“You are her granddaughter,” he says haltingly, before we’ve had a chance to introduce ourselves. “You are the granddaughter of Rose.”
I take a deep breath. “Yes.”
He smiles and strides quickly over. He kisses me on both cheeks. “You are a mirror image,” he says. There are tears in his eyes as he pulls away.
Alain introduces himself as Rose’s brother, and Henri and Simon say hello too. I tell Monsieur Haddam that my name is Hope.
“It is right, this name,” he murmurs. “For your grandmother, she survived because of hope.” He blinks a few times and smiles. “Please, come in.”
He gestures to the door of the building, punches in a code, and leads us into a dark hallway. A door to the left is ajar, and he pushes it open farther for us. “My home,” he says, gesturing around. “You are welcome here.”
Once we’re seated, in a dimly lit room lined with books and photographs of who I’m guessing are Monsieur Haddam’s family members, Alain leans forward. “How did you know my sister? Rose?”
“Pardon?” he says. He blinks a few times and says, “I am nearly sourd. Deaf. I am sorry.”
Alain repeats the question loudly, and this time, Monsieur Haddam nods.
He smiles and leans back in his chair. He looks at Alain for a long time before answering. “You are her younger brother? You had eleven years in 1942?”
“Oui,” Alain says.
“She talked of you often,” he says simply.
“She did?” Alain asks in a whisper.
Monsieur Haddam nods. “I think it is one reason why she was so kind to me. I had just ten years old that year, you see. She told me often that I made her think of you.”
Alain looks down, and I know he’s struggling not to cry in front of the other men.
“She thought you were all lost,” Monsieur Haddam says after a moment. “I think her heart, it was broken, because of this. She often cried herself to sleep, and she said your names as she wept.”
When Alain looks up again, there’s a single tear rolling down his right cheek. He brushes it away. “I thought she was lost too,” he says. “All these years.”
Monsieur Haddam turns to me. “You are her granddaughter,” he says. “And so, she lived?”
“She lived,” I say softly.
“Still, she is alive?”
I pause. “Yes.” I’m about to tell him that she’s had a stroke, but I swallow the words. I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m not ready to acknowledge the fact or because I don’t want to ruin Monsieur Haddam’s happy ending. “How . . . What happened?” I finally ask.
Monsieur Haddam smiles. “Can I get any of you a cup of tea?” he asks.
We all shake our heads. The men are as eager as I am to hear the story.
“Very well,” Monsieur Haddam says. “I will tell you.” He takes a deep breath. “She came to us in July of 1942. The night those terrible roundups began.”
“The Vel’ d’Hiv,” I say.
Monsieur Haddam nods. “Yes. Before that, I think many people were blind to what was happening. Even after that, many people remained blind. But Rose, she knew it was coming. And she came to us for sanctuary.
“My family, we took her in. She told the officials at the mosque that her mother’s family were bakers. So they asked us if we could provide her refuge for a time. That was a time in the world when a shared profession meant more than different religions.
“I looked up to Rose, in a way that concerned my father at first, because she was different, and I was not supposed to have such admiration for a young woman from a different world,” he continues. “But she was kind and gentle and taught me many things. And in time, I think my parents understood that she was not so different from us after all.”
He pauses for a moment, his head bent. Finally, he sighs and continues. “She lived with us, as a Muslim, for two months. Every morning and every night, she said our prayers with us, which made my parents happy. But she still prayed to her God too; I heard her every night, long into the night, asking for the protection of the people she loved. It seems that in you, God answered her prayers.” He smiles at Alain, who covers his face with his hands and looks away.
“We taught her many things, about Islam and about baking,” Monsieur Haddam continues. “And in turn, she taught us many things. She worked in our bakery. She and my mother spent many hours in the kitchen, whispering to each other. I do not know what about; my mother would always say it was woman talk. But Rose, she taught us the tarte des étoiles, the star pie that brought you here to me today. It was her favorite, and it was my favorite too, because Rose told me the story.”
“What story?” I ask.
Monsieur Haddam looks surprised. “The story of why she made the crust of stars.”
Alain and I exchange looks. “Why?” I ask. “What’s the story?”
“You do not know?” Monsieur Haddam asks. When Alain and I shake our heads, he continues. “It was because it made her think of her true love’s promise to love her as long as there were stars in the sky.”
I look at Alain. “Jacob,” I whisper. He nods. All these years that I’ve been making Star Pies, I realize, I’ve been baking a tribute to a man I never knew existed. A small noise rises from the back of my throat as I choke back a sob that seems to come from nowhere.
“There were many nights when it was not safe to be outside, or when the clouds covered the city, or when smoke hung thick in the air,” Monsieur Haddam continues. “On those nights that Rose could not see the stars, she said she needed comfort in something. And so she began putting the stars in her tarts. Years later, when I was a young man, my mother used to bake me these same pies and remind me that true love is worth everything. It was not a common concept in those days; there were many arranged marriages. But she was right. And I waited. I married the love of my life. And so for the rest of my days, I have made the tartes des étoiles in honor of Rose. And I taught my children, and my cousins, and the next generation, to do the same, to remember to wait for love, like Rose did. Like I did.
“So then, did Rose reunite with the man she loved?” Monsieur Haddam asks after a moment. “After the war?”
Alain and I exchange looks. “No,” I say, feeling the weight of the loss pressing against my chest. Monsieur Haddam looks down and shakes his head sadly.
Beside me, Henri clears his throat. I’d become so enraptured by Monsieur Haddam’s story that I’d almost forgotten that he and Simon were still here. “So how did she get out of Paris?” he asks.
Monsieur Haddam shakes his head. “It is impossible to know for sure. Part of the reason that the mosque was able to save many people was that everything was shrouded in secrecy. The Koran teaches us to give to those in need and to do it quietly, for God will know your deeds. For that reason, and because of the danger involved, no one talked of these things, even then. Certainly not to a ten-year-old boy. But from what I have learned since that time, I believe many of the Jews we sheltered were brought through the catacombs to the river Seine. Perhaps she was smuggled onto a barge that took her down the river to Dijon. Or taken with false papers across the line of demarcation.”
“Was that not expensive?” Henri asks. “Getting false papers? Getting across the line?” He turns to me and adds, “My family could not get out, because of the expense.”
“Yes,” Monsieur Haddam replies. “But the mosque helped with papers. That much I know. And the man she loved, Jacob? He left her with money. She sewed it into the lining of one of her dresses. My mother helped her.
“Once she was in the unoccupied zone, it would have been easier for her to get out of the country,” Monsieur Haddam continues. “Here in Paris, she lived as a Muslim with false papers. But in Dijon, or wherever she went, she likely filled out a census form with the gendarmerie. Because she was French, she was likely able to pay a small bribe and obtain papers listing her as Catholic. From there, she could have made it to Spain.”
“She met my gr
andfather in Spain,” I say.
“Your grandfather is not Jacob?” Monsieur Haddam asks with a frown. “It seems impossible that she loved another so soon.”
“No,” I say softly. “My grandfather’s name was Ted.”
He bows his head. “So she married another.” He pauses. “I always assumed Rose perished,” he says. “So many did in those days. I always believed she would have made contact after the war, if she had lived. But perhaps she wanted only to forget this life.”
I think of what Gavin said about some Holocaust survivors wanting to start over when they believed they’d lost everything.
“But why are there no records of any of this?” I ask after a moment. “It’s so brave and heroic what your family did. What other people at the Grand Mosque did.”
Monsieur Haddam smiles. “At the time, we could not keep any sort of written record,” he says. “We knew we were tying our fate to that of the people we saved. If the Nazis, or the French police, had raided the mosque and found even one piece of evidence, it could have been the end of us all.
“So we helped quietly,” he concludes. “It is the thing I am proudest of in all my life.”
“Thank you,” Alain whispers. “For what you did. For saving my sister.”
Monsieur Haddam shakes his head. “There is no need to thank me. It was our duty. In our religion, we are taught, ‘Whoever saves one life, saves the entire world.’ ”
Alain makes a strange strangled sound. “In the Talmud, it is written, ‘If you save one life, it is as if you have saved the world,’” he says softly.
He and Monsieur Haddam look at each other for a moment and smile.
“We are not so different, then,” Monsieur Haddam says. He looks at Henri and Simon, then back at Alain. “I never understood the war between our religions, or the war with Christianity. If there is one thing I learned from the time young Rose spent with us, it is that we are all speaking to the same God. It is not religion that divides man. It is good and evil here on earth that divides us.”
The words sink in as we look at one another in silence.
“Your sister,” Monsieur Haddam continues, turning to Alain, “she suffered every day, because she left her family. She never believed she did enough to save you. But you understand, of course, she did what she had to do. She had to save her baby.”
In the silence that follows, you could hear a pin drop. “Her baby?” Alain finally asks, his voice an octave higher than it should be. My mouth is suddenly dry.
“Yes, of course,” says Monsieur Haddam. He blinks at us. “It is why she came here. She was with child. You did not know?”
Alain turns to stare at me. “Did you know this?”
“Of course not,” I say. “It’s . . . it’s not possible. My mother wasn’t born until 1944.” I turn back to Monsieur Haddam. “And my mom didn’t have any siblings. My grandmother couldn’t have been pregnant in 1942.”
He pauses and stands up. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says. He disappears into his bedroom, while Alain and I go back to staring at each other.
“How could she have been pregnant?” Alain asks.
“Well, she and Jacob were in love . . .” Henri says, his voice trailing off.
Alain shakes his head. “No, absolutely not. She was very religious,” he says. “She would never have done such a thing.” He glances at me and adds, “Things were different in those days. People did not have relations before marriage. Certainly not Rose.”
“Maybe Monsieur Haddam is remembering wrong,” I say.
But when he emerges from his bedroom a moment later, he’s carrying a photograph, which he hands to me. I recognize my grandmother immediately; she looks just like I looked when I was sixteen or seventeen, and her head is wrapped in a scarf. She has one arm around a dark-haired, smiling boy and the other around a middle-aged woman.
“That is my mother and me,” Monsieur Haddam says softly. “And your grandmother. The day she left. The last time I ever saw her.”
I nod, but I can’t seem to speak, because I can’t look away from the bulging belly in the photograph. There’s no doubt that my grandmother is pregnant. She gazes into the camera with wide eyes that broadcast extraordinary sadness, even in grainy black and white. Alain sinks down beside me on the couch and stares at the photo too.
“She knew that if she was taken to one of the camps, she would be killed as soon as they found out she was with child,” Monsieur Haddam says softly after a moment. “She knew she had to protect herself in order to protect the baby. It was the only reason she let Jacob separate her from her family.”
“My God,” Alain murmurs.
“But what happened to the baby?” I ask.
Monsieur Haddam frowns at me. “You are certain that the baby was not your mother?”
I nod. “My mother was born a year and a half later to my grandfather, Ted, not Jacob.” I turn to Alain. “The baby must have died,” I say softly. Even saying the words aloud horrifies me.
Alain hangs his head. “There is so much we do not know. What if she does not wake up?” he murmurs.
His words send me hurtling back from a past we can’t understand to a present we can’t control. But we can control whether we leave for the airport on time. I look at my watch and stand up.
“Monsieur Haddam, I’m sorry, but we have to leave,” I say. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
He smiles. “Young lady, you do not have to,” he replies. “Knowing that Rose lived, and went on to have a happy life, is thanks enough for a million years.”
I wonder, in that moment, whether my grandmother’s life was happy. Had she ever let go of the sadness she must have felt when she believed she’d lost Jacob and her family forever?
“Please,” Monsieur Haddam says, “tell your grandmother that I think of her often. And that I thank her for helping me to believe in finding love. She changed my life. I will never forget her.”
“Thank you so much, Monsieur Haddam,” I murmur. “I’ll tell her.”
He kisses me on both cheeks, and as I follow Alain, Henri, and Simon back out to the street to hail a cab to the airport, I find myself wondering whether this is why Mamie sent me here. I wonder whether somewhere deep down, she wanted me to hear the story of her first love, and of the lost child she gave everything to protect. I wonder whether I’m supposed to learn something about love from all of this.
Or perhaps it’s too late for me. Alain and I are silent on the way to the airport, both of us lost in our own worlds.
Chapter Sixteen
Anise and Fennel Cookies
INGREDIENTS
2 cups sugar
4 eggs
2 tsp. anise extract
3 cups flour, plus extra for rolling
3 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. anise seed
2 cups confectioners’ sugar
1 Tbsp. fennel seed
DIRECTIONS
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. In a medium bowl, using a hand mixer, beat sugar, eggs, and anise extract until well blended.
3. Sift together 3 cups flour, baking powder, and salt, then add to the egg mixture, approximately one cup at a time, beating after each addition.
4. Add anise seed and make sure mixture is well blended.
5. In a separate, shallow bowl, mix together confectioners’ sugar and fennel seed.
6. Flour hands lightly and roll tablespoon-sized lumps of dough into balls. Roll each ball in confectioners’ sugar mixture, making sure it’s well-coated, and place on greased cookie sheets.
7. Bake for 12 minutes. Cool for 5 minutes on baking sheets, then remove to wire racks.
Rose
Something was terribly wrong, and Rose knew it. All afternoon, she had been sitting in front of her television, watching daytime reruns of programs she knew she had seen before. But it didn’t matter; she couldn’t remember the plots anyhow. She had grown very tired, and back in her room, she
realized she could no longer feel her body. Then, everything had gone black.
The world had still been dark as night when they came for her, the people from the home. She heard them saying unconscious and stroke and barely hanging on, and she wanted to tell them that she was fine. But she found that she could no longer use her tongue, nor could she open her eyes, and it was in this way that she realized her body was failing her, just like her mind was. Perhaps it was time.
And so she let go and drifted further into the past. As the ambulance sirens sounded in the distance, as the doctors shouted and gave orders from very far away, as the small voice of a child cried near her bed, she released her grip on the present and let herself float, like jetsam on a wave, back to a time just before the world fell apart. There were voices then too, in the darkness, just as there were now. And as the present disappeared, the past came into focus, and Rose found herself in her father’s study, in the apartment on rue du Général Camou. She was seventeen again, and she felt as if she had a crystal ball and no one believed her.
“Please,” she was begging her father, her voice hoarse from endless hours of fruitless persuasion. “If we stay, we will die, Papa! They are coming for us!”
The Nazis were everywhere. German soldiers filled the streets, and the French police followed along like lemmings. Jews were no longer permitted to go out without the yellow Star of David sewn over their left breast, a brand marking them as different.
“Nonsense,” said her father, a proud man who believed in his country and in the goodness of his fellow man. “Only criminals and cowards run.”
“No, Papa,” Rose whispered. “It’s not just criminals and cowards. It’s people who want to save themselves, who don’t want to blindly follow, hoping that everything will be okay.”
Her father closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Rose’s mother rubbed his arm comfortingly and looked at her daughter. “You are upsetting your father, Rose,” she said.
“But, Maman!” Rose exclaimed.
The Sweetness of Forgetting Page 18
