“But she brought me home, instead.”
Father cleared his throat. “I think you can imagine his disappointment... I was a struggling pharmacist, a Catholic, and someone whose family background was anything but clear.”
I looked at my father with empathy. Even now, so many years later, I could see that he blamed himself for what happened between my mother and her father.
“I was never going to be the Jewish boy who could take over the family business, their traditions, or maintain their place in the community that they had created over the years.”
I nodded, knowing this to be true. My mind kept returning to the memory of Alex and his father working side by side in their small shop. The respectful way in which the son deferred to his father’s expertise.
“Your grandfather reserved his respect for those books he believed to be precious and rare. And his circle of friends were all people who understood their value.
“But even though your mother was what he prized most in his collection, I was never going to be someone that belonged to his world.” He raised his glass for another sip of wine and steadied his voice again. “He might have thought I was common as newspaper, but what he didn’t realize was that we both loved her more than anything in the world.”
“But if he loved her so much, why did he disown her?”
My father shook his head. “Shame is a terrible thing, Solange.” He pushed away his plate to the side. “He felt she had betrayed him. They had a huge fight just after I proposed. He didn’t want her to marry me. He told her there were at least a dozen potential suitors in the neighborhood that wanted to court her, all of whom were worthy of being his son-in-law. I don’t think he could believe that she actually wanted me.”
I tried to envision my mother engaged in such a fiery row. She was so gentle, with such a soft-spoken voice, that this was almost impossible to imagine.
“He threw her out. He told her she had shamed him and dishonored their family name.”
I shuddered.
“We married a few weeks later in the town hall.”
***
The rest of the story I knew. I had learned during my mother’s last months how my grandfather had died of a heart attack when she was pregnant with me, and how she had returned to close his store and put the remaining inventory up for sale. The only things she had kept were those two books, and perhaps the regret of not having put aside her differences with her father before he died.
“I just don’t understand why this was all kept from me for so long. To find out so late... It just seems wrong.”
My father shook his head. “You have to understand, your mother was shattered when he told her she could never come home again if she married me.”
I had never considered my mother as being so strong or even defiant. Father was now revealing a side of her that, for me, was previously unknown.
For a few moments, a silence lingered between us. But the lack of words did not feel uncomfortable. If anything I felt closer to my father than ever before. I appreciated his finally telling me the truth. As I sat quietly at the table beside him, my mind raced with questions.
“These past two years have been full of many unexpected things for you... Don’t think that I don’t see that.” He took a deep breath. “It has been difficult for me to raise you without your mother. I miss her so much.” His voice nearly broke at the last three words. “I was nearly the same age as you when I learned a secret had been kept from me, that my mother was not in fact Louise Franeau, but the woman you now visit weekly, Marthe de Florian.”
My eyes slid down to my lap. I had not made the connection, but what my father said was true. He, too, had been kept in the darkabout his ancestry. And the contrast between the woman who raised him and the woman who bore him must have come as a complete shock to him.
“We have both learned that women are capable of keeping secrets... and that both our mothers were far more complicated than we initially believed.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Still, it is strange to only learn now that I am part Jewish.”
“I suppose you are Jewish in so much as your mother’s blood runs through yours. But the woman who raised me, Louise Franeau, who died two years after your birth, took you in her arms and had you baptized at the local church. She couldn’t sleep without knowing you had been bathed in holy water.”
“But Mother’s religion is not listed on my birth certificate?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t believe religion is ever stated on the French birth certificate. But I will check to make sure.” He stood up and went to his bottom desk drawer where he kept all of his important papers locked in a small metal safe. He took out a key and unlocked it, retrieving an envelope with my birth certificate inside. “It only says your mother’s maiden name: Cohen.”
“Well, the name will certainly give me away if they search through the records.”
“I don’t think we should worry ourselves about such matters now, Solange. There are no Germans marching down the Champs-Élysées just yet.”
“Not yet,” I said as I turned up the dial of the radio. “But I can’t help but imagine if they did.”
12.
