The Sweetness of Forgetting

by Kristin Harmel

  I blink a few times and as I read the details of Danielle, my heart catches in my throat.

  Danielle Picard. Born April 4, 1937. From Paris, France. Deported to Auschwitz. Died 1942.

  She was only five.

  I close my eyes and try to breathe evenly again. After a moment, I google the third organization Gavin suggested, the Mémorial de la Shoah. I click on the link and enter the first name on Mamie’s list, Albert Picard, into the search box. My eyes widen as I find him.

  Monsieur Albert PICARD né le 26/03/1897. Déporté à Auschwitz par le convoi n° 58 au départ de Drancy le 31/07/1942. De profession médecin.

  I quickly cut and paste the entry into an online translator and stare at the results. Albert Picard. Born March 26, 1897. Deported to Auschwitz in convoy number 58 from Drancy on July 31, 1942. He was a doctor.

  Numb, I enter the other family names. It doesn’t say what happened to them, only the dates of their deportations. They’d all been taken to Auschwitz in convoys 57 or 58, in late July 1942. I find all of the names except Alain, who, according to Mamie’s list, would have been eleven when it appeared his whole family was taken away. I stare at the screen, puzzled.

  I check my watch. It’s five thirty in the morning here. France is six hours ahead of us, so it’s likely that there will be someone at the memorial’s offices now. I take a deep breath, try not to think of my phone bill, and dial the number on the screen.

  On the sixth ring, a machine answers in French. I hang up and redial, but once again, a machine picks up. I look at my watch again. They should be open by now. I dial a third time, and after a few rings, a woman answers in French.

  “Hello,” I say, exhaling in relief. “I’m calling from America, and I’m sorry, but I don’t really speak French.”

  The woman switches immediately to heavily accented English. “We are closed,” she says. “It is a Saturday. We close every Saturday. For the Sabbath. I am here completing some research.”

  “Oh,” I say, my heart sinking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” I pause and ask in a small voice, “Is it possible to answer a question for me quickly?”

  “It is not our policy.” Her tone is firm.

  “Please,” I say in a small voice. “I’m trying to find someone. Please.”

  She is silent for a moment, then she sighs. “Fine. Quickly.”

  I hastily explain that I’m looking for people who may be my grandmother’s family, and that I’ve found some of their names, but I’m missing one. She sighs again and tells me that the memorial has some of the best records in Europe because the deportations were recorded meticulously by the French police, who carried them out.

  “Through Europe,” she says, “half of the records are missing. But in France, we know the names of almost every person deported from our country.”

  “But how can I find out what happened to them after the deportations?” I ask.

  “In many cases, you cannot, I am afraid,” she says. “Mais, well, in certain cases you can. We have here the written records, the census documents, and some other things. Some of the deportation cards have notes on them about what happened to the people.”

  “What about finding Alain? The name that’s not in your database?”

  “That is more difficult,” she says. “If he was not deported, we would not have a record of him. But you can feel welcome to come here and look through our records. There is a librarian who will help you. Maybe you will find him.”

  “Come to Paris?” I ask.

  “Oui,” she says. “It is the only way.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur. “Merci beaucoup.”

  “De rien,” she replies. “Maybe we will see you soon?”

  I hesitate for only a moment. “Maybe you will see me soon.”

  I’m so shaken by the results of the search, and by the conversation with the woman at the memorial, that I’m late in getting the Star Pies in the oven and the almond rose tarts prepped. This is very unlike me; sticking rigidly to the morning schedule is what keeps me sane most days. So when the alarm clock in the kitchen goes off, alerting me to the fact that it’s 6:00 a.m. and time to unlock the front door, I’m in an uncharacteristic state of disarray.

  I hurry out front and am surprised to see Gavin patiently standing outside. When he sees me through the glass, he smiles and raises a hand in greeting. I unlock the door. “Why didn’t you knock?” I ask as I push it open toward him. “I would have let you in.”

  He follows me inside and watches as I flip the switch on the Open sign. “I haven’t been here long,” he says. “Besides, you open at six. Didn’t seem right to bother you before that.”

  I gesture for him to follow me. “I have pies in the oven. Sorry; I’m running a little late this morning. Coffee?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  He pauses at the counter, and I gesture again for him to follow me back into the kitchen. “Can I do anything to help?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves like he’s already prepared to dive in.

  I shake my head and smile. “No, I’m okay,” I say. “Unless you can turn back time so that I’m running on schedule.”

  I grind a cup of coffee beans and am surprised to turn around and see Gavin filling the coffeemaker with water and lining the basket with a filter, as if he’s entirely at home here.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Rough morning?” he asks.

  “Weird morning. I got your e-mail. Thanks.”

  “Did it help?”

  I nod. “I spent some time on those sites.”

  “And?”

  “And I found all but one of the names from my grandmother’s list.” I pour the coffee grinds into the filter, and Gavin flicks the switch to Brew. We’re silent for a moment as the coffee begins to gurgle and spit. “I couldn’t find Alain. But the others, they were all deported. In 1942. The youngest one was five. The mother wasn’t much older than I am now.”

  I inhale deeply and feel my chest tremble as I do. “I’m still not convinced they’re my grandmother’s family.”

  “How come?”

  I feel suddenly embarrassed and avoid his eye. “I don’t know. It would change everything.”

  “What would it change?”

  “Who my grandmother is,” I say.

  “Not really,” he says.

  “It changes who I am,” I add in a small voice.

  “Does it?”

  “It makes me half Jewish. Or a quarter Jewish, I guess.”

  “No,” Gavin says. “It would just mean you’ve had that piece of her past in you all along. It would mean you’ve always been a quarter Jewish. It wouldn’t change anything about who you really are.”

  I suddenly feel like I’m talking to a therapist, and I don’t like it. “Never mind,” I say. The coffee pot is only half full, but I reach out abruptly to pour Gavin a cup as I change the subject. “You’re earlier than usual this morning.”

  I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth that it sounds like I’m keeping track of him. My cheeks heat up, but Gavin doesn’t seem to notice.

  “I couldn’t sleep. And I wanted to see how your search was going.”

  I nod and take this in as I pour a cup of coffee for myself.

  “Are you going to Paris?” Gavin asks.

  “Gavin, I can’t.”

  The timer on the oven goes off, and I can feel Gavin watching me as I slip oven mitts on and remove two trays of Star Pies. I set the temperature fifty degrees lower for the croissants I’ve already rolled out and shaped, and I head out to the front of the bakery to see whether anyone has come in without me hearing the door chimes. The shop is empty. Gavin waits until I’ve slid the croissants into the oven before he speaks again.

  “Why can’t you go?” he asks.

  I bite my lip. “I can’t afford to close the bakery.”

  Gavin takes this in, and I sneak a glance at him to see if there’s judgment on his face. There isn’t. “Okay,” he says slowly. I realize he hasn’t as
ked why, and I’m glad. I don’t want to have to explain my situation to anyone.

  “Can’t someone run it for you for a few days?” he asks after a moment.

  I laugh and realize the sound is bitter. “Who? Annie’s not even old enough, technically, to work here. I don’t have enough money to hire someone.”

  Gavin looks thoughtful. “I’m sure you have friends who can step in.”

  “No,” I say, “I don’t.” Yet another one of my many failures in life, I add in my head.

  We’re interrupted by the front-door chime, and I head out to help my first customer of the day. It’s Marcie Golgoski, who has been running the town’s library since I was a little girl. As I pour her a cup of coffee in a to-go cup and package a blueberry muffin—her usual—I hope Gavin stays in the kitchen. I know how it will look to her if he’s in back with me, and I don’t like anyone in town making assumptions about my personal life. As much as I love it here, this town is as gossipy as a high school.

  The timer on the oven goes off just as I’m ringing Marcie up, and I hurry back to the kitchen after she leaves, afraid that I’ve slightly overdone the croissants. I’m surprised to see Gavin setting the tray of croissants gently on a cooling rack.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He nods and slips the pot holders off. “I have to get going,” he says. “But you’re wrong.”

  “About what?” I ask, because if I’m going to be honest with myself, I’m sure I’m wrong about lots of things.

  “About not having friends,” he says. “You have me.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. My heart is suddenly racing, though, and I can feel heat rising to my cheeks.

  “I know you think I’m just the guy who fixes pipes and stuff,” he adds after a moment.

  I can feel my face heat up. “I’m a mess,” I say finally. “Why would you want to be my friend?”

  “For the same reason anyone wants to be anyone’s friend,” Gavin says. “Because I like you.”

  I stare after him as he disappears out the front door.

  Annie is miraculously pleasant when she arrives in the afternoon; she’s in such a seemingly good mood that I don’t bring up the Internet search I did or my conflicted thoughts about Paris, because I can’t bear the thought of another argument. She’s heading back to her father’s for the evening, and as we wash dishes side by side in the kitchen after closing, she breaks our companionable silence with a question.

  “So are you, like, dating Matt Hines or something?” she asks.

  I shake my head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not.”

  Annie looks skeptical. “I don’t think he knows that.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The way he looks at you,” she says. “And talks to you. All possessive-like. Like you’re his girlfriend.”

  I roll my eyes. “Well, I’m sure he’ll figure out that I’m not.”

  “How come you never, like, date?” Annie asks after a pause, and from the way she’s staring into the sink instead of meeting my eye, I get the sense that she’s uncomfortable with the conversation. I wonder why she’s bringing it up.

  “Your dad and I haven’t been divorced for that long,” I reply after a moment.

  Annie gives me a strange look. “So what, you want to get back together with Dad or something?”

  “No!” I say instantly, because that’s not it at all. “No. I think it’s just that I didn’t expect to be single again. Besides, you’re my priority now, Annie.” I pause and ask, “Why?”

  “No reason,” Annie says quickly. She’s silent for a moment. I know her well enough to know that if I don’t press her, she’ll say what’s on her mind—or at least a version of it. “It’s just weird is all.”

  “What’s weird?”

  “That you don’t have a boyfriend or anything.”

  “I don’t think it’s weird, Annie,” I say. “Not everyone has to be in a couple.” I don’t want Annie growing up to be one of those girls who feels incomplete without a relationship. It hasn’t occurred to me before this moment that those kinds of thoughts might be swirling in her head.

  “Dad’s in a couple,” she mumbles. Again, she’s staring straight into the sink, and I’m not sure what hurts me more initially—the sudden realization that Rob has moved on from me so quickly, or the fact that it’s clearly bothering Annie. Either way, I feel like someone has punched me in the gut.

  “Is he?” I ask as evenly as possible. “And what do you think about that?”

  “It’s fine.”

  I don’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.

  She breaks the silence again. “She’s around all the time, you know. His girlfriend. Or whatever.”

  “You haven’t mentioned her before.”

  Annie shrugs and mumbles, “I thought it would make you feel bad.”

  I blink a few times. “You don’t have to worry about that, Annie. You can tell me anything.”

  She nods, and I can see her looking at me sideways. I pretend to be absorbed in the dishwashing. “So what’s her name?” I ask casually.

  “Sunshine,” she mumbles.

  “Sunshine?” I stop what I’m doing and stare at her. “Your dad’s dating a woman named Sunshine?”

  Annie cracks a smile for the first time. “It’s a pretty dumb name,” she agrees.

  I snort and go back to washing off a baking tray. “So, do you like her?” I ask carefully after a pause.

  Annie shrugs. She turns off her faucet, grabs a towel, and begins drying a stainless steel mixing bowl. “I guess,” she says.

  “Is she nice to you?” I try again, because I feel like I’m missing something here.

  “I guess,” she repeats. “Anyways. I’m glad you’re not dating anyone, Mom.”

  I nod and make an attempt at humor. “Yeah, well, available men aren’t exactly beating down the door.”

  Annie looks confused, like she hasn’t gotten the self-deprecating jab. “Anyways,” she says. “It’s better when we’re a family. Without strangers.”

  I resist the urge to agree, which would be the selfish thing to do. But I’m supposed to do the right thing, aren’t I? And the right thing here is to help her to understand that eventually, her father and I have to move on. “We can still be a family, Annie,” I say. “Your dad having a girlfriend doesn’t change how he feels about you.”

  Annie narrows her eyes at me. “Whatever.”

  “Sweetheart, your father and I both love you very much,” I say. “That’ll never change.”

  “Whatever,” she repeats. She places the mixing bowl in the drying rack. “Can I go now? I have a lot of homework.”

  I nod slowly and watch as she takes off her apron and hangs it carefully on the hook near the larger refrigerator. “Sweetie?” I venture. “Are you okay?”

  She nods. She grabs her backpack and crosses the room to give me a quick, unexpected peck on the cheek. “Love you, Mom,” she says.

  “I love you too, honey. You’re sure you’re fine?”

  “Yes, Mom.” Her annoyed tone has returned, and she rolls her eyes.

  She’s gone before I can say anything more.

  I go to see Mamie that night, after I’ve closed the bakery. On the drive over, my insides are swimming with a mixture of trepidation, sadness, and dread that I can’t quite understand. In the space of a year, I’ve become the divorced owner of a failing bakery, whose daughter hates her. Now I might be Jewish too. It’s like I don’t know who I am anymore.

  My grandmother is sitting at her window, gazing out to the east, when I let myself in.

  “Oh dear!” she says, turning around. “I did not hear you knock!”

  “Hi, Mamie,” I say. I cross the room, kiss her on the cheek, and sit down beside her. “Do you know who I am?” I ask hesitantly, because this conversation will ride on how lucid she is.

  She blinks. “Of course, dear,” she says. “You are my granddaughter. Hope.”

  I si
gh in relief. “That’s right.”

  “That is a silly question,” she says.

  I sigh. “You’re right. Silly question.”

  “So how are you, my dear?” she asks.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I say. I pause, struggling with how to bring up the things I need to know. “I was just thinking about what you told me the other night, and I had some questions.”

  “The other night?” Mamie asks. She tilts her head to the side and stares at me.

  “About your family,” I say gently.

  Something flickers in her eyes, and her gnarled fingers are suddenly in motion, kneading the tasseled ends of her scarf.

  “At the beach the other night,” I continue.

  She stares at me. “We did not go to the beach. It is autumn.”

  I take a deep breath. “You asked Annie and me to take you. You told us some things.”

  Mamie looks more confused. “Annie?”

  “My daughter,” I remind her. “Your great-granddaughter.”

  “Of course I know who Annie is!” she snaps. She looks away from me.

  “I need to ask you something, Mamie,” I say after a moment. “It’s very important.”

  She’s staring out the window again, and at first, I don’t think she’s heard me. But finally, she says, “Yes.”

  “Mamie,” I say slowly, enunciating every syllable so that there’s no chance of her misunderstanding, “I need to know if you are Jewish.”

  She whips her head toward me so quickly that I shift back in my seat, startled. Her eyes bore into mine, and she’s shaking her head violently. “Who told you that?” she demands, her voice sharp and brittle.

  I’m surprised to feel my heart sink a little. As much trouble as I’m having believing in what Gavin has said, I realize I’ve been buying into the possibility.

  “N-no one,” I say. “I just thought—”

  “If I were Jewish, I would be wearing the star,” my grandmother goes on angrily. “It is the law. You do not see the yellow star on me, do you? Do not make accusations you cannot prove. I am going to America to see my uncle.”