The Velvet Hours (7 page)

“Can you imagine how extraordinarily difficult such a feat is, Marthe?”

She shook her head.

“And yet, there you have it. Around your beautiful neck are sixty-five natural pearls, harvested from the bottom of the sea, that are all the same size and have the same luminosity.

“If anything were to happen to me, you should sell this necklace back to Mellerio's . . .”

“What nonsense are you talking?” she interrupted, reaching for his hand. “You're not going anywhere . . . are you?”

The expression on his face suddenly shifted. He patted his breast pocket in search of his pipe.

“Your health . . . you must tell me!” The thought of losing Charles terrified her.

Again, he remained quiet.

“But what did the doctor say? Surely there is some cure you can take?”

Her fingers were trembling. The necklace suddenly felt cold against her skin.

“Let's just say that I've been told to put my affairs in order.”

He tried to force a smile. “You are my great love, Marthe.” He reached to pull her hand into his. “Consider the necklace a gift of insurance.”

*   *   *

That afternoon they tucked themselves inside her bedroom as though it were a raft adrift at sea. She undressed for him slowly, as though it were the last time. She tried to make it a gift to him. To see her cast against the mirrors. Her long white limbs. Her full breasts. The pink nipples that he reached to touch as though they were rose petals meant only for him.

After her silk dress fell to the ground, her corset untied and placed on the chair, and her stockings rolled down over her knees, she stood before him wearing only the pearl necklace.

“It is just as I imagined,” he said as he closed his eyes. She crept onto the bed as quiet as a kitten, and she fell asleep in his arms.

September 1939

A
light drizzle was falling when I left my grandmother's apartment. The hours had evaporated between us as I listened closely while she took me back nearly forty years, to when she first had held the priceless strand of pearls in her young hands.

But now, as I stepped outside her building and walked toward the Métro, I noticed an unfamiliar amount of commotion. Men and women were huddling on street corners, and gripping newspapers. From the cafés I could hear the radios blaring. I stopped for a moment and bought a paper from a boy on the corner. The front page, in large black and white letters, announced Hitler's latest advancement. Germany had invaded Poland. A photograph of him on the pulpit, his hand raised and his face twisted with rage, cemented my feelings of dread. Grandmother's apartment slipped away from me as I hurried home.

I ran up the stairs of our apartment and found refuge inside,
quickly taking off my sweater and placing my bag and newspaper down on the kitchen table. Outside, I could hear the patter of rain striking the iron balcony.

I had just walked to the stove and lit a match under the burner to boil some water when my father came through the door.

“Solange?” He had not been as lucky as I with the rain. He stood there, drenched. Hanging from his hand was a newspaper, the pages soaked through.

I could hear how worried he was just by the sound of his voice.

“Yes, I'm here . . .” I walked toward him. He was peeling off his wet suit jacket.

“So you've heard, then . . .”

“Yes. But what does it mean?”

I watched as he considered my question. His eyes were closed. I could see the pink circle of skin where his hair had thinned.

“It means Hitler has his eyes on far more than just Austria and the Sudetenland.” His face looked ashen and I felt a shiver run through me.

He gestured toward the radio and I went at once to turn it on.

We pulled out our chairs and sat down at the dining room table.

That evening we ate with hardly a word between us. The radio broadcast the news that Germany had violated its previous agreement and had invaded Poland.

“This will mean another world war.” Father shook his head. “All those lives lost in the last one, and now another with hardly a reprieve.” His eyes darkened and sorrow washed over him. “I don't think France can endure another battle against the Boche,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “But I think the next headline we will hear shall be that we have no other choice than to declare war.”

The brutality France had endured during the last war had been so extreme that there wasn't a Frenchman in the country who didn't fear the possibility of another conflict. The German army had
brought us to our knees. The trench warfare had been horrific. Many of my classmates were born never knowing their fathers or having one who was maimed.

I knew little about my father's experience in the Great War except for a few bits and pieces, most of which were told to me by my mother. I knew he had spent the last months of his deployment in a military hospital near Verdun administering morphine to hundreds of wounded soldiers. He never spoke of these men, whose wounds and amputations no doubt required his constant attention. But I knew, having heard him cry out from nightmares during my childhood, that he carried his memories of these shattered men deep inside him. And it was on those nights when these men and their wounds returned to him, that
Maman
did her best to soothe my father back to sleep.

In some ways, I believed my mother had saved him from his secret pain. That she had brought light back into a life that would have remained shut and otherwise dark.

She had told me the story of their courtship in various chapters over my childhood. I knew they had met in the months just after the war in a small bookshop off the Boulevard Saint-Germain. She was holding a copy of
Madame Bovary
when his shoulder struck against hers. She had been so caught off guard by their collision that she lost her grip on the novel and it came tumbling to the ground.

“Beware of rat poisoning . . . ,” he said, referencing the novel as a shy attempt to make light of an awkward situation.

It seemed her laughter bolstered his bravado, and they spent the next hour looking through the labyrinth of bookshelves together. My mother, for popular nineteenth-century novels. My father, for treatises on natural remedies and cures.

It wasn't until after her death, when I studied my notebook and tried to see beyond their quiet courtship and marriage, that I searched for clues that would reveal his true feelings for my mother.

I closed my eyes and recalled how, shortly after my mother's death, I had found him standing in front of her bookshelf, his hands deep within his pockets. He stood there staring at the apparent disorganization, never once trying to reconfigure anything on the shelves. He simply left her collection just as she had maintained it, embracing what was left of her spirit in the varied bindings on the shelves. And as that memory came flooding back to me, I saw clearly the depth of his love.

*   *   *

Neither my father nor I spoke as the radio blared news of Germany's latest invasion.

My father's face was grave. I watched as he placed his head in his hands. For much of my life, my head had been crowded with words. But now they escaped me.

When I left him to go to my room, he was still sitting at the table listening to the broadcast be repeated time and time again.

That night, when I went to bed, my thoughts wandered back to my grandmother. I had never seen a radio in her parlor. Nor a newspaper on the table. I wondered if she had even heard the news about the invasion. And if she did, whether it would affect her at all.

September 1939

A
t my next visit, I came in and immediately scanned Marthe's living room.

“Do you not have a radio?” I asked.

“Of course I do. It's in here.”

She stood up and brought me to another room I had never been in before. It was paneled in wood with a coffered ceiling. In its center was a large dining room table with matching Edwardian chairs. To the right stood a breakfront filled with china, and on a pedestal table next to the ornate fireplace was a small horseshoe-shaped radio.

“You see, I do have one, Solange.”

“Well, when did you last actually turn it on?”

“Not recently,” she admitted. Yet her skin did not flush with embarrassment. If anything, she seemed almost defiant, if not proud, of this fact.

“Have you heard about Hitler's invasion of Poland?”

She tilted her head slightly, as if she were studying me.

“Giselle did mention something, I believe . . .”

“And does it not concern you?”

I could feel her spirit rustling, like the feathers of a bird considering flight.

“Solange . . .” She said my name slowly and the light changed in her eyes. “Does it appear as though I'm concerned?”

In fact, she only seemed concerned by the judgmental tone I used to question her.

“Don't we know each other well enough by now for you to realize that I've lived a lifetime blocking out every unpleasant thing from outside these walls?

“That is what my artistry was, Solange. And why my visitors always came back to me, time and time again.”

“Visitors.” So she had more lovers than just Charles. I felt a small shiver run up my spine.

“But what if there's another war?” my voice challenged her. Even with her evident displeasure, I knew I could still ask her anything. We had a relationship far more open then the one I shared with my father.

“Solange . . . I've lived through the war with Prussia. Not to mention, the French Empire's pursuit of Africa from Djibouti to Dakar.” She took a deep breath and pressed her shoulders back into the velvet of her chair.

“And of course the Great War, too. So you can see why this latest news does not cause me alarm. I've seen wars waged over things ranging from the price of rubber trees, to the archduke being shot in Sarajevo.

“But in any case, I'm old enough to realize that men will always have two needs. To make war and to make love.” A smile formed at her lips. “And I've never had much of an interest in war.”

*   *   *

I wished I could have shut out the rest of the world like my grandmother did. But as I left her apartment, the threat of the looming war with Germany immediately washed back over me.

It would not take long for my father's prediction to be proven correct. Two days later Great Britain and France would declare war on Germany. The news traveled like lightning through the city. It spread through the telephones, the newspaper headlines and household radios, but also in the cafés and on street corners. The following morning when I went out for my coffee and croissant, every conversation I overheard was about the war. Would we be bombed? Should women worry about their sons being drafted? Already every grocery and butcher shop had lines forming down the block. I was sure Giselle had been the first in line. Within a matter of minutes all the shelves and glass cases would be empty.

*   *   *

My father and I now spent every evening at the kitchen table, the wooden radio between us, as we waited for the latest news reports.

We began to care for each other more gently. Each day, I left Marthe's a little earlier than I had in the weeks before, accepting Giselle's offer of some provisions she had procured on the booming black market. I took the bits of chicken wrapped in butcher paper or leftover soup she served for lunch. When Father arrived home, I would have something warm and nourishing waiting for him. I also attempted to keep my papers contained and not scattered all over the table. And I stopped complaining as I so often did in the past or pick petty fights with him. Instead, I strived to be grateful, to be more kind.

*   *   *

The radio reported not only the latest advances of Hitler's army, but also the anti-Jewish laws being passed by the Reich in Poland. I had
no Jewish friends but the news pained me. I began to dream more and more about my mother. I pictured her long black hair, her thin face, and her gray eyes. I saw her hands fluttering over the books that were written in Hebrew. I imagined her fingers tracing the inky black lines and turning the pages of the crisp yellow parchment. Yet still her family's history remained a mystery to me.

The Jewish Section of Paris was full of winding streets and small family-run stores, tailor shops, and kosher butchers. Eastern European immigrants who had fled their own countries after enduring years of pogroms and vehement anti-Semitism had flooded to Le Marais, bringing with them traces of the countries they had left behind. The air was laced with the strong, briny scent of vinegar and garlic from the pickle barrels outside the delicatessen shops and the sweet fragrance of cinnamon and dates coming from a bakery next door. I had walked there on occasion, curious about the people among whom my mother had once lived, and from whom I had become so far removed.

I took my grandfather's books from
Maman
's bookshelf, hoping that I'd learn more of a still-emerging story. One that was as intricate as the one I was learning from Marthe, inspired by a portrait and a strand of pearls.

I wrapped the books carefully in brown paper to protect them from the outside world, and then set out from the apartment. I went on a Thursday morning, knowing that many of the shops would be shuttered the following afternoon as the Sabbath approached. I took the Métro to the Saint-Paul stop and began to walk the cobblestone streets, my eyes wandering over the storefronts and their signs. I saw the occasional men in dark coats, black hats, and long beards who filled the streets, but I also saw young women who looked just like me—some even wearing the wide-cuff trousers that were now the latest style. I wasn't sure where I was going or what I might discover
here. But I knew I had to learn more about the books that connected my mother to her past.

*   *   *

It was right in the center of the Pletzl, the heart of the Jewish quarter, on the Rue des Écouffes, that I found a small shop with a sign outside that read:
Rare Jewish Books and Manuscripts
.

I pulled my books close to my chest and opened the door.

When I entered, I was struck by the comforting smell of paper and ink. Books lined the shelves, and I noticed two in a special glass display case. But it wasn't as crowded as the other bookstores I had frequented in the past. An older man with an apron tied around his waist moved past me.

I heard him holler toward the back of the store that he'd return later in the day. His accent sounded slightly German.

In the back sat a young man, his shoulders hunched over a desk, the green dome of a brass lamp obstructing his face. All I could see was his thick shock of black hair, like the pelt of a black miniature poodle, illuminated by the light.

He must have heard the door close behind me, for I was only a few steps into the store when he moved his head to see more clearly.

“May I help you?” he asked politely. He placed a small piece of note paper between the pages he was reading and closed the book shut.

I felt slightly bewildered as my eyes scanned the shelves lined with old leather volumes.

“I must tell you, mademoiselle, we're not a regular bookshop. We specialize in rare books and manuscripts . . . specifically rare, Jewish books . . .”

I smiled. “Well, then, I've come to the right place.”

I approached him and pulled the package of books from my chest. “Is there a quiet place where we can open these?”

The color of his complexion changed at my suggestion, as if someone had added another layer to his coloring. His blush bolstered my confidence.

“Yes,” he said. “Come this way, please.”

In the store's back room stretched a long wooden table. A lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, and he flicked on the switch.

“Why don't we take a look at them here? But first I should introduce myself,” he said, with a shyness I found endearing. He extended his hand. “I'm Alex. Alex Armel. I work with my father.”

“And I am Solange Beaugiron,” I returned the introduction. “Was that your father who just left?” My curiosity had gotten the better of me. While there were many immigrants that had flooded the Marais in recent years, Alex spoke French like a native.

“Oh, no, that's Solomon . . . he does amazing work restoring old bindings,” Alex explained. “He used to do restoration work in Berlin. We're lucky to have him here with us now.”

I smiled and began to slowly unwrap the books. When I had taken away the paper and string,
Maman
's two volumes, each with its own distinct leather cover and binding, rested on the table between us.

“I never get tired of seeing what people bring in,” he said as he moved closer to the books. “May I take a look?”

“Yes, of course . . .” I stepped away from the table so he could see the books more clearly. He approached cautiously as if assessing them visually before he began to touch them.

I watched, mesmerized, as he examined the outside leather binding before carefully opening the first book. Just as my mother had, he opened it from left to right.

“The rag paper is in good condition considering the book's age,” he said. “And look at this filigree motif.” He pointed to the design printed around the border of the title page. In the center, Hebrew writing was printed in dark calligraphic type.

“It's quite old and very beautiful . . . printed in Venice in the
sixteenth century by Giovanni di Gara, one of the great printing houses in Europe during that time. Even though di Gara wasn't Jewish himself, he printed many books in Hebrew.”

He took the book and now held it up closer to the light. “Whoever has had this in his possession over the years certainly took great care of it.”

“Thank you,” I answered softly.

“Have you had these books for very long?”

“They belonged to my late mother. Her father had a bookshop much like yours, I believe on the Rue des Rosiers.”

“How strange,” he said. “It's not familiar to me . . . but my father will surely know of the store. He should be back shortly.

“In the meantime, let's take a look at the other treasure you have in your possession.” He let out a small laugh. “This one looks even more special than the first. I've been eyeing it anxiously ever since you unwrapped the paper. If I'm seeing correctly from afar, you've brought in something very rare . . . and I suspect quite old.”

He reached for the larger book, the one that was as heavy as an old Bible, and opened it just as carefully as he had the last one. This book was the one my mother had read from during the last weeks of her illness. Since then, I had looked at it on several occasions, fascinated. I had not been able to remember any of the words she had once sounded out for me, but I spent hours poring over the many illustrations dispersed throughout the book. Animal and bird motifs, all painted in a bright palette of blue, red, and gold, created intricate borders. A few of the pages contained illustrations that depicted people. A man sitting at a table with his family. Another of a figure holding a staff.

Alex squinted over one of the pages and then turned to study a few more. “This is a very, very old Haggadah, a prayer book used by the Jewish people for Passover.” His voice seemed to drop to almost a whisper. “It's an amazing example of craftsmanship.” He turned
another page and looked again at the calligraphic lines. “It's all inscribed by hand on vellum . . . parchment made from calfskin.”

He began to study the pages portraying what appeared to be the patriarch of a family telling the story of the slaves in Israel.

Just as he reached to show me something else hidden within the illustrations, the bell above the store's door chimed and we heard footsteps walking toward us.

“Alex,” a voice wafted into the back room. “Has Solomon gone for the afternoon?”

“Yes, Papa. I'm in the back . . . with a customer.”

The store was quite small, so within seconds a man who appeared as an older version of Alex was standing at the threshold.

“What have I missed in the thirty minutes since I've been gone, besides the only pretty girl to walk into our store all day?” Other than his graying hair, the father's resemblance to Alex was uncanny. They had the same features. The chiseled face, the strong nose, and lively green eyes.

“Well, let's see . . .” Alex let out a small laugh. “You missed the same beautiful girl walking in with what I believe to be a sixteenth-century copy of the
Zemirot Yisrael
by Najara, and what appears to be a rare example of a fourteenth-century Haggadah under her arms.”