Ruby leaned forward, as much as she was able, and fixed her attention on Miriam. “Kaz hasn’t told us much of anything about you. We know you’re French, but not much more than that.”
“I am an embroiderer,” she said. And then, though she ought to have left it at that, “I work for Norman Hartnell.”
“You do? It must be so—”
“No, Ruby,” Walter said. “I saw the look on your face just now. No questions about the royal wedding. Not a one.”
“Oh, fine,” Ruby said, and smiled at Miriam. “I wouldn’t have asked. Just so you know. I’m sure you can’t say anything, and it would make everything so awkward if I did ask.”
“Thank you.”
“All the same, I am very interested in your work. Was it difficult to learn how to embroider?”
“It was so long ago,” Miriam began, and then stopped short. Only eight years, which was hardly a lifetime. Never mind that it felt like a century or more had passed. “I was fourteen when I began my apprenticeship, and I did not like it at all. Not at first. Perhaps it was the shock of being away from my family for the first time. I had . . . I do not know how to say it in English. J’avais le mal du pays.”
“You were homesick,” Bennett said.
“Yes. There were many nights when I wept and wished to be home, to wake up in my own bed again. But of course it never came true. And I learned to like the work.”
A bell clanged in the distance. “That’s Cook calling us in,” Ruby explained. “Her feet are getting bad, so this is easier than her walking all the way from the kitchen. Although it does make me feel like I’m a cowboy on a ranch.”
The dining room was as pretty as the rest of the house, its table set with blue-and-white china, heavy silver cutlery, Battenburg lace mats instead of a cloth, and a sparkling crystal bowl massed with white chrysanthemums. They began with a soup of pureed vegetables, and then, for their main course, there were game birds braised with mushrooms and leeks. To finish, they were served a dessert that reminded her of pain perdu, though it was richer and sweeter.
“Bread pudding,” Ruby explained. “It’s Bennett’s favorite. I’ll bet Cook used up our entire egg ration to make it.”
Miriam found the conversation difficult to follow at first, for it moved back and forth across the table, from topic to topic, and she was never quite sure which thread to pick up. It was pleasant, all the same, to listen as Walter and Bennett debated one topic after another, often interrupted by Ruby, and to marvel at the obvious affection they had for one another.
At the end of lunch, Walter and Bennett stayed on to clear the table and help Cook with the washing up. Miriam began to gather their water glasses, but was promptly deflected by Bennett.
“Guests aren’t allowed to help. House rules. You can keep Ruby company in the sitting room, or you can poke around outside. I’ll keep the dogs shut away.”
As much as she wished to spend more time with Ruby, she also needed a few minutes to herself. “I think I would like to see the garden. Where shall I go?”
“Door’s at the end of the hall. That’ll take you to the kitchen garden. Things get wilder the farther you get from the house.”
The garden, hemmed in on three sides by the house, was set out in symmetrical parterre beds of vegetables and herbs. Rambling roses, their faded blooms fattening into rosy hips, climbed three-sided wrought-iron trellises set in the center of each square, while espaliered fruit trees spread expansive boughs across a south-facing wall.
Miriam walked around each bed, taking stock of the flowers and herbs, and then stood in the center and let herself breathe. The sun felt so lovely on her upturned face.
She turned at the sound of footsteps. Bennett. “It is beautiful,” she said.
“My mother’s creation. Inspired by memories of her childhood home in Normandy.”
“So that is why you have no accent.”
“Maman was relentless. Always insisted on French at home. But it has served me well.” He turned his head, caught her gaze, kept it. “I was in France during the war. I saw terrible things. And the memories of what I saw will never leave me.”
She nodded, not quite understanding.
“I expect you saw worse,” he said. “I expect that worse things were done to you.”
“How?” she asked.
“A guess. I understand your reluctance to discuss your past. I do. But if ever there were a safe place to do so, this is it. I promise you that.”
“I want to tell him. I do.”
“There isn’t a drop of hate in Kaz. None at all. As I think you know.”
“He is important to me,” she said. “He has become precious to me.”
“I can see it. But you— Hello, Kaz. Didn’t hear you come out.”
“I know. The two of you were as thick as thieves.” Walter had Miriam’s coat over one arm. “Shall we go for a walk? Cook insists rain is on the way.”
“Excellent idea,” Bennett seconded. “I’d come with you, but I need to keep an eye on Ruby. Otherwise I’ll return to find her at the top of a ladder or doing something else that stops my heart.”
Walter led them down the hill, through a stand of beeches, and into a grassy meadow that was crisscrossed with mown pathways. They walked in silence, the sun hot upon their backs, and after a few minutes he reached out and took her hand in his.
“What were the two of you rabbiting on about?” he asked.
“France. The war.”
“I thought so,” he said, and his hand tightened around hers for an instant. “Earlier, when you were frightened by the dogs, you told me you’d once liked them. ‘Before,’ you said.”
“Yes. Before I was imprisoned. Before I was sent to Ravensbrück.”
“The guards there had dogs,” he said, and there was something odd about his voice. He was angry, she realized, so angry that he could barely speak.
“They did.” They walked on, and she knew she had to tell him the rest of it. “There is something else you must know. I am a Jew.”
He squeezed her hand even tighter. He did not let go. “I thought you might be.”
“How?” How was it that he was not surprised?
“I’m not much of a detective. But you did speak of your grandmother’s Friday-night chicken. And there’s your name. Miriam isn’t a very typical name for a Catholic. Combined with your reluctance to speak of your life before the war, it seemed likely.”
“Why did you not say anything?”
“I was waiting for you to tell me. I didn’t want to push you. I certainly didn’t wish you to feel threatened.”
“And you do not care?”
“I think the better question is if I mind. To that I say, no, I don’t mind at all. But I do care. Very much so.”
“I do not understand the difference.”
“Your being Jewish is a part of you. It’s a part of your family and your history, and also your suffering. How can I truly know you without also knowing you are a Jew?”
He embraced her then, opening his arms so she might huddle close, one big hand cradling her head against his chest. He held her, and waited while she wept, and when her sobs had tapered into hiccups he handed her a wrinkled handkerchief.
“It’s clean. I promise.”
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and then, because she still needed to be close to him, she looped her arm through his. “Do you mind if we walk some more?”
“Not at all. Perhaps . . . would you like to tell me a little of your family? Where did you grow up?”
“In Colombes, just across the river from Argenteuil. We had a little house on rue des Cerisiers. My mother’s parents lived on the next street over.”
“A close family, then.”
“Yes.” And then, after they’d walked for another minute or so, “Have you heard of the Affaire Dreyfus?”
“Of course.”
“My father used to say that it had forced his parents to make a choice. They could be French, or they c
ould be Jews. And they chose France, and I suppose my father did, too. There was hardly anything in our home that would tell you we were Jewish.”
“I see.”
“But my mother’s parents were devout. When I was little we would have le dîner de Chabbat at their house every Friday, and Grand-Mère would serve her special chicken. It was my favorite thing in the world.”
“Only when you were little? What happened?”
“Grand-Mère died when I was twelve. After that we had no more Sabbath dinners. And Papa had become fearful, too. We could see what was happening in Germany.”
He wrapped his hands around hers, engulfing them, and she was safe enough, in that moment, to let the door to her memories open. Only a fraction, only enough to see her father’s face and, written on it, the fear he had tried to hide for so long. The knowledge he had swallowed down, like poison, for her sake.
“You said, earlier, that you left home when you were fourteen. What year was that?”
“It was the spring of 1938. Even then, Papa was forever warning me to say nothing about being a Jew. And he was so worried I obeyed.”
“And after the Occupation?”
“There was a census. They counted us, all the Jews in France, and marked where we lived. Papa knew it would happen, for he had a friend who worked for the police, and he came all the way into Paris to tell me. He waited for me outside my lodgings, and then he took me to a café and told me what was going to happen. He and Maman could not avoid the census, for they were known to be Jews, and there was my grandfather to think of, too. He was too frail to travel.”
“And when it was your turn to be counted?”
She shook her head. “Papa gave me false papers. Dassin is a Jewish surname, so I became Marianne Dessin, with an e. He put as my birthplace a small town in the Auvergne. I knew a little about it, for we used to go on holiday there in the summers. Then he told me to look for new work, to leave Maison Lesage, and to hide in plain sight. It was that, or try to leave France altogether.”
“Was it difficult to find a new position?”
“Not at all. I had a position at Maison Rébé within the week, and I moved to new lodgings as well, and when the census of Jews was made I was not counted. I never wore the star. I lied. I hid. And I never saw my family again.”
“You lived,” he said, wiping at his eyes with a second, equally crumpled handkerchief.
They were back at the kitchen garden. Walter guided her to a stone bench and helped her to sit. Only then did she realize she was shaking. His arm went around her shoulders, his free hand enfolded both of hers, and he waited.
She had never said the words aloud, not to anyone, not ever. She was so tired of keeping them to herself.
“Only after the war did I learn what happened to them. They were rounded up in 1942. In July. They were sent to the Vélodrome d’Hiver. It was only a few kilometers away.”
“And then?” he prompted, his words a whisper against her brow. He was hunched over her now, protecting her as best he could.
“And then I am not certain. I doubt I will ever know. I think they probably were sent to Auschwitz.”
“My darling. I am sorry beyond words. Oh, my darling.”
“I cannot stop thinking of it. I dream of that place,” she hurried on, the words tumbling from her mouth, “though I have never been. Not before the war, nor since. I dream of that vélodrome and the thousands who were sent there. They had to have known what would happen. Papa and Maman and Grand-Père. They must have known what would be done to them.”
His arms tightened around her, so tight it was hard to breathe.
“I think about it all the time. What was it like. First in the vélodrome, then at the camps, and then the final journey to the east. I see it. I see them, and they are reaching through time and space to me. To me, so I may bear witness and tell the world the truth of it.”
“Will you?” he whispered.
She had told him so much already. Surely he would understand what she wanted to do. What she meant to do. “I have an idea . . . but I need to show you. It is too difficult to describe. May we go back to the house?”
“Of course.”
He waited while she fetched her bag from the hall, and then he led her into the library and watched as she took out the bundle she was never without, not for weeks now, and unfolded it upon the table.
It was a square of fabric about the size of a cloth napkin, and on it she had embroidered a woman standing alone, and she was made of many smaller pieces of fabric appliquéd to the backing, one by one, like so many layers of paint. The background was impressionistic, with scattered lines of stitching that hinted at close-set buildings, or perhaps they were faces in a crowd.
The woman was looking over her shoulder, her face in profile, and one arm was thrown back in warning. She wore a Star of David on her coat.
“Is it you?” Kaz asked.
“No. I never wore the star.”
“Your mother, then.”
“I think so, yes. She was so beautiful.”
“This is . . . my God, Miriam. This is the work of an artist. You are an artist. Do you not see it? You must continue this work. Promise me you will.”
“It will take a very long time,” she cautioned. “This alone took me weeks. And my ideas for it are not small. I cannot imagine how I will ever finish.”
“A long time, yes,” he agreed. “But not forever.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Heather
September 1, 2016
Heather was awake at dawn the next morning. Daniel had walked her back to the hotel after their late afternoon coffee, and after promising to talk to his grandmother, he and Heather had exchanged cheek kisses as if they were both French or, more accurately, unsure of how to behave when a handshake was too formal, a hug was too touchy-feely, and a straight-up kiss was just too much.
True to his promise, he’d called that evening.
“Mimi is keen to meet you. We thought ten o’clock tomorrow would be a good time. Her flat is on East Heath Road in Hampstead, just around the corner from the Tube. The building is called Wells Manor and the name on the buzzer is Kaczmarek. I’ll email you all of that, as well as a map.”
“Thank you. I know you think this is no big deal, but it really is. At least to me it is.”
“You’re welcome. I was also wondering if you might like to go out for dinner with me. I would’ve asked you earlier, but then I began to worry you might feel I was taking over your holiday.”
“Not at all. If anything, you’ve saved it. Were you thinking tomorrow?”
“Unfortunately, I have a department meeting at six and they usually drag on forever. Would Friday night suit you?”
“It would,” she said, feeling very glad he couldn’t see how she was bouncing around her hotel room.
“Then it’s a date. We can sort out the details tomorrow—and do let me know how things go with Mimi. Ring me anytime.”
HEATHER HAD LET herself get so starry-eyed over her date with Daniel that she’d forgotten to ask him what sort of gift she ought to take to his grandmother. It didn’t seem right to show up at Miriam’s empty-handed, but she could hardly hand over a bottle of wine at ten in the morning. Food was tricky, since Heather had no idea if Miriam had any allergies or was diabetic or simply didn’t like certain things. But she had a feeling that flowers would be a safe bet.
Dermot was at the front desk when she headed out, and was able to recommend a good florist around the corner from the hotel. “Ask for one of their hand-tied posies,” he advised. “I get one for my mum every Christmas and she loves them.”
Armed with the posy, which looked and smelled like it had come out of Nan’s garden, though its thirty-five-pound price tag would have horrified her grandmother, Heather found her way across London to Hampstead station. According to the map Daniel had sent her, she had only to walk down the hill a little before heading east to Wells Manor, one of several blocks of century-old mans
ion flats that overlooked Hampstead Heath.
The manor’s redbrick exterior was patterned with zigzagging rows of a light-colored stone, the overall effect making the building look, rather comically, as if it were wearing an argyle sweater. An ancient intercom system was set into the wall of the vestibule, and she found the button for Kaczmarek without trouble; there were only sixteen apartments in the entire place.
Miriam answered right away. “Hello? Is that Heather? Do come up. I am on the top floor. I shall wait by the lift.”
The inner doors unlocked with a click, and Heather walked into an entrance hall that was impressive and homey at once, with polished oak paneling, burnished brass fixtures, and a tile floor with an intricately patterned border. An elevator was straight ahead, the broad flight of the central staircase curling around it. It had a scissoring gate that passengers had to pull shut behind them, and in every movie Heather had ever seen with such an elevator, it ended up getting stuck. The stairs it was.
She was hot and sweaty and out of breath by the time she got to the top floor, and for a moment, just as she came eye to eye with Miriam for the first time, she fretted that the other woman might disapprove of her. Her sundress was wrinkled, her makeup was melting away, and her nose told her that the all-natural deodorant she’d swiped on an hour before had failed her entirely. It didn’t help that Miriam was the picture of effortless French chic in a white linen tunic and slim, ankle-length trousers. Even the silk scarf she’d knotted around her neck was perfect.
“It is so nice to meet you,” she said, still puffing a little, and held out the posy.
“What a lovely surprise,” Miriam said, and sniffed at the flowers appreciatively. “But come here first.” She gathered Heather into a fierce, heartfelt embrace, only loosening it enough so she might kiss her on both cheeks. “At last, at last. Do you know, I hardly slept last night? I was so eager to meet you. And now you are here and you look so much like Ann. The same pretty hair, and the same eyes, you know. But let us not linger here—come with me and we will have some coffee, and I will put your beautiful flowers in water.”
Miriam led her into the flat, and even though they were in an apartment building it felt like a big old house, with high ceilings and a wide hallway and parquet floors the color of maple syrup. The walls were closely hung with oil paintings, brightly colored modern prints, and photographs of a gaggle of children at different ages, all of them evidently related in some fashion or another. In one picture, Miriam stood arm in arm with a tall, distinguished man with a shock of white hair and pale blue eyes—Daniel’s eyes, Heather realized—and she was holding up an enameled medal in a velvet case.
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