She didn’t venture into the market building itself, but instead went straight to the French grocer. It was, as Mam’selle had said, impossible to miss. There was the green-and-white-striped awning, to begin with, and the name above the door.
MARCEL NORMAND GROCER & PROVISIONER
FINE FRENCH FOODS OUR SPECIALITY
She hurried inside, thinking only of finding what she needed as quickly as possible, but halted in the doorway, her senses awhirl. Garlic and herbes de Provence scented the air, and the labels on the packets and cans were all in French, and there was Marcel Normand himself, standing behind the counter, his red face and prodigious mustache instantly familiar, never mind she’d never set eyes on the man before. All of it was so comforting. She smiled at the grocer, raising a hand in greeting, and let herself wander about, her greedy eyes making a feast of everything they saw. If she’d had the money she’d have emptied the shop.
“Good afternoon,” Monsieur Normand said as she finished her tour and approached his counter. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Bonjour,” she answered. Seeing how his smile widened, she continued on in French, explaining that Mademoiselle Davide had sent her, that she was in need of one hundred grams of green olives, the same amount of prunes, about twenty-five grams of fennel seed, and—although she knew it was a rarity indeed—something that might impart the flavor of fresh orange peel. With his every nod her heart lightened. He even found some dried orange zest for her, apologizing in advance for its elderly state.
“I do not think it will taste much of anything,” he said after taking a sniff, “but it is better than nothing.” He refused to take anything for the pinch of orange zest he’d given her, and only asked one shilling and sixpence for the other items.
She shook his hand, thanked him several times for his kindness, and tucked her purchases into her bag. Feeling in need of refreshment, she followed her nose down the street to an Italian café. It was amazing how restorative a few gulps of coffee could be. Hot, bracingly black, and pleasingly bitter, it lifted her spirits far more effectively than the insipid cups of tea so beloved by her English friends.
She paid for the coffee and took out her fare for the Tube ride home, tucking the coins in her coat pocket so she wouldn’t have to dig for them later. As she did so, her fingers brushed against something. It was the business card, now rather battered, of the man she and Ann had met on their way home from the dance hall a few weeks before. Walter Kaczmarek.
Unbidden, a single thought dropped into her mind. She had liked him. Liked him despite not wishing to like him. There had been something compelling about the man, impossible to measure in words alone, and she realized, abruptly, that she badly wanted to see him again.
She took out her A to Z and searched for Fleet Street. It wasn’t far away at all—a half hour’s walk, if that. She stood at the counter of the café for a long while, her gaze flitting between Mr. Kaczmarek’s card and the place on the map, half-hidden by her forefinger, that marked the location of his office. And then, for the first time in living memory, Miriam threw caution to the wind.
Tucking the card back in her pocket, she walked down the street to a phone box by the corner. After inserting her pennies, she dialed the number and waited for someone to answer.
“Good morning, Picture Weekly,” a cheery voice said in her ear. And then, after a long pause, “Good morning? Hello?”
Of course. She had to press the button to deposit the coins and complete the connection. “Good morning. I would like to speak to Mr. Kacz—”
“To Kaz? Of course. May I furnish him with your name?”
“Yes, if you wish. It is Miriam Dassin.”
“Please hold the line.”
A few seconds, no more, and then the clatter of someone picking up a receiver. “Miss Dassin. What a pleasant surprise. May I hope you’ve decided to take me up on my offer of lunch?”
“Only if you are not occupied. I have been shopping nearby. At least I believe it is not far—the market of Spitalfields?”
“Then you’re quite close indeed. There are some decent pubs near the market, but the food isn’t what I’d call inspired. Do you like fish?”
“I do,” she said, and then, cautiously, “I assume you do not speak of fish and chips.”
“No, this place is several steps up from your typical chippie. Do you have a pencil to write down the address? Yes? It’s called Sweetings. Thirty-nine Queen Victoria Street. The easiest route is south along Bishopsgate, then, at the point where it branches into two, stay on the right. That’s Threadneedle Street. When you get to the intersection at Bank Street, continue straight ahead onto Queen Victoria Street. Sweetings will be on your left. What time suits you?”
“I have finished my errands. Any time is convenient.”
“And I’m just finishing my day here, so you’ve caught me at the perfect time. It should take you twenty minutes to walk there. Shall we say half an hour? Just to be on the safe side?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’ll wait outside. À tout à l’heure,” he finished, his accent surprisingly good.
She had walked along Bishopsgate on her way to the market, so it should be an easy matter to find it again by heading in a general southwest direction. She set off down the street, holding her bag close to her chest as she shouldered her way through the crowds. It seemed as if half of London had decided to do their weekly shopping at the market.
She turned onto a side street, walking south for a block before turning west, the sidewalks growing steadily emptier. Ahead, a group of people were emerging from a narrow lane, the men all dressed in dark suits. Some of the men wore hats. A few, she noticed, wore a kippa.
The sight almost stopped her in her tracks. Did they not realize it was dangerous to be seen so in public? But no. They were in England. And this was the East End. Thousands of Jews, she had heard, lived and worked here. Had been here for hundreds of years.
Her feet carried her across the street and down the lane. It was narrow, curving, bare of shop fronts. If not for the people emerging, she would have missed the place. There was little to signify the building’s purpose, and its brick façade was the same as the rest of the buildings on the lane. Except for the small, unobtrusive noticeboard to the side of the entrance.
SANDYS ROW SYNAGOGUE, it read, and below it were some words in Hebrew, as well as the days and times of services.
She slowed her pace, hoping to catch a glimpse of the interior as she passed by, but she couldn’t make out anything beyond some steps and a shadowy corridor. She faltered, her limbs made clumsy by longing and regret.
How she yearned to hear, after so long, the beloved prayers and invocations. To repeat the words her grandfather had taken such pains to teach her. To belong, once again.
But she had nothing to cover her hair, and the services had finished, besides, and Mr. Kaczmarek was waiting for her, and she wasn’t sure that she could bear it. To hear and see and sing would be to remember. To let the wounds be opened once more, and the bitter pain of loss consume her.
Not today. Not yet.
She walked on, blind to everything but the pavement before her, until she looked up and realized she was at the restaurant. Mr. Kaczmarek was there, waiting outside as he’d promised. Such a big man, though like most tall people he stooped a little, and his hair was so bright and fair under the midday sun. It didn’t surprise her that he didn’t bother with a hat.
He had a battered old canvas satchel slung over one shoulder, and his head was bent over a newspaper, which he’d folded back on itself so it didn’t flap in the wind. He looked up just as she crossed the street, and the expression of delight on his face made her heart skip a beat.
It pleased her, his interest, yet it was a puzzle as well. What did this cultured, well-connected, and presumably successful man want to do with her? She had no education, no connections that would interest him, and she knew almost nothing of English life beyond the confines of an embroidery workroom and a counc
il house in Essex. She was in her early twenties, while he had to be something close to forty. For all she knew, he might even be married.
It would be wise to remain on her guard. Perhaps he was the sort to befriend young women and turn their heads with compliments and gifts and the luxury of his attention. Perhaps he had only one aim in mind.
Even as the suspicion arose, she knew it to be false. If he were such a man, to begin with, would he not be better dressed? He was no lothario, not with his ink-blotched cuffs and shaggy hair and shoes that cried out for polish. He was the sort of man, she decided, who might easily forget to put on his coat when he left for work in the morning. Her father had been like that, too.
They shook hands and said hello and he ushered her inside the restaurant. To their right was a marble counter laden with platters of gleaming fish, so fresh she could smell only the sea, and then only faintly. Waiters in long aprons were moving purposefully about the space, which looked to encompass a series of rooms, none of them especially grand. Most of the restaurant’s patrons were seated shoulder to shoulder at a series of high counters, though there were a few small tables scattered about.
One of the waiters hurried over to shake Mr. Kaczmarek’s hand and welcome him to the restaurant.
“Lovely to see you, Kaz.”
“Any tables free?”
“There’s one in the far room. Do you need a menu?” the waiter asked.
“Just the one for my guest. We’ll seat ourselves?”
“If you don’t mind. I’ll be along in a minute.”
Their table was nicely secluded, at the far end of the second room, and by the time they had settled into their chairs the waiter was back with a menu for Miriam.
“Pint of the usual?” he asked Mr. Kaczmarek.
“Yes, please. What would you like, Miss Dassin? A glass of wine, perhaps? They have a very nice Sancerre.”
She nodded her head, relieved he hadn’t asked for her opinions on the wine, since she hadn’t any worth sharing. Inspecting her menu, which was almost poetic in its simplicity, she halted when she came to the names of the fish being served. Brill? Newlyn hake? John Dory?
“I usually have whatever the waiter recommends,” he said, perhaps sensing her confusion. “They’ll prepare it any way you like. And the vegetables they serve are cooked with some care, which is a rarity in England. Did you want something to start? Or were you thinking of leaving some room for pudding?”
“No . . . perhaps just the fish?”
The waiter returned with their drinks just then, and when prompted by Mr. Kaczmarek he recommended the plaice. “Fresh in from Cornwall this morning.”
“Very good. Shall we both have that, Miss Dassin? Grilled, I think. And an order of samphire as well.”
Miriam took a sip of her wine, then another for courage, and tried to think of something to say. Mr. Kaczmarek, however, had no such difficulties. “You know what I do for a living,” he began. “What is your profession?”
“I am an embroiderer,” she said. Best to be honest from the start. If he were disappointed to discover she worked for a living it was best to know straightaway. “I work for Monsieur Hartnell,” she added, and immediately cringed. That was a detail she might have kept to herself.
“Ah,” he said. “Your employer has been in the news this week.”
“Yes. I cannot say any more. I should not have told you.”
“There’s no need to worry. I assure you I’m not about to start fishing for a story. On my word of honor, I’m not.”
“Very well. Shall you tell me of your work? Of this magazine of yours?”
“I don’t own the thing, so I can’t properly say it’s mine. But I did found it, a little more than twelve years ago, and I’ve been its editor from the start. I was given, or rather lent, the money to get it off the ground. And beyond the staff’s salaries and the costs of running the office and so forth, our profits get plowed back into the enterprise.”
“You said, the evening we met, that it is a serious publication. That your stories are about important things.”
“Much of the time, yes. But I’m not averse to lighter fare. We all need the occasional taste of cake in between our rations of National Loaf. Now more than ever.”
“Why now?” she asked, though she had a good idea of what his answer would be.
“Life here is a far sight less dangerous than it was during the war. I won’t dispute that. But it’s also a good deal more miserable. The nation is beggared, the empire is crumbling, and we just lived through a winter where people froze to death in their own homes because there wasn’t coal enough to go around. No wonder everyone is over the moon about this royal wedding.”
“You know I cannot—”
“I’m not talking about what the princess is going to wear on her wedding day. But you have to admit the timing couldn’t be better.”
She frowned at this, surprised by his cynicism. “I know little of your king and his family, but do you really believe he arranged for his daughter to be married in order to . . . how do you say it . . . ?”
“Relieve some pressure on the government?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t. And from what I do know of the man, I suspect he’d much prefer if she waited a few years. She is very young, after all. I do think, however, that it’s come at an opportune moment. What better way to get people’s minds off the misery of their own lives than by having a national holiday?”
“A holiday? Really?”
“I doubt they’ll give everyone the day off. But there will be street parties the length and breadth of this land.”
“Will you have a party?”
“Me? No. I’ll be busy working that day—we’re doing a special edition of the magazine. But I’m sure we’ll drink a toast to the happy couple at some point.”
“I bought a copy of Picture Weekly. I thought it was very interesting. The person who chooses your photographs has an artist’s eye.”
“That would be me,” he admitted, smiling almost shyly. “Would you like to see our latest issue? I brought it for you.”
She accepted it with a smile, spread it open on the table, and began to read. There were several pages of advertisements, a long article on the hopes for a vaccine against infantile paralysis, complete with many heartrending photographs of children in iron lungs or with splinted limbs, an essay on the import-export gap by a professor of economics, a story about Britain’s many species of game birds, and last of all a photo essay on a young American actress who was starring in a West End musical. She was also the cover model for the issue.
“I see what you mean. The way you must mix important things with . . .”
“A day in the life of Miss Loveday Lang, star of Put On Your Best Blues? I know. And I wish, sometimes, that— Ah. Here’s our food.”
The fish, white and delicate and perfectly cooked, was delicious, as were the accompanying vegetables. She even accepted a portion of the samphire Mr. Kaczmarek had ordered, which he explained was a form of seaweed, and, undeterred, found it not unlike a briny sort of haricot vert.
“So,” he said, arranging his fork and knife on his empty plate. “Tell me about your work. I’m not fishing for details of the royal waistline, I promise. I’m interested in you. Why did you become an embroiderer?”
“There was no ‘why.’ I was fourteen, and one of my teachers thought I might have a talent for it. She told my parents, and before I knew it I was beginning my apprenticeship at Maison Lesage. From there I went to Maison Rébé.”
“And during the war . . . ?”
She shook her head. “Another time. What of you? Did you remain at Picture Weekly during the war?”
“I did. I’m blind as a proverbial bat, so none of the services would take me. Said I was in a reserved occupation anyway, so I might as well stay put. Surprised the hell out of me. I’ve been a thorn in the side of the establishment, as it were, for my entire working life, so I was sure they’d want to throw me in th
e path of danger as quickly as possible.”
“It was dangerous here, though, was it not? With the Blitz?”
“I suppose. At times it was. In the main it was just depressing. I . . .” He took off his spectacles and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I lost someone I loved very much. She was killed in an air raid. In the summer of 1941, after the Blitz proper had ended.”
It was easier to see his eyes without the barrier of his spectacles. They were a pale blue that faded to silver at the edge of his irises, and there was something about the color that put her in mind of a midwinter sky. But there was nothing cold about his gaze.
“After Mary was killed I had a hard time. It was a long while before I . . . well . . .”
“Before you were content to face each new morning?”
“Yes.”
“And after Mary? Was there anyone?”
“No,” he said, his gaze meeting hers readily.
“Why did you give me your card?” she asked, emboldened by his honesty.
“I’m not precisely sure. Perhaps it was the way you reacted to your shoe being caught in the grate? You didn’t fuss, or panic, or even complain. You were rather funny about it, as I recall. And I knew straight off that you’d lay me out cold if you’d thought I was a threat.”
English people and their baffling idioms. “Lay you out?”
He mimed a punch to his jaw.
“Perhaps,” she acceded, “but you behaved yourself.”
“Of course. Whatever else I may be—and I have my share of faults—I would never stoop to harassing a woman. In any fashion.”
“That I believe. I do not know why, but I do.”
He smiled, and his pale eyes grew even warmer. “Then I shall endeavor not to give you any reason to change your mind.”
The waiter, returning to clear their plates, asked if they wanted pudding, but Miriam shook her head. English desserts were nearly as frightful as English bread.
“Not today, thanks,” Mr. Kaczmarek answered, and she suspected, from the gleam in his eye, that he had read her mind.
“I must go,” Miriam said after stealing a glance at her wristwatch. “It is half-past one, and I promised Ann that I would not be late. I am making my grandmother’s Friday-night chicken for our supper tonight.”
The Gown Page 15
