The Velvet Hours (31 page)

We were like bedouins at this point, with all our worldly possessions packed into the car, traveling on roads that brimmed with other people like us, all trying to get as far away from the capital to places where they thought they'd be safer. I thought of the Haggadah safely wrapped in brown paper and crated in the trunk, and the story of the Israelites' exodus now resonated deeply within me. I felt a connection to my mother, with her family, as I grasped Alex's fingers through my hand.

*   *   *

Leo was now wrapped in a blanket. He complained the light hurt his eyes, and Rachel tried to create a cocoon for him where his face was pressed against her breast.

It was still nearly one hundred kilometers until Marseille, and Monsieur Armel was determined to get there before sundown. My Haggadah was safely in the back, and I closed my eyes imagining the rabbi and his wife who had initially created the beautiful book all those years ago. Soon it would be passed into new hands, with a new life ahead of it.

For the next several hours, we rode in the crowded car. We spoke little, hoping to let Leo sleep as much as possible. Outside we passed stretches of farmland. Small villages made of fieldstone, and a single church steeple that pierced the sky. Occasionally, Monsieur Armel would be forced to stop for petrol, and all of us, except for Rachel and Leo, would pile out of the car and stretch our legs and breathe in the fresh air.

The bread and cheese we had packed at the beginning of our journey had been finished, and our stomachs rumbled with hunger. At the petrol station, Monsieur Armel bought us sandwiches and we sat outside with our faces tilted toward the sun.

“We probably have four more hours or so until we reach the city,” he told Alex and me.

Alex nodded, chewing on the last bites of his sandwich, and I sighed. The constant traveling had depleted me. I was exhausted. Leaning against his shoulder, I looked at the packed car, which seemed to sag from the journey. The black doors were covered in dust; the wheels were caked in mud. All I hoped was that we would get to Marseille safely.

*   *   *

I fell asleep for the rest of the journey, only to be awakened by the noise of a bustling port city as we entered Marseille. Our journey suddenly felt terribly real, far more so than even when we had first loaded our suitcases or closed down the apartments. In contrast to the countryside of the past few days, I now saw the familiar terrain of an urban setting. Though there was something far more exotic to Marseille. Unlike Paris, with its elegant stone buildings and imperial grandeur, here the city had a uniquely Mediterranean feeling. Many of the buildings were as white as the seagulls that circled overhead. As we drove closer to the port, I could hardly believe my eyes. The water was the most extraordinary color I had ever seen. Blue and veined like marble. Boats in the harbor sounded their horns, dockmen hollered, and seagulls sqauwked. Outside a tobacco shop, at least ten men in military uniforms stood smoking cigarettes, their eyes tracing the girls who floated by, their cotton skirts lifting like sails.

It took us at least another hour of driving through the city to find a vacancy in one of the hotels that could accommodate all of us.

Finally, Monsieur Armel found three vacant rooms, not far from the port in a hotel that looked like it was something out of one of my mother's old novels. The building, once majestic, was now in disrepair. The facade was crumbling, the stucco was cracked, and behind the wrought-iron balconies, the hotel's tall windows were kept open, their dingy curtains fluttering like old dresses in the sea air.

As we began untying the cord that secured our suitcases to the roof, Monsieur Armel took charge.

“Solomon, get Leo inside and we'll tell the concierge to call him a doctor. There's a pharmacy down the block.” He reached into his pocket to offer some money for Alex. “Why don't you try to get some fever powder for him to make him more comfortable?”

I remembered my father mixing those sachets of powder in a glass of water when I had a temperature. I felt a longing for his calm and his wisdom now. I knew he would have been able to speak with the pharmacist about what would make Leo feel better. I loathed the war, the vacuum that had swallowed up the normal channels of communication. My mind began to rush as I wondered how he'd be able to locate me once we left France. I imagined him returning to our apartment to find my note, and knew that it was essential that I write him again before we left Marseille, just in case there was the slightest chance he had returned safely.

Alex stood watch over the car as we brought our valises into the hotel. Just before Monsieur Armel returned to park the car, the trunk was opened to remove the box with the books.

“Oh my God!” Alex's voice scorched through the air. I turned and peered into the trunk. Unbeknownst to us, the well-intentioned farmer had placed a bottle of wine in the trunk as a parting gift to us. The bottle had broken and flooded the bottom of the car. The crate that contained the Haggadah was partially stained the most terrifying color of Bordeaux.

I grew pale and my stomach felt as though it had just been sliced
through by a sharp blade. I reached to touch the box, and the corner was soaked through in red wine. “It can't be!” I cried out. It seemed like we were both having the same nightmare.

In perfect synchronicity, Alex and I stretched our hands to pull the box closer to us.

I had no idea if the wine had soaked through the crate, but it was clear the wooden box was affected by the spill. As I touched the saturated corner, I felt as though we were touching a painful wound.

“Don't panic,” Alex said in a vain attempt to appear that he had the situation under control. But I could hear the fear in his voice; the terror was palpable. The Haggadah was our ticket out of France, and if it was destroyed, we were going nowhere.

“We need to unwrap them now,” he said. He lifted the books from the crate. The box and the bottom layer of packing material were clearly affected by the wine, but the brown wrapping paper seemed pristine. Still, we needed to check.

Quickly I began to pull the paper off of the Haggadah, while Alex removed it from his father's books.

As I lifted the Haggadah out of its layers of protective paper, I was relieved to discover that it had not been affected by the wine spill. But the book had not come through our journey unscathed.

“Look,” I said, showing him one of the red-and-blue-colored decorative birds. The rich blue color was flaking and cracking. It looked as though some of the pigment was lifting off from the page.

Alex turned white. “The wine spill must have caused a change in moisture.” He took the book from me and began to inspect the other leaves.

“Luckily, it only seems to be on that page.”

“But how will we be able to repair it?” I was so upset, I could hardly breathe.

Alex's face still looked grave. “It will depend on Solomon,” he said softly. “He'll be the only one who can restore it. If it can be done at all.”

*   *   *

Poor Solomon was already beside himself worrying about Leo. The doctor was called as Rachel waited by the sick child's bed. Monsieur Armel brought Solomon into our room, where the book was laid out on our bed.

“Solomon, we have an issue with the Haggadah . . .” His skin was pale and the strain on his face was evident. “Without the money from these books, we're not going anywhere.”

Solomon leaned over and appraised the damage.

“It's as I feared. Consolidation has occurred.”

Monsieur Armel let out an agonizing sound, a grunt that sounded almost like a dying animal. “I needn't tell you that our passage out of France depends on this book. You realize that more than anyone here.”

“Is there any way we can repair it?”

Solomon was quiet. “It's not going to be easy, Bernard . . . I'll need to seed a gelatin between the pigment and the parchment.” He shook his head. “It will be difficult and time intensive . . .”

“But do you have the supplies and instruments to even do that?”

Solomon nodded. “I can make an adhesive with gelatin and some wheat starch . . . Still, it will not be easy. We'll have to keep our fingers crossed that I can reattach it to the parchment.”

*   *   *

As Rachel tended to Leo's fever, Solomon immediately set himself in motion. He took the small black satchel he had brought with him and removed his instruments. Half of them looked like they belonged to a surgeon, and the other half to a painter: two flat sable brushes, three with rounded tips; several scalpels; cotton swabs; a tweezer, and something else that I didn't recognize. Later, I would learn it was a spun-glass burnisher for removing threads from illuminated manuscripts.

He took the book and laid it on the towel, and used the tip of his
scalpel to start lifting the corners of the pages to make sure there was no other damage. He no longer looked at it as a casual observer would, but as an expert restorer analyzing the damage with razor-sharp eyes.

We watched transfixed, all of us holding our breath as he began to prepare the necessary adhesive.

“Seeding the gelatin beneath each little flake will take hours and require my full attention,” Solomon informed us. “It is best you leave me so I can concentrate on the work . . .”

We all understood and were about to leave him to his work when there was a knock on the door. It was the doctor, who had finished examining Leo.

Solomon got up and walked over to speak with him.

But the doctor did not lower his voice when he told Solomon his diagnosis. We all heard it as clear as a bell.

“I'm afraid, Monsieur Weckstein, your son has come down with the measles.”

*   *   *

Just when we thought we had experienced the worst-possible blow, we received Leo's diagnosis. All of the adults knew what this meant. Leo would have to be quarantined, as would Eva, who unlike the rest of us, had not yet had the disease.

“I will speak to the hotel director about making sure all the necessary precautions are taken. But keep him in his room. He has spots in his mouth. I suspect the rash will appear on his chest by tomorrow.”

*   *   *

Words escaped us. As Leo's fever escalated, Rachel kept vigil. She applied cool compresses to his forehead and spoon-fed him broth that the hotel owner's wife brought up to his room.

*   *   *

Alex went out to the pharmacy and bought fever powder. In his satchel, he carried some provisions for a modest dinner. Some bread, cheese, a jar of cornichons, and a few sprigs of parsley, which he said was the only bit of fresh greens he could find.

“You've done well,” Monsieur Armel murmured softly. “Better than I expected, and we'll make do.” He looked exhausted. He had spent the past hour shuttling between negotiating with the hotel owner, who was not as compassionate as his wife, to let the sick child remain quarantined in his room, and keeping Solomon focused on trying to save the Haggadah despite being distracted by the news of his ailing son.

As I was lucky enough to have my own room, Alex suggested we have dinner in my quarters.

The idea was a welcome distraction, and I began to prepare the space. I opened up the windows, allowing the briny sea air to fill the room. It felt good to inhale a fragrance that was both foreign and invigorating. Outside, I could hear the bustling sounds of the city, which felt reassuring. Taxis honked, men shouted to each other on the streets, and I could hear foghorns blaring from the port. It was unfortunate that we could not leave directly from Marseille, but at this point, only a few transatlantic ships would risk taking civilians through the dangerous waters for fear of being torpedoed. And we were informed we had no other choice but to leave on a boat from Lisbon. I looked around the dingy hotel room. The walls, once painted white, now looked like the color of newsprint. The only adornment in the room was a single framed portrait of a woman in a field holding a basket. It amazed me that in only a few weeks' time, my living arrangements had gone from one extreme to another. I heard Marthe's throaty laugh in my ear, as if she were there in the room with me, gazing at the completely artless painting on the wall.

Somehow, however, I had to create a space for everyone to eat. I
looked around the room and tried to find some inspiration. The bed was made up in white sheets and a simple cotton coverlet. Improvising, I removed the coverlet and placed it on the ground. I took the writing tray the hotel had provided down the hallway and washed it with soap and water.

When Alex entered the room . . . “It's not much, but it's more than I expected to find so late in the day.” I smiled and took the bag from him, kissing him sweetly on the cheek.

“Do you have a pocket knife so I can cut the bread and cheese? I'll put it over there,” I said, pointing to the freshly washed writing tray. “We can pretend it's our little feast.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you're perfect?” he said as his arm pulled me onto my feet. He brought me into his arms and kissed me. His mouth tasted of parsley. Of spring and possibility. I kissed him back, my entire body melting into his.

*   *   *

That evening, as Leo slept in the room next door, his rash flaming over his little body, we managed to get Rachel to come in and sit with us for a few minutes before returning to her son.

With little extra space to spare, we all sat on the floor with our legs slightly draped beneath us. “It almost feels like a Seder,” Alex said to all of us. “We've left nearly everything behind, and a long journey is still ahead of us.”

I looked around the room and felt that I had been absorbed into the most extraordinary family. My heart was full. For the pages of the Haggadah were no longer just ink and vellum to me. They had sprung to life, a narrative continuing before my very eyes.

T
here is part of me, the writer, that would like to end my story here. Our makeshift dinner on the floor of our hotel room. My new life beginning with a journey from a port in the South of France, where seagulls circled in the salt-laced air.

I would like to pretend that from there, everything worked out as it should have. That we all escaped France safely, and then managed to build a new life first in Rio de Janeiro and then in New York. That Monsieur Armel rebuilt his rare book business with the help of his handsome and hardworking son.

But as I learned from my grandmother, every story, every life, has its own light and darkness. That beneath the veil of white powder are secrets we all wish to hide.

*   *   *

Years later, when I became a wife and a mother and eventually a novelist, my children would plead with me to tell them the details
of my own life story. Their favorite episode was the chapter in which I arrived in South America with their father and grandfather, with nothing more than a suitcase filled with three dresses and a photograph of my parents, clutching the hand of their father, whom I believed to be my most prized possession of all.

They loved for me to tell them how the Haggadah was saved, and how despite the odds being so stacked against us, we managed to escape the Nazis. That we boarded a steamer ship and built a new life in a city where the tango parlors played long into the night and where women tucked camellia flowers into their hair.

I treasured these moments with my children, their eyes wide, their imagination open. It was one thing to finally see my stories published, but my greatest pleasure was when I sat in the big cushioned chair in our Manhattan living room and entertained my children with my stable of tales. I was still young, barely in my thirties, but how I relished capturing their attention! It was hard in those moments not to think of Marthe, all those years ago, when I sat across from her in her parlor, clinging to her every word.

So the story of the Haggadah became a legend in our household. I went into great detail about how Solomon had labored for hours. How with the thinnest tip of his brush, he applied the gelatin, seed by seed, so the colorful pigment that created the red and blue feathers of the decorative bird was reattached to the ancient parchment. The children always breathed the sweetest sigh of relief when I described how the dealer took the Haggadah from Monsieur Armel and handed him enough money to pay the agency that was assisting with our tickets on the SS
Angola
, thus ensuring our passage across the ocean to safer shores. I peppered into the story how on the same ship we met the creators of the children's book series Curious George, Monsieur and Madame Rey, who, like us, would eventually find their way to New York and became lifelong friends.

*   *   *

But there was a part of the story that I could never share with my children.

You see, shortly after our arrival in Marseille, and just before the Germans marched into Paris, Eva also came down with the measles, and her case was far worse than Leo's. We waited for days in that dingy hotel hoping that she would recover quickly. But the child's fever would not abate. Her face flushed scarlet. Her chest was covered with a terrible rash, tiny red circles that looked as though she had been stung by a thousand angry bees.

The appointment with the doctor who issued the health certificates, the last bit of paperwork necessary for our exit visas, could not be postponed. And we could not exchange our tickets on the ship for new ones. If we waited any longer, we'd never have enough time to get ourselves to Lisbon. Monsieur Armel tried to explain our situation with the organization that was arranging our travel and paperwork, and he was told nothing could be changed. There were too few boats, and our visas would have an expiration date.

“Aren't there any other ships?” Rachel begged. And even if we had the time to find another ship, we wouldn't have been able to afford the passage, as our current tickets could not be refunded.

“Eva will not pass the health examination,” Solomon said in a voice steeped in resignation. “And if we were to try to sneak her on board, we would risk infecting those on the ship. I could not live with myself if that happened.”

Rachel looked exhausted. She could barely manage her words through her fatigue.

“What are we going to do?”

Solomon spoke carefully. “You and Leo will go now with the Armels. If we're lucky, Leo will pass his medical exam now that the fever has dissipated. I will stay behind with Eva until she gets better.”

“I'm not going without you,” Rachel said, pushing through her tears. “And I'm not leaving without Eva, either.”

“Yes, you will,” Solomon insisted. “I'll find a way to eventually join you. You know how resourceful I am . . .”

She shook her head. “I will not risk separating our family.” Her voice had suddenly become stronger. Almost defiant. She stood up and looked at him with fierce eyes. “No, Solomon. No.”

*   *   *

The following afternoon we departed for our medical exams, leaving Rachel as she tried to cool Eva's fever with an ice bath and cold compresses, with Leo still fast asleep.

The waiting room outside the doctor's office was filled with immigrants. Some dressed in dirty pinafores, others in their Sunday best. The doctor examined me first, his stethoscope cold on my chest, his mallet striking my knee. He listened to my breathing and then felt my abdomen with a quick, brisk touch. With the same mechanical movements, he stamped my paperwork and the Armels', clearing the way for the three of us to leave France. But none of us felt joy or the slightest pang of relief. We felt something far more terrible. When we returned later that afternoon and looked at Rachel with her tired eyes, her daughter resting on her lap and her fingers laced through Leo's hands, we were flooded with a sense of guilt.

*   *   *

And so this chapter of my life story I hid away deep within the channels of my heart. I held my own children close, smelling the fragrance of their hair and the sweet scent of milk from their warm cheeks, and I created my own version of the story when we all arrived in South America and then, years later, made our way to New York. When my daughter asked about my pearl necklace, gently tugging on the emerald green clasp, I placed my hand over hers and told her
how I inherited my affection for butterflies from my grandmother. That true love felt like the beating of wings.

*   *   *

It is a painful truth that every life has its own regret. With Marthe, I believe it was the fact that she never fully made peace with my father. That she died before receiving absolution from him, even though she had gifted all of her worldly possessions to both of us in the end.

But for me, it was the reality of having to leave Solomon and his family behind. That was the shadow not only I, but also Alex and his father, would take with us to our grave.

The day we left the Weckstein family in Marseille, we all felt that our hearts were ripped from our chests.

Monsieur Armel and the rest of us did not want to leave them. At the last minute, we all agreed we could try to find a way to book a later passage on a ship out of Lisbon. But Solomon knew more than anyone that the tickets could not be refunded, and that this was our only chance to leave.

“I have some money from my grandmother,” I insisted. But Solomon would not hear of it. “We have our children,” Solomon said, shaking his head no. “My family is together.” He looked at Monsieur Armel, who had taken him under his wing since he arrived in Paris five years before. “And you must now go with yours.”

To this day, I can still hear his words in my head like a requiem. At that point, we had no idea of places like Auschwitz or Treblinka. We left Marseille convincing ourselves that somehow Solomon and his family would find a way to get their visas before our ship departed from Lisbon. And should that not happen, they'd find a way to keep safe.

And so we loaded the car to make our way through the Pyrénées, a three-day journey to Lisbon with hardly a word uttered among
us. Before leaving, we had peered into the room of the two children. Leo was still recovering; he appeared as thin as paper. But Eva was still in the throes of fever, and her face was flushed a painful red.

But it was the image of Solomon in his black suit, stained with salt rings, his delicate white hands clasped in front of him, that was almost too painful for words. For we all knew that it was he who had restored the damaged Haggadah. It was he who, in the end, had really saved us. His sacrifice, made so quietly and without drama, was lost on no one.

*   *   *

The novels that line my bookshelves now are the same ones that my mother once loved. The French classics, the fairy tales. We also have an extensive library with rare Jewish books, ones that Alex doesn't like to keep in his shop on Madison Avenue. In the corner, there is a special section for my own novels that I've had published over the past decade, in twenty different languages, that Alex always chirps proudly about to our friends.

But this is the book I never published. The one that reveals the story of my father, my grandmother, and ultimately my guilt about Solomon and his family. The secret that I left behind an apartment in Paris, with its rightful owner forever presiding above the marble mantel. The key to its front door sits in the side of my desk drawer, where my children and grandchildren will someday find it when I'm no longer here.

Shortly after Alex and I arrived in South America, I discovered that my father had perished after being forced by the Germans to march to the Northwestern part of France. So for years I instructed Marthe's attorney, then later his successor, to pay the annual fees on her apartment from the money Marthe had left me. I know that one day my granddaughter will marvel at the Boldini portrait, that my grandson will finger my old Mickey Mouse doll, and my daughter
will sit on the dove gray sofa and stare at her great-grandmother, with whom she shares the same russet hair and dancing eyes.

Like everyone who looks back on their life, my hope is that my children will see me clearly and without judgment. As a woman not so unlike her grandmother. A woman partly of reinvention, a woman of shadow and of light.