A French Education

A small cloud of dust appeared when the small, black notebook hit the floor. The young girl looked quickly around to see if anyone, especially her mother, had noticed her carelessness. Her mother was in the other end of the antique shop, examining other dust-covered items.

“It chooses you.”

The girl whirled around to see an old woman behind a worn, wooden counter gazing at her intently. The woman was very old; she looked like a shrunken china doll, covered with fine cracks.

“What do you mean?” asked the girl.

“The book, it chooses you. Maybe it will have a special blessing for you. You should buy it. It is only two dollars.”

The girl dug in her pocket. “I only have one dollar.”

“That is fine. Give me the dollar.”

And that was the beginning.

The girl put the notebook in her backpack and went home with her mother. Once she was alone in her bedroom, she took the little book out and examined it. It was small, with a cracked, black leather cover and old, yellow, handwritten pages. It looked like a diary, but the girl wasn't sure because the handwriting was in some foreign language.

The next day, the girl took the book to school and showed her teacher a page. “What language is this?” she asked.

“Why, that is French,” replied her teacher. “I know a little French, maybe I can help you read it.”

“No, that's okay,” said the girl, “but thank you.” She did not want to share her special book with anyone, not yet. Once at home, the girl put the book in the place she kept all her special things. She decided to learn French so she could read the book. However, as time went on, the mysterious little black book was forgotten.

A few years passed and the girl entered high school. She enrolled in a French class, and upon seeing the French words in her lesson book, she was reminded of the mysterious little black book. Spurred on by her desire to be able to read the book, she did her best to learn the language quickly. Every night, she sat and read a few pages as well as she could.

It was a diary. It had belonged to a girl named Elise—Elise Cohen—and was a birthday gift from Elise's father. Elise and her family had lived in Paris, and the diary was filled with her day-to-day adventures and accounts of her family, friends, and classes. The first entry was dated March 14, 1940, and following entries painted a picture of a happy, well-to-do family, living a good life with everything they needed. However, the tone of the diary gradually changed. The entries became sadder, more insecure and frightened.

On May 5, 1941, Elise wrote, “I miss Father. I don't understand why he had to leave. Why can't we go to school? Why don't people like us? What is going to happen? I'm afraid.”

And that was the last entry; the rest of the pages were blank.

The girl was puzzled. Who was Elise and why was she afraid? Why did she stop writing in her diary?

The next Saturday, the girl found her way back to the antique store. It was still there, looking exactly the same as before. With the little black notebook in hand, she slowly pushed the door open and found her way to the old wooden counter. Instead of the wrinkled old lady, a much younger woman was now waiting on customers. “Can I help you?” the woman asked.

“I was here a few years ago and bought this notebook from an old lady. Is she still here?”

“No, she passed away a year ago. Did you read the book?”

“Yes, I did, and that's why I'm here. I thought the old lady might know what happened to Elise, the girl who wrote it.”

“Do you know French?” asked the woman.

“I learned it so I could read the book,” explained the girl.

“Sit down and I'll tell you the story. But first, what is your name? Tell me about yourself.”

The girl sat down and said, “I'm Elisabeth. I love history and want to learn about people who lived in the past, what happened to them.”

“Well, Elisabeth, the old lady who sold you the little black notebook was Elise, and she was my grandmother. She always wondered if the young girl who bought her diary would come back to ask about it. She said that it would take a very special person to read her diary and try to find out about her. In case you did come back, she wanted you to have a special blessing. She left you some money in a scholarship account—$20,000. She felt if you could care about what happened to a frightened little girl who grew up many years ago, you would deserve this blessing. And... you look like her, I mean... like she did... when she was a girl.”