The Secret of the Blue Trunk (5 page)

I suddenly felt very small in the middle of that vast expanse of inky black water and wondered by what kind of phenomenon such a gigantic thing was able to float. When the coast disappeared on the horizon, I panicked a little. On the third day, an underwater storm tossed the ship about for several hours and I thought the sea was simply going to swallow us up. The
France
, so colossal in the harbour a couple of days ago, now, faced with the raging sea, felt like a tiny paper boat. Éva, who hadn’t had a thing to eat since we left New York, felt worse and worse. The doctor told her she should consume some food, even if she remained lying in her berth. Her stomach needed to fill up, which would have a pendulum effect and prevent retching. But it didn’t work with her. As for me, as soon as the ocean was calm, I went out on deck. The sea air did me the world of good. And because it was cold outside, there were few passengers on the deck. So no one bothered me.

As we approached the coast of Europe, I had a chance to admire the fine residences near the harbour. They were very different from the buildings in Quebec. I instantly fell in love with the new land that was taking me in.

In the early morning of October 21, we dropped anchor in the harbour of Le Havre. While the ship drew alongside the quay, we were all out on the deck already and watched the people who had come to wave a welcome to the
France
. I felt as though I was coming home and imagined that in that crowd a family was waiting for me. All the passengers seemed very happy to reach dry land again after the long Atlantic crossing. Only Éva hadn’t enjoyed the ocean voyage and was just as pale as when we first set out.

A transportation service conveyed us to the railway station. The train would first take us to Paris, then to Brittany. It would be about a twelve-hour trip. So the fathers who travelled with us recommended we have patience. We needed lots of it: I was terribly anxious to get to the new convent. Once on board, I took advantage of the opportunity to admire the scenery, so totally different from that of Quebec. As we approached Paris, I became tremendously excited. Sister Adolphine had told me a great deal about Paris, which people called the City of Lights, the place where all the great fashion designers were located. That was very important to me. I couldn’t wait to start sewing again and learn new techniques as I had been promised. To pass the time, I isolated myself in an out-of-the way corner of the railway car and sketched styles of dresses worn by ladies aboard the ship or the trains. These drawings would have to stay in my notebooks, of course, because the nuns would never agree to my making clothes for lay people. But no one could stop me from dreaming.

In the early evening we finally arrived in Brittany, at the station of Rennes, the town where the mother house of the community of the Filles de Sainte-Marie de la Présentation was situated. A kind, thoughtful nun met us on the platform. I recognized Sister Adolphine’s accent right away. It warmed my heart. Through hearing that voice all the time, I had grown used to it.

At last we reached the end of our journey. I had sometimes thought it would never end. Several nuns were waiting for us at the entrance of the convent. And what a convent! It was huge. Again, I couldn’t believe my eyes and stood admiring its architecture for a few long moments before going inside. How many years had it taken to construct such a colossal building? I couldn’t say. But I had never seen stone walls as massive as these. You would think you were in a fortress. I already felt safe. Though tired from the journey, I mustered up the energy to walk around the premises and meet all those who lived here.

The convent was at least four times as large as the one where I grew up. How would I manage not to get lost in the beginning? I recognized the smells of my old convent, those of floor polish, oiled woodwork, and disinfectant. Though at first these smells had put me off, with the passing of time they had become part of my daily life.

A nun kindly showed us around our new quarters, but because of her strong accent I missed some of her explanations.

Except for a few details, the dormitory was identical to the one I had first set eyes on when I was six years old. This time, however, it struck me as pleasant. A new life was beginning for me and I had a taste for learning and for savouring every moment. I found our hostesses delightfully friendly and, above all, very patient with us, the “little nuns from Canada,” as they called us. I was happy to discover that the community’s rules of life were much less strict than in Quebec, and the chores less heavy and more varied.

After a light meal of bread and cheese, we went to bed. We badly needed to, especially Éva, who had to stay in the infirmary for a week to recover from the journey.

Two days after our arrival, Thérèse Martel and I took off again to receive our novitiate training on Guernsey, a Channel island about a hundred kilometres off St. Malo. The boat trip lasted a day, but since I came from afar, that didn’t frighten me at all. On the eight-kilometre-long island, automobiles were driven on the left-hand side of the road, as in England; the currency in use was the pound sterling. People earned their living in the shipbuilding industry and from fishing. Fish, in fact, was something I would eat my fill of on this island.

When we landed on Guernsey, we were taken to the parish of Sainte-Marie-du-Câtel, where the community’s second house, La Chaumière, was located. This is where the nuns did their novitiate training. With its varnished woodwork throughout, the house, more modest than the mother house at Rennes, had a rustic character. In the garden grew many fruit trees. It was a friendly, peaceful spot, and I could understand why Victor Hugo chose to go and write on this island.

The low-ceilinged dormitory was particularly inviting. The beds were wonderfully soft and so comfortable that I savoured my sleep every night of my stay.

I soon familiarized myself with the organization of the house and was assigned to the kitchen. I tried to quickly memorize the names of the cooking utensils by jotting them down on a piece of paper. Most of the French names were different from the Quebec ones and I found them prettier. Thus, a ladle was a
cassotte
, a conical mesh sieve a
chinois
, a potato masher a
presse-purée
. A
marguerite
was used to steam vegetables and a
pince à chiqueter
to crimp the edge of a tart.

I worked at preparing meals while discovering new flavours, spices, and smells. This country life satisfied me completely.

On Guernsey, I also got to know the community’s values. In the opinion of the Abbé Fleury, the founder, we shouldn’t become ladies, but sisters of charity. “Always be content with your lot,” he would say. Sisters needed to strive to attain evangelic simplicity in all their activities. Their zeal ought to be imbued with true generosity, never flinching at any task. They must remain serene at all times, in good fortune as in bad. In a word, we ought to attain the calm and cheerful humility that expands the soul and infuses its devotion with the artlessness described by Saint Francis de Sales.

On girls whose thoughts are filled with generous ideas, who are enthralled with perfection, and feel impelled toward the cloister, the Divine Master has cast His eye. Quietly He speaks to them and draws them to Him. They should always remember the words of one of our founders, Louise Lemarchand: “You will be a nun … Jesus needs you. He wants you all to Himself. He counts on you to serve Him and love Him …” Mademoiselle Lemarchand also said that nuns must be good, devout, and strong, and, above all, have no taste for society life, because the world around them is spiritually beneath them.

It was the first time I heard the religious life described this way. There was no mention whatsoever of the obligation to experience the emotion of faith or God’s call. The image of God as a master had never crossed my mind. Surprisingly, this religious philosophy seemed to be based on resentment against life outside the convent, whereas everything I had seen, heard, and experienced of the outside world since the beginning of this epic, had struck me as stimulating. I wasn’t able to put into words how I felt, but such a view seemed nevertheless quite oppressive to me, and as a result I was less at ease in this milieu. Naturally I kept my doubts to myself.

On July 11, 1931, I took my first, temporary, vows, which allowed me to begin my novitiate. I was nineteen.

That day, the postulants had to follow a protocol. After we got dressed, our hair was cut. This represented a big sacrifice for me because I loved my long, black, curly hair.
Never mind
, I thought,
it will grow again
. I didn’t have time to pine for the past and didn’t want to spoil such a beautiful occasion. I was nervous but, more than anything else, I longed to become a novice. I imagined I would become a different person: Every day I would feel, deep inside, the state of grace in which my pure soul dwelled. How naive I was!

All the postulants had donned a little black dress, which was shorter than the nuns’, with a white collar, and put on a silver cross without the figure of Christ, strung on a silk cord. On our heads we wore a black veil over a white headband.

The ceremony resembled in every respect a first communion. Seated in the pews of the chapel, we listened to the nuns as they guided our thoughts. They asked us once more if we were certain about our choice and if our decision had been made of our own free will. How can you be sure about the path to take when you are just nineteen? As for me, my decision had been firm for a long time. It was the only way of life I knew.

Then the priest spoke in our name and repeated one by one the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience we were to profess. At the end of the ceremony, the congregation gave a great banquet in the garden, at the back of the house. It was an unforgettable day.

During the two years of my novitiate, I applied myself to the tasks assigned to me, and sewed in my free time.

In the summer after I arrived, I was asked to look after eight children in the country while their parents worked. There were at least eight children in nearly every island family. All the parents were fishermen and farmers. About the people living on Guernsey, Victor Hugo once said: “The same man farms the land and the sea.” I adored my experience with the children. I remembered my childhood in the company of my brothers, so it did me a lot of good to be in contact with them.

After the holidays, when the new school year began, I went back to the convent and resumed my work in the kitchens. But living with a family for a few weeks had made me aware of my loneliness. As time passed, I had felt more and more isolated on Guernsey; news from the outside was slow to reach us. We rarely saw new faces. We were at the mercy of ships and the weather. When the sea raged, we didn’t receive anything. Deep inside, I felt abandoned, too.

I cheered myself up with the thought that I only had to spend one more winter on this remote island, and on July 5, 1933, my novitiate would be completed. I would go back to Rennes then, to the mother house.

A
fter
a nearly two-year stay on the island of Guernsey, I went back to the congregation’s mother house at Rennes. The time had come to prepare myself for the perpetual vows I was to take at the end of the last year of my novitiate.

In the course of that year, I continued my religious training by attending classes in natural theology and dogmatic theology. I seriously believed I was incapable of absorbing this teaching. I had doubts as to my ability to master this science which, I thought, was only intended for great thinkers. The nuns were quick to reassure me. Studying theology, they explained, meant primarily concerning oneself with God. Natural theology spoke of the existence of God, demonstrated His divine attributes as well as His eternity, perfection, goodness, and omnipotence. Theology of the religious life initiated us to prayer, taught us how to live the liturgy in the community, how to keep God’s Word in our hearts and embody it afterwards in the world.

We novices had a very full morning program. We got up at five and attended Dawn Prayer and Matins. This was the shortest of the day’s five services. Next, we had breakfast while listening to a spiritual reading. Then we went into class. After that, we went to the service of the Liturgy of the Hours, and then came the midday meal. Once the meal was over, we attended another service of the Liturgy of the Hours before going back into class. In the late afternoon, we attended one more service of the liturgy, before the evening meal. Vespers came next, right after supper, followed, believe it or not, by obligatory recreation. May I point out that I would have taken part in it even if I hadn’t been obliged to?

At half past seven, while going to bed, we had to observe total silence.

On Sundays, after High Mass, we finally had a bit of free time to take care of personal matters. It was the only free time we had.

In that last year of my novitiate, I became friends with a girl whose real name I didn’t know. We had to remain anonymous. When the day came to take her perpetual vows, this friend wanted to choose the name Marie-Louise, in honour of Mademoiselle Louise Lemarchand, one of our community’s founders. That’s what I called her.

We had developed a close bond, mainly through our common passion for sewing. She was born in Rennes, into a family of working people. Her father carried out jobs for the community. Marie-Louise had been in contact with the nuns for much of her childhood and as a result greatly admired them. She told me she had clearly felt the call to the religious life, and I envied her for that.

Marie-Louise was, like me, in her last novitiate year. We shared all our sewing tricks. I told her about Sister Adolphine, who had taught me so much about the art of dressmaking. That was all I could think of before going to sleep and I often designed clothes in my notebooks, which I had never shown to anyone.

On Sundays, we exchanged what we had learned up to then, like the cross-stitch, commonly used to make a strong seam; overcasting, meant to keep a fabric from fraying; or the running stitch, for invisible hems. We also talked about haute couture. We wondered how many hours it would take us to sew, by hand, a dress sketched by a fashion designer. A nearly impossible task, we thought. We fantasized together about design and tailoring. Sunday afternoons flew by this way and were wonderfully stimulating. We would start the new week of classes with fresh energy.

We also had retreats, called “vocation retreats,” where we questioned ourselves about our faith. I took advantage of these periods of contemplation to ask myself if I might possibly have received the call of God and the religious life without actually being aware of it. I didn’t remember receiving an unmistakable call like Sister Marie-Louise’s. And what exactly were you supposed to feel?

To help us reflect on this question, the community had drawn up a list:

You experience God’s call if your taste for prayer and your affection for Jesus Christ are unwavering; if, from time to time, you have felt stirring within you a desire to become a nun; if you do not care about money, or possessions, or about dominating others; if you are able to live a simple life and like living communally, as a member of a group.

I did feel more or less everything on this list, but perhaps not intensely enough.
The
big question tormenting me was: “Do I love God sufficiently?” I obviously loved God, except that the term “sufficiently” made me hesitate. Just how great was this love? And wasn’t my desire to become a nun the logical result of the first part of my life at the convent?

The nuns had often told me that it was thanks to the community and to the education I received there that I had become the exemplary woman I was. They also emphasized the fact that I had never wanted for anything. Did I feel so indebted to the nuns that I would devote the rest of my life to them, though I was only twenty-two?

Communities often expected orphans they had taken care of to become nuns. It seemed like a natural way to pay back what they had spent on us. I think that was the idea they were trying to convey to me. I realized, though, that, if I agreed to this destiny, my future would consist of servitude, obedience, and complete submission. Despite these reservations, I was happy.

During my self-examination, I never once questioned my vow of chastity. Of course I felt certain desires once in a while that struck me as abnormal, but at those times I tried to take my mind off things. I would get up, write in my notebooks, or pray. There was no question of my admitting to these urges in confession; what happened between
me
and
me
, I said to myself, only concerned
me
.

I would soon be married to God, and marriage was the most important thing for a twenty-two-year-old girl. We were going to give our life to God forever. To me, it was a great mystery, however, because this union wasn’t something tangible. And at that age, what does “forever” mean? Never mind my uncertainties, I took my perpetual solemn vows in the month of Mary, on the first Sunday in May of the year 1934.

This marriage to the Lord was a grandiose ceremony. The convent’s chapel overflowed with white flowers. There were about forty of us taking the veil that day. We were all very nervous. One sensed a feverish excitement in the air, as on the morning of a wedding.

Mass was celebrated first. Then, after the reading of a passage from the Gospel, began the ritual of the interrogations concerning our oaths. This is when I whispered my first “yes,” which bound me to the community’s rules. Next, we prostrated ourselves, lying face downward on the ground, while the other nuns sang the Liturgy of the Saints.

I was anxious and worried, unsure whether I had grasped the deeper meaning of my commitment. Had I properly understood that I agreed to live all my life in poverty, chastity, and obedience?

I chose the name Sister Marie-Noëlle, simply because it was both the name of the Virgin and her son’s day of birth.

The great event ended in a gargantuan buffet. I had never seen so much food. I discovered right then the pleasures of gluttony, one of the seven deadly sins, and this in spite of the vows I had just professed!

I now had a new status, being Sister Marie-Noëlle, a new habit, and a ring on my finger. The day following that memorable ceremony, I was also assigned to a new task, that of the laundry. In order to learn the various stages of the cleaning of clothes and bedding, I had to be trained for six months by the sister in charge. In the beginning I was very keen, but after a week I felt totally exhausted. At suppertime I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Same thing during evening prayers.

The heat and humidity on the premises were unbearable. Moreover, my new habit was made of thicker fabric than the uniform I wore as a novice, to say nothing of the coarse-cotton apron that helped to protect my habit. And it was only May. What would it be like in summer? When I mentioned to the sister in charge how exhausted I was, she replied curtly, “You’ll just have to get used to it, Sister!” I knew then and there that whatever my state of mind or malaise might be, no one would have any compassion. I had to endure everything without complaining. At that moment I hit upon the idea of making a habit that would be identical to the one we wore, but of a material twice as light. It would be reserved exclusively for nuns working on these premises. I talked about it with Sister Marie-Louise, who was thrilled to go and search for a fabric with me that would allow our skins to breathe. Our choice fell on linen, a natural fibre, which we would be able to dye black.

The day we could finally put on our new linen garb, the twenty-six nuns who worked with me appeared very much relieved. In the meantime, I had had to learn the tough job of laundering.

I had never realized that cleaning clothes could be such an arduous chore. One piece of washing could go through our hands thirteen times before being returned, spotless, to its starting point: everything had to be collected, sorted, coupled, marked, washed, rinsed, starched, wrung out, dried, ironed, folded, assembled, and delivered. The nuns placed their clothes in a net bag that had their name and number on it. As soon as the bag arrived at the laundry, the clothes were sorted into three categories: light-coloured clothes, thick clothes, and heavily soiled clothes. Every day of the week was identified by a thread of a different colour, which was pinned on each garment so that all garments would be dealt with in order of arrival. Then we needed to sew the small, more personal, items together so they wouldn’t get lost. My first task was to gather up the dirty socks, handkerchiefs, underpants, and sanitary napkins, which were in fact nothing but rags, since we didn’t have anything that was disposable. This operation was called “coupling.” It was a rather revolting job, and while carrying it out, I was often very close to bringing up my breakfast.

A few months later, I was put in charge of the ironing of sheets, pillowcases, and tablecloths. Creases were not tolerated. The supervising sister had noticed that I had an aptitude for this work. Even though my new task wasn’t easy, it was far less exhausting than wringing out sheets, which I had been doing previously. To remove as much water as possible, we had to fold the heavy, soaking wet sheets, wring them, and then beat them on a large washboard.

In 1937, I moved into the residence of the Eudist fathers, fifty-five kilometres from ours. I worked in the laundry there, too, and performed the same tasks. Although I found it strange to see a procession of men’s garments and undergarments go past me, at least I didn’t have to deal with soiled menstruation cloths anymore.

They had settled me in a little room I had all to myself. What a relief, since I had been feeling greatly in need of some privacy these past few months. I wasn’t complaining, but being on my own did me the world of good. The room was fitted out with a small white metal bed topped by a black crucifix, a chest of drawers, a tiny table and chair, and a hook to hang up my nun’s habit.

Right away, I felt happy there. I could write in my diary without fear of prying eyes. I particularly enjoyed being able to take off my robe and veil as soon as I walked in. I would double-lock the door, since I was only wearing my underclothes. It was a truly liberating experience for me because I disliked having my head covered at all times. I would scratch my scalp for a good ten minutes. Finally the air could circulate over my skin, and that was very pleasant. In summer, I would close my eyes and lie stretched out on my bed like this and savour the cool of the night. In short, I was delighted with my new little home.

There were about forty nuns working for the fathers. The evening meal was taken in a refectory fitted out for our use. My seat was very near the three sisters in charge of the various maintenance departments.

It was during one of these meals that I first heard about Adolf Hitler and the rumours of war that were going around.

It was the spring of 1939, and several fathers of the congregation were talking among themselves about this man who seemed to be feared far and wide. He threatened to wage war on all European countries, and the fathers believed that another world war might well break out. One month later, I was asked to go to the congregation’s mother house because Mother Superior wanted to see me. Six Canadian nuns were sent for like this. Mother Superior told us that the rumours about a looming global conflict worried her.

She informed us that to divert the attention away from the “foreigners” we were, we would have to travel back and forth continually between Guernsey and Brittany during the summer in order to cover our tracks and prevent the French authorities from making us return to Canada. She would do everything in her power to protect us, but couldn’t predict the future.

Although I hadn’t forgotten about my birthplace, Chicoutimi, since living in Brittany, the idea of going back at some point was the farthest thing from my mind. What for? For my family, whom I had never seen again apart from a single visit from my father? To serve my community? I was serving it very well over here. If there was one feeling I had never experienced in all my young life, it was definitely “homesickness.”

If it’s true that human beings are destined to have several lives, I must have lived in Brittany in a former one because I felt completely at home there. I had quickly adapted myself to the customs, the food, and the attitude of the people, and I loved the way they spoke. I could easily have stayed in Brittany until the end of my days.

So, from May to August, we made many trips back and forth between the nuns’ residence on Guernsey and the monastery of the Eudist fathers, where I went back to work as soon as I returned.

The tension in the world appeared to have risen by a notch, and we rarely went out into the gardens because the people of Rennes were growing increasingly afraid of strangers. Never having lived through such a conflict, I was unaware of the gravity of the events. The religious life was a comfortable cocoon, in which prayer played a major part. I was completely ignorant of the issues of this war. Moreover, no one informed us of new developments on the international scene. Only snatches of conversation reached us during the evening meal. It was precious little.