Two Testaments (48 page)

“Pierre, you’ve prepared a feast!” Sister Isabelle gasped.

Pierre’s eyes twinkled. “It is the least I could do for Mother Griolet. A farewell party for a dear friend.”

Mme Leclerc and Mme Pons came to St. Joseph together, slipping into the dining hall with large platters of sliced pork garnished with red potatoes, parsley, and tomatoes. “We expect there will be a big crowd,” Mme Leclerc whispered to Sister Rosaline. “Is there anything else we can do to help?”

As they were speaking, Roger Hoffmann, looking stronger and refreshed, carried in a wooden carton filled with bottles of wine. “It’s a small contribution. I hope it will help.” He flashed Monique Pons a smile, and she reddened.

In spite of themselves, the women giggled happily when he left the room.

“Oh, forgive me,” said Sister Isabelle. “I’m not showing proper respect for Mother Griolet.”

“Don’t be silly,” chirped Sister Rosaline, pulling the wine bottles out of the carton and setting one on each table. “Can’t you just see Mother Griolet laughing? The last thing she would want is a bunch of long, distraught faces at her funeral.”

Mme Dramchini and her daughters brought in three large bowls full of steaming
tagine
.

“If you please,” Mme Dramchini said awkwardly. “You can use this?” She motioned to Saiyda and Rachida, who presented the bowls to Sister Rosaline.

Mme Pons, Mme Cabrol, and Mme Leclerc eyed the Arab women suspiciously.

Sister Rosaline took the bowls of food at once. “It looks delicious. How thoughtful of you.” She kissed the Arab women on the cheeks, and the tension in the room seemed to melt.

Soon the French women were gathered around the Arab women, inspecting the bowls of thick stew and asking for the recipe.

“I’m sure my girls would love this dish,” Mme Leclerc clucked. She reflected for a moment, then added under her breath, “If I have any more girls.”

Mme Pons brushed away her friend’s comment. “Oh yes, I’ve always heard that this Algerian stew is superb.”

Mme Dramchini beamed.

Gabriella left the dining hall, shaking her head in amazement. French and Arab women laughing together as they prepared for a funeral! She went through the parsonage to the chapel.

Stepping into the interior, she gasped at the display of bright colors in the normally somber room. Her mother was setting up bouquet after bouquet of flowers at the front of the chapel, and the sweet scent permeated the room. “They’re gorgeous,” Gabriella exclaimed.

“Oh, and, Mother, look at these! Aren’t they beautiful?” Gabriella bent over and inhaled the sweet aroma from a bunch of bright-white daisies. “It’s such a touching testimony of her life. There’s a stack of letters on her desk that we haven’t even had time to open.” She sat down in a pew and closed her eyes. “I can’t explain it, but it’s as if my heart were lighter today. Isn’t that strange, Mother?”

Her mother smiled. “Not so strange, my dear. After all, this is a celebration. Mother Griolet is with the Lord. She is perfectly happy.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. It’s not nearly so sad as with Ericka.” Her eyes met her mother’s and held them in a steady gaze.

“No, it’s quite different. Mother Griolet lived a full, productive life. She served God and touched lives. But one thing is the same for Ericka and Mother Griolet. They are both happy now.”

A celebration. Perhaps Mother was right. Whatever the reason, Gabriella found herself humming a hymn later that morning as she checked on the children, helping to tie a bow or straighten a sock. She had instructed them to wear their darkest clothes as proper etiquette for a funeral.

As she left the dormitories, David came to her and held her hands. “How are you doing, Gabby?”

“I’m doing well. I can’t explain it exactly. It warms me deep inside to see what one life can mean to so many. I want to be like her, David. Oh, how I want to be like her.”

He held her in his arms and stroked her hair. “Yes, quite an awe-inspiring woman.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I’ve written something … a eulogy of sorts. I wondered if you’d take a look at it and tell me if you think it would be appropriate to read at the funeral.”

“Why, David,” Gabriella said as her eyes quickly scanned the page. “It’s beautiful. Yes, you must read it.”

“You don’t think it would be too radical, for someone to just get up and read something at a funeral? I don’t want to horrify anyone.”

“I don’t know of anyone who was more radical than Mother Griolet. It’s perfect.”

In the late morning Joseph and Emeline Cohen had driven to St. Joseph from their hotel in Montpellier, having arrived from Switzerland the day before.

A moment later Henri Krugler came into the dining hall.

“Pleased to meet you, M. Krugler.” Sister Rosaline bowed slightly. “M. Cohen was just telling us that you wish to say a few words during the funeral service.”

“If I may, yes.”

“Well, I suppose that would be fine. M. Madison will be speaking as well. And the
curé
, Père Thomas, will officiate. He should be here any minute.” She shrugged. “It will not be a typical funeral, but somehow I’m sure Mother Griolet would approve.”

“I think that’s so.” Joseph handed Sister Rosaline a letter. “She left these instructions with me when we reworked her will. She wants no pomp and circumstance. She named some Bible verses she would like to have read and even suggested that the children could repeat them by heart.”

Sister Rosaline chuckled as she read the letter. “Yes, it will certainly be different. She wants rejoicing at her funeral. Short and simple, she says. And pointing to the Lord.”

The funeral was scheduled for two o’clock, but by one thirty, cars were parked up and down the side streets of Castelnau. Inside the chapel every inch of space was filling up. At the front of the nave, just before the altar rail, sat the casket.

Gabriella waited near the doors, helping the Sisters find empty seats for those who were arriving. David and his father, along with several of the older boys from the orphanage, had gone into the parsonage to bring in extra chairs from the dining hall. The other children sat fidgeting on the first three rows of pews. Anne-Marie, Mme Dramchini, and her daughters were dispersed among them, intent on keeping them quiet.

Eliane Cebrian came down the aisle with her three children, and Anne-Marie scooted closer to the orphans, making room for them. M. Krugler took a seat directly behind the children in the same row as the Madison family.

Pierre and Denise sat with Yvette and Monique, both of whom wore hats with veils and dabbed their eyes now and then with handkerchiefs. Jean-Louis shuffled into the chapel, dressed in a neatly pressed dark-brown suit with a white carnation in the lapel. He looked around the chapel, walked to the front, crossed himself, and sat down.

The chapel was full, and still the townspeople poured in, nodding to one another in solemn silence, wiping the perspiration from their faces, closing their eyes to say silent prayers.

Joseph Cohen stood near the back, shaking hands with many young people who were not from the village.

“Some of the Jewish children who were here during the war,” Sister Isabelle whispered to Gabriella. “M. Cohen contacted them. They’ve come quite a ways to pay their respects to Mother Griolet.”

Gabriella thought for sure that the crowds would thin out, but when she peeped out the side door to the chapel, she saw that there was still a long line waiting to come in. Inside, some arrivals were moving to the left, where there were no pews, and standing tightly together. Meanwhile, David and his father placed folding chairs on either side of the pews, so that the center aisle became a narrow path.

Gabriella greeted the goldsmith from Montpellier, Edouard Auguste, at the door, then kissed Madeleine de Saléon from Aix-en-Provence lightly on the cheeks before she slipped into a chair that David had just set up.

Three men, staunch and solemn in their black robes, processed to the front of the chapel, lifting their eyebrows in surprise when they saw the crowded conditions.

“Père Thomas and two of Mother Griolet’s superiors from the church,” Sister Isabelle whispered to Gabriella when the men were out of earshot.

Sister Rosaline directed them to the front pew where three seats had been reserved for the clergy.

“Oh dear, what are we going to do? There’s no more room and still so many people outside,” Sister Isabelle worried.

“I’ve got an idea,” Gabriella said. She made her way to the front three pews where the children sat. “This is our last chance to help Mother Griolet. Would you like to do that?”

They nodded, surprised.

“So many people have come to the funeral that there is no more room to sit. Would you mind moving to the side and sitting on the floor?”

The children’s faces lit up with glee.

“But you must behave. Sit absolutely still until it is your turn. Understand?”

Again they nodded. Quietly they left the pews and took seats on the cool stone floor.

Gabriella, sitting on the floor beside the children, counted silently to herself. Over three hundred fifty people were crowded into the chapel. The air was muggy and pungent with the smell of flowers.

Père Thomas watched, perplexed, as the line of people continued to file in. He mopped his brow and caught Joseph Cohen’s eye. Joseph shook his head as if to say that the funeral could not yet start.

It was stuffy and hot, but no one spoke. Gabriella felt it again. A velvety softness, a hushed anticipation. At long last, Père Thomas stood and walked to the simple wooden pulpit.

“
Messieurs, dames
, we are here today to honor the life of Jeanette Griolet, a faithful servant of our Lord Jesus for well over fifty years.”

His voice droned on, and it struck Gabriella as completely inappropriate to have this man who barely knew Mother Griolet preside at her funeral. But he spoke for no more than five minutes before relinquishing his place to Henri Krugler.

Henri smiled out at the people of Castelnau. “You do not know me,” he said in his booming voice, “and I do not know you. But for years I have heard of a feisty little nun in Castelnau who ran an orphanage. Recently I had the privilege of meeting this rare woman. You, like me, have been blessed by this woman’s life. You, like me, have come to pay your respects to her.

“Some of you have only walked through the town to be here today. Others have traveled from the farthest parts of France. There are people from Switzerland, Senegal, America, Algeria. We represent many different countries; we are Catholic and Protestant, Jew and Muslim, French and Algerian. But we are gathered together to honor a woman who honored her God.”

Henri spoke for a few more minutes, then took his seat.

William Madison then went to the pulpit. “You do not know me either, but some of you have come to know my daughter, Gabriella Madison. Fifteen years ago, when the war had just ended, my wife and daughters spent three months in Montpellier. The circumstances of those months drew my wife, a Protestant missionary, and Mother Griolet, a Catholic nun, close. Mother Griolet had a remarkable impact on our family during the hardest time in our lives.”

Gabriella listened to her father’s words as beads of perspiration dripped down her back. Mother Griolet had brought people together. The funeral was the testimony.