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THE FLOWERMAKER
Amanda was nine years
old. She lived with her
mama and papa in an
apartment on the Rue St
Denis. Mama, Papa, little
mouse, Amanda and her
collection of beautiful
German dolls. It was 1940.
Mamawasn’t well. She had
a bad head and lay most
days in the shuttered room
at the end of the hall. The
door was always closed.
Their maid, Julienne, came
every morning to clean
the house and wash their
clothes and to tell Amanda
that shewas a very bad girl,
a spoiled girl. But Amanda
tried hard to be good. She
whispered, she tiptoed so
that she wouldn’t wake
Mama. She never made
a mess, was careful not
to scatter crumbs when
she ate her bread and she
folded her clothes and put
them away in the dresser
when it was time to go to
bed.
As it was the Christmas
vacation and Mama was
still not well and Papa had
to go to his office, Amanda
spent most of her time
alone in her room. From
her window she watched
Monsieur Arbot across
the way. As the weather
was wintry and dark, even
in the middle of the day,
he had the gaslight on in
his little shop. There were
not so many flowers then,
because it was winter,
because of the war.
Lately he had been selling
flowers made of tiny scraps
of fabric; the silk and satin
and tulle of long-ago ball
gowns, the silvery slippery