Somehow, however, I had to create a space for everyone to eat. Ilooked 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.
Solange
There 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 detailsof 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 SSAngola, 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.”
***
