An Uncollected Death

by Meg Wolfe

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  Every Monday for the past several years, I’ve sat down at this computer to write editorials and blog posts, and I signed them “C. K. Anthony.” But today, there is no C. K. Anthony. There’s only me, Charlotte, a woman in limbo, and on this particular Monday I’m watching a young man install a For Sale sign in my front yard. I feel both loss and anticipation, of being neither here nor there….

   

  Charlotte and Helene sat in the quietest corner of The Coffee Grove. The proprietor, a lanky man in a gray ponytail and round wire-rimmed glasses named Jimmy Frobisher, brought over a tray with lattes in big white cups and plates with croissants. “Ladies,” he said in a soft easy tenor. “Fresh from la boulangerie, and a square of chocolate to round it out.” Jimmy was very fond of Helene. Charlotte noted that just about all men (and here she thought of Simon) were fond of Helene. She also remembered Jimmy before his hair went gray.

  “And welcome back, Charlotte,” said Jimmy. “It’s been a long time.” He gave Helene a hug and his condolences before returning to the counter.

  Charlotte smiled with anticipation as she opened her napkin. “You know, I always used to think that the French had croissants for breakfast every day, and a lot of other rich things, too.”

  “Oh my goodness, no! Not unless you want to get very fat. They’re really a treat, or for company, or for eating out when they’re ‘fresh from the boulangerie,’” She pulled a tiny bite off the end of her croissant and ate it slowly. “Of course,” she smiled after a sip of latte, “there are frequent reasons to celebrate and have a treat or eat out, too.”

  “The French paradox.” Charlotte dipped the end of her own croissant in the latte, and relished the blend of coffee and pastry, a treat that was now no longer in her budget, but she was here at Helene’s invitation. “Jack and I used to eat these like mad for years, and filled with all kinds of things, and also with extra butter and jams and such. Wow.” She shook her head at the memory of youthful metabolism. “We bought the mass-produced ones, of course, some already filled with ham and cheese, and we’d just pop them in the toaster oven. They don’t compare with these.”

  “I should hope not, but I’ve had that kind, too. Evidently more and more in France are mass-produced, as well. Very sad.”

  Helene looked out the window at the people and cars going by, her expression neutral, but Charlotte knew her sadness about Olivia was very close to the surface.

  “Do you miss France? Or Monte Carlo?”

  Helene turned back, and managed a smile. “I don’t know if I would call it missing, because that was then and this is now. Even if I could go back to Monte Carlo, what made it what it was for me is no longer there. We left, after all, in 1941. I was just barely nine years old.”

  “Olivia would have remembered Paris, though, right?”

  Helene nodded. “Olivia was born in 1921, and I came along in ‘32, the year we moved to Monte Carlo.”

  “That must have been a beautiful place to live, very glamorous, and seeing all the famous people and the race cars.”

  “Oh, it was! And we lived in one of the grandest villas, too.”

  “So your family was wealthy?”

  Helene burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Oh, heavens, Charlotte, no! We were just plain lucky. Our father was a sous-chef in Paris in the twenties, at one of the more exclusive restaurants. Eventually he was noticed by Beaufort Lamont, a wealthy American with a place in Monte Carlo. Mr. Lamont was a widower with two children. He entertained lavishly, as the wealthy did in Monte Carlo, and he asked Papa to come and be his chef. It was a no-brainer for our father: good money, regular money, and a chance to shine professionally. Best of all, in my mother’s opinion, we would have our own apartment in the villa, as Mr. Lamont had more room than he knew what to do with. We moved there shortly after I was born, so I only know Paris from occasional visits and when Paul and I lived there for a year.

  “Olivia, however, loved Paris, and adored Papa’s sister Anastasia, who had a bookshop on the Left Bank and knew all sorts of writers and artists. When she was a teenager, Olivia drove our mother crazy until she promised to let her stay in Paris for a few weeks with Aunt Sasha. Then she would make regular visits, sometimes staying for a month or two at a time. Olivia wanted to be a writer, and thrived by being around writers. To me she seemed so glamorous and independent, and I was sure she was going to be a famous writer, just like Collette.

  “The last time she stayed with Aunt Sasha, it had to be 1939, because France had just declared war on Germany, and my parents were out of their minds with worry that Olivia would be stuck in Paris, which the Germans would be more likely to either bomb or occupy, while we were relatively safe in Monte Carlo. Mr. Lamont sent Papa in a car with a chauffeur to go and get her. We were getting nervous, too, because Mother was Jewish, and we were hearing of all sorts of atrocities. Olivia was so upset that Aunt Sasha chose to stay in Paris, but then Paris was declared an Open City in the spring or summer of 1940, so we kept our fingers crossed that our aunt would be okay.”

  “Your mother was Jewish, but your father wasn’t?”

  Helene nodded. “My mother was from Scotland. There was a sizable community of Jewish scholars there. My grandparents took her on a European Tour, and happened to stay at my French grandmother’s lodgings in Paris, and that’s how she met my father and a long-distance courtship ensued. My grandfather was evidently not too happy that mother was marrying “a cook,” but when he saw how well-educated Aunt Sasha was, he realized it was a family after his own heart, and gave his consent.”

  “That’s a great story!” said Charlotte. “So if your mother was from Scotland, you must have learned English from her?”

  “That’s right. Mother was a whiz at languages, and made certain we were as fluent in English as in French, with passable German and Italian, as well. Mr. Lamont asked her to translate on quite a few occasions.”

  “Your mother sounds like an amazing person. I take it that your family didn’t stay during the war, though?”

  “No, thank heavens, but it wasn’t easy to get away. Mr. Lamont realized it was time to go back to the States, to his flat in Manhattan, and he wanted to bring the entire household along, chauffeur, chef, butler, housekeeper, the whole kit and kaboodle, even the piano teacher, but to his great surprise he couldn’t get visas. It was simple enough in the past, but all of a sudden the United States got very fussy about issuing visas. Later we realized it was because they didn’t want an influx of German spies posing as Jewish refugees.” Helene paused, as if she still thought it was preposterous that her family could ever be suspected of being German spies.

  “I can’t imagine how worried your family must have been, not knowing if they could get away,” said Charlotte.

  Helene nodded. “Money eventually talked, or at least Mr. Lamont did a lot of talking to one of the American ambassadors in Marseilles. Months of talking, actually. The ambassador was secretly trying to get as many Jews out of France as he could, but could only do it by issuing forged visas. I think we got out at nearly the last possible minute!

  “I fell in love with our new home, the incredible view of the city and Central Park, the sense of being safe because my parents and Mr. Lamont weren’t so worried anymore. I got full run of the music room, because by this time Mr. Lamont’s children had all grown up, and I continued my studies at Juilliard. There were so many wonderful teachers there, a lot of Russians who came here because of the Revolution or the First World War, and then like us, the Nazis and another war. For a few months I even studied with Siloti, who was one of Franz Liszt’s most renowned students; his cousin was Rachmaninoff, who we got to hear perform several times. So many wonderful artists and teachers.” Helene’s expression was wistful.

  “Did Olivia take to life in America?”

  Helene shrugged. “Not so much. Olivia went to Columbia University soon after our arrival. She had always had a single-minded intensity about her writing, but she changed a lot during her time in
university, developed a wild streak. She seemed more brittle, and always angry, impatient with America for not getting involved in the war soon enough. She went back to Paris as soon as she could after it was over.”

  By this time they’d long finished their lattes, and Jimmy brought them regular coffees to nurse while Helene continued her reminisces.

  “Olivia went to live and work at Aunt Sasha’s bookstore, it was called “Sibylline,” and like some others they had their own little literary magazine or journal, too, but by this time Aunt Sasha was dead—something to do with the war—and her partner Henriette was running it. Olivia published her poetry and stories in Sibylline and in a couple of the other literary magazines over there, and also back here in the States. In time she took over Henriette’s editing duties. But Henriette was ill, and the bookstore was struggling—she eventually had to sell it to pay her bills. After she died, Olivia came back and lived in Greenwich Village for a while. I saw her every now and again, because the music students at Juilliard would go down to the Village or up to Harlem, and Olivia and her crowd loved jazz. I’d sometimes meet up with her when she was on her way to some club or other. But we traveled in different circles. She loved to dance, jazz dancing in particular. That reminds me, I found a picture