Most Unforgettable Character—Bronze: Mme. Kraemer
by Gail Trotin
There she goes again. She stood only 5 foot tall, but she had a way about her that implied a certain strength in that small frame. This intrigued me. Her face, enshrouded by the hood of her black cloak, was deeply carved by a life full of soucis (worries) and yet the lines around her mouth and eyes indicated the tendency to laugh and smile frequently. Was she alone now? Did she have children? Where was she going every morning at 10:30 when she passed by my kitchen window?
Mme. Kraemer lived three doors down. She was an 83 year old woman who had resided in Mommenheim all her life. The neighbors on Rue des Pres looked in on her often, as was the tradition with the elderly members of the community. There was Jean, an old farmer who lived alone now, who went over every morning to open the heavy metal shutters for her and who returned every night to close them again. Then there was the younger couple across from her, Philippe and Anne, who took care of her garden and helped with the upkeep of her home.
She had no pets, no car, and seemed to live a solitary life. Yet she got out every morning for a slow but steady stroll. There were days she rounded the corner of the walking path by our house and headed down a ways towards the canal until she turned around and came back. There were other days when she would head into the center of town for a while. What was she doing there? She never came back carrying groceries of any kind, so I wondered.
It was a cool, sunny fall morning and I was out in my back garden hanging a load of laundry to dry on my clothesline, a truly a delightful way to spend a few minutes each day. Our garden ran along the walking path to the canal, so I got in the habit of greeting anyone walking by. On this day, I happened to be out when Mme. Kraemer strolled by. I didn’t see her right away, but caught the back side of her cloak as she passed and decided I would say hello when she turned around and strolled back.
As she walked passed my garden I could see her eyes look up into our walnut trees, follow the hedge and bushes planted on the far side of the yard, then look curiously at our 14 foot trampoline that sat in the middle of a few randomly shaped perennial beds. Her eyes finally fell on me, I nodded my head and said with utmost respect, “Bonjour, Madame.” Her eyes softened as she approached the 3 foot fence lining our property, so I did the same.
“Vous avez un beau jardin.” You have a beautiful garden, she said with a strong, yet lovely voice.
“Merci, Madame. I wish I could take credit for it, but we are just renting this house, so we simply keep it up. We do enjoy being out here.” I replied
She spoke right away of my children, two of whom were off at school and the last asleep in the house. “I have seen your three handsome boys, what good fortune you have. They are healthy and full of adventure. You must be very proud of them.”
She had been watching us too- what kind words she had to say about my children.
“Merci, Madame. And you, do you have children?” I inquired.
“Oh yes,” she said with a big smile, “and two grandchildren!” You could see the pride in her eyes.
“I love children,” she continued. “I was the schoolteacher here,” and she pointed to the village center, “for 40 years.”
Wow. I suddenly understood the strength, the lovely voice, the laughing eyes. She and I were kindred spirits instantly, for I have been a teacher all of my life, since the time I taught my second-grade neighbor how to read, back in kindergarten. What a pleasure it was to meet a fellow teacher in this faraway place! That revelation sparked an immediate connection between us and we talked for a long time about teaching, about children and about how times have changed. I was amazed at how sharp she was and how intelligently and articulately she spoke about her vocation. She lit up as I responded with laughter and a keen understanding of what being a teacher was all about.
The time flew by but I could tell that standing at the fence was bothering her legs.
“I should be getting home now. My legs aren’t what they used to be, but my doctor says I need to walk every day for my heart.” she finally admitted.
I was so tempted to invite her in right then and there for lunch, but remembered the sacredness of the lunch hour and wondered if that might be a bit too intimate for now.
“A bientot, j’espere! ” I hope to see you soon, I said as she turned to go. She smiled and nodded her head as if to say, “Me too, dear.”
I went in the house quite content to have made such a connection in this town. I looked forward to spending more time with her.
In the days that followed I would open my kitchen window and greet Mme. Kraemer whenever I saw her walking by. When I had time I would walk along with her and we would talk about many things. She was very interested in my life in America, because her daughter had lived in Canada for some time with her husband and daughter. They were back in France now, living in Strasbourg, and Mme. Kraemer spoke often of how much she wanted me to meet her daughter.
Then, on a day when she was headed into the town center, I offered to accompany her. She looked at me with a pained smile and said, “No, thank you dear, I am off to visit my dear husband at the cemetery and I prefer to be alone.” There was an awkward silence as I then understood her frequent visits to town.
“He has been gone just over a year now and I miss him every day. I am very alone and life just isn’t the same anymore.” she continued.
I did not know what to say, so I just grabbed her hand and held it for a moment. She looked up at me and with a tear in her eye she smiled and then went on her way. I was sad for her for the rest of the day and wondered how someone at that age could get on with life after losing a partner of 50 plus years.
After that encounter, I did not see Mme. Kraemer for a number of days and began to worry and wonder about her. It had gotten colder, but it was not like her to miss her daily walks. I finally asked Jean about her and he said she was in the hospital, she had had a heart attack. My heart raced, wishing I had known earlier. I could have gone to visit her at the hospital, brought her whatever she needed from home, done something to help.
That very afternoon I was out in front of my house and a blue Audi drove by. The driver put on the brakes and backed up to where I was standing, in front of my mailbox. A stranger put her head out of the window and said, “Are you Mme. Trotin?”
“Yes, that’s me.” I answered.
“Oh, I am Mme. Kraemer’s daughter and I have heard so much about you. You have been very kind to my mother and I want to thank you.”
I was so delighted to finally meet Isabelle, whom I had heard much about as well. We chatted for a few minutes and I was happy to know that Mme. Kraemer was alright and would be returning home soon. She would be going back into the hospital in a few weeks, however, to have a pace maker put in. In the meantime, she needed to stay in bed and not exert herself. I assured Isabelle that I would check in with her mother as often as I could, and she assured me that she would be coming up from Strasbourg every night to stay with her. I was relieved to hear that.
A day or so after Mme. Kraemer returned from the hospital, I made her an asparagus and potato potage, took along half of a fresh baguette and walked with Cody down to her house. I had never been inside her home.. She came to the door, dressed in a wool skirt, a soft sweater and a lovely scarf around her neck. Her grace and beauty was undeniably French, even while recovering from a heart attack She was delighted to see us and invited us in immediately. We exchanged bisous (cheek to cheek “kisses”)and I gave her the soup. She seemed almost incredulous of the fact that I would bring her soup, that it was entirely too kind, but it seemed to me a small, neighborly gesture.
She slowly led us into her salon in the front of the house and we sat on green velvet chairs trimmed with dark walnut wood along the arms. There was a heavy glass chandelier hanging above an ornate walnut coffee table in the center of the room. The lamps and furnishings were all antiques of the Victorian variety, with fringe and braided trim. There were family pictures adorning the walls and lace hung in all the windows. She insisted on serving cafe and I realized that serving me was an important part of her feeling better. She was sweet enough to bring out some biscuits for Cody too.
This visit was different. She was clearly feeling reflective of her long life, of her career, of her role as mother and wife. I felt so privileged to listen to her stories, often beginning with “Before the war…” or “After the war…” She spoke of how the village had changed, what it was like when the Germans had occupied many of the villages in Alsace and how difficult it had been for the children. I felt as if I was in a movie, wishing I could record every word and every facial expression of this amazing woman.
After her surgery, Mme. Kraemer was too weak to return to her home and she spent the rest of the winter with her daughter in Strasbourg. She did, however return in late spring and Cody and I made our way to her house to say hello one Sunday afternoon. She looked well and rested and, like the garden in spring, full of life. Her whole family was with her and as I walked past the house to the garden where everyone was, I could see her joy. She introduced me to everyone and they were very welcoming.
Her grand-daughter approached me and asked me in English. “So, where in America do you come from? We lived in Canada for 3 years and I miss it. I am hoping to go to university there.” We chatted a bit as we took a walk around the family garden. Mme. Kraemer plucked ripe figs, plums and pears off her trees for me to take home. We did not stay long, but as Cody and I walked home, I wished I could preserve forever some of those fruits as a reminder of the gifts that a life well-lived can bring. Mme. Kraemer, who knew great pain and loss, also knew the riches of family, of a vocation, of loyalty to her community.
When we left Mommenheim to move back to the states, Mme. Kraemer cried. Those tears, coming from a woman of such strength, meant to me that our time being neighbors was a time of sunshine in her life, and in mine. I promised to write, but her tears were also those of wisdom…she knew we would never see each other again, and might only write a few times. She was right. We exchanged Christmas cards one year and I have not heard from her since. I wish I had her daughter’s address, but perhaps Mme. Kraemer is with her dear husband now.
When I return to Mommenheim, and I will return someday, I’ll stroll down Rue des Pres, up the walking path to the village cemetery as she so often did alone, and visit the woman who inspired me to live gracefully, love deeply, and accept the truth of my circumstances, whatever they might be. We get but one life after all…
