The Velvet Hours (25 page)

April 1940

A
Seder?” Marthe said the word as though it was the name of an exotic fruit she had never tasted before. “Why, it sounds intriguing. I actually think I would like to go, Solange.”

She held the book of Turkish poetry that the Armels had gifted to her between her paper-white hands.

“I haven't been out since that night with you a few weeks ago, and of all the salons and parties I've participated in over the years, I've never once attended a Passover meal.” Marthe looked out the window. “Perhaps I'll wear my trousers.” She grinned mischievously. “The occasion does sound rather exotic.”

“And you would look quite smart if you did . . .” I laughed. I was pleased she was considering their invitation.

She shook her head. “You might find this surprising, but I have a great affinity for the Jews. They're a smart and cultured race . . .

“And when your mother came here that first time, when she and your father were announcing their engagement, I immediately sensed she was a
Juive
.”

I felt a little stab in my heart when she spoke and I stiffened, bracing myself to hear something that would shatter the warm and protective feelings I had recently come to have for my grandmother.

“She was beautiful. An oval face with almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was slightly olive. And her last name, Cohen . . . it was a telltale sign of her ancestry.” I could feel Marthe looking at me and contrasting the memory she still had in her mind of my then twentysomething-year-old mother.

“You have her eyes, her dark hair, and the same exotic beauty. And, of course, her intelligence . . .”

A sense of relief washed over me. I had been fearful Marthe might say something anti-Semitic in relation to my mother. Had she done so, the affection that had grown in my heart for her over the past year would have been tarnished.

“I feel guilty that I didn't embrace your parents more fully when they arrived brimming with their young love. When I reflect on it now, I realize I was threatened by your mother. It was clear she possessed a great deal of wisdom behind those beautiful eyes of hers.” Marthe's words sounded almost as if they were uttered as a confession.

“I was haughty and narcissistic that afternoon, Solange. And when they came a few months later to tell me about the pregnancy, I barely acknowledged it.”

She took a deep breath.

“It was an error on my part that I've come to regret . . .” Her eyes looked out toward the window, never once looking at her portrait as she normally did. For several minutes neither of us said a word. The quiet between us filled the room.

*   *   *

We spent the next two hours together. I sat beside Marthe on the gray sofa, looking at the pages of the book that Monsieur Armel had given her. Marveling at the illustrations, our fingers carefully turned the parchment pages together.

“Have I ever shown you the two books I have from my mother's collection?” I asked, though I knew full well that I had never shared them with her.

“No,” she answered. “But I would love to see them.”

I excused myself and walked toward my new bedroom and pulled out my suitcase, where they were protected in layers of brown paper.

I returned, holding them protectively to my chest. Then I unwrapped them in front of her.

“These belonged to my mother's father, Moishe Cohen,” I said.

I lifted the dark brown Haggadah and the
Zemirot Yisrael
from the paper and brought them over to her.

I placed the Barcelona Haggadah in her hands, and set the slender
Zemirot
book to the side. As Marthe touched the outer cover, I could see the collector in her come alive before me. She pored over every detail, appraising the outside before entering its inner pages.

“See how the book opens from left to right . . .” I reached over and lifted the left corner of the cover to open the first page. Her eyes widened and I watched as her finger delicately touched the vellum corner.

“Is this Hebrew?” she asked. I watched as her eyes scanned the calligraphic lines executed in dark black ink.

“Yes, the text is written by a rabbi and the illustrations were painted by his wife.”

“It's extraordinary,” Marthe said in a hushed tone. I could see she was transfixed, just as I had first been upon seeing it.

“The slender volume is a book of poetry by Israel Najara, printed in Venice in the sixteenth century. But, this one,” I said, touching the heavy brown cover of the Barcelona Haggadah, “Monsieur Armel says is an extremely rare fourteenth-century Haggadah from Spain.”

My voice floated through the parlor. I was now the storyteller to Marthe. For well over a year I had listened to her tell the story of her life, of her ascent from the alleys of Montmartre to this treasure-filled apartment in the ninth arrondissement. But now we had switched places, and it was she who was listening to my every word. Under the hush of the room, in the comfort of the velvet furniture, I began to tell Marthe the story of my mother's family and these two priceless books that now rested between us. The very books that had initially brought me to the Armels' store.

I spoke slowly and in a carefully measured voice, just as Marthe had always done when she shared her stories with me.

“The book was in my grandfather's collection, and it was one of the few Mother saved upon his death. According to Monsieur Armel, the Haggadah was written and illustrated by a rabbi and his wife. The rabbi's wife possessed a rare gift that few people, let alone women, had at that time. She knew not only how to paint, but to work with gold leaf. Her collaboration on the Haggadah is one of the reasons it is so unique. It is one of the only prayer books known to have been illustrated by a female hand.”

Marthe listened quietly. I watched as she turned another page and marveled at the deep red and lapis blue design around the perimeter.

“It took them nearly twenty years to complete it.”

“I can imagine.” Marthe paused over the illustration of the family at the Seder table. The patriarch with his arms open and children seated around him.

“I've been told the book is priceless not only because it's several hundred years old, and the only one made by their hands, but also because it is symbolic of the love between them.”

“How beautiful to think their love continues to exist through the ancient pages of the text,” Marthe said as she carefully examined each page.

“Yes. It's become the second story that's woven through the book,” I added. “But only known to those who are privy to the information about the rabbi and his wife.”

Marthe was quiet for a moment and I could tell she was reflecting upon what I had just said.

“It's like your painting,
Grand-maman
. One sees the beautiful portrait. But when you share the story behind it . . . your friendship with Boldini, it has even deeper resonance.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes lifting toward her portrait. “There are those who can look at something and only see the outer beauty, but it's always the story behind it that renders it priceless.”

I nodded.

“Still, I wish you could translate a little of what is written here. It looks as though it's in a secret code.” A cough suddenly broke into her words.

“Can you read any of it?”

“Sadly I can't.” I looked down again at the page, admiring the artful hand of both husband and wife. “My mother sounded out only a few letters for me before she died.”

“How unfortunate. I would so love to hear a translation.”

I was happy I had piqued her interest. “Yes,” I agreed. “So would I.”

*   *   *

That afternoon I asked Giselle to prepare something for us to bring to the Armels'.

“We can't bring anything made with flour.”

Giselle wrinkled her brow. “That eliminates all my cakes, then . . .”

“Perhaps we could get some marzipan?” I suggested.

She pulled the tin down from the cupboard and examined the
folded bills inside. “It only costs triple what it was before the war, not five times like cigarettes or chocolate. We could manage that.”

“We need to have some before we leave in a few hours, so perhaps if you . . .”

“I will go ask Jean-Luc this afternoon, Mademoiselle Solange. You needn't worry. You'll have your marzipan in time.”

“Thank you. I'm sorry to be so nervous.” I forced a smile.

Giselle placed a hand on my arm. “You only want everything to be perfect.” Her eyes looked at me knowingly, and I could see a maternal warmth that I hadn't experienced before. “It is most natural when you're in love.”

*   *   *

We dressed for our first Seder, Marthe and I. She in a tasteful gabardine suit, the cultured pearls around her slender throat. In her hair she had placed a tortoiseshell comb.

“No trousers, then?” I said as I stepped closer to her in the hallway. I was in the navy blue dress I had brought from the apartment.

I could see Marthe appraising me as we stood across from each other, our reflections cast in the hall mirror.

“It is interesting to see that you have no powder, hardly a trace of lipstick, and not a single accessory on your body. And yet I have never seen a more radiant-looking young woman.”

I looked down at the floor.

“There is no need to be embarrassed, Solange. I have never given a compliment that was not sincere.”

My eyes met hers. “I'm sure you haven't.”

“Now, shall we go?” She gestured toward the door. “Giselle mentioned the marzipans were on the counter.”

I went into the kitchen and found a gilt-colored box with a red satin bow.

Returning to the hallway, I asked Grandmother how Giselle
always managed to find the best provisions, when nearly every shelf in Paris was bare.

“Jean-Luc,” she said, and a sly smile appeared on her lips. “It's convenient to have a brother in the black market.”

*   *   *

It was nearly five o'clock when we arrived at the Armels' apartment. Marthe had shunned taking the Métro, and so we arrived by taxi.

“It's hardly a coach,” she said as I shut the door behind us. “How times have changed.”

“Indeed, not a horse in sight.” I laughed as we both stepped onto the curb.

I looked up at the tall stone facade of the Armels' apartment building. The carved pillars that flanked the large wooden door.

“I've never even been outside Paris,” I said softly.

I paused in front of the buzzer to their apartment, hesitating for a moment before I announced we had arrived.

I was slightly embarrassed by my lack of worldly exposure, in contrast to my grandmother.

But Marthe took the opportunity to show me that the space between us was not as wide as I imagined. She touched my wrist slightly, saying: “And I have only been to Venice, the city where I first took my name.”

April 1940

A
s we stepped into the Armels' apartment, I no longer inhaled the smell of books, but rather the warm scent of simmering onions.

“I'm so pleased you both could join us,” Monsieur Armel said with great exuberance.

I saw Grandmother's eyes travel inside. Sitting at the table were two little children, a boy no older than six and a girl that looked a few years older, perhaps nine.

For a moment, I was seized with a sense of alarm. In all of the excitement of the past two days, I had forgotten to tell Marthe that we would not be the Armels' only guests.

I could see Grandmother stiffen at the sight of the children. The playful excitement that had laced the air since we had left her apartment suddenly vanished.

Monsieur Armel noticed Marthe's look of bewilderment.

“Didn't Solange tell you?” He smiled warmly. “We're being joined by a colleague of mine, Solomon Weckstein, and his two young children, Eva and Leo. His wife is in the kitchen trying to help save my poor attempt to make a chicken.” He laughed. “I'm lucky the butcher couldn't get me a lamb, as who knows how I would have ruined that.”

“You must pardon me, Monsieur Armel. Suddenly, I am feeling quite unwell.”

I looked at Marthe. She was shaking.

“She has been a bit under the weather recently,” I apologized as I took my grandmother's arm. I felt its thinness beneath the silk material of her blouse, and her fragility sent a pang through my heart. I suddenly regretted that I encouraged her to leave the house.

“Come, please sit down . . .” Alex took Marthe's arm and ushered her to the living room.

She was white as a gull. She turned toward me as Alex escorted her across the hall. I read the expression on her face as though she was hoping I might be able to save her from something.

“Can we go?” she whispered. “I thought it would only be us this evening . . .”

I was still holding the box of marzipan. The red ribbon had come undone against my nervous hands.

“Of course,” I said as I struggled not to meet Alex's eyes that I knew were searching for mine.

“Perhaps we shouldn't have come,” I apologized. “Grandmother's health has been rather delicate lately and I think she overestimated her strength today . . .”

“Don't rush off yet,” Monsieur Armel pleaded. “The table is set. The food is nearly ready and we want you to share our Seder.”

I looked at my grandmother and saw that her eyes had suddenly
drifted in another direction. Solomon had suddenly emerged and joined the Armels in the hallway. I almost didn't recognize him. Instead of the typical shabby clothes he wore the few times I had seen him at the shop, he was now dressed in a pressed suit and a crisp shirt and tie. He also wore a black skullcap on his head.

“A pleasure to see you, Mademoiselle Solange.” He nodded in my direction. “And your grandmother as well.”

“Unfortunately, Madame de Florian is not feeling well. Can we ask Rachel to make her some hot tea?”

“Yes, certainly.” He looked at Marthe sympathetically and then retreated back into the kitchen.

Alex motioned for me to bring Marthe into the library, and he helped her to one of the upholstered chairs.

“Perhaps being in the comfort of my collection will soothe you,” Monsieur Armel said as he gestured at his shelves of books. “I know I so enjoyed seeing your porcelains.”

Rachel brought in a cup of tea. She was far younger than I had imagined, as she looked only a few years older than I. Petite with a kind face and dark brown curls, she appeared genuinely concerned with Marthe's well-being.

“Drink it slowly,” she advised kindly. “And let me know if you'd like anything else. I've made some macaroons and they might restore your energy.”

“Thank you, you're most kind,” Marthe whispered as she took the tea and sipped slowly through the clouds of steam.

“I've brought some marzipan,” I said, offering them to Monsieur Armel. “We so appreciate you inviting us.”

“It is the least we could do . . . We are forever indebted to your grandmother.” He looked over to her with affection in his eyes. “She saved Alex.”

“You exaggerate, monsieur. I only wrote a letter.”

Monsieur Armel laughed. “Has anyone told you, Madame de Florian, that your modesty is utterly charming?”

Grandmother lifted her gaze from her teacup. Her color had fully returned to her. “No one, my dear man, has ever called me modest.” She gave him her most beguiling smile. “But I must say, I like it.”

*   *   *

Perhaps having a few moments to process the addition of children to the dinner enabled Marthe to return to her jovial self. After all, she had always been someone who could adapt quickly. When we returned to the dining room and sat down next to the children, she hardly even seemed to notice them whereas I could hardly peel my eyes away from their sweet faces. One could see they had been dressed in their holiday best. Eva wore a simple cotton pinafore with lace trim, white socks, and shiny black shoes. Little Leo was in dark suspenders and a shirt that was half untucked. They sat with folded hands, their eyes peeled toward the center of the table where there was a large round dish flanked by a set of silver candlesticks. Upon the platter, arranged like a constellation, was a selection of curious things that I knew had symbolic meaning. An egg, parsley, a bone, a bowl of salt water, and a brown mixture of what appeared to be mashed nuts were placed on top of it. Beside it was a basket of covered matzo.

With everyone now seated and Monsieur Armel at the end of the table, the scene looked almost identical to the one in my fourteenth-century Haggadah.

“Shall we begin?” Rachel stood just behind the children.

“Yes, please,” said Monsieur Armel as he gestured to Grandmother and me to sit down.

Rachel reached into her apron and withdrew a box of matches. I heard the strike against the carbon, and then the room was bathed in a soft, mysterious light.

*   *   *

Grandmother had been placed at the far edge of the table as a gesture of respect. And with her straight back, trim figure, and fashionable dress, she added an old-world glamour to the setting.

I could see how little Eva's eyes kept darting to steal glances at Marthe. I recognized the girl's wonder at seeing someone who seemed to possess such a preternatural elegance.

Perhaps Marthe noticed it, too. For as the night wore on and Marthe warmed from the red wine and the storytelling done by Monsieur Armel, I believe I even saw Marthe smile at the little girl.

But for the entire evening, she kept her eyes firmly away from Leo.

With his dark hair and pale skin, the suspenders and knee socks, I'm not sure whether he reminded her of my father, the son she never had the chance to raise. But she avoided him as if he were a ghost.

*   *   *

We stayed quite late. After the candles had Medusa-like curls of wax over the rim of the silver candlesticks, we said our good-byes. The children had fallen asleep after looking for the hidden pieces of matzo. And both Solomon and Rachel each carried one of them home in their arms.

“Thank you for inviting us,” I said as I kissed Monsieur Armel on both cheeks. Grandmother extended her hand for him to kiss.

“A pleasure,” she said. “I'm so delighted I was able to stay.”

Alex stood in the background looking at me with a smile curled at his lips. He mouthed, “Tomorrow. Place Saint Georges. Eleven o'clock.”

And I nodded my head. What I didn't say was that tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.