Anne
Marie-Laure woke from her sleep as her father called her name from the doorway. “Time to get ready for school, ma Cherie,” he said while walking toward the side of her bed. She groaned as her father’s strong grip pulled her up into a sitting position. With feet planted firmly on the ground, she reached for her cane under the bed. When she found it, she stood up. Marie-Laure felt as if she was surrounded by infinite amounts of space, but she knew her mind was playing tricks on her. She reminded herself that the yellow walls of her bedroom were no further than three or four steps in each direction from her bed. She struggled to trust herself walking forward. “You have done it hundreds of times Marie,” her father reassured her, “you know where you are”. She had been blind for just under a year now and was still trying to adjust to a lifestyle filled with hidden dangers.
When she reached her dresser, her father described the clothes she placed her hands over. "Pink blouse," he says, "white sweater." When she found the blue skirt and yellow blouse she was looking for, she headed for the kitchen, grabbed her books and started the trek to school with her father by her side.
The school was not far from Marie-Laure's house, but the route was always filled with distractions: Ms. Tremblay's barking dog at the corner of rue Rousseaux and boulevard Covier; a deep crack in the sidewalk just before avenue Fourier; and the schoolyard itself, filled with shouting children on the move. The route would take anyone else only ten minutes to complete, but for Marie-Laure, it took twenty.
Her teacher, Mme Loreaux, sat at her desk in the corner of the classroom. When she heard the tapping of Marie-Laure's cane and the creaking of the wooden floorboards, she greeted her with a half-friendly "bonjour". "Bonjour, Mme Loreaux," Marie-Laure replied before taking her seat at the back of the class. Marie-Laure had always been quite fond of Mme Loreaux, but lately she noticed a change in her teacher’s behaviour. Marie-Laure remembered how in the previous year her teacher would regularly visit her at her desk and check to see how she was doing with her schoolwork. She remembered a time when Mme Loreaux would smile when they would make eye-contact during lessons. Most importantly, Marie-Laure remembered Mme Loreaux taking time at the end of the school day to speak with her. Marie-Laure’s memory recreated the sound of her teacher’s velvety voice asking her thoughtful questions like those that a mother would ask her daughter. Her teacher was caring, kind, and one of the most supportive people in Marie-Laure’s life. But that had all changed. Sometimes Marie-Laure felt as if Mme Loreaux was not teaching the class. She knew her thoughts were incorrect when she heard her teacher’s velvety voice in the opposite corner of the classroom. When Marie-Laure heard it this morning for the past year, the velvet turned into leather, stiff and rough.
The room filled with a symphony of chair legs scraping against the floor, children’s voices, and shuffling books. Marie-Laure sat silent amongst the madness and barely noticed when Anne sat down beside her. She could only tell that Anne had arrived when the other children began to giggle in the same sinister way they would when they pulled the edges of their eyelids to imitate the way Anne’s eyes were slanted upwards. Surely they are teasing her, Marie-Laure thought. Half-relieved that the attention was not directed toward her, Marie-Laure leaned to her right and told Anne to not pay attention to the others. Anne had joined the class last autumn and hadn't spoken a word to anyone, teachers included, since the day she joined. Marie yearned to know what her voice sounded like. She could remember Anne’s round face, massive blue eyes that were indeed slanted upwards, petite nose and ears, and blonde bouncy curls. Marie-Laure knew that Anne was different in some way, she just wasn't sure exactly how. Marie-Laure remembered sitting behind Anne last year and watching as she struggled to write the letters of the alphabet over and over again in a red notebook- the only thing aside from a pen- that she brought to class. While all the other students would practice their reading and mathematics, Anne would put her head down and continue her practice. The teachers would never give Anne any attention and would barely step in when she was being teased. It seemed as if Anne was not a student in the class, instead she was an observer. A silent addition to the otherwise noise-filled room.
Today, Marie-Laure could tell that Anne was still practising. She could hear the pages of Anne’s notebook slowly turn in increments of two minutes. She is getting quicker, Marie-Laure thought. Marie-Laure felt a closeness to Anne that she no longer felt towards her other classmates. Like Anne, Marie-Laure was ignored in class, pushed aside and left responsible for her own education without the assistance of those who were supposed to assist her. They both drifted through the school days, learning nothing more than how to sit quietly and ignore the rude children who sat in the rows in front of them. Marie-Laure wondered if this frustrated Anne as well. She wondered if Anne was annoyed by sitting in a room listening to a lesson being taught without being able to contribute. Today the class discussed an article in the newspaper which spoke about Germany’s new leader, Adolf Hitler. Marie-Laure listened as Henri read an excerpt. “Hitler aims to rid Germany of its flaws in population,” he read aloud to the class. “Germans support the leader’s goals to purify the Aryan race by eliminating its imperfections,” he continued.
The article ended and Marie-Laure felt a sense of relief. She hated listening to the articles written about Hitler and his Aryan agenda. She hated listening to racist remarks, offensive slurs and vulgar language that came out of the German leader’s mouth. Suddenly she felt someone’s presence in front of her. “Who’s there?” she asked. “Hitler isn’t just getting rid of the Jews you know.” Marie-Laure could tell it was Jean in front of her speaking. “He’s getting rid of the retards as well”. Marie-Laure felt herself tense up. “Hush Jean,” she said, “you’re being foolish”. “You better stay far away from the Germans, Marie-Laure,” he continued on, “I heard they inspect every household in search of people with disabilities”. “Jean you know nothing!” she shouted angrily at the boy. This time when he replied, she could feel him so close to her that she could feel his warm breath on the side of her neck as he whispered his final remarks. “They look for people who are deaf, walk with a limp, mute, and blind,” he paused. “They will find you Marie-Laure, and take you away from Paris to a place where the skies are grey, pain fills the atmosphere and happiness does not exist”. Marie sat at her desk, paralyzed from the shock. Her body frozen while her thoughts moved a hundred miles per minute. Her imagination created images of men taking her away from her father and forcing her to go to that nasty place Jean described. Her thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of a grip on her shoulder. Marie felt the hand atop her shoulder. It was silky smooth and connected to a skinny arm which stretched to her from the seat beside.
Marie-Laure woke from her sleep as her father called her name from the doorway. “Time to get ready for school, ma Cherie,” he said while walking toward the side of her bed. She groaned as her father’s strong grip pulled her up into a sitting position. With feet planted firmly on the ground, she reached for her cane under the bed. When she found it, she stood up. Marie-Laure felt as if she was surrounded by infinite amounts of space, but she knew her mind was playing tricks on her. She reminded herself that the yellow walls of her bedroom were no further than three or four steps in each direction from her bed. She struggled to trust herself walking forward. “You have done it hundreds of times Marie,” her father reassured her, “you know where you are”. She had been blind for just under a year now and was still trying to adjust to a lifestyle filled with hidden dangers.
When she reached her dresser, her father described the clothes she placed her hands over. "Pink blouse," he says, "white sweater." When she found the blue skirt and yellow blouse she was looking for, she headed for the kitchen, grabbed her books and started the trek to school with her father by her side.
The school was not far from Marie-Laure's house, but the route was always filled with distractions: Ms. Tremblay's barking dog at the corner of rue Rousseaux and boulevard Covier; a deep crack in the sidewalk just before avenue Fourier; and the schoolyard itself, filled with shouting children on the move. The route would take anyone else only ten minutes to complete, but for Marie-Laure, it took twenty.
Her teacher, Mme Loreaux, sat at her desk in the corner of the classroom. When she heard the tapping of Marie-Laure's cane and the creaking of the wooden floorboards, she greeted her with a half-friendly "bonjour". "Bonjour, Mme Loreaux," Marie-Laure replied before taking her seat at the back of the class. Marie-Laure had always been quite fond of Mme Loreaux, but lately she noticed a change in her teacher’s behaviour. Marie-Laure remembered how in the previous year her teacher would regularly visit her at her desk and check to see how she was doing with her schoolwork. She remembered a time when Mme Loreaux would smile when they would make eye-contact during lessons. Most importantly, Marie-Laure remembered Mme Loreaux taking time at the end of the school day to speak with her. Marie-Laure’s memory recreated the sound of her teacher’s velvety voice asking her thoughtful questions like those that a mother would ask her daughter. Her teacher was caring, kind, and one of the most supportive people in Marie-Laure’s life. But that had all changed. Sometimes Marie-Laure felt as if Mme Loreaux was not teaching the class. She knew her thoughts were incorrect when she heard her teacher’s velvety voice in the opposite corner of the classroom. When Marie-Laure heard it this morning for the past year, the velvet turned into leather, stiff and rough.
The room filled with a symphony of chair legs scraping against the floor, children’s voices, and shuffling books. Marie-Laure sat silent amongst the madness and barely noticed when Anne sat down beside her. She could only tell that Anne had arrived when the other children began to giggle in the same sinister way they would when they pulled the edges of their eyelids to imitate the way Anne’s eyes were slanted upwards. Surely they are teasing her, Marie-Laure thought. Half-relieved that the attention was not directed toward her, Marie-Laure leaned to her right and told Anne to not pay attention to the others. Anne had joined the class last autumn and hadn't spoken a word to anyone, teachers included, since the day she joined. Marie yearned to know what her voice sounded like. She could remember Anne’s round face, massive blue eyes that were indeed slanted upwards, petite nose and ears, and blonde bouncy curls. Marie-Laure knew that Anne was different in some way, she just wasn't sure exactly how. Marie-Laure remembered sitting behind Anne last year and watching as she struggled to write the letters of the alphabet over and over again in a red notebook- the only thing aside from a pen- that she brought to class. While all the other students would practice their reading and mathematics, Anne would put her head down and continue her practice. The teachers would never give Anne any attention and would barely step in when she was being teased. It seemed as if Anne was not a student in the class, instead she was an observer. A silent addition to the otherwise noise-filled room.
Today, Marie-Laure could tell that Anne was still practising. She could hear the pages of Anne’s notebook slowly turn in increments of two minutes. She is getting quicker, Marie-Laure thought. Marie-Laure felt a closeness to Anne that she no longer felt towards her other classmates. Like Anne, Marie-Laure was ignored in class, pushed aside and left responsible for her own education without the assistance of those who were supposed to assist her. They both drifted through the school days, learning nothing more than how to sit quietly and ignore the rude children who sat in the rows in front of them. Marie-Laure wondered if this frustrated Anne as well. She wondered if Anne was annoyed by sitting in a room listening to a lesson being taught without being able to contribute. Today the class discussed an article in the newspaper which spoke about Germany’s new leader, Adolf Hitler. Marie-Laure listened as Henri read an excerpt. “Hitler aims to rid Germany of its flaws in population,” he read aloud to the class. “Germans support the leader’s goals to purify the Aryan race by eliminating its imperfections,” he continued.
The article ended and Marie-Laure felt a sense of relief. She hated listening to the articles written about Hitler and his Aryan agenda. She hated listening to racist remarks, offensive slurs and vulgar language that came out of the German leader’s mouth. Suddenly she felt someone’s presence in front of her. “Who’s there?” she asked. “Hitler isn’t just getting rid of the Jews you know.” Marie-Laure could tell it was Jean in front of her speaking. “He’s getting rid of the retards as well”. Marie-Laure felt herself tense up. “Hush Jean,” she said, “you’re being foolish”. “You better stay far away from the Germans, Marie-Laure,” he continued on, “I heard they inspect every household in search of people with disabilities”. “Jean you know nothing!” she shouted angrily at the boy. This time when he replied, she could feel him so close to her that she could feel his warm breath on the side of her neck as he whispered his final remarks. “They look for people who are deaf, walk with a limp, mute, and blind,” he paused. “They will find you Marie-Laure, and take you away from Paris to a place where the skies are grey, pain fills the atmosphere and happiness does not exist”. Marie sat at her desk, paralyzed from the shock. Her body frozen while her thoughts moved a hundred miles per minute. Her imagination created images of men taking her away from her father and forcing her to go to that nasty place Jean described. Her thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of a grip on her shoulder. Marie felt the hand atop her shoulder. It was silky smooth and connected to a skinny arm which stretched to her from the seat beside.
