The Sweetness of Forgetting (79)

At the hospital, at Mamie’s bedside, Alain holds my hand as we both sit with Mamie. He murmurs to her for a while in French, and as promised, I deliver Annie’s message, although I don’t believe that Mamie can hear me through the fog of her coma. I know that Alain and Annie both believe that she’s still in there, but I’m not so sure. I keep this feeling to myself.

I find myself thinking about Gavin while Alain whispers to Mamie, and I’m not entirely sure why. I think it’s just because he’s been so helpful, and I’m feeling more alone than ever.

Alain eventually settles back in his chair, apparently done with whatever story he was telling. Mamie continues to sleep, her narrow chest slowly moving up and down.

“She looks so peaceful,” Alain says. “As if she is somewhere happier than here.”

I nod, blinking back the sudden tears in my eyes. She does look at peace, but this just reinforces my idea that she’s already gone, which makes me want to cry. “Alain,” I say after a moment, “I don’t suppose you know Jacob’s date of birth, do you?”

Alain smiles and shakes his head, and for a moment, I think he’s indicating that he doesn’t. But then he says, “As a matter of fact, I do. Rose and I met him for the first time the evening before his sixteenth birthday.”

I lean forward eagerly. “When?”

“Christmas Eve, 1940.” Alain closes his eyes and smiles. “Rose and I were walking through the Jardin du Luxembourg. She had brought me with her to visit a friend in the Latin Quarter, and we were in a hurry to get home before curfew; the Germans insisted on everyone in Paris being home with their blackout curtains drawn.

“But Rose always loved the garden, and we were passing nearby on our way across the sixth arrondissement, so she suggested we walk across,” Alain continues. “We went, as we always did, to see her favorite statue in the park, the Statue of Liberty.”

“The Statue of Liberty?” I repeat.

He smiles. “The original model used by Auguste Bartholdi, the artist. Another stands in the middle of the Seine, not far from the Eiffel Tower. Your statue, the one in the harbor of New York, was given to the United States by France, you know.”

“I remember that from school,” I say. “I just didn’t know there were similar statues in France.”

Alain nods. “The statue in the Luxembourg Garden was Rose’s favorite when we were young, and on that evening, when we arrived at the statue, it had just begun to snow. The flakes were so tiny and light, it was like we were in a snow globe. Everything was very still and peaceful, even though we were at war. In that moment, the world felt magical.”

His voice trails off, and he looks at Mamie. He reaches out to touch her cheek, where so many years of life without him are etched across her face.

“It was not until we drew close to the statue,” he continues after a long pause, “that we realized we were not alone. There was a boy with dark hair and a dark coat standing just across. He turned as we were just a few feet away, and Rose stopped instantly, as if she’d lost her breath.

“But the boy didn’t approach us, and we did not approach him,” Alain continues. “They just stared at each other for a very long time, until finally I tugged on Rose’s hand and said, ‘Why did we stop?’ ”

Alain pauses for a moment to gather himself. He glances at Mamie and then settles back in his seat.

“Rose bent down and said to me, ‘We stopped because it is very important for you to understand that the place where the real Statue of Liberty stands is a place where people can be free,’” Alain says, a dreamy look in his eye. “I did not understand what she was saying. She looked me in the eye and said, ‘In the United States, religion does not define anyone. They only look at it as a piece of you. And no one is judged for it. I will go there someday, Alain, and I will bring you with me.’

“That was before the days of the worst Jewish restrictions. Rose, she was very knowledgeable, and so I believe she already knew of the Jews being persecuted elsewhere. She saw the problems coming, even if our parents did not. But I, at the age of nine, did not see what religion had to do with anything.

“Before I had a chance to ask her, the boy approached us. He’d been staring at us all along, and I could see, as Rose straightened up to talk to him, that her cheeks had gone very red. I asked her, ‘Why is your face so red, Rose? Are you getting sick?’ ”

He laughs at the memory and shakes his head. “This only made her turn redder. But the boy, his cheeks were red too. He looked at Rose for a long time, and then he bent down to my eye level and said, ‘Your friend here is right, monsieur. In the United States, people can be free. I am going there someday too.’ I made a face at him and said, ‘She’s not my friend! She’s my sister!’

“They both had a good laugh over that,” Alain continues, smiling faintly. “And then they began to talk, and it was as if I was not there anymore. I had never seen my sister like that before; the way she gazed into his eyes, it was as if she wanted to disappear into them. Finally, the boy turned to me again and said, ‘Little monsieur, my name is Jacob Levy. And what is yours?’ I told him I was Alain Picard, and my sister was Rose Picard, and he looked at her again and murmured, ‘I think that is the most beautiful name I have ever heard.’