The Sweetness of Forgetting (31)

On the sixth ring, a machine answers in French. I hang up and redial, but once again, a machine picks up. I look at my watch again. They should be open by now. I dial a third time, and after a few rings, a woman answers in French.

“Hello,” I say, exhaling in relief. “I’m calling from America, and I’m sorry, but I don’t really speak French.”

The woman switches immediately to heavily accented English. “We are closed,” she says. “It is a Saturday. We close every Saturday. For the Sabbath. I am here completing some research.”

“Oh,” I say, my heart sinking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” I pause and ask in a small voice, “Is it possible to answer a question for me quickly?”

“It is not our policy.” Her tone is firm.

“Please,” I say in a small voice. “I’m trying to find someone. Please.”

She is silent for a moment, then she sighs. “Fine. Quickly.”

I hastily explain that I’m looking for people who may be my grandmother’s family, and that I’ve found some of their names, but I’m missing one. She sighs again and tells me that the memorial has some of the best records in Europe because the deportations were recorded meticulously by the French police, who carried them out.

“Through Europe,” she says, “half of the records are missing. But in France, we know the names of almost every person deported from our country.”

“But how can I find out what happened to them after the deportations?” I ask.

“In many cases, you cannot, I am afraid,” she says. “Mais, well, in certain cases you can. We have here the written records, the census documents, and some other things. Some of the deportation cards have notes on them about what happened to the people.”

“What about finding Alain? The name that’s not in your database?”

“That is more difficult,” she says. “If he was not deported, we would not have a record of him. But you can feel welcome to come here and look through our records. There is a librarian who will help you. Maybe you will find him.”

“Come to Paris?” I ask.

“Oui,” she says. “It is the only way.”

“Thank you,” I murmur. “Merci beaucoup.”

“De rien,” she replies. “Maybe we will see you soon?”

I hesitate for only a moment. “Maybe you will see me soon.”



I’m so shaken by the results of the search, and by the conversation with the woman at the memorial, that I’m late in getting the Star Pies in the oven and the almond rose tarts prepped. This is very unlike me; sticking rigidly to the morning schedule is what keeps me sane most days. So when the alarm clock in the kitchen goes off, alerting me to the fact that it’s 6:00 a.m. and time to unlock the front door, I’m in an uncharacteristic state of disarray.

I hurry out front and am surprised to see Gavin patiently standing outside. When he sees me through the glass, he smiles and raises a hand in greeting. I unlock the door. “Why didn’t you knock?” I ask as I push it open toward him. “I would have let you in.”

He follows me inside and watches as I flip the switch on the Open sign. “I haven’t been here long,” he says. “Besides, you open at six. Didn’t seem right to bother you before that.”

I gesture for him to follow me. “I have pies in the oven. Sorry; I’m running a little late this morning. Coffee?”

“Sure,” he says.

He pauses at the counter, and I gesture again for him to follow me back into the kitchen. “Can I do anything to help?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves like he’s already prepared to dive in.

I shake my head and smile. “No, I’m okay,” I say. “Unless you can turn back time so that I’m running on schedule.”

I grind a cup of coffee beans and am surprised to turn around and see Gavin filling the coffeemaker with water and lining the basket with a filter, as if he’s entirely at home here.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Rough morning?” he asks.

“Weird morning. I got your e-mail. Thanks.”

“Did it help?”

I nod. “I spent some time on those sites.”

“And?”

“And I found all but one of the names from my grandmother’s list.” I pour the coffee grinds into the filter, and Gavin flicks the switch to Brew. We’re silent for a moment as the coffee begins to gurgle and spit. “I couldn’t find Alain. But the others, they were all deported. In 1942. The youngest one was five. The mother wasn’t much older than I am now.”

I inhale deeply and feel my chest tremble as I do. “I’m still not convinced they’re my grandmother’s family.”

“How come?”

I feel suddenly embarrassed and avoid his eye. “I don’t know. It would change everything.”

“What would it change?”

“Who my grandmother is,” I say.

“Not really,” he says.

“It changes who I am,” I add in a small voice.

“Does it?”

“It makes me half Jewish. Or a quarter Jewish, I guess.”

“No,” Gavin says. “It would just mean you’ve had that piece of her past in you all along. It would mean you’ve always been a quarter Jewish. It wouldn’t change anything about who you really are.”