I Survived Swiss
Boarding Schools

Part 1 “Birth Accidents”
1955-1958  La Clairière, Villars, Switzerland
Chapter 1 — La Clairière, September 1955

After a brief introduction to this intimidating, ungainly couple and without ever viewing the school’s facilities, my father announced that they were leaving immediately. I had become accustomed to being with my family and was already worried about them leaving me in this strange, dark building. A lead bowling ball seemed to have lodged in my stomach, a new feeling that would continue to plague me all my life and become a constant challenge for me to keep under control. But boys were not supposed to cry, and I was maintaining my composure until my mother’s sobbing released my tears. I wept and choked as my father hurriedly rushed my mother outside and into the car. I watched through a window as the car maneuvered around and crept down the hill leaving new tire tracks in the mud. I looked for those tracks, my connection to my family, until new rains washed them away.

My steamer trunk, standing alone in the front hall, appeared to be my only link to my past. Its colorful stickers from the Andrea Doria, the Isle de France, and the Flandre, ocean liners that we had traveled on, reminded me of happier moments; I had already developed a life long love for luxury liners and shipping history. But, for now, I decided to take my father’s advice and cheer myself up by bringing my broken toy to the workshop.

“Sir, may I please go to the workshop and have my toy fixed?” I asked Monsieur Beauverre as I opened my trunk to show him the broken horse and carriage.

With the speed of summer lightning, Beauverre swung his long arm in a wide arc that landed on the side of my face, propelling me across the narrow hallway and slamming me into the wall. Stunned, I slid to the cold, grey, stone floor. Through the shock, I felt a stinging pain on my face and back as well as the icy coldness of the floor. Cold still brings me pain and fear, which, in turn, create the dreaded, weighty pain in my stomach.

“I’ll teach you about workshops and toys, you little brat!” were the first words Monsieur Beauverre ever directed to me.

“Take the trunk up the stairs to your room and unpack at once. Put all your belongings out on the bed and Madame Beauverre will decide what you may keep. And take off your shoes. If you scratch the stairs you’ll meet with me again!” he growled as he glared at me. His steel grey eyes would cause me fear every time I saw him, so that I tried to avoid his eyes, just as I tried to avoid his hand, his wrath and the sound of his wife’s footsteps.