The Introduction

Some people believe in God. When I lived in Domrémi, as a farmer’s daughter, a long time ago, I too believed in God. My village was burn by English non-believers. They destroyed and terrorized our peaceful valley. I was living in fear along with the survivors. Our country was in shambles, poorly managed by a King who was insane. People like us had no status. We were heavily taxed and offered no protection from the financial demands of the nobility. They could cut across our land with their horses and destroy our crops, steal our food and rape our daughters. Our young men were recruited to life of servitude and as they outlived their usefulness were dispatched to starve and die alone.

We lived from day to day, a life of misery and our only solace was God. We lived with faith and hope that he heard our prayers and would make a better tomorrow for us and our descendants. Our priests encouraged us to pray and be patient and endure all ignominies in hope that it would bring us closer to God and that our suffering would be rewarded in another life. They told us that God would take us into his welcoming arms and lift us to Paradise and that all our oppressors would burn for eternity in Hell. Somehow, the promise of a better life after death was enough to keep us quiet and obedient like a flock of lambs. We called our priests, “our Shepherds.” And they were, since they kept us as human resources prepared to continue our service to the King and his government agencies when summoned.

I was fortunate since my father was comfortable by the standard of our times. We owned 50 acres of land and my dad had a few part-time jobs to supplement our income. He worked as a tax collector, was also a part time member of the local police. My mother ran the farm with him and my brothers, Jack, Jean and Pierre. My sister Catherine and I took care of the animals that we raised and helped my mother with all the cleaning, cooking, weaving, sewing, butchering and other necessary domestic tasks.

Catherine was my older sister and she was like a little mother to me. It was Catherine that dressed me and fed me in the morning and took me with her to feed the geese and chickens that we kept. She taught me to make clothes for myself and how to prepare goose liver patés, fine goat cheeses and sweet berry jellies. But what I enjoyed is listening to Catherine’s voice at night, telling me wonderful stories. These stories glorified the lives of our saint martyrs and were full of exciting battles between good and evil.

Catherine left me when she was thirteen to become the wife of one of my father’s friend who was a widower with a large family. Colin was a good man but Catherine was a romantic and had hoped to marry a younger man. She knew that she could not choose her husband; none of the women could make that kind of decision. But Catherine in spite of her lovely disposition and gentle manners was not considered beautiful so her prospects were limited. I cried when she left. I kept a lock of her hair in a small purse that I wore against my heart until Catherine died in childbirth at fourteen. I buried that small reminder of my sister in field of wild flowers, up on the cliff that overlooked our home. I made a promise to her, that no man would ever dictate who I was to marry. I promise Catherine that I would live to change the future. That my future would not end with my death.