[Editor’s Note: We are grateful for the life and work given by late Claire French, Ph.D. and entrust that she is in the bossom of the Great Mother ever.]
A translated excerpt from the author’s book: Meine verkehrte Welt: von Bozen nach Australien
Mutti, who was still staying with me at Bozen, was heartbroken because I did not receive the Lord’s Supper according to the Lutheran rite as she herself had received it, dressed in black like a penitent sinner. She could not bring herself to be present at the Service and felt as if she had betrayed the whole Reformation. I felt very sorry for her. In the meantime there was some important shopping to be done, and that was the duty of Patin, my godmother. I needed a white Communion dress (but not a long one as the Italian girls used to wear for the occasion) a veil with a wreath of orange blossoms, a large Communion candle, a Missal and a rosary. Everything had to be of the best quality and was bought in the most expensive shops under the Arcades.
I can remember that shortly before the great day I was to be presented to the Dean, which was a great honour. Sr Direttrice explained to me the prescribed etiquette. I was to bend my knee to the Dean and kiss his amethyst ring. This was asking too much for my Lutheran upbringing. I just could not bring myself to do it and feigned to be sick. The nuns were putting it down to my excitement and did not insist. On the great day I climbed the stairs to the chapel feeling as if I was ascending to paradise. My teachers and class mates as well as Patin and Uncle Othmar followed.
This day of my First Communion had the effect of an initiation. From this day on the Sunday Mass and Fr.Gandolf’s sermon to us children always made a deep impression on me. So did the atmosphere of the church, which was built in Neo Romance style from big blocks of purple porphyry. The main altar was overshadowed by a large gold monstrance containing the consecrated oblate. The holy vessel looked like a huge mandala to remind us of Christ’s everlasting presence.
The inside walls of the church nave were decorated with mosaics in the Romance style and the high set windows left it in semidarkness. Each time I entered this church I was filled with a deep devotion. In those early years I had not yet learnt about meditation, but I must have practiced it unconsciously. As I had been told that the church had been built by my late paternal grandfather and my late uncles, it was to me like my family’s own temple. After the service we arrived home to a festive luncheon which Mutti had prepared, but I noticed that she had been crying. That dampened my happiness.
Uncle Othmar and Patin had made it a condition that I shared a room with my Grandmother, Maria Wieser nee Danay, a septuagenarian who had born eleven children and had lost eight of them. She was lamed because of a broken hip and lived now at her daughter’s home. Tied to a wheelchair she was visited daily by Sister Clara, a private nurse of the Third Order of St.Francis. Soon we became good friends. Father Eugen from the Franciscan monastery was Grandmother’s confessor and each first Friday of the month he brought her Holy Communion. At these occasions Sister Clara acted as substitute altar boy and I admired the way she recited the ritual prayers in flawless Latin. Soon I had memorised the whole Confiteor and would have loved to be an altar girl. Yet at that time, decades before the Second Vatican Synod, altar girls were never heard of. Father Eugen laughed at me and explained that Sr. Clara occupied a special position, but as a mere girl I would never be allowed to serve at the altar, no matter how perfect my Latin was. For the first time I was filled with rage and anger to be born a mere girl, a second class person. Surely that could not be God’s will. My passionate feminism in later life had its origin in this injustice.
Patin was not a very affectionate person and neither was Uncle Othmar. So I tried to find a little loving kindness elsewhere. In the basement of the house there lived Uncle’s mother, Josepha Leitner, a widow from Bichlbach in Ausserfern, a Swabian speaking enclave in the Tyrolean speaking country. She was over eighty and had lost her elder son in Russia and her two daughters Theresa and Rosina had died of the Spanish flue. I called her Grosstante, great- aunt, and she gave me all the love her old heart could give me. In return I loved her more than all my other Tyrolean relatives.
Meet Mago Contributor Claire French Ph.D.