Fitting In
The adventures of a homeschooled VT farm girl plunked into deep water in a small Swiss village.
I arrived in Dornach, Switzerland, on August 25th, 1958. My Swiss parents — Fritz & Irma Kappeler — met our train when it pulled into the station in nearby Basel. My diary tells it like this:
I was really excited when we arrived at Basle. I stood outside while M Dressler got the baggage. It was 11:10.…through the darkness, I saw a man walking briskly towards me. For an instant, I didn’t know who it was. Then I realized IT WAS FRITZ! Then, behind him came Mrs. Kappeler, or Irma. She hugged me really hard, and called me Clydli. (Clydli means Little Clyde) All the way to the car she was cuddling me and everything. I felt like I should say something but I couldn’t. When we got home I was served coffee!!!!! I just sat there and didn’t drink so they asked if I wasn’t hungry. Then Irma gave me some milk. At last I got to bed with a feather bed on top of me.
The next morning, I learned that in less than a week, I’d be going to school. That night I wrote in my diary “… I am wondering what it will be like.” Indeed.
Instead of entering 6th grade as I would have back home, I was put into a combined 7th- and 8th-grade classroom because that teacher spoke a little bit of English. The work was much too difficult at first, and of course the classes were all taught in German, with very particular requirements in terms of the layout of work on the page, exacting penmanship, and so on. So I felt very odd and out of place for several weeks. I was rather homesick in these first weeks while I adjusted to new foods, manners, language, and home life. I continued writing in my diary during this time, which has many mentions of homesickness. I even called home a few days in to ask if I could come back home, but on the other end Mom said firmly but lovingly, “You wanted to do this and got it all arranged, so now you need to stick with it.”
So off I went to school. Fritz would’ve been the one who walked to school with me on that first day. Stepping out the door, we could breathe in the heavenly aroma of baking bread and pastries coming from the bakery next door. (The huge oven backed up to our property line, and I recall standing in the flower bed to place a hand on the outside wall of that bakery, feeling the warmth of the oven directly on the other side.) On the way to school, we would have passed the butcher’s shop, where on certain days a calf strained at a rope outside, bawling mournfully. (Later that same day I might be sent to purchase fresh veal cutlets for our dinner …) Next door to that was the tavern, where I remember having to step inside the dark and boisterous place full of men, to buy a large mugful of beer to take home to “Papa.” Where our street, Kanzleimattweg, intersected the main street, there was a small grocery. Evelyn, the 22-year-old daughter of the house, often sent me there to fetch a chocolate bar for her.
We had French class on that first day of school. While the teacher, Herr Bischof, wrote a list of words in French on the blackboard, the pupils translated, writing the German equivalent on their papers. I, who spoke nary a word of either language, sat agonizing and pretending to consider the options for word choice — and then wrote down one supposed German word after another, crossing it out over and over as if somehow I would miraculously conjure up the correct word. To this day I can visualize that sad page, blotted with black ink, my pathetic scrawlings soaking the crisp gridded paper.
By November, I knew enough Swiss-German to talk comfortably with my new friends, and to understand the classes well enough to get by. (We were required to speak High German in school.) Writing in the diary abruptly stopped since I no longer needed to find solace there. The occasional entries now told of interesting adventures and weekend outings with the family to notable places in Switzerland and beyond.
I had learned how to get along in some subjects, notably French, where I rose to the top of the class. Now, when we stood in a circle for word drills or text translation, classmates vied to stand next to me so they could ask through nudge and whisper for surreptitious answers to upcoming problems — since each person could calculate ahead which passage they’d have to do when their turn came.
Religion class was held every Thursday. Most of the students were from a Catholic background. I was a hybrid product of Mom’s Episcopalian upbringing, Dad’s Quaker beliefs, and my own nascent paganism. It was decided that I should be put in a class with the four Protestant pupils. I remember only moment from that class. We were standing in a circle to be quizzed — standard drill in all classes. One of the boys — Hans — was very tall, very shy, and painfully awkward. When the questioning came around to him, the poor fellow instantly became a writhing mass of speechless agony. His face turned deep red and he struggled to speak the answer, which was obvious to him and to all of us. I willed him to just spit it out: “Gott!” But after a few terrible moments, he blurted out “Der Teufel!” instead.
Math remained my most challenging subject. Having to lay out calculations neatly on graph paper, one digit per square, was the least of my problems. The level was far above my capabilities. There were weekly drills where we stood around our tables, five students per table, as the teacher rattled off long strings of numbers and operations which you were to perform in your head, raising a hand when you had the answer. For each new problem, hands would instantly shoot up all over the room. Herr Bischof would call on somebody, and if the answer was correct, that person could sit down to gloat, while those remaining sweated. Needless to say, I was always the last one standing.
Once a week, the girls would walk to Upper Dornach where the classes in Handarbeit or needlework were held. The class was taught methodically by a small, white-haired woman who was very strict. We learned to use a sewing machine — which was old hat for me — as well as knitting, embroidery using a variety of stitches and edging techniques, and pattern design. A culminating project was to create a pattern for our own undershirt and underpants, which we then made from tricot.
One day in that class I was happily stitching away with great concentration, whistling while I worked as was my wont, when I gradually became aware of my name being repeated over and over again. When I finally looked up from my work, the whole class was staring at me. I realized the teacher had been trying to get my attention for quite some time as I blithely whistled on, oblivious. Every once in a while something like that happened that made me the center of attention — but not in a good way.
The embarrassment of the whistling episode paled by comparison with what happened on the first day of gardening class. On this day, the girls were going to be walking to a place where each one had a tiny garden plot to plant and tend. Dad and Mom had thoughtfully included in my trunk a new, never-worn pair of Levi’s — a coveted item back at home, since we all wore hand-me-downs most of the time. But these were brand-new — dark blue and as stiff as a board, as Levi’s were in those days.
On this particular day, because of gardening class, Mrs. Kappeler decided that I was going to wear those Levi’s to school. Nothing I could do or say would change her decree. I was miserable, knowing I’d be the only girl wearing pants of any sort among companions who would all be wearing their usual skirts and dresses. Please try to imagine the amazed stares, and my mortified misery, as I made my grand entrance into the schoolyard that morning, walking stiff-legged in pants that announced my arrival with a rough, scraping sound at every step.
At the end of each semester our grades (with 6 being the highest) were entered into a little red book, which each student took home to be signed by a parent or elder. As you can see, my highest achievement was in drawing, singing, handwork, sport, natural history, and French … and the lowest in history and math. Some things never change! However, my ‘diligence’ (Fleiss) was always 1, which was the highest in that category, equivalent to ‘satisfactory.’ I did improve most grades up a notch by the end of second semester.
This year away from home was filled with happenings I reflect on often. I’m forever grateful to my parents for letting me go at that tender age, and glad that I had to stick it out during that first week or two. Otherwise I would’ve missed out on many experiences that feel important and formative to this day. Though life in the Kappeler household was not always easy, and though some of the things that happened were quite scary and bewildering — I still can’t imagine life without that incredible year with my Swiss family.
How in the world did you do it? It is an amazing testament to your indomitible spirit!
Learning two languages at the same time?! You are one tough brilliant, cookie!