The Sweetness of Forgetting Read online

  “I have a bakery.” I shoot a look at Alain. “My grandmother started it in 1952. It’s all her family recipes, from back here in Paris.”

  Alain shakes his head and turns to his friends. “Incredible, isn’t it? That she has kept our family’s tradition alive all these years?”

  “It would be more incredible,” says Henri, “if she had brought us some pastries this morning. Since you, Alain, did not bother to get any.”

  Alain holds up his hands in mock defeat and Simon tilts his head to the side. “Perhaps Hope can tell us about some of her pastries,” he says. “So that we can imagine eating them.”

  I laugh and begin to describe some of my favorites. I tell them about the strudels we make, and the cheesecakes. I tell them about Mamie’s Star Pies, and how they’re virtually identical to the slices of pie I found at the ashkénaze bakery the day before. The men are smiling and nodding enthusiastically, but something changes when I begin listing some of our other specialties: the orange flower-tinged crescent moons, the savory anise and fennel cookies, the sweet pistachio cakes drenched in honey.

  Henri and Alain are staring at me in confusion, but Simon looks like he’s just seen a ghost. All the blood has drained from his face.

  I half laugh, uneasily. “What?” I ask.

  “Those aren’t pastries from any traditional Jewish bakery I’ve ever heard of,” Henri says. “Your grandmother wouldn’t have gotten those from her family.”

  I watch as Henri and Simon exchange looks.

  “What?” I ask again.

  It’s Simon who speaks first. “Hope,” he says softly, all trace of jest gone from his voice. “I think those are Muslim pastries. From North Africa.”

  I stare back. “Muslim pastries?” I shake my head. “What?”

  Henri and Simon glance at each other again. Alain looks like he understands what they’re talking about now too. He asks something in French, and when Simon replies, Alain murmurs, “It cannot be true. Can it?”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, leaning forward. They’re making me nervous. The men ignore me and exchange a few more words in rapid French. Alain checks his watch, nods, and stands up. The other two men stand too.

  “Come, Hope,” Alain says. “There is something we must do.”

  “What?” I ask, completely baffled. “Do we even have time?”

  Alain looks at his watch again, and I check mine too. It’s nearly eight.

  “We will find the time,” he says. “This is important. Let us go. Bring your things.”

  I grab my duffel bag and follow behind the men as we silently leave the apartment.

  “Where are we going?” I demand once we get to the rue de Turenne and Henri puts his arm up to hail a cab.

  “To the Grand Mosquée de Paris,” Simon says. “The Grand Mosque.”

  I stare at him. “Wait, we’re going to a mosque?”

  Alain reaches out and touches my cheek. “Trust us, Hope,” he says. His eyes are sparkling, and he smiles at me. “We will explain on the way.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  We never knew whether to believe the rumors,” Alain begins once we’ve piled into a cab and are hurtling south toward the river. Outside, the streets are just coming alive with people as the sun begins to warm the earth and bathe the buildings in lemon light.

  “What rumors?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”

  Alain and Simon exchange looks.

  Henri speaks first. “There have been rumors that the Muslims in Paris saved many Jews during the war,” he says flatly.

  I stare at him, then I look at Alain and Simon, who are nodding. “Wait, you’re telling me that Muslims saved Jewish people?”

  “We never heard about it during the war,” says Simon. He glances at Alain. “Well, almost never.”

  Alain nods. “Jacob said something once that made me think . . .” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “But I never really believed it.”

  “There was a time,” Henri says, “that we viewed each other as brothers, in a way. The Jews and the Muslims. The Muslims were not persecuted during the war as we were, but they were always made to feel as outsiders, just like the Jews. I would guess that to some Muslims, seeing Jews being persecuted felt very personal. Who was to say that the country wouldn’t turn its back on them next?”

  “And so the rumor was that they helped us,” Simon says. “I never knew if it was true.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The rumors have always said that they gave housing and shelter to many children whose parents had been deported, and a few adults too,” Alain says. “And that eventually, they sent those people through underground channels to the free zone, in some cases helping them to get false papers.”

  “You’re telling me Muslims smuggled Jews out of Paris?” I ask. I shake my head; it’s difficult to believe.

  “The leader of the Grand Mosque of Paris was, at that time, the most powerful Muslim in Europe,” Henri says. He glances at Alain. “Si Kaddour Beng—Comment s’est-il appelé?”

  “Benghabrit,” Alain says.

  Henri nods. “Yes, that is it. Si Kaddour Benghabrit. The French government was afraid to touch him. And it is possible he used that power and influence to save many lives.”

  I shake my head and stare out the window at Paris rolling by. The towers of Notre-Dame are silhouetted in the distance against the sky to the right as we cross over a bridge and hurtle toward the Left Bank. Far away, I can hear church bells striking the hour. “So you’re saying that might be how my grandmother got out of Paris? That Muslims from the Grand Mosque may have gotten her out?”

  “It would explain where she learned to bake Muslim pastries,” Alain says.

  “It would answer a lot of questions,” Henri adds. “It is doubtful that there are any records. No one speaks of it. The secrets of that time have died with that time. Today, there is much tension between the religious groups. It is impossible to know whether it is true.”

  “But what if it is?” I whisper. And then I remember, suddenly, Mamie’s words for me just before I left for Paris, when I was pressing her for an answer about whether or not she was Jewish. Yes, I am Jewish, she had said. But I am also Catholic. And Muslim too. A shiver of realization runs through me and my eyes widen.

  The cab pulls up to the curb alongside a white building with deep green tiles on its roof, ornate arches, and glistening domes. A green-trimmed minaret rises from the building, and although it’s decidedly Moroccan in its details, it looks a lot like one of the towers of Notre-Dame that we just passed. Something else Mamie said echoes in my head. It is mankind that creates the differences, she’d told me last week. That does not mean it is not all the same God.

  Henri pays the driver, and we get out of the cab. I give both Henri and Simon a hand as they straighten their legs and step out onto the sidewalk.

  “There was a time I used to be able to do that myself,” Henri says with a smile. He winks at me, and the four of us head toward an arched entrance at the corner of the building.

  “If no one here ever speaks of what happened,” I whisper to Alain as we cross into a small courtyard, “what are we doing here?”

  He links his arm through mine and smiles. “Looking at pastries,” he says.

  The courtyard is dappled in patches of sunlight that filter through the trees and throw shadows on the tiled white ground. Small blue-and-white-tiled tables are set up in the middle of the courtyard and along the walls, and all of them are framed by wooden chairs with seats and backs of woven bright blue. Deep green plants with yellow flowers creep up the walls, and sparrows hop from table to table. It’s peaceful, tranquil, and so empty that I’m certain it’s not open yet.

  A middle-aged Arab man dressed all in black approaches and says something in French. Alain replies and gestures to me, and for the next minute, the four men talk in rapid French I can’t understand. The man shakes his head at first, but finally, he shrugs and gestures for us
to follow him up a small stairway into the main building.

  There’s a dark-haired, olive-skinned younger man, maybe twenty-five, inside the doorway filling a clear bakery case with pastries, and my heart stops as I look inside. There, in the case, are numerous baked goods, nearly half of which are exactly the same as the pastries I make at my own bakery. There are delicate crescent moons dusted in snow-white powdered sugar; small, pale green cakes in white pastry wrappers, topped with tiny pieces of pistachios; honey-drenched slices of baklava; and sticky almond pastries topped with single cherries in their middles. There are thin rolls of phyllo dough rolled in sugar; thick slices of a sugary almond cake rolled in almonds; and even the small, dense rings of cinnamon and honey that have been Annie’s favorites since she was a little girl.

  My heart is thudding as I look up at Alain.

  “They are the same?” he asks.

  I nod slowly. “They are the same,” I confirm.

  He smiles, his eyes suddenly watery, and turns to the older man, who is frowning at us. They exchange a few sentences in French, and then Alain turns to me. “Hope, would you tell this man about your pastries? I’ve told him what we think might have happened with Rose.”

  I smile at the man, who looks skeptical. “The things you make here,” I say. “They are the same as my grandmother taught me to make. They’re the same things we sell in our bakery in Cape Cod.”

  The man shakes his head. “But that means nothing. These are common pastries. And there are many Jews who came from northern Africa. The pastries are not just Muslim, you see. Your grandmother, she could have learned to make them anywhere. She probably learned them from another Jew.”

  My heart sinks. It’s silly for us to be staking our whole idea of the past on a collection of pastries. “Of course,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.” I nod slowly and turn away.

  Alain puts a hand on my arm. “Hope?” he asks. “Are you all right?”

  I nod again, but I don’t mean it. I can’t find words, because I feel like I’m about to cry, and I can’t quite understand why. I don’t know why it feels so important to me to be able to explain what happened to Mamie, but it does. I’m sure now that she wanted me to come here to learn about her past. But now we may never know how she made it out alive during the war.

  “Let’s go,” I finally muster. The man in black nods curtly at us and walks away, while Henri and Simon begin making their way back out the way we came in. Alain and I start to follow, but suddenly, I catch the scent of something familiar, and I come to an abrupt halt. I turn slowly around and look at the young man behind the pastry counter, who is sliding a tray of rectangular, sugar-powdered pastries into the display case. I walk back up to the counter.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Do you, by any chance, have, um”—I struggle to remember the name of the pastry from the bakery in the Marais—“Ronde des Pavés?”

  The man looks at me. “Ronde des Pavés?” he repeats. “I no speak good the English. Mais, non, I do not know what this is, Ronde des Pavés.”

  “Um.” I look around for Alain. He joins me at the counter. “Can you tell this man that Ronde des Pavés is a pie made of poppy seeds, almonds, grapes, figs, prunes, and cinnamon sugar? Can you ask if that sounds familiar?”

  I know I might be losing my mind, but I swear, I can smell Star Pie wafting through the air. Before Alain translates, he gives me a strange look. “That was my mother’s recipe,” he says.

  I nod. “It’s our bakery’s specialty,” I tell him. “And my grandmother’s favorite thing.”

  Alain blinks at me a few times, turns back to the young man, and quickly translates. I watch as the young man nods and says something in return. Alain turns to me. “He says yes. He says that here, though, they make the pies individually, and each crust has the pattern of a star.”

  My mouth falls open. “That’s how Mamie taught me to make them,” I say softly. “She calls them Star Pies.”

  Alain scratches his head. Beside me, Simon and Henri are silent. We all stare at the young man as Alain explains the Star Pies in French. The man’s eyes widen, and he looks quickly at me and then back to Alain. He says something in rapid French, and then Alain turns to look at me.

  “He says there is a man who lives in the sixth,” Alain says. “Not so very far away. His family has a Muslim bakery. The recipe came from him. He might be able to explain where it originated.”

  I nod and glance at the young man. “Thank you,” I say. “Merci beaucoup.”

  “De rien.” The man nods at me and smiles. “Bonne chance.”

  As I follow Alain and his two friends back through the courtyard toward the street, my heart is pounding. “Do you think the pies have something to do with my grandmother?” I ask him.

  “There is no way to tell,” Alain says. But from the sparkle in his eyes and the quickening of his step, I can tell he’s hopeful, and that gives me hope too.

  We hail a cab and ride in silence for fifteen minutes, until our driver pulls up in front of the address the young man at the bakery gave us. It’s a small bakery that looks typically French, except for its sign, which is in both Arabic and French. Inside, the smell of yeast is heavy, and the walls are lined with baguettes standing vertically. The display case in front is an endless array of pastries dotted with fruits and crystallized sugar. I recognize the large Star Pies immediately, with their signature crisscrossed crust pattern that I’ve been making for years, and my heartbeat picks up; surely this is a sign that we’re on the right path.

  We ask the young woman behind the counter whether we can speak with the owner, and a moment later, a tall, middle-aged man with caramel skin and jet-black hair graying at the temples emerges from a back room. He’s wearing a stark white baker’s apron over perfectly pressed khaki slacks and a pale blue button-down shirt.

  “Ah yes, Sahib telephoned from the mosque and told me you would be coming,” the man says after greeting the four of us. “I am Hassan Romyo, and you are most welcome here. But I am afraid I may not be able to help you.”

  My heart sinks. “Sir, do you know where the recipe for the pies with the star lattice crust comes from?” I ask in a small voice, pointing to the pies in the display case.

  He shakes his head. “I have owned this bakery for twenty years now,” he tells me, “and the recipe has been here as long as I can remember. My mother before me made it too, but she died long ago. I thought always that it was a family recipe.”

  “It’s a Jewish recipe,” Alain interjects softly. Monsieur Romyo looks at him with raised eyebrows. “It comes from my grandmother’s mother, in Poland, many years ago.”

  “Jewish?” Monsieur Romyo asks. “And Polish? Are you quite certain?”

  Alain nods. “It is the exact same recipe my grandparents made in their bakery, before World War Two. We believe there is a chance my sister may have taught your family how to make this pie, during the war.”

  Monsieur Romyo looks at Alain for a long time and then nods. “Alors. My parents have both died, but they were young in the war. Just children. They would not remember. But my mother’s uncle, he may know.”

  “Is he here?” I ask.

  Monsieur Romyo laughs. “No, madame. He is very old. He is seventy-nine.”

  “Seventy-nine is not old,” Henri mutters under his breath behind me, but Monsieur Romyo doesn’t seem to hear him.

  “I will telephone him now,” he says. “But he is nearly deaf, you understand? It is difficult to talk with him.”

  “Please try,” I say in a small voice.

  He nods. “Now I admit I am curious too.”

  He crosses behind the counter, picks up a cell phone, and scrolls through the phone’s address book. He pushes Send a moment later and lifts the phone to his ear.

  It’s not until I hear him say “Hallo? Oncle Nabi?” that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale slowly.

  I listen without understanding as he speaks loudly into the phone in French, repeating himself several times.
Finally, he puts his hand over the mouthpiece and addresses me. “This tart of stars,” he says, “my uncle Nabi says his family learned it from a young woman.”

  Alain and I exchange glances. “When?” I ask urgently.

  Monsieur Romyo says something else into the phone, then he repeats himself more loudly. He puts his hand over the receiver once more. “During l’année mille neuf cents quarante-deux,” he says. “Nineteen forty-two.”

  I gasp. “Is it possible . . . ?” I ask Alain, my voice trailing off. I turn to Monsieur Romyo. “Does your uncle remember anything about this woman?”

  I watch as he repeats my question, in French, over the phone. A moment later, he looks up at us again. “Rose,” he says. “Elle s’est appelée Rose.”

  “What?” I ask Alain in a panic.

  Alain turns to me with a smile. “He says that the woman’s name was Rose.”

  “That’s my grandmother,” I murmur, looking at Monsieur Romyo.

  He nods, then he says something else into the phone and listens for a moment. He hangs up and scratches his head. “This is all very unusual,” he says. He glances at Alain and then back at me. “All of these years, I had no idea . . .” His voice trails off and he clears his throat. “My uncle, Nabi Haddam, would like you to visit him right away. D’accord?”

  “Merci. D’accord,” Alain agrees instantly. He glances at me. “Okay,” he translates. “We will go now.”

  Five minutes later, Simon, Henri, Alain, and I are in a cab heading south, toward an address on the rue des Lyonnais, which Monsieur Romyo assured us was close by. I check my watch again. It’s 8:25. We’ll barely make our flight, but right now, this feels like something we have to do.

  I’m shaking by the time we pull up to Nabi Haddam’s apartment building. He’s already waiting outside for us. I know from what Mr. Romyo told us that he’s just a year younger than Alain, but he looks like he’s from a different generation entirely. His hair is jet-black and his face isn’t nearly as lined as my uncle’s. He’s dressed in a gray suit, and his hands are clasped together. As we step out of the car, he stares at me.