The Sweetness of Forgetting

by Kristin Harmel

  I check my watch. Perhaps he’s in the Place des Vosges, playing chess, like Monsieur Berr said. I pull out my map, flip to the correct page, and realize the park is less than a block away. I turn and walk in that direction.

  On the way, I stop at a pay phone, and after spending a few minutes trying to get an English-speaking operator, I use my Visa to make a call to Annie’s cell. I realize she’s probably asleep and won’t answer, but I’m suddenly dying to tell her what I’ve found. The call goes to voice mail, and although I’d expected that, my heart still sinks. I consider telling her about Alain, but instead, I say, “I was just thinking about you, honey, and I wanted to say hi. It’s beautiful here in Paris. I think I might have found something, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I’ll call you later. I love you.”

  Five minutes later, I enter the Place des Vosges through the middle of three stone arches beneath a building. The whole square is surrounded by uniform brick and stone buildings, with graying roofs, french doors, and narrow balconies. Nearly twenty soaring trees with kelly-green leaves surround a statue on horseback in the middle of the rectangular park, while four two-level fountains hold up the four grassy corners, inside the frame of the sandy footpaths.

  I look around for anyone who matches Alain’s general description, but so far the oldest man I’ve seen—a man walking a little black dog—couldn’t be much older than sixty. I quickly walk the length of the park, staring into the faces of those who pass by, but there is no one here who might be Alain. My heart heavy in my chest, I sigh and walk out the way I came. It is beginning to dawn on me that I might not encounter him, here or anywhere. I fight off a feeling of crushing disappointment—I can’t admit defeat yet.

  I wander east to kill a little time before I return to the address Monsieur Berr gave me. I turn a few corners, passing apartment buildings and storefronts, until I find myself on a narrow street filled with people ducking in and out of designer stores. Rue des Rosiers, I read from a street sign. I wander down the street, staring up at a disconcerting mix of ancient-looking butcher shops, bookstores, and synagogues, blended with modern clothing stores.

  I come to a stop outside a small storefront marked with the Star of David and the word synagogue, which is apparently the same in French as it is in English. My heart is thudding, and I reach out a shaking hand to touch the outer wall. I wonder how long it’s been here, and whether my grandmother might have worshipped here at some point.

  As I stand there, lost in thought about the past, a familiar scent tugs me back to the present. The air smells ever so faintly like the buttery, cinnamon-scented, fig-and-prune-filled Star Pies I bake every day in my own bakery.

  I turn, slowly, and find myself facing a deep red storefront with big picture windows overflowing with breads and pastries. A bakery. I blink a few times and, as if drawn forward by an invisible magnet, float across the street and through the doors.

  Inside, the store is packed with people. To the right is a long deli case with meats and prepared salads; to the left is a seemingly endless display of bagels, cheesecakes, pies, tarts, and pastries, all with little signs announcing their names in French and their prices in euros.

  I’m frozen in place as my eyes roam over the familiar selection. I see the lemon-grape cheesecake that’s one of the North Star’s specialties. There’s a delicate-looking strudel that looks just like the one that always sells out at my bakery; I take a step closer and realize it’s practically identical: it has apples, almonds, raisins, candied orange peel, and cinnamon, just like I use. There’s even a sourdough rye bread like the one I earned top honors with two years ago in the Cape Cod Times’s “Best Breads of the Cape” poll.

  And there, in the window, are slices of something they call Ronde des Pavés. I’m accustomed to seeing them baked into little individual pies with star-shaped lattice crusts, but as I bend to look at the slices, the filling is unmistakable. Poppy seeds, almonds, grapes, figs, prunes, and cinnamon sugar. Just like Mamie’s beloved Star Pies.

  “Que puis-je pour vous?” There’s a high-pitched French voice behind me, and I turn slowly, as if in a fog.

  “Um, I don’t speak French,” I stammer. “I’m sorry.” My heart is still pounding a mile a minute.

  The woman, who looks about my age, smiles. “No problem,” she says, switching seamlessly to accented English. “We have a lot of tourists here. What would you like?”

  I point shakily to one of the pieces of Ronde des Pavés. She begins to bag it for me, but I reach out to stop her. I realize my hand is trembling when it makes contact with her arm. She looks up in surprise.

  “Where do these recipes come from?” I ask her.

  She frowns and looks suspicious. “They’re old recipes of my family, madame,” she says. “We do not give them out.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean,” I say quickly. “It’s just that I have a bakery in the States, in Massachusetts, and I make the same things. All these recipes that I thought were my grandmother’s family recipes . . .”

  The suspicion fades from her expression, and she smiles. “Ah. Your grandmother, she is Polish?”

  “No, she’s from here. Paris.”

  The woman tilts her head to the side. “But her parents are from Poland, no?” She bites her lip. “This bakery, it was opened by my great-grandparents, just after the war. In 1947. They were from Poland. These recipes, they have much influence of Eastern Europe.”

  I nod slowly.

  “Everything we bake was developed in the tradition ashkénaze of my family’s past. We keep to those traditions today. Your grandmother, she is juive? Um, Jewish?”

  I nod slowly. “Yes. I think. But what’s the tradition ash . . . whatever you said?”

  “It’s the, how you say, le judaïsme traditionnel in Europe,” she explains. “It began in Germany, but hundreds of years ago, these juifs moved to other countries of Europe in the east. Before the war, most communautés juives, em, communities of juifs, in Europe were ashkénaze, like my great-grandparents. Before Hitler destroyed them.”

  I nod slowly and look at the pastries again. “My grandmother always said her family had a bakery here in Paris,” I say quietly. “Before the war.” I look around and realize how many of Mamie’s favorite pastries are missing. “Do you have pistachio cakes?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, looking at me blankly, and I go on to describe Mamie’s sweet crescent moons and her almond rose tarts. Again, the woman shakes her head. “Those do not sound familiar,” she says. She looks around, seeming to suddenly realize how crowded the shop is. “I am sorry,” she says. “I must go now. Unless you want a pastry.”

  I nod and point to one of the Ronde des Pavés, which I know will taste just like one of our Star Pies. “I’ll take one of those, please,” I say.

  She nods, wraps it in wax paper, and places it in a little white bakery bag for me. “There is no charge,” she says, handing it to me with a smile. “Maybe you will give me a pastry if I come to Massachusetts someday.”

  I smile back. “Thank you. And thanks for all your help.”

  She nods and turns away. I’m already walking toward the door when I hear her call out, “Madame?”

  I turn around.

  “Those other things you mentioned,” she says. “I do not think they are of the Eastern European tradition ashkénaze.” She waves and disappears into a crowd of waiting customers. I frown and stare after her in confusion.

  I eat my Ronde des Pavés as I retrace my steps back to the address Monsieur Berr gave me. It’s not exactly like one of our Star Pies, but it’s close enough. The one I make is heavier on the cinnamon—Mamie has always loved cinnamon—and our crust is a little denser and more buttery. The raisins in the Ronde are golden, while I use traditional dark raisins. But it’s clear the recipes originate from the same place.

  I’ve finished the pastry, but not my swirling questions, by the time I reach Alain’s door again. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment, steeling
myself for the feeling of disappointment I know will flood through me if he doesn’t answer. I open my eyes and press the buzzer.

  At first, I’m greeted by silence. I buzz again and am about to turn away when suddenly, there’s a crackling sound and a muffled male voice on the other end.

  “Hello!” I practically shout into the call box, my heart suddenly pounding. “I’m trying to find Alain Picard.”

  There’s a pause and then more crackling and a muffled male voice.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t understand you,” I say. “I . . . I’m trying to reach Alain Picard.”

  The speaker crackles again, the voice says something, and then, to my relief, I hear the front door buzz.

  I push it open and hurry into a tiny, beautiful courtyard, where vines creep up old stone walls framed by red roses and yellow daffodils. I cross quickly and make my way into the building. He’s in apartment 2B, Monsieur Berr said. I climb the flight of stairs in the corner and am momentarily surprised to see that the two apartments in front of me are labeled 1A and 1B. Then I remember that the French think of the ground floor as 0 instead of 1, and I ascend a second flight of stairs.

  Heart pounding, I knock on the door marked 2B. The moment it opens and I find myself face-to-face with an old, slightly stooped man with thick white hair, I know for sure. He has Mamie’s eyes, the slate-gray, slightly almond-shaped eyes that she passed on to my mother. I’ve found my great-uncle. Mamie is part of this mysterious, lost Picard family after all, and therefore, so am I. I take a deep breath.

  “Alain Picard?” I manage when I’ve found my voice.

  “Oui,” he says. He’s staring at me. He shakes his head and says something in rapid French.

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” I say. “I only speak English. I’m sorry.”

  “Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he says, switching seamlessly to English. “It is just that you look like someone I used to know. It is like seeing a ghost.”

  My heart thuds. “Do I remind you of your sister?” I ask. “Rose?”

  The color drains from his face. “But how did you . . . ?” His voice trails off.

  “I think I’m your great-niece,” I tell him. “I’m Rose’s granddaughter. Hope.”

  “No,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper now. “No, no. That is impossible. My sister died seventy years ago.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. “She’s still alive.”

  “Non, ce n’est pas possible,” he murmurs. “It is not possible.”

  “She always believed you had died,” I tell him softly.

  He stares. “She is alive?” he whispers after a long pause. “You are certain?”

  I nod, the words stuck behind the sudden lump in my throat.

  “But how . . . how are you here? How did you find me?”

  “She asked me to come to Paris to find out what happened to her family,” I say. “Your name was nowhere in the records.” I quickly explain about how the people at the memorial sent me to Olivier Berr.

  “I remember him,” he says softly. “He spoke to Jacob too. A long time ago. Right after the war.”

  “Jacob?” I ask.

  His eyes widen. “You do not know of Jacob?”

  I shake my head. “Is he another of your brothers?” I wonder why Mamie didn’t put his name down on the list.

  Alain shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “But he was more important to Rose than anyone else in the world.”

  I follow Alain into his apartment, which is small and filled with books. Dozens of teacups sit with their matching saucers on shelves and atop cabinets, a few even framed on the walls.

  “My wife collected those,” Alain says, following my gaze and nodding to a shelf filled with cups and saucers, as he shuffles down the hall toward a sitting room. “I never liked them. But after she died, I could not bring myself to throw them away.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “When did she . . . ?”

  “A very long time ago,” he says, looking down. We enter the sitting room, and he gestures to one of two high-backed chairs, upholstered in red velvet. I sit, and he shakily sinks into the seat opposite me. “My Anne, she was one of the few who survived Auschwitz. We used to say how lucky she was. But she could never have children, because of what they had done to her. She died at forty with a broken heart.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmur.

  “Thank you,” he says. He leans forward eagerly and stares at me with eyes that are achingly familiar. “Now, please, tell me about Rose. Forgive me; I am in shock.”

  So I quickly tell him what I know: that my grandmother came to the United States in the early 1940s after marrying my grandfather, that they had one daughter, my mother. I tell him about the bakery Mamie opened on Cape Cod and how just an hour earlier, I’d stumbled upon the ashkénaze Jewish bakery on rue des Rosiers and realized how familiar so many of the pastries were.

  “I always knew Rose had baking in her blood,” Alain says softly. “Our mother, she was from la Pologne. Her parents brought her here to Paris when she was just a little girl. They had a bakery, and before our mother married our father, she worked there every day. Even after our mother had children, she would still help at the bakery on the weekends and on busy evenings. Rose, she loved to go there with her. Baking is our family’s legacy.”

  I shake my head. It’s incredible, I think, that I’ve been surrounded by Mamie’s family history for all my life and never known it. Every time I baked a strudel or a Star Pie, I was following a tradition that had been in our family for generations.

  “But how did she escape Paris?” Alain asks, leaning forward even farther, so far that I’m beginning to fear he might fall from his chair. “We always believed she died somehow, just before the roundup.”

  My heart sinks. “I don’t know,” I say. “I was hoping you would know.”

  He looks confused now. “But she is still alive, you say? Can you not ask her?”

  I hang my head. “She has Alzheimer’s disease,” I say. “I don’t know how to say it in French.”

  I look up and Alain nods, sadness sweeping his features. “It is the same word. So she does not remember,” he whispers.

  “She has never talked about the past before,” I say. “In fact, I didn’t know until just a few days ago that she was even Jewish.”

  Now he looks confused. “But of course she is Jewish.”

  I shake my head. “For my whole life, she’s been Catholic.”

  Alain looks puzzled. “But . . .” He stops there, as if unsure of what to ask me next.

  “I don’t understand either,” I say. “I never knew until just a few days ago that our family was Jewish. I never even knew her maiden name had been Picard. She’d always said it was Durand. My daughter even did a family tree project a few years ago, and it’s Durand in every piece of documentation we could find. There’s no record of her being a Picard.”

  Alain looks at me for a long moment and sighs. “Rose Durand is probably the identity she escaped under. To have gotten out of France at that time, she would have had to get new identity papers, probably in unoccupied France. And to get new papers, she likely would have had to claim to be someone else. She probably had help from the résistance. They would have given her false papers.”

  “False papers that listed her as a Christian? That listed her as Rose Durand instead of Rose Picard?”

  “Much easier to escape as a Catholic than as a Jew, of course, during the war.” Alain nods slowly. “If she believed she had lost all of us, perhaps she wanted to forget. Perhaps she lost herself in her new identity, because it was the only way to maintain her santé d’esprit. Her sanity.”

  “But why would she think you were dead?” I ask.

  “After the liberation, everything was very confused,” Alain says. “Those of us who were left came to the Hôtel Lutetia on the boulevard Raspail. It was where all the survivors came after. Some to heal, to receive medical care. For the rest of us, it was the place to find each other.
To seek our families that had been lost.”

  “You went there?” I ask.

  He nods. “I was never deported,” he says softly. “After the war, I came to the Hôtel Lutetia to find my family. I wanted so badly to believe they had survived, Hope. We would arrive and put the names of the family members on a board. ‘I am looking for Cecile Picard. Mother. Age forty-four. Arrested July 16, 1942. Taken to Vel’ d’Hiv.’ People would come to you and tell you, ‘I knew your mother at Auschwitz. She died in her third month, of pneumonia.’ Or, ‘I worked with your father in the crematorium at Auschwitz. He became sick and was sent to the gas chamber, just before the liberation of the camp.’ ”

  I stare at him. “You found out that they all died.”

  “All of them,” Alain whispers. “Grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles. Rose was listed as dead too. Two people swore they had seen her shot in the streets during the roundup. I left without giving my name, because there was no one left to find me. That is what I believed. It is why there is no record of me. I wanted only to disappear.”

  “How did you escape being captured?”

  “I was eleven years old when they came for us. My parents, they did not believe all the rumors we were hearing. But Rose believed. She could not convince my parents. They thought that she was crazy, that she was a fool for accepting the predictions of Jacob, whom they viewed as a young rebel who knew nothing.”

  There it was again. That name. “You never told me who Jacob is.”

  Alain searches my face for a moment. “Jacob was everything,” he says simply. “Jacob was the one who told me to run if the police came. Jacob was the one who told me to try to convince my family. Jacob was the one who saved me, for when the police came for us, to take us away, I climbed out the back window, fell to the ground from three floors above, and ran.”

  He looks down at his hands for a long moment. They’re gnarled and scarred. Finally, he draws a deep breath and continues. “I let my family die, because I was scared,” he says. He looks up at me and there are tears in his eyes. “I did not try hard enough to persuade them. I did not take Danielle and David, the younger ones, with me. I was frightened, very frightened, and because of that, they are all gone.”