La Petite: A Memoir
Michèle Halberstadt, Linda Coverdale
Language: English
Pages: 40
ISBN: 2:00086322
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In La Petite, the renowned French writer and film producer Michèle Halberstadt vividly recounts the painful events that surrounded the death of her beloved grandfather when she was twelve years old. Michèle’s mother favored her older sister, her father was emotionally remote, her teachers dismissive, and her peers a foreign species. Her grandfather alone had given her an image of herself that she could embrace. After he died, there seemed to be nothing left for her. One day she decided that she’d had enough of life. The pills in the bathroom were within reach and the temptation of falling asleep forever was irresistible.
La Petite is neither grim nor sentimental. Halberstadt, the recipient of both the Legion d’Honneur and the Ordre du Mérite, France’s two most prestigious awards, has perfectly captured the emotions of the little girl she once was. Every woman will recognize something of herself in this moving story about adolescent grief, solitude, and awakening.
Translated from the French by Linda Coverdale.
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decisions concerning the larger questions of his children’s education or an extraordinary household expense, he left our daily lives in my mother’s hands, and she acquitted herself with exhausting efficiency. Father made sure that we respected his own values but never interfered in our lives unless my mother considered a problem serious enough to warrant his attention. Which occurred in particular three times a year, with the arrival of my report cards. My father had tried everything:
nightstand. My parents slept in the living room, where the big sofa became a bed as well. Only my sister had a room with a real bed—which she could leave unmade and where she could lie daydreaming—and a door she could close upon her secrets. Excellence must be cultivated: to flourish it requires effort and a keen sense of priorities. My parents sacrificed the intimacy of a bedroom on the altar of the future. In exchange, my sister made it a point of honor to rise to their expectations. I could
interest. Bernadette was low on charm, which lent her a certain luster in my eyes: she had the singular merit of not making me feel more inadequate in her presence. She was taller than I, of course, since I was always the youngest and shortest, but her outdated blouses with puffed sleeves, her glasses with their thick lenses, and her big feet placed her in the category of “nobody special.” That scared me less than the Shetland sweater gang. There must have been three or four of us who came up
danger. None of us realized that we were up against a bitch. Was it because my house was along the way to hers? I easily beat out my rivals. I was the one with whom she preferred to walk home from school. There were three bakeries along our route, and she stopped at each one to load up on chocolate teddy bears, caramels, and cream puffs, her favorite. Since her mother had her on a diet, she ate fast, gobbling up her entire bag of sweets before she got home, but then felt guilty about eating so
that had never bothered me before. I needed my own space, but I didn’t want another hiding place. So I tidied up. I threw away all my Laure notebooks, which I now saw for what they were: conclusive evidence of my mediocrity. I reviewed my class photos; I really did look like a mouse. I’d have to change my glasses and give up pigtails. I wasn’t that dwarf girl anymore, but only I was aware of it. There was no outward sign of my transformation. I returned to my piano with unexpected pleasure.
