The Sweetness of Forgetting (84)

On Sunday morning at about eight o’clock, Annie and I are alone in the bakery, rolling out dough in silence, when the phone rings. Annie wipes her hands on her apron and reaches for the receiver. “North Star Bakery, Annie speaking,” she says. She listens for a minute and hands the phone to me with a funny expression on her face. “It’s for you, Mom.”

I dust my hands off and take the phone from her. “Hello, North Star Bakery,” I say.

“Is this Hope McKenna-Smith?” It’s a woman’s voice, and she has a hint of an accent.

“Yes,” I say. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Elida White,” she says. “I’m calling you from the Abrahamic Association of Boston. We are an interfaith council.”

“Oh,” I say. They aren’t one of the groups I called over the last few days. The name doesn’t ring a bell. “Abrahamic?” I ask.

“The Muslim, Jewish, and Christian religions all descend from Abraham,” she explains. “We focus on bringing together these groups and working from our similarities instead of our differences.”

“Oh,” I say again. “Right. What can I do for you?”

“Let me explain,” she says. “Our organization received a call this week from the Interfaith Council of America, and it was referred to me. I was told about your grandmother and how she was assisted in escaping from Paris by a Muslim family.”

“Yes,” I say softly.

“I have looked through all our records, and there is no Jacob Levy among our members with a birth date matching the one you provided,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. My heart sinks. Another dead end. “Thanks for looking. But you didn’t have to call.”

“I know I did not have to,” she says. “But I have someone here who would like to meet you. And in turn, we would like to help you. It is our obligation. Can you come to visit today? I understand that your grandmother is in ill health and time is of the essence. I realize the notice is short, but I see that you are on the Cape, so the journey won’t be more than an hour or two. I live in Pembroke.”

Pembroke, I know, is just off the highway on the South Shore, on the way to Boston. It would take me just under an hour and a half to get there. But I don’t understand why I need to go if they haven’t found Jacob Levy in their records.

“I’m afraid today isn’t going to work,” I say. “I run a bakery, and we’re open until four.”

“So come after you close,” the woman says right away. “Come for dinner.”

I pause. “I appreciate the invitation, but—”

She cuts me off. “Please. My grandmother would like to meet you. She is in her nineties. She is a Muslim, and she too sheltered Jews during the war.”

My heartbeat picks up. “She’s from Paris too?”

“No,” the woman says. “We are from Albania. You know, the Albanian Muslims, they saved more than two thousand of our Jewish brothers and sisters. When I told her the story of your Jacob Levy, she was astonished. She did not know that there were Muslims in Paris who had done the same. Please, she would like you to come tell her your story, and she would like to tell you her story in return.”

I glance at Annie, who is looking at me hopefully. “May I bring my daughter?” I ask.

“Of course,” Elida says immediately. “She is most welcome, as are you. And once we have shared stories, we will help you find this Jacob, okay? My grandmother says she knows how important it is to meet the past, here in the present.”

“Hold on,” I say. I put my hand over the receiver and briefly explain Elida’s request to Annie.

“We have to go, Mom,” she says solemnly. “That lady’s grandma sounds just like Mamie. Except from Albania instead of France. And Muslim instead of Jewish. We should go talk to her.”

I look at my daughter for a moment and realize she’s right. My grandmother is lying in a coma, but Elida’s grandmother is still able to talk. We may never get the full story of what happened to my grandmother, but perhaps hearing from another woman from the same time period, who was involved in a situation similar to Mamie’s, will help us to understand.

“Okay,” I tell Elida. “We’ll be there around six. What’s your address?”



Annie invites Alain to come with us to Pembroke, but he says that he’ll stay behind with Mamie instead. We swing by the hospital to sit with Mamie for a few minutes, then Annie and I set off again, after promising to pick Alain up on our way home. He’s managed to charm the night nurses at the hospital into looking the other way when it comes to their visitation policies; they all know his story and that he has been separated from his sister for nearly seventy years.

It’s a few minutes past six when we pull off the highway in Pembroke. We find Elida’s house easily enough, thanks to the directions she gave us. It’s a blue, white-shuttered, two-story home in a small, well-kept neighborhood just behind a Catholic church. Annie and I exchange looks, get out of the car, and ring the doorbell.

The woman who opens the door and introduces herself as Elida is older than I’d expected; she looks like she’s in her midforties. Her skin is pale, and she has thick, black hair that tumbles down her back, nearly to her waist. I’ve never met anyone from Albania, but she looks like what I’d expect someone from Greece or Italy to look like.