It was the week before Christmas, 1966, in Carvin, a small mining town in northern France. My husband, Bill, got transferred there to be a technical director for an American-owned plastics plant. We moved from Massachusetts with our three young children. At first it seemed a great adventure, but for me it quickly turned into a real adjustment. Bill, who spoke fluent French, fit right in. But I struggled with the language. I also found it hard to get used to the rigid1 social and class distinctions, so unlike the States.
“Hi!” I called out, entering the house. Bill was helping the children string lights on the Christmas tree we'd bought from a farmer. “Did you visit the woman down the street?” He asked.
“No, just shopped,” I said. The previous Sunday the pastor2 of our little church had drawn me aside. “I've heard there are newcomers on your block,” he said. “Madame Delplace and her husband and children have moved from Strasbourg. She could need help. Perhaps you could drop by?”
Drop by? I'd passed Madame Delplace one day on the narrow sidewalk in front of our houses. She carried herself proudly, and when I offered a timid “Bonjour”, she walked past without a reply.
“I can't just force myself on her,” I told Bill. “I'm sure she won't talk to an American, much less one who speaks such bad French.”
“Why not at least try?” He said.
The next day I walked down the block and knocked on Madame Delplace's door. Madame Delplace answered, wearing a heavy black sweater, her hair pulled back in a bun and her lips pressed together tightly. “Je suis Madame Russell,” I said.
She hesitated, her gray eyes appraising me warily3. I thought she might slam4 the door in my face. But she stepped back. “Entrez, s'il vous plait,”she said.
She motioned me to sit and brought me a cup of tea. The kettle hung over a small fireplace. “You are lucky to have come while the kettle is still hot,” she said. “We have no money to buy coal. We've taken down the doors and burned them when we need to.”
I listened intently5 and was able to follow what Madame said. “You see,” she explained, “my husband did just one tiny thing wrong. He broke a French business law and the government forced us into bankruptcy6 to pay his debt. Officials auctioned off7 all our possessions. The only things we could keep were a chair apiece and our mattresses. I went from being middle class to lower class. No one in this town will talk to me.”
“Madame,” I said, choosing my words carefully in French, “I will talk to you. And it would be my pleasure to bring you some things for Christmas, for your children.”
My kids were excited about giving presents to the Delplace kids. They picked out some of their own toys. We wrapped them and took them to Madame Delplace's house, along with an envelope containing seventy dollars in francs. “This is not money that is to be repaid,” I said. “Someday you'll be able to pass the money on to someone else who needs it.”
She clasped8 my hand. “You have saved us,” she said, her voice wavering9.
I visited Madame Delplace every week. One day Madame took out her needlework, a ball of thread and a hook. With a flick of her wrist she began crocheting10.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“A table cloth for my sister,” Madame said. “Do you have a sister?”
“No, just one brother back in America,” I replied.
I loved my weekly teatime with Madame, not simply because my French was rapidly improving. We talked about serious subjects—politics, international affairs, religion. We discussed racism and injustice in both our countries.
The winter softened into spring. “Would your children like to come play with mine?” Madame asked. The play-date went so well I invited her children to our house to watch television.
“Would you like these clothes?” I asked Madame Delplace in the summer, holding up some shirts my girls had outgrown. She nodded and offered to make some lemonade.
Before I knew it, it was only a week till Christmas. Holiday lights bloomed on lampposts. Rich cakes shaped like Yule logs11 appeared in the patisseries.
The next time I went to Madame's for tea, sprigs12 of holly were arrayed13 over the fireplace. “I have finished the table cloth,”she announced.
“Please,”I said, “I have to see.”
Slowly, almost reverently14, Madame Delplace spread the cloth over the kitchen table. I caught my breath. “This could go into a museum!” I whispered.
She did something unexpected then. She folded up her treasure and held it toward me. “It is for you,”she said.
“I ... I can't,” I stammered15. “You made it for your sister.”
“You are my sister,” she insisted. “In all of our times together this past year, there is one thing I have never spoken about. The American war planes bombed Strasbourg. Those bombs killed my father. I vowed I would always hate Americans. Then you came to be my friend, and my bitterness melted. You must take this cloth as an expression of my thankfulness. Please.”
I clasped the cloth close to me. “Merci beaucoup,” I whispered, feeling both forgiven and forgiving.
So many years now have passed. But those serious topics Madame Delplace and I discussed over tea and crocheting still trouble the world. I think of the bitterness that divides people. Yet I remember her holding out the beautiful, exquisite cloth, so delicate and so strong, and I am reassured there is hope for us all. I remember that Christmas in a faraway place where I found a sister.
那是1966年圣诞节前的一个星期，在法国北部的一个采矿小镇卡尔文。我丈夫比尔被调到那儿一个美国人开办的塑料厂任技术主管。我们带着3个小孩从麻省举家搬迁。起初，这似乎是一次异乎寻常的经历，但对我来说，很快就变成了一次真正的适应过程。比尔能说一口流利的法语，很快就适应了环境。可我用起法语来就太费劲儿了。我还发现自己难以习惯那刻板的社会地位和阶级差别,这些与美国是如此不同。
“嗨!”我大喊着进了屋。比尔正在帮孩子们往我们从一个农民那里买来的圣诞树上挂彩灯。“你去看过住在街那头的那个女人吗?”他问道。
“没有，只买过东西。”我说。上个星期天，我们小教堂的牧师把我拉到一边。“我听说你们街区搬来了新住户，”他说，“是从斯特拉斯堡来的德尔普莱斯太太，还有她的丈夫和孩子。她可能需要帮助。也许你可以顺便去看看？”
顺便去看看？有一天我在我们房前狭窄的人行道上从她身边走过。她神情傲慢，当我怯怯地主动说了声“你好”时，她一言不答便走过去了。
“我总不能硬要人家接受我，”我告诉比尔，“我敢肯定她不愿和美国人说话，更别提一个法语如此蹩脚的美国人了。”
“为什么不至少试一试呢？”他说。
第二天，我走到街区那头，敲了敲德尔普莱斯太太的门。德尔普莱斯太太应声开了门。她穿着一件厚厚的黑毛衣，头发向后挽成了一个圆髻，嘴唇闭得紧紧地。“我是罗素太太，”我说。
她犹豫了一下，灰色的眼睛警惕地审视着我。我以为她会冲着我砰地关上门。可是她后退了一步说：“请进！”
她示意我坐下并递给我一杯茶。水壶就悬挂在小小的火炉上方。“你运气好，你来了水壶还是热的，”她说，“我们没钱买煤。需要时我们就把门卸下来烧。”
我用心地听，能听懂她说的话。“你瞧，”她解释道，“我丈夫只是做错了一件很小的事。他违反了法国的一条商法，政府就强迫我们破产来偿还他的债务。官员们拍卖了我们所有的财产。我们惟一能留下的只有每人一把椅子和我们的床垫。我从中产阶级降到了下等阶层。这镇上没人愿意和我交谈。”
“夫人，”我说着，小心翼翼地选择我用的法语词汇，“我愿意和你交谈。我很乐意带些东西给你们过圣诞节。给你的孩子们带些东西。”
我的孩子们为能送礼物给德尔普莱斯家的孩子们而激动不已。他们从自己的玩具中拣出了一些。我们把玩具包好，送到了德尔普莱斯太太家里，还附上了一个装有70法郎的信封。“这钱不用还，”我说，“也许哪天你能将这笔钱再转给其他需要的人。”
她紧紧握住我的手。“你救了我们，”她说着，嗓音有些颤抖。
我每星期都去看望德尔普莱斯太太。一天，她拿出她的针线活：一团线和一根钩针。她的手腕轻轻一抖，开始编织起来。
“你在织什么？”我问。
“为我的姐妹织一块桌布，” 德尔普莱斯太太说，“你有姐妹吗？”
“没有，”我答道，“只有一个兄弟，在美国。”
我喜欢每周一次和德尔普莱斯太太在一起度过的喝茶时间，并不只是因为我的法语进步很快。我们谈论严肃的话题——政治、国际时事和宗教。我们讨论我们两国存在的种族歧视和不公正现象。
冬去春来，大地回暖。“你的孩子愿意来和我的孩子们一起玩吗？”德尔普莱斯太太问。那天大家玩得很开心，于是我邀请她的孩子们到我们家看电视。
“你喜欢这些衣服吗？”夏天，我拿出几件女儿们已经长大穿不了的衬衫问她。她点点头，主动提出做点柠檬汁。
不知不觉中，离圣诞节只有一星期了。路灯柱上节日的彩灯闪闪发光。形状好像圣诞节原木的浓味蛋糕出现在了法式蛋糕店里。
我再到德尔普莱斯太太家喝茶时，只见枝枝冬青装饰在火炉上方。“我已经钩完了那块桌布，”她宣布。
“好啊！”我说，“可一定得让我看看。”
德尔普莱斯太太慢慢地——几乎是虔诚地——把桌布摊开在厨房的桌子上。我屏住了呼吸。“这简直可以送进博物馆展览啊！”我低声说。
这时她做了件我意想不到的事。她把她的这件珍品折好递到我面前。“这是给你的，”她说。
“我……我不能，”我结结巴巴地说，“这是你给你的姐妹钩的。”
“你就是我的姐妹，”她坚持道，“过去的这一年，我们聚在一起那么多次，有一件事我从来没有谈到过。美国的战机轰炸了斯特拉斯堡，那些炸弹炸死了我的父亲。我发誓要永远恨美国人。后来你成为我的朋友，我的怨恨也逐渐消失了。你必须接受这块表达我的谢意的桌布。求你了！”
我紧紧地抱着桌布。“太谢谢了！”我轻轻地说，既感觉得到了宽恕也感到了自己的宽容之心。
如今许多年已经过去了。但德尔普莱斯太太和我一边喝茶一边钩织时谈论的那些严肃话题仍然困扰着世人。我想到了那导致人与人之间产生隔阂的仇恨。但我还记得她拿出那块雅致漂亮的桌布时的情景，那么优雅，那么坚定，于是我再一次确信我们大家都有希望。我记得我在一个遥远的地方度过的那个圣诞节，我在那儿找到了一个姐妹。
1. rigid adj. 僵硬的，刻板的
2. pastor n. 牧师
3. warily adv. 谨慎地，小心翼翼地
4. slam v. 使劲关，砰地关上（门等）
5. intently adv. 专心致志地
6. bankruptcy n. 破产
7. auction off 拍卖掉 auction
v. 拍卖
8. clasp v. 紧握
9. waver v. （声音）颤抖
10. crochet v. 用钩针编织
11. Yule log 圣诞柴，圣诞节原木（指圣诞前夜放入炉中燃烧的大原木）
12. sprig [sprig] n. 小枝
13. array v. 装扮，装饰
14. reverently adv. 恭敬地，虔诚地
15. stammer v. 结结巴巴地说