The Sweetness of Forgetting (55)

Alain reaches out and touches my cheek. “Trust us, Hope,” he says. His eyes are sparkling, and he smiles at me. “We will explain on the way.”





Chapter Fifteen



We never knew whether to believe the rumors,” Alain begins once we’ve piled into a cab and are hurtling south toward the river. Outside, the streets are just coming alive with people as the sun begins to warm the earth and bathe the buildings in lemon light.

“What rumors?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

Alain and Simon exchange looks.

Henri speaks first. “There have been rumors that the Muslims in Paris saved many Jews during the war,” he says flatly.

I stare at him, then I look at Alain and Simon, who are nodding. “Wait, you’re telling me that Muslims saved Jewish people?”

“We never heard about it during the war,” says Simon. He glances at Alain. “Well, almost never.”

Alain nods. “Jacob said something once that made me think . . .” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “But I never really believed it.”

“There was a time,” Henri says, “that we viewed each other as brothers, in a way. The Jews and the Muslims. The Muslims were not persecuted during the war as we were, but they were always made to feel as outsiders, just like the Jews. I would guess that to some Muslims, seeing Jews being persecuted felt very personal. Who was to say that the country wouldn’t turn its back on them next?”

“And so the rumor was that they helped us,” Simon says. “I never knew if it was true.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The rumors have always said that they gave housing and shelter to many children whose parents had been deported, and a few adults too,” Alain says. “And that eventually, they sent those people through underground channels to the free zone, in some cases helping them to get false papers.”

“You’re telling me Muslims smuggled Jews out of Paris?” I ask. I shake my head; it’s difficult to believe.

“The leader of the Grand Mosque of Paris was, at that time, the most powerful Muslim in Europe,” Henri says. He glances at Alain. “Si Kaddour Beng—Comment s’est-il appelé?”

“Benghabrit,” Alain says.

Henri nods. “Yes, that is it. Si Kaddour Benghabrit. The French government was afraid to touch him. And it is possible he used that power and influence to save many lives.”

I shake my head and stare out the window at Paris rolling by. The towers of Notre-Dame are silhouetted in the distance against the sky to the right as we cross over a bridge and hurtle toward the Left Bank. Far away, I can hear church bells striking the hour. “So you’re saying that might be how my grandmother got out of Paris? That Muslims from the Grand Mosque may have gotten her out?”

“It would explain where she learned to bake Muslim pastries,” Alain says.

“It would answer a lot of questions,” Henri adds. “It is doubtful that there are any records. No one speaks of it. The secrets of that time have died with that time. Today, there is much tension between the religious groups. It is impossible to know whether it is true.”

“But what if it is?” I whisper. And then I remember, suddenly, Mamie’s words for me just before I left for Paris, when I was pressing her for an answer about whether or not she was Jewish. Yes, I am Jewish, she had said. But I am also Catholic. And Muslim too. A shiver of realization runs through me and my eyes widen.

The cab pulls up to the curb alongside a white building with deep green tiles on its roof, ornate arches, and glistening domes. A green-trimmed minaret rises from the building, and although it’s decidedly Moroccan in its details, it looks a lot like one of the towers of Notre-Dame that we just passed. Something else Mamie said echoes in my head. It is mankind that creates the differences, she’d told me last week. That does not mean it is not all the same God.

Henri pays the driver, and we get out of the cab. I give both Henri and Simon a hand as they straighten their legs and step out onto the sidewalk.

“There was a time I used to be able to do that myself,” Henri says with a smile. He winks at me, and the four of us head toward an arched entrance at the corner of the building.

“If no one here ever speaks of what happened,” I whisper to Alain as we cross into a small courtyard, “what are we doing here?”

He links his arm through mine and smiles. “Looking at pastries,” he says.

The courtyard is dappled in patches of sunlight that filter through the trees and throw shadows on the tiled white ground. Small blue-and-white-tiled tables are set up in the middle of the courtyard and along the walls, and all of them are framed by wooden chairs with seats and backs of woven bright blue. Deep green plants with yellow flowers creep up the walls, and sparrows hop from table to table. It’s peaceful, tranquil, and so empty that I’m certain it’s not open yet.

A middle-aged Arab man dressed all in black approaches and says something in French. Alain replies and gestures to me, and for the next minute, the four men talk in rapid French I can’t understand. The man shakes his head at first, but finally, he shrugs and gestures for us to follow him up a small stairway into the main building.

There’s a dark-haired, olive-skinned younger man, maybe twenty-five, inside the doorway filling a clear bakery case with pastries, and my heart stops as I look inside. There, in the case, are numerous baked goods, nearly half of which are exactly the same as the pastries I make at my own bakery. There are delicate crescent moons dusted in snow-white powdered sugar; small, pale green cakes in white pastry wrappers, topped with tiny pieces of pistachios; honey-drenched slices of baklava; and sticky almond pastries topped with single cherries in their middles. There are thin rolls of phyllo dough rolled in sugar; thick slices of a sugary almond cake rolled in almonds; and even the small, dense rings of cinnamon and honey that have been Annie’s favorites since she was a little girl.