September 1939
At 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 hadno 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.
