speech many times before. Everyone knew that public boys’ high schools ended the year with grand ceremonies, featuring important government officials wearing patriotic red, white and blue sashes across their chests. This year, Mme Roubinovitch had enlisted the mayors of the ninth and tenth arrondissements, who administered the neighborhoods in which most of the students lived, and a minor official from the Ministry of Education. Not as grand as the best boys’ schools could offer, but something.
At Mme Roubinovitch’s urging, they quickly agreed upon the music that would be played or sung, and which students would be allowed to demonstrate their talents. They had no difficulty deciding upon the prizes for excellence in art, mathematics, science, German and English. Then came the more difficult choices that most concerned Clarie, the history and French prizes, and the awards that involved every teacher in the school, the prizes for morality and virtue.
When Clarie voiced her hope they might find a way to reward as many students as possible, she got a swift rebuttal from Mme Roubinovitch. “Our girls must learn to accept what comes to them, and not take shining or not shining in front of others too seriously. Life will bring many disappointments.” Clarie should have known her principal would insist upon their responsibility to make young women think, and not cater to their feelings. With a nod, Clarie acceded to Mme Roubinovitch’s view and was rewarded by a smile so maternal in its affection, it made her blush with pleasure. How she loved her principal, how they all did.
As Clarie was recovering from this swell of emotion, her friend Emilie Franchet, who taught French, leaped into the breach by nominating her choices for the literature prize, an essay on Mme de Sévigné and on the poet for whom the school was named, Alphonse Lamartine. Clarie, in turn, described her choices for history, papers on the rule of Louis XIV and the heroism of Joan of Arc. She bit her lip as she waited for questions. When none came, she sat back with a sigh. She had done well. They were moving along.
Mme Roubinovitch herself taught the courses on philosophy and morality, and kept track of the students’ delinquencies, which, at the Lycée Lamartine, were slight and very few. The director expected no objection to her judgments. But when she announced that a Jewish student, Rachel Cahlmann, would get the award for moral example, Annette Girardet, sitting at the end of the table, raised her hand. “I need to say something about Mlle Cahlmann,” she said. The gasp was almost audible. Mme Girardet was merely an adjunct instructor who taught fancy sewing in the late afternoon to the daughters of widowers or working mothers.
“Yes?” Although Mme Roubinovitch got her surname from her husband, a doctor born in Russia, she carried it well. She had an exotic, almost Slavic face with dark eyes and full lips. At first Clarie had thought that she was an Israelite, but she wasn’t. She was, even more than most of her staff, a professed Catholic. But she had stood up against the parents who threatened to boycott the school because of the number of Jewish students who attended. And she had won. Clarie glanced across the table at her friend Emilie. They both raised their eyebrows and did their best not to smile. The frown that greeted the sewing teacher’s objection was something neither of them had experienced, or wanted to.
“She only stays because of her younger sister, and the fact that she has to wait for her father to accompany them home. She talks too much.” By now Annette Girardet’s voice was quivering. She took a breath and went on. “Lately, she’s been talking about this book, which claims that the traitor Dreyfus is not really a traitor. It was written by another Israelite.”
“So our Rachel has her own ideas about things.” Mme Roubinovitch pressed her lips together and gave the sewing teacher a piercing look.
“I just
At Mme Roubinovitch’s urging, they quickly agreed upon the music that would be played or sung, and which students would be allowed to demonstrate their talents. They had no difficulty deciding upon the prizes for excellence in art, mathematics, science, German and English. Then came the more difficult choices that most concerned Clarie, the history and French prizes, and the awards that involved every teacher in the school, the prizes for morality and virtue.
When Clarie voiced her hope they might find a way to reward as many students as possible, she got a swift rebuttal from Mme Roubinovitch. “Our girls must learn to accept what comes to them, and not take shining or not shining in front of others too seriously. Life will bring many disappointments.” Clarie should have known her principal would insist upon their responsibility to make young women think, and not cater to their feelings. With a nod, Clarie acceded to Mme Roubinovitch’s view and was rewarded by a smile so maternal in its affection, it made her blush with pleasure. How she loved her principal, how they all did.
As Clarie was recovering from this swell of emotion, her friend Emilie Franchet, who taught French, leaped into the breach by nominating her choices for the literature prize, an essay on Mme de Sévigné and on the poet for whom the school was named, Alphonse Lamartine. Clarie, in turn, described her choices for history, papers on the rule of Louis XIV and the heroism of Joan of Arc. She bit her lip as she waited for questions. When none came, she sat back with a sigh. She had done well. They were moving along.
Mme Roubinovitch herself taught the courses on philosophy and morality, and kept track of the students’ delinquencies, which, at the Lycée Lamartine, were slight and very few. The director expected no objection to her judgments. But when she announced that a Jewish student, Rachel Cahlmann, would get the award for moral example, Annette Girardet, sitting at the end of the table, raised her hand. “I need to say something about Mlle Cahlmann,” she said. The gasp was almost audible. Mme Girardet was merely an adjunct instructor who taught fancy sewing in the late afternoon to the daughters of widowers or working mothers.
“Yes?” Although Mme Roubinovitch got her surname from her husband, a doctor born in Russia, she carried it well. She had an exotic, almost Slavic face with dark eyes and full lips. At first Clarie had thought that she was an Israelite, but she wasn’t. She was, even more than most of her staff, a professed Catholic. But she had stood up against the parents who threatened to boycott the school because of the number of Jewish students who attended. And she had won. Clarie glanced across the table at her friend Emilie. They both raised their eyebrows and did their best not to smile. The frown that greeted the sewing teacher’s objection was something neither of them had experienced, or wanted to.
“She only stays because of her younger sister, and the fact that she has to wait for her father to accompany them home. She talks too much.” By now Annette Girardet’s voice was quivering. She took a breath and went on. “Lately, she’s been talking about this book, which claims that the traitor Dreyfus is not really a traitor. It was written by another Israelite.”
“So our Rachel has her own ideas about things.” Mme Roubinovitch pressed her lips together and gave the sewing teacher a piercing look.
“I just
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