MAMAN - Belgium, February 1945
Woman delicate, woman of steel
She was physically delicate, thin and not very tall, fine boned and small featured. The one exception in this frail physiognomy were eyes overly large and black, luminous, ringed by deep sockets and high cheekbones. Even before I met her, observing her shopping or on errands in the streets of la ville haute, I suspected this outer shell was deceptive. Here was a woman of strength! She strode the cobbled lanes of her Belgian village ramrod straight, head high, with purpose. And she had flair. Though always dressed in mourning black, she was partial to capes, shawls and wimples which lent her a delightful, theatrical air of mystery.
I was brought to her home by a comrade who had seen Maman's daughter in the town square, and was bold enough -- fortified with cognac -- to bang on their door one night. He had the besotted notion that both women would welcome conquering heroes with open arms. Maman's arms were at her sides as she stood in the doorway and harshly demanded our business; and one hand was concealed under an apron. Her judgement of us was swift and firm. My coarse companion was to go away, but I was welcome to share the caffee latte she was brewing. I followed her through a dark hall to the kitchen and watched her take the pistol, a Luger, from under her apron before reaching for the coffee cups.
She lived behind drawn blinds and locked doors, caring for daughter and grandchild while husband and son-in-law languished in German prison camps. Maman was born (ordained?) to care for others, a seasoned pro at recognizing need and moving to meet it. She had lost her husband to the tortures of political imprisonment because together they had befriended, housed and nursed wounded Allied parachutists. Her parlor was constantly visited by desperate friends and relatives wanting money or food handouts, counsel, release from fear. I grew accustomed to the sight of her cradling young and old, male or female, in her slender arms, murmuring comfort. More than from the coins or scraps of bread she managed to release from meager reserves, they drew strength from her cool presence and quiet words. Over and over I head it whispered to sobbing faces: "Courage, courage, courage."
She was visited, too, by antagonists, local townspeople whose national loyalties differed from hers, and who came to warn her about aiding questionable refugees. Military from three nations had commandeered her home at various times, and acts of mercy had falsely branded her "an enemy collaborator." The Luger was picked up each time the doorbell rang.
I was welcome as a son, she said. And she initially offered maternal interest in my material comforts -- hot meals, laundry, sewing and mending chores. But we were locked in too deep an understanding of each other for such a superficial relationship to endure. We were fighters for survival, using everything and everyone to keep body and soul intact. I hungered for people and interests other than my rude comrades and our brutal occupation; Maman wanted a trusted man in the house, even with his rough humors and language, someone to bolster, no matter how temporarily, her heavy responsibility of sheltering daughter and grandchild against the daily horrors of a world gone mad.
We escaped into music and song, played on a battered piano and sung badly but with gusto. We retrieved champagne from cellar caches, feasted on gourmet dishes prepared from the unlikely tins of appropriated military supplies. I brought responsible friends to the house, skits were improvised, long evenings of story-telling drowned out overhead bombers. Maman proved an innate thespian, acting out for us the highlights of her life on tabletop or against the proscenium of kitchen walls. It was wholesale catharsis, there in those small rooms every night of the week for anyone admitted to the house. When I saw laughter, finally, in Maman's daughter, a young woman emotionally broken by a shelling that had trapped her under a dead soldier, I believed a miracle had taken place.
"And perhaps it has," Maman said, "but I forbid you to speak anything provocative to the others. You and I go on leading the song and dance."
Only once, when she had had a drop too much champagne, did Maman desert the ship's bridge. She was drifting into sleep on a sofa, and friends and I gayly made a ritual of covering her with blankets. As the others respectfully moved off, she took my hand and I saw tears in her eyes. "Forgive my taking too much wine, Andre. But I'm so tired of being strong, so afraid I can't be much longer. My husband used to say that the weak feed on the strong, and that they'll destroy me."
But the steel in Maman never snapped like the broken file I hold in my hand. Nor did it roughen her delicate beauty, soft as the smooth plaster mold I touch. And the weak did not destroy her. Rather, she lived out her life in a continuous ministry to all who wanted or needed help, growing stronger and stronger in the love of others as she stripped away all concern for self.
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