape motif in dark green tones gracing the already sunless Dark Parlor?

For a month after my birth I enjoyed center stage, giving all my aunts and uncles the opportunity to inspect this new little worm. But even before I had lost any of my new-born-baby wrinkles, I was taken back to France by train, traveling in a small hammock suspended between the luggage racks. Thus was launched a life of constant change, frequent moves, innumerable adventures and a good dose of tribulations.

My Parents

Maman and Papa were of the World War I generation. Although neither of them had suffered personally, they had not escaped the pathos of this dark, painful time. Maman had seen her hotel home turned into a hospital for German internees, and, having befriended some of them, had witnessed the gruesome results of combat. One of five siblings, all of whom had been encouraged to choose a profession, she had opted to become a horticulture teacher. Before starting her training, however, she had spent a year in a boarding school in Chally, near Lausanne, in order to learn French. Studying languages had always been a priority in this multi-lingual country, and boarding schools were the safest and most efficient way to do it. As luck would have it, there was an excellent horticultural school near Lucerne. From what she told me later, those two years in Niederlenz were some of the happiest in her life, and many of her classmates became life-long friends.

Her first job as an instructor was in an institution for the deaf, situated in a very fertile area near Bern. The adult residents operated a truck farm and took their produce to the market every Saturday. Those market days offered Maman some opportunities for socializing, as well. Pictures from that time show Maman as a tall, attractive young woman, solid and unpretentious, with a fresh, healthy look about her. So it was not surprising that an enterprising young businessman, who had a vegetable stand nearby, began courting her. She was not interested in him, however, though later in life, she liked to reminisce about his overtures. When his business partner, Willy Schärer, found out that Maman had two sisters, he boldly traveled to Meggen in order to meet them. He ended up marrying Emmi, the oldest. Maman, meanwhile, hoping to perfect her French, moved on to a new position in a finishing school in Neuchâtel.

Monruz (z is silent) was a well-respected, internationally renowned boarding school for jeunes-filles (young women) founded by my paternal Grandmaman, Louise Perrenoud. At a time when daughters were not yet expected to go to college, this type of finishing school prepared them for their roles of wives, mothers and, most importantly, gracious hostesses. Neuchâtel was known for its good French, and many similar institutions had sprung up in the region. Most of them offered an academic curriculum. Monruz’s specialty was home economics, and the yearlong program also included gardening.

Maman’s responsibilities were considerable. Besides the huge vegetable garden, there was an orchard, a greenhouse, and ornamental gardens to take care of – albeit with the help of the students who had to be instructed. Maman loved her job, but she was also quite impressed by the Perrenoud family, especially the women. There was Grandmaman, a well-educated, far-sighted woman with regal bearing. She had launched this enterprise with only minimal help from her husband and had created a high-class environment for her students, many of whom came from far-off countries. Then there were the three Perrenoud daughters, Germaine, Lyda and Meggie, high-spirited, talented young women with whom Maman quickly became friends, and who opened her eyes to a wider world than she had known at home.

My paternal grandfather, William Perrenoud, was a mechanical engineer who had distinguished himself by inventing and designing precision instruments needed in the watch industry. Flamboyant, temperamental and passionate about any new ideas and trends, he had swept Louise off her feet, and together they had raised five children. Taken by the new art of photography, he had meticulously chronicled his family’s progress, a record I still own and cherish. Judging from the numerous group pictures that survive, they must have had a busy social life, belonging to many clubs and organizations. They were both ardent students of Esperanto, for example, convinced that this simple, man-made language would eventually lead to peace and understanding in the world. Many pictures show them on outings in the nearby Jura Mountains, the women valiantly hiking in long skirts and struggling with enormous hats that must have acted like sails in the wind.

Louise had been exceptionally beautiful in her youth, and William had missed no opportunity to photograph her. However, by launching her finishing school, she had taken a great leap toward independence, and their relationship began to sour. For a while he stayed on, tinkering in a little workshop that had been installed for him, but he must have felt out of place and somewhat trivialized. Capitalizing on the post-war reconstruction boom in France, he decided to take over a small factory in St. Quentin, which was manufacturing precision instruments. He never came back. There was no official divorce; they simply went their separate ways.

While teaching in Monruz at that time, Maman did not see much of the Perrenoud sons, as they were away at school. René, my Papa, was attending a business school in Basel, and Fernand was studying at a technical college. Although Maman and Papa met, they did not become romantically involved until a couple of years later. By then Maman had moved on again, this time to Holland, where she was working as a governess. She had felt the need to see more of the world, and hiring on as a nanny abroad was the best way for young Swiss women to do that. Grandmaman must have missed her, for she encouraged René to go visit her during his vacation. After just a few days together, Berty and René began talking about marriage. Papa must have looked very attractive – tall and slim, with a dapper little mustache. However, what really impressed Maman was the fact that he was the intellectual type, interested in many things, and seemingly very knowledgeable. He also appeared to be kind, caring and responsible – all qualities she valued. They were married in Monruz in 1932, after Papa had completed his studies. And when Grandpapa invited him to come run his office in St. Quentin, Papa accepted. That is why, within weeks of my birth, I was bundled off to France in that hammock.

We shared the director’s house with Grandpapa and, for a while at least, we lived like a real modern family. As could be expected, baby Annelou was the center of everyone’s attention. Bald and roly-poly-plump, I graced many a photograph taken by Papa. My parents’ pride and happiness is quite obvious, and for a year I must have received an abundance of parental nurturing. However, it soon became obvious that Grandmaman Louise, while an outstanding educator, lacked the skills of an administrator. The school was running into debts and Papa felt obligated to go back and salvage the enterprise. Maman readily agreed. She was very homesick and tired of that coal-mining region, where slag heaps were the only mountains.

CHAPTER II

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Monruz, 1934-1939

The Place

Our arrival in Monruz was marked by a rather touching welcoming ceremony. Aunt Lyda and some of the students staged an impromptu dance recital, and Grandmaman read a poem she had penned for the occasion. Loosely translated it went something like this:

To Mr. and Mrs. R. W. Perrenoud-Amrein

Welcome!

Monruz, ancient family cradle,

surrounded by pleasant woods,

now receives numbers of young women

from every corner of the universe.

My dearest children,

it was twelve years ago almost

that we arrived

welcomed by abandoned halls.

All of us gave our ardent effort

and dedication to this house,

and in return it poured

sane reason into our veins.

Now it invites you, cherished couple,

returned at last from foreign lands,

to take your turn at guiding it

toward its future destiny.

And for the warmest welcome,

its surroundings all abloom,

Monruz cordially salutes you,

proud to have you home again.

It was June 23rd, 1934. I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like for Maman to settle in and resume her teaching duties while dealing with a thirteen-month-old toddler. I believe she was glad to be back, excited about being with the students once more, and happy to be gardening again. But it must have required an enormous adjustment. By moving back to Monruz, Maman and Papa renounced every right to a private life. They became totally integrated into the community and followed all its schedules and rules.

It was customary in those days that anyone associated with a school or institution lived on the premises. In my parents’ case, even as co-directors of the facility, their only remuneration was room and board and a small stipend. Their time off amounted to the customary rest hour after lunch and one afternoon each week. This may seem strange to us now, but I don’t believe they had any objections; Monruz was their home, and the arrangement was the norm in institutions everywhere.

The year-long curriculum was structured in a rather ingenious fashion. Divided into three groups, the students rotated to a different department each week: kitchen, household, garden. Included in the gardening program were also winter activities, such as various crafts and classes in first aid, baby care, bookkeeping, as well as advanced French literature. Some of these were taught by outside instructors, but Maman did her share. Papa and Grandmaman taught French classes, but, as we shall see later, language instruction was integral to all practical activities.

Monruz was to be my full-time home for the next five years, and remained a vacation place for the rest of my childhood. The detailed description of the estate that follows is therefore based on knowledge acquired over a long time. It may seem boring and will challenge the reader’s imagination, but since certain features of the place set the stage for my experiences, I feel compelled to give a tour. To me, the grounds not only offered vast opportunities for exploration, but they represented my whole universe – a unique, specialized world, untouched by society, folded upon itself, and very, very safe.

Monruz was situated at the foot of the Jura Mountains, overlooking the lake of Neuchâtel. I’m not sure what Grandmaman meant when she referred to pleasant woods in her poem, for this was wine country, where every available piece of land was filled with rows upon rows of staked grapevines, appearing like soldiers marching up the slope. Each vineyard was surrounded by ancient limestone walls, and there were hardly any trees anywhere. She must have meant the stands of old shade trees that gave the Monruz property a woodsy feeling.

Unfortunately, I never seriously delved into the history of the estate, so I didn’t find out at what point in time someone decided to sacrifice some acreage of cultivated land in order to create Monruz. At first there may still have been vineyards below the house, sloping gently toward the lake, but the construction of a highway had cut deeply into this gradient, leaving Monruz stranded on top of a cliff, self-contained and well above the fray of the world. It is hard to say whether there was a master plan for the development of this property or whether it grew organically in response to the needs of certain owners. The end product, however, could not have been more suitable for this community.

I probably did not roam around much during that first summer, even though I had learned to walk. But later, as a tag-along child, I expanded my territory more and more, eventually even retreating to favorite places by myself in order to play my imaginary games undisturbed. I rarely had playmates, so I learned to entertain myself, driven by a florid imagination. Even if I just followed the grown-ups to wherever they were going, I would find things to amuse myself with along the way.

At the core of the estate were the two residences: the main building, referred to as the Maison (house), and, across the courtyard, the dormitory, a long, rectangular box, which was grandiosely called the Château (castle). Generally, the grounds sloping up from those buildings were dedicated to utilitarian purposes, whereas the lower portions in front of them were more recreational.

The Kitchen Gardens

Our tour begins with the greenhouse, situated above the Château. It was a large, commercial-sized structure used mostly to start flower and vegetable seedlings. Here the students crowded around Maman as she taught them how to sift soil into wooden boxes, scatter seeds onto them, and pat them down. Great care was taken to keep the boxes moist and warm. Once the plants had produced a couple of tiny leaves, they were carefully removed and replanted into another box, this time farther apart. This step, called "repiquer" (re-planting), was considered very important, as the roots were tweaked and trimmed in the process, thus forcing the seedlings to grow stronger in self-defense. A few weeks later they were transferred to the cold-frames, to be hardened for the eventual move to the garden.

There were no exotic plants in this greenhouse, but the warm, earthy smell still lingers in my memory. The structure looked huge to me, and the planting tables were much too high, but I liked to crawl underneath them and play with pebbles or re-arrange the clay pots stored there. Most of all I loved the warm dampness that seemed to envelop everything.

The cold-frames next to the greenhouse (four or five of them) were covered with heavy windows that could be partially propped open or removed altogether. To plant anything in them, one had to create a kneeling platform by placing a board across from rim to rim. This board became an impromptu bridge on which I could test my balance. I don’t believe I ever fell in, but the adults were always fretting, afraid that I would, thus crushing the treasured baby plants. The cold-frames also provided an early crop of lettuce and radishes. One day, after the students had left, Maman washed a few gleaming red radishes, and we had ourselves a little feast. Usually, all harvested produce became part of the community menu, so this was something special – just the two of us being sneaky! It made such an impression on me that, many years later, I recalled the scene in a poem.

Dog-shaped Salt Shaker

Each time I crunch

A fresh-plucked radish

Earthy-crisp

Tongue-tingling,

The eyes of a small porcelain dog

Stare at me through forty years

Bringing back the sun-lit sounds

Of tight-blown radishes

Nibbled behind the cook’s back

Salt sprinkled from the head

Of that cold-snouted dog.

Behind the greenhouse was the rabbit barn. Here the rich smell of hay set the tone, although in the summer, it was replaced by the pungency of freshly cut grass. There were several rows of cages, each one the home of a twitchy-nosed rabbit. They were butchered for special events, of course, but I was carefully shielded from that painful reality. Sometimes two or three of them would simply disappear, and even my most persistent questions were not answered satisfactorily. Sweeter by far were the cuddly little bunnies, which I was sometimes allowed to pet or even hold. It was also fun to stick long grasses through the chicken wire and let the rabbits nibble their way down the stalk. Occasionally, I watched our garden helper (referred to as The Boy) clean out the cages – holding my nose, but marveling at those perfectly round little droppings, which he would take to the adjacent compost heap.

The path separating the hotbed area from the vegetable garden was usually cluttered with spades, rakes and cultivators. One day, a student stepped on the tines of a rake that had been thrown down carelessly, and the handle hit her square in the face. This made such an impression on me that I never again put down a gardening tool with its tines or blades pointing skyward!

At the top of the path was a fig tree, or rather an anemic little fig bush, struggling to adapt to a cool climate. Grandmaman had set her heart on growing figs, and some years she was actually rewarded with a fruit or two.

In keeping with the Swiss mentality of order, the vegetable garden had been regimented into rows of long, well-tended beds. Much care was given to soil preparation, and attempts were made to rake out all the stones. It was, however, rather rocky soil, and each new class of students had to work at it again. Once it was raked smooth, planting rows were staked out and furrowed along guiding strings. Some would receive seeds, others the hardened transplants. However, not every young woman had a knack for gardening, and some were frustrated by the perfection that was expected of them, so the lessons would occasionally end in tears. It was not until weeks later, when they could proudly harvest their crops, that they realized the value of their effort.

In the middle of the vegetable garden was the water cistern, a rectangular concrete basin, dug deep into the ground, except for the top two feet, which formed a protective wall around it. It was used to collect water, as the only faucet in the garden did not have enough pressure to fill watering cans quickly. The faucet was used to fill the cistern, then the watering cans were filled by dipping them into it.

One day, the gardening crew was having their mid-morning tea break there, sitting on the rim of the basin. Papa must have been helping that day, as he sometimes did, for he had joined the group. There was the usual chatter among the students, perhaps some bantering, teasing or bragging of some kind. I was too little to pay much attention. Then, suddenly, there was Papa, picking me up, climbing on top of the wall, straddling a corner of the cistern – yes, with me dangling upside down right over the water. Terrified out of my wits, I started screaming, and I continued screaming until I was returned to the ground. In total panic I ran to find refuge in Maman’s arms. I think she was as upset as I was. To this day I cannot imagine what could possibly have triggered such a diabolical impulse in Papa; he was usually quite mellow and not given to craziness. I am still puzzled by the whole thing.

Along one edge of the garden was the berry patch – a strip of land dedicated to red currant and gooseberry bushes. It was also the scene of my very first gardening attempts. I watched Maman prepare the soil, wondering why she needed my help. She then showed me how to stick bumpy nasturtium seeds into the dirt, one after the other. Some time later, she showed me how they had come up. I excitedly checked their growth every day and later I saw how these easy-to-grow trailing plants hung down over the wall that formed the edge of the garden, covering it with an abundance of red, orange and yellow blossoms. It was incentive enough to want to do it again the following year.

Separating the vegetable garden from the orchard was a wide, graveled path flanked by fruit trees trained espaliers-style along the fence. It was also the home of my very own rosebush! The path led up to the blackberry thicket, where I got stung by a bee once. Papa heard my screams and quickly carried me to the kitchen, where Mademoiselle Piaget, the cooking instructor, put a slice of onion on the sting.

In the winter, the gentle slope of that path served as a beginner’s ski slope. My first attempts, at about age four, were rather discouraging, however. Those silly boards kept crossing each other, rendering me helpless. Eventually I must have shown some improvement, for I was allowed to go to Adelboden (a ski resort) with Maman and the students later that winter.

Another time, in a different season, this lane served as the venue for a make-believe wedding. I was about four or five years old when my Aunt Meggie got married – an event that made a huge impression on me. For a while, I pretended to get married all the time. When Hanne, a former student, came back for a visit and offered to play with me, we took this game to new heights. She found a lacy curtain I could wear as a veil, made a crown out of flowers, and fashioned a little nosegay for me. She played the groom, contorting herself downward so I could reach her arm, and with her humming the wedding march, we paraded up and down that path. It was all too wonderful for words.

I adored Hanne and liked to call her Hanneton, which is not only a play on her name, but means June-bug in French. For a while after that visit, she sent me funny postcards, and she and Maman remained close friends, even though Papa claimed she was a Nazi. World War II interrupted these messages. As a German citizen with Jewish roots, Hanne was arrested and taken to a concentration camp. She later told us how she managed to escape during a forced march, and how she met her future husband during her struggles to reconnect with her family. She got married soon after the war and had a daughter of her own. It truly looked as if she had found love and happiness, but she became despondent a few years later and committed suicide.

The orchard’s dominant denizen was a huge cherry tree, which blessed us with an overabundance of fruit almost every year. It was dangerously tall, requiring a very long ladder that could not be situated safely against the pliable branches. As a result, the birds regularly got their share, although enough fruit was harvested to fill dozens and dozens of tall jars. Canning was done by the gardening crew in a special kitchen in the Château. There were many other fruit trees, including the very popular Mirabelle plums and the requisite quince used for jellies. What I remember most longingly is an apple tree whose fruit ripened very early. Once the pale green, translucent fruits began to fall, everybody gravitated to the orchard to taste these fresh, juicy apples. We truly lost a great treasure when we commercialized apple crops down to half a dozen varieties.

At the upper edge of the orchard, against the tall boundary wall, I remember a thicket of raspberries and a weedy border full of little wild strawberries. This was one area where I was allowed to harvest and eat everything I could find. The cultivated strawberries were in the kitchen garden, where they could be rotated from one bed to another each year. The climate was not conducive to apricots or peaches but was ideal for any kind of berries. Enormous quantities of them were preserved as jams and jellies.

At the back of the orchard was the chicken run. I would have loved to go in and get closer to those birds, but they were protected by a fiendishly mean rooster, and I was warned to stay away. However, thinking that the chickens would appreciate long grasses the way the rabbits did, I once tried sticking a stalk through the fence. Suddenly the rooster came charging toward me, squawking menacingly, and before I could retreat to safety, he had launched himself against the chicken wire, his deadly talons right in front of my face. With manure and feathers all over me, I once again was glad that Maman was nearby.

Recreational Areas

Down-slope from the orchard was the tennis court, the red-sand variety, which required a lot of maintenance. Every spring, fresh sand had to be added, the surface packed down with the help of a heavy, hand-pushed roller, and the white lines repainted.

New students always eagerly signed up for tennis lessons, but often gave up within a few weeks, causing Papa to lament how unmotivated and undisciplined young people were. I don’t know if this high dropout rate was due to an overload of homework or Papa’s teaching style. Probably both. He was known to be a very demanding tennis coach, even though he was not a great player himself.

Below the tennis court were the gentle woods Grandmaman must have referred to in her welcoming poem. It was a strip of terrain shaded by trees, both deciduous and evergreen. Grandmaman must have had a keen sense of place, for she always managed to stage her activities according to the weather and the environment. She considered afternoon tea an important event. Depending on the season, there were numerous venues suitable for this beloved ritual, both indoors and out. Teatime had also become an informal way for the staff to get together and discuss in-house matters. The students usually enjoyed their tea in a separate location (probably in the dining hall), but on hot summer days, everybody gathered in the shade of those trees. Metal tables and chairs were scattered around, to be re-arranged as needed.

This gentle woods portion of the estate contained many different features, all of which warrant closer examination. Coming from the Maison, one first had to cross the footbridge. Then, in sequence, came the Pelouse (lawn), the Grotto, the Châlet, then the dark pine grove with the wading pool. Beyond them was a lightly shaded sitting area and the lookout point at the end of the property. For me, each of these areas held special significance.

I would like to begin with the footbridge. When the construction of the highway had cut deeply into the slope, Monruz had lost its easy access. A new driveway had had to be built, starting from a much lower point. This new access had been accomplished by carving a deep cut into the hill. The result was a kind of man-made canyon, a dark chasm that split part of the property in half. This new driveway began with a steep climb, then curved gently around the back of the Maison to end up in front of the Château. Somebody must have owned a car once, for there was a garage on the ground floor of that building, but for pedestrians carrying heavy shopping bags, it was an arduous climb. The curved footbridge spanned this canyon halfway up and provided access to the wooded glens.

Once across the bridge, the path split, one branch continuing straight ahead, paralleling the overgrown berm of the tennis court, while the other one curved around a grassy area grandiosely called the Pelouse. Lawns do not grow well in Switzerland’s damp climate, so this smallish patch of grass was possibly something Grandmaman cherished as a memory from her childhood in North Carolina. Having a grandmother who was born on another continent seemed rather exotic to me, once I was old enough to understand such things.

The story I heard most often was that her father had always hoped to emigrate to the States, but that he had not been able to realize his dream until after his first wife had died. Late in life, he had married a much younger woman and had finally made his move to Asheville, North Carolina, where he knew someone. He had apparently bought some land and tended a peach orchard for a number of years. When a railroad company had offered to buy him out for a right-of-way, he had pocketed the money and come home. Grandmaman had been twelve years old then, but she still liked to talk about her early years in America. The Pelouse would not fit our present idea of a lawn, it was more like a grassy patio than a lawn: circular in shape, bordered by hydrangeas, and barely large enough to accommodate the few tables and chairs needed to serve tea there.

If one took the left path around the Pelouse, one came to the Grotto. This Victorian oddity could be described in many different ways, for example, as a six-foot tall, igloo-shaped pile of boulders, a child-sized mountain, or an elaborate rock garden. It was all of that, as well as the pump house for a well. The cave-like opening on one side led to a concrete basin and a hand-activated water pump. Grandmaman claimed that the water came from a deep spring; she insisted that it be the only water served at the dinner table. It was indeed always cool and fresh.

Because this artificial hill doubled as a rock garden, it looked quite appealing in the spring when an array of cushion plants, such as baskets of gold and aubretia, were in bloom. On top of it was a flat area, and Maman liked to plant annuals up there. To do that, the students had to climb from boulder to boulder, carrying tools and plants – a trick I soon learned to imitate. So, one year, after the flowers had died, I took to playing up there, enacting all kinds of make-believe scenarios. The most unusual one, I’m told, was when Maman found me sitting on some tennis balls inside a cardboard box, pretending to be a swan sitting on her eggs!

As time went on, I became bolder, hauling more and more toys up the side of the Grotto. This included a small chair and my favorite doll, Blanche. The students had given her to me on my birthday, dressed all in white and embedded in a box full of white tissue paper. Blanche was absolutely the most beautiful doll in the world, much larger than any of my other ones, and quite special because her arms and legs could be moved and her eyes opened and closed. I loved her dearly.

Engrossed in my fantasies on top of the Grotto, I would talk non-stop, telling Blanche stories or verbalizing the script of my games. One day, when Maman called to remind me that it was almost lunchtime, I detected a note of urgency in her voice and realized that I was in trouble. I had long since figured out that climbing down was trickier than climbing up and that I could not take any toys with me on the descent. Instead, I simply threw them overboard, down onto the lawn. This time, because I felt rushed, I made a fatal mistake: I tossed Blanche down first. She landed unscathed, as she always had in the past, but when the little chair followed, it landed smack on top of her, crushing her precious little head. Struck with horror, I clambered down as quickly as I could to retrieve her, but it was too late. I knew right away that I had done something incredibly stupid, and the wave of guilt and grief that swept over me was totally devastating: I had killed my most treasured possession!

Although any number of caring adults tried to console me, none of their assurances appeased me. I was too deeply traumatized. This encounter with my own fallibility represented a total loss of innocence and was almost too painful to bear. Such incidents are no doubt necessary in a child’s development, but the stain of that mindless act remained deeply engraved in my psyche, ready to be reactivated every time I did something wrong.

Continuing along the path that circled around the Pelouse and the Grotto, one arrived at the Châlet – an authentic Alpine cabin, which looked totally out of place in Monruz. The way it teetered at the edge of the property, one could imagine that it had predated the highway construction, but I don’t know. Its main access was from the highway, but it also had a set of French doors that opened up to our side. For as long as I can remember, the Châlet was inhabited by Mr. Châtelain, a bearded hermit who was a famous graphologist. I only saw him occasionally, on the rare occasions when he stepped out of those French doors to talk to Grandmaman or Papa. I found him vaguely repulsive, probably because of his long, gray beard. This impression was heightened when Maman and I delivered a message to him once and we went inside. It was a dark, smelly, and spooky place, and I always kept my distance after that. Grandmaman and Papa both trusted Mr. Châtelain as a graphologist, and they routinely consulted him before hiring new instructors, or whenever a student proved exceptionally difficult.

The area in front of the Châlet was deeply shaded by two enormous pine trees. We only sat under them on very hot summer days, when the gloomy shade was a true relief. On those occasions, Papa could sometimes be talked into turning on the spouting jet in the wading basin that was located right in front of the Châlet. This old fountain was a bit temperamental, however, so Papa was usually reluctant to bother with it. When he succeeded in making it work, the sound of splashing water was a lovely accompaniment to leisurely conversations. For me, it was a lot more than that, as I loved to stand in the drifting spray or wade around in the water. At such times, surrounded by people, I would forget about my fear of Mr. Châtelain and enjoy myself.

Further on, past the Châlet, one came to a more lightly shaded area under deciduous trees. It was Grandmaman’s most cherished place, and in the summer the tea trays were often carried out that far. For me there was another special attraction: the swing! Consisting of a simple wooden seat attached to very long chains, it allowed for far-reaching rides up toward the treetops – something the students also enjoyed. I used it whenever a willing adult was around to push me.

At the end of the property, this woodsy area ended abruptly at a banister overlooking the highway down below. The students liked coming here, as they considered it a window into the outside world. They would congregate on the bench, watch the cars drive by, and check for license plates from different cantons. Although the students were frequently taken on chaperoned outings and had season passes to the swimming beach and the ice rink, they must have felt like prisoners at times, starved for any kind of diversion. After all, they were at an age when hormone levels ran high and flirting with young men was uppermost in their minds. Counting license plates was perhaps a safe, exciting way to fantasize about the world beyond.

To return to the Maison, one could take a path leading up and around the tennis court, or backtrack past the Châlet and the Pelouse, over the footbridge, and on to the Terrace. As a child I liked that bridge, especially when the Virginia creepers took over the banisters, narrowing the passage down to a green, leafy tunnel, in which I almost disappeared. In the fall I would gather the dark berries and find ways to use them in my games. Although the driveway looked grim, down there between those high walls, it could look very pretty in the spring, when the flowering plants growing in the cracks were in full bloom. And the graceful arch of the footbridge was definitely an elegant touch.

The Terrace was a vast, graveled expanse in front of the Maison. In good weather it became an extension of the main building. According to the numerous photographs in my collection, it must have been a favorite staging area for events of all kinds. A picture of my second birthday shows me sitting on the rim of a tulip border in full bloom. Beside me is an artistically decorated cake, and my embarrassment at being in the limelight is captured in a frozen wiggle. Another picture shows me peering through the flower arch Maman always attached to the back of my dining room chair on my birthday. Many photos that survive show family groupings or student activities. In one of them, the students are cleaning storm windows, in another the cleaning crew is shown with ladder, dusters and mops, ready to tackle spring cleaning. Then there are pictures of the large gatherings that Grandmaman relished, be they weddings, birthdays, family reunions or other celebrations that warranted a crowd.

The Terrace was a place where little kids were allowed to run around freely. I remember doing so whenever my cousins Lux and Brigitte came to visit from Bern. From the Terrace one could also watch sailboats and steamers on the lake. On clear days, the snow-capped Alps became visible. From this distance, those famous peaks, which look so impressive from up close, were little more than a thin line of far-off ramparts spanning the entire southern horizon. It was only during Foehn conditions that they were seen more clearly. Foehn is a meteorological phenomenon characterized by high pressure and warm winds. The resulting layer of compressed air often magnified the mountains, so that individual peaks could be recognized. They ran from the Mont Blanc massif on the right, to the Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau group in the middle, and ended with the Titlis on the far left. In between were numerous other peaks whose identities grown-ups loved to speculate about. Sadly, a clear view of the Alps became a very rare thing once the haze of pollution began to increase.

Proceeding from the Terrace around the east side of the Maison, one came to an open courtyard formed by the Maison, the Château, the open shed known as Hangar, and the odd-looking building referred to as the Pavillon. Part of the courtyard was paved with round cobblestones that were difficult for me to navigate when I was little. Fortunately, the rest was covered with asphalt. On laundry day the clothes lines were strung up here, although wire clothes lines under the Hangar roof offered an alternative in damp weather. The Pavillon was an unheated, two-room structure used as overflow accommodations in the summer. I remember it as always having a musty smell. An old piano vegetated in the first room, damp and terribly out of tune. The back room had a mansarded ceiling and a skylight, which I considered an interesting oddity.

The side of the Maison facing the courtyard was completely covered by a pipe vine. I remember amusing myself looking for those funny-looking pipe blossoms and pinning the big leaves together with pine needles to make hats. There was another huge pine tree between the Maison and the Pavillon. An old doghouse sitting under it recalled the time when there had been a dog chained to the tree. I vaguely remember stories about this problematic animal, and Papa never again wanted another dog.

Our home in the Château

There was nothing castle-like about the Château. It was a long, rectangular building, two stories high, built as a dormitory and very utilitarian. The name Château had first been used to differentiate it from the main building and it had stuck. The ground floor housed the garage, the laundry and the furnace room. The upper floor was reached by a long flight of concrete stairs. At the top and to the right were the two adjoining rooms that had been assigned to us. To the left, running the length of the building, was a central hallway with rooms on either side.

In a sense those two front rooms did represented our castle, a small island of privacy. My parents’ bedroom was generously sized and doubled as a sitting room. I remember a coffee table and two wooden armchairs, but there must also have been the requisite armoires and dressers.

As far as I know, the only thing my parents had brought with them from St. Quentin, besides personal belongings, was a cheap oriental-style rug on which they were still making payments. Papa had been furious when Maman had let a door-to-door salesman talk her into buying it on time. He had made it clear that she could not be trusted with money, and that, henceforth, she would need his permission for all acquisitions. This was not an