Young Writers Society

Ma Maman

In post-war France, women who had relationships with German collaborators were targeted by the public. They were publicly humiliated, often shaved bald before large crowds as punishment for their crimes. The children of these women, whether or not the children were at all related to the collaborators, were also mocked and ridiculed. This sets the scene for Ma Maman, a story taking place in 1946 Europe.

Amélie is a 16-year-old who lives in France. Her father died when she was a young child, but her mother is alive and well. Following a short fling her mother had with a German soldier, Amélie was ridiculed alongside her mother for their betrayal of French ideals. Finally fed up with her treatment, Amélie packs up and leaves to travel the continent, starting in Switzerland. She does so without speaking to her mother.

How Ma Maman Will Work

All participants will write short posts, about 1,000 words each, from the perspective of Amélie. You may anglicize her name as Amelie if you do not have an international keyboard. In this storybook, you don’t need to worry about ruining someone else’s character, as we all share the same character. Thus, this is an ideal storybook for anyone who is new to and daunted by storybooks.

You may post once, or you may post every other post. However, please don’t post several times in a row, and please read all posts before writing your own. Announce when you’re writing up a post in the Discussion Topic so we don’t have a number of people working on posts at the same time. If we go two weeks without the next post slot being claimed, then we can discuss consecutive posts.

You are encouraged to work on posts collaboratively, in Writer Feed Pads. This makes the writing process far more enjoyable, and if you’re new to storybooking, it will let you communicate with more experienced participants. We all are working together to develop Amélie and her story, so don’t do anything that directly contradicts previous posts, and try to make every post move her forward as a character.

This storybook will never close. It is never too late for someone to join in the writing process, since they don’t need to add a new character to the main cast. The project will conclude when Amélie at least learns to forgive her mother and returns to France.

I arrived in Switzerland on the sixth. It served as the first time I had left France, and I was surprised to find that the Swiss countryside was not particularly different from my home. The open fields rolled down over cascading mountains, and small farmhouses dotted the region. As I followed the footpath across the border and into the valleys of the Alps, I felt a coziness with the mountains on both sides of me. If there was any notable difference between Frace and Switzerland, it was those powerful rocky slopes. I was in awe almost immediately.

The backpack on my back was heavy, filled with as much food as I could fit as well as a sleeping sack and three sets of clothes to change between. I had heard a lot about Switzerland and the Swiss people, and it was my understanding that they were a rather pleasant people. I decided to stop by the first farmhouse I came to and ask for directions. I had some francs on my person after dropping into a pawnshop on the border. I had pawned off most of the jewelry my mom had given me, though for some reason I couldn't part with the damned locket I had received.

It was so old it didn't even open anymore. Raising me was an expensive endeavor for mom, so this old thing was the best gift she could afford me for my tenth birthday. I didn't wear it anymore. I didn't really know why I kept it, but I did. It wouldn't sell for much anyway. Without realizing it, I had pulled it out and was staring at it as I thought about it. Shaking my head, I shoved it deep into my pocket and turned my attention back to the farmhouse I was approaching. It was a small wooden cabin with a sunken roof and a mangled chimney, and chipped paint covered the outer walls. On the rotting porch was a larger woman with an apron on, and she had noticed me as I mused on my locket.

"Hey, girl! You got business around here?" She called out, and I breathed a heavy sigh of relief to find that she spoke French. I knew some in Switzerland spoke German, and my German was not its sharpest.

"Ah, yes, yes. I was wondering if you could perhaps point me in the direction of an inn or some other place where I could stay overnight?" I asked, approaching her.

The woman chuckled heartily. "You're a curious girl, aren't you? French accent, is it?"

I nodded with a smile, humoring the woman to be polite. Behind the smile, I desperately wanted to end this interaction and head for an inn. "Yes Ma'am. I was born and raised in Rocamadour, a little French town in a countryside much like this. Now, about that inn...?"

"Oh dear, it's going to rain soon," the woman said as she nodded to the clouds rolling in above them. "There aren't any nearby inns, and you'll be caught out in the rain if you try to get to one. Say, girl, why don't you stay here with Jean and I for the night?"

Caught off-guard by the unexpected generosity, I bowed my head in thanks. "I don't think I've introduced myself. My name is Amélie," I said as I joined the woman on her porch. She beckoned for me to follow her inside the cabin, and I did. Inside, I found that the interior was a quaint abode. One main room served as a the living space and a bedroom, and three doors extended off one wall. One door was swung open, revealing a barren bathroom. The walls were undecorated, covered only in a plain white paint. Despite this, I couldn't help but feel comfortable in the building.

"Ah, I haven't done so either. I'm Pierrette, and that," she said, gesturing to the frail-looking man seated on the sofa across from the two of them, "is my husband Jean. We have two sons too, Yvon and Basile, but they're out playing in the fields. Though they'll be home in a few minutes, seeing as it's to rain soon."

I bowed my head to Jean as well, grateful that he and Pierrette were allowing me into their home free of charge. Pierrette poured me a cup of tea, and the two of us sat around a rickety table they had tucked into the corner of the room. The chairs creaked when we sat down. I spoke with Pierrette for probably half an hour while Jean took a nap, and the two of us danced around having any meaningful conversation for the entire time.

At last she rose, looking to a pocketwatch she had improperly attached to her apron. "Basile is late. He should have taken Yvon home by--" Before she could say any more, we both tensed up as shouts could be heard from outside. Jean too awoke and rose from his seat, concern on his face.

"Maman!" came the distressed voice, floating in through an open window.

"That sounds like Basile," Jean said with a concerned glance at Pierrette. The two of them rushed outside, and I followed from a reasonable distance. I didn't want to intrude on, but I was curious what the commotion was about.

On the front porch was a disturbing sight. An older boy, probably about my age, knelt down. I presumed he was Basile. Tears streamed down his smooth cheeks from his hazel eyes, and his brown hair was tussled and filled with dust and debris. In his arms was a younger boy, Yvon, who looked significantly like Basile. I guessed he was maybe eight or nine. His face was badly cut up and bruised, and he was unconscious. But that was far from the worst part of what I saw.

One of his legs was badly mangled, blood dripping from a number of deep lacerations. His other leg was severed entirely, leaving instead just a bloodied stump about halfway up the thigh. I had seen this kind of thing before, back in France. It wasn't uncommon for children to stumble upon unmarked minefields left behind from the war, and the lucky ones only lost a leg or two. But never before had I seen it firsthand, this close to me. I lost my balance, and tried not to be sick.

"Get him inside," Pierrette commanded, and Jean helped Basile carry Yvon into the cabin. Rain began to fall from the clouds above, pelting me with pellets of water, and I reluctantly followed the distressed family inside. Perhaps I could do anything at all to help.

Jean had taken over the situation, and I was surprised to learn that he seemed rather adept at medical treatment. "We need to stop the bleeding or he'll die. Grab those bandages, someone," he said, waving his hands toward a roll of bandages that were on the table. I rushed over to assist, passing the bandages off to Basile who passed them to Jean. Their presence in such an accessible location told me that their use wasn't uncommon, but I hoped it normally wasn't in a context like this.

Burnt flesh desperately clung to the thigh bone of Yvon's skeleton, but Jean tore it away to place the bandage over the bleeding stump. He also did his best to salvage most of the flesh on the other leg, sealing the blood flow with more bandages. Fortunately, it seemed that he had succeeded, and he gently lowered Yvon’s leg down onto the sofa with him. No one said anything for a long moment, until at last Pierrette turned to Basile. “What the hell happened to him?”

Basile looked away, sniffing. “We were playing out near the minefield. I told him not to run past the signs, but he got distracted. I looked away for just a moment, I swear.”

“We’ve already told you that the minefield is off limits!” Pierrette shouted, and Basile stood up with a clenched fist. He pushed past us and slammed shut one of the three doors behind him. I presumed it was his room. Pierrette shook her head and nodded to the door left of Basile’s. “That’s the guest room. If you don’t mind giving us some time alone…”

I made my way to the room before she could say anything more, not wanting to intrude on their deeply personal situation. The guest room was an empty closet with a matted bed and an old bookshelf. Rather than books on the shelf, however, there were odd trinkets made from bent metal, shaped into various animals like birds and rabbits. One small window let muted light shine into the room, casting an eerie glow on the room. I felt disconcerted to be in it, but at the same time, it seemed as though I had been transported into another world. The golden metal sculptures shone in the otherworldly light, and I took a deep breath as I made my way over to the bed. "It was a dark and stormy night" was certainly a cliche, but the rain pattering on the sill only invoked that imagery. I couldn't help but be lulled to sleep near-instantly.



I awoke late in the morning the next day. My twelve straight hours of walking to the border of Switzerland had taken a toll on me, it seemed. A brighter light filtered in through the room, but I could see that it was still raining outside. Rising from my bed, I cautiously entered the main living space to find that it was almost empty. Only Yvon was laying on the sofa, a blanket covering his injuries. He looked dejected, but he seemed to try and smile when he saw me. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I answered, looking around the room. The clock read 11:30. “Where is everyone? Pierrette, Jean, Basile?”

“Basile left this morning, and Maman and Papa are looking for him. They’ve been gone a little while now,” he said, a hollow look in his eyes.

I sat down on the end of the sofa, realizing how alone this poor child must feel. “How are you holding up?”

“Papa gave me some medicine, so it doesn’t hurt.”

“But how are you holding up?”


Yvon looked like he was fighting back tears, and I could hardly watch. “I like running. In the morning, water is on the grass, and I like to run through it barefoot and get my feet wet. I want to do that again. But… But I’m never going to.” Outside, the rain began to fall harder.

Unsure how to help this heartbroken young boy cope, I put my hand on his shoulder and said nothing for a long while. “When I left my home,” I finally began to say, unsure where I was going with it, “I left behind all sorts of fun things like that. I didn’t know what it was like going to new places like this, and I was scared. And I’m still scared. It’s okay to cry, and it’s okay to be scared.”

Yvon began to sob before I knew what was happening, and I watched with an uncomfortable gaze. After several minutes, he gathered himself a bit, and between sobs he looked up at me. “Why did you leave… if… if it was scary?”

“Because I knew that all the cool things I was gonna see would make all the cool things I left behind worth it.”

Wiping his tears, Yvon put on a smile. “Then… maybe I’ll get to see some cool new things now, too. Instead of running through the grass barefoot.”

“I’m sure you will,” I said with a grin, and suddenly there was quiet. The rain was gone, and Yvon and I looked outside the large window behind me. The sun had come out as the rainy clouds began to clear up, and a warm sunlight was pouring in through the windows onto Yvon and I.

Yvon looked a little less dejected than he had a few minutes ago. The sun seemed to help. “Can you go help Maman and Papa find Basil? I want him to be safe.” he asked, and I could hardly say no to a request like that. But still, I hesitated at the thought of leaving him alone like that. “I’m okay.” With a nod, I stood up and made my way to the door. After one last glance at Yvon, I closed the front door behind me and found myself out in the fields of the valley.

The rolling green slopes beckoned to me, crying freedom as though to echo how I felt. The sun beat gently down on me, and I welcomed the warmth. Looking at the meadows, a pang of homesickness hit me. Then I shook myself. I was here to look for Basile. Once I found him, I would have to be on my way.
And yet, part of me wanted to stick around for some more time.

I strode through the grass, eyes scanning my surroundings thoroughly. Children. They could be anywhere. A child's mind thought beyond an adult's on so many levels. I walked into a lightly wooded little area with a stream running in the middle, slightly muddy from the rain. It was cool and dark here, and I made sure to peep into every bush I saw.
A rustling sounded behind me, and I jumped. "Who-"

Pierrette, hair tousled and messy, stepped out from behind a tree. "Amelie?" Despite the obvious despair in her face, her voice was steady.

I sighed with relief. "I came to help you find Basile. Yvon said..."

She nodded abruptly. "Thank you. I've searched these woods already, so there's no use looking here. There's a little hill some distance from here; the children like playing there. Could you head that way?"

I nodded. "Of course." Without further ado, she turned and walked away. I noticed how her fists were clenched and her back was stiff, the only sign of distress.
I headed for the hill she had pointed out, stepping lithely over the fallen branches and rocks. My legs were aching after a point - I had not quite recovered from the trek yesterday - but I kept going at a steady pace, climbing the hill as fast as I could. The sun grew hotter, and I began to regret not taking a water bottle with me.
Suddenly, a vague memory sprang to my mind; my mother and I, having a little picnic all by ourselves. Nothing to worry about other than the fact that we had both forgotten to bring any cheese.
I found my vision blurry, and angrily blinked away my tears. Gone, I told myself. Those days are gone.
Trying to quell the wave of bitterness that filled me, I continued to stride up the hill, eyes scanning my surroundings without really seeing anything.
I walked past Basile's hiding spot without realising it, then came to a dead stop and spun around.
There he was, tucked away into a little hollow, eyeing me apprehensively. His eyes were red and puffy, and he was obviously trying not to sniffle every now and then.

"Hey," I said softly, approaching him. "Your parents are worried. Let's go back home."

He shook his head vigorously. "They hate me. I hate me, too. I don't want to go back."

"They don't hate you," I told him as gently as I could. "You're their child, Basile, they'll always love you." All of a sudden there was a lump in my throat that had nothing to do with Yvon's injury.

Basile just glared at me. "Yvon will never be okay. He can't run and play anymore. It's all my fault."

"It isn't-"

"It is!" he shouted. A fresh wave of tears began trickling down his cheeks, and he tucked his face into his knees as he drew them close to his body.

I crouched beside him, silent. I didn't know what to do, but made soothing murmurs and tried to comfort him as best as I could. When his little body was no longer racked by sobs, I offered him my hand.

"Come on. Your parents don't hate you, Basile, I promise. Come with me and you'll see."

He mumbled something inaudible.

"Yvon doesn't blame you either. It's an accident, Basile, don't blame yourself. Let's go home." I tried to put as much empathy into my tone as possible, and finally his walls seemed to break.
Basile clambered clumsily to his feet, staring through red eyes in the direction of his house. I offered him my hand, and after a moment's hesitation he took it.

Together, we started back down the slope.

His hands were soft, like mine probably had been once. I didn't recall anyone holding my hand and walking me. Maybe this would be a memory to him that I unfortunately never made at his age? Absurd of me to think so with all that is probably going through his mind. I felt sorry for him but did I have the right to?

The walk back went by rather quickly, and I have my thoughts to thank for that. There was a difference in the atmosphere, one that was common. A difference that unpleasant things made. Was my life meant to be unpleasant? Even as I made someone else's problem mine, did this all happen because of me?

I'm truly pitiful am I not? I left home because someone else was being selfish just to satisfy my own selfishness. Now, I'm a bother to these happy and precious people who have suddenly seen something they'll probably never recover from. It didn't matter that something like this was common, or was it that this impacted me harder than them? No, I didn't want to believe that. It would be insensitive to do so, but then again; who was I to consider being considerate now? A bigger question than that - WHO WAS I?

We were back home. It seemed like I had made it back before Pierrette. "I should go get her back home," I thought before I noticed that Jean was at home. He was talking to someone, but there was nobody talking back. He was talking to himself

He was in Yvon's room. I ran my hand through Basile's seemingly silky brown hair - that now felt rough, probably because of all the dirt from outside. I didn't recall him looking fresh from a bath so that explained it.

I put my hand on his shoulder and said in a soft tone, "Stay home, okay? I'll go get your mother."

With that, I set out again, this time in search for Pierrette. And as I began to feel the disturbed fresh air, thoughts penetrated my mind like the sound of a pin drop, through the air.

"Who am I to think?" I asked myself.

"Amélie," a part of my head answered in old fashioned echoes - the types that fade out and still remain at the back of your head.

A selfish sixteen-year-old whiny little girl didn't deserve to be satisfied by a justification as poor as that, but it was all I had and I accepted it.

I accepted it all as I continued walking.

I walked through the fields, these thoughts running through my head as I called for Pierrette.

“Pierrette! I have found Basile! Pierrette!”

I heard a call back. “I’m coming!” Soon I saw a figure running toward me. Before I knew it, Pierrette was running past me to her house. I followed her at a slower pace.

As I walked, I thought some more. I cannot take advantage of Pierrette and her family’s hospitality for too long. Soon, I will have to leave. But where would I go? Italy? Perhaps. Germany? Definitely not. I need a map.

By this time, I had reached the door, so I opened it to a heartwarming scene. Pierrette hugging Basile, Yvon fighting back tears, and Jean rubbing Yvon’s back. I smiled and started walking to the guest room.

“Ameliè!”

I froze and turned back to Pierrette. Her face was red and wet.

“Thank you. If it hadn’t been for you, we might never have found Basile. Is there any way we can repay you?”

I took a deep breath. “I think it is time for me to leave. If you could give me some food and water for my journey, that would be enough. I appreciate your hospitality.”

I expected her to protest, but she was nodding. “I had a feeling you would say that. May you stay safe while on your journey.” She said.

“When will you leave?” Yvon asked.

“Tomorrow morning.” I found myself saying.

“Very well.” Pierrette said. “I will have a bag of supplies ready by morning.”

“Thank you.” I said. “I will pack my things.”
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
The next morning, I woke with the sun. For a moment, I wondered where I was. Then I remembered and quickly got dressed. When I left my room, Pierrette was there with a bag. She handed it to me, then gave me a hug. I stiffened. That was how Mother used to hug me. Pierrette got the hint and released me.

“It was wonderful to meet you,” she said. “Have a good and safe journey.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It was wonderful to meet you as well.”

She nodded and opened the door for me. I nodded back and left. As I walked down the road, I stopped for a moment and turned back. Pierrette was still standing there. I waved and she waved back. I turned again and kept walking.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
After walking for an hour or so, my feet and legs were aching. I heard something behind me and looked back. A wagon was coming toward me. I stopped and waited for it. When it came closer, it stopped next to me, and the driver took off his hat.

“Ciao, signorina! Where are you headed? Maybe I give you ride?” he asked.

I smiled. “I’m going to Italy. Venice. Are you going there?”

“Signorina, I live in Venice! I am traveling merchant. I have not seen my family in long, long time.” He sighed. “Times are hard, signorina.”

I sighed too. “Can I have a ride?”

“Sì, sì! Hop right in!”

So for the next two days, I rode with Antonio Lorenzo Mateo Esposito. He was forty-six and had three children. He was a traveling tailor but didn’t get a lot of money these days. He liked spaghetti and meatballs, and was a true patriot to Italy. All in all, he was a funny character and I liked him. Finally, we arrived in Venice.

It was a beautiful city, and I loved it immediately. While Antonio rented a gondola, I stared at the city and its wondrous buildings. The bridges were carefully carved, and you could tell that time, sweat and tears went into building them.

“Signorina, a small help?”

Antonio was loading his cloths and sewing tools onto a gondola. I went over and started picking things up. After a few minutes, everything was ready. The gondolier started singing an Italian song. I closed my eyes and swayed to the music.

After a little while, the gondola slowed to a stop and I opened my eyes. Antonio jumped up, rocking the boat. The gondolier protested rapidly in Italian and Antonio apologized.

“Papà! Ci sei mancato!”

A voice called from the riverbank and Antonio leaped out of the gondola. He ran toward the voice’s person and scooped her up.

“Gianna! Anche tu mi sei mancato !” he cried.

Soon, more people came out of the house. Two more children, and a woman. They all rushed to him and hugged him. They were all soon crying over him. I watched with a smile on my face. I got out of the gondola myself and began walking down the pathway, away from Antonio and his family.