Luis set his po’boy down and drank some of his soda. “Something strange occurred before I left California.”
Amelie swallowed a bite of food and asked, “What’s that?”
“I had a visitor come to my apartment. It was a man with a German accent. He said his name was Fredrick Schulz.”
Amelie tilted her head. “What did he want?”
“He said he was studying wealthy French families that had survived WWII and where they were now. He wanted to know about my father and his family history. He asked if my father’s family had managed to escape with any of their antiquities, art, journals or diaries.”
“What did you tell him?” Amelie asked.
“I really don’t know much about my father’s family history. Just that his family was displaced from their home in Paris during World War II and didn’t return until France was liberated.” He lifted his sandwich and stared at it for a moment. “When I had the chance to ask more about my family history, I wasn’t interested. Now that I can’t ask, I’d like to know more. As it is, I know very few specifics about his siblings, parents, or extended family. I know more about my mother’s side of the family because we lived together in California.”
Amelie took a sip of her sweet tea and set the glass on the table. “Your father was very occupied with his restaurant, but on the occasional day off, he’d have me over to dinner and talk about his past. His mother and father told him stories about the beautiful estate they’d lived in before the German occupation. When Germans entered France in May of 1940, his parents had had to pack up their belongings, anything of value and escape before the reached Paris. In early June, they left their home in the middle of the night to avoid detection. They went from being wealthy Parisians to hiding in the countryside until they found their way to a ship that took them to the United States.”
“Where in the US?” Luis asked.
Maurice wanted to know as well, curious about Amelie’s mentor.
Amelie smiled. “Right here in New Orleans. They spent five years here in New Orleans. His father found work in the shipping industry, while his mother worked in a bakery. His parents’ love of good food inspired Armand’s desire to pursue the culinary arts.”
“I always wondered where he’d gotten his inspiration,” Luis said.
“Did you know your father was born here?” Amelie asked.
“I did not.” Luis’s lips twisted. “There’s so much I didn’t know or want to learn about my father. I do now.”
She gave him a brief smile. “You had a lot to deal with your mother’s passing and leaving behind the only world you knew to live with a father you’d rarely seen.”
“I was so angry.” Luis shook his head. “At everyone and everything. I was even angry at my mother for dying, leaving me no choice but to go live with my father. I was angry at him because he was alive and my mother wasn’t.”
“And now?” Amelie asked softly.
“I didn’t give him much of a chance.” He looked away. “I didn’t know how much I missed until he was gone.”
“Sometimes, it takes a tragedy to make you realize what you really want in life,” Maurice said. “And what you’re missing.”
Luis met Maurice’s gaze. “Exactly. After my father died, I was in such a hurry to return to my old life, but I didn’t try to hold onto anything that meant anything to him or his family.”
Amelie nodded. “We were both left in shock by his death. When the restaurant closed shortly after, I wasn’t much help. I had to clear out. My work visa ended.”
“I wish I’d kept some of his more personal items. He didn’t have any artwork or antiques, that I know of.” Luis pulled a pocket watch out of his pocket. “He didn’t keep journals or anything of real value, besides this pocket watch he said his father passed down to him.” He flipped it open. “It doesn’t even work.”
“I’m sure you can find someone to repair it here in New Orleans,” Maurice said.
Luis’s lips quirked upward on the corners. “It’s strange. My father gave it to me the night before he died. He knew it didn’t work, but said it was his father’s before him, that I should keep it safe. It meant a lot to him and to his father.” Luis flipped the cover open. “It has an inscription on it I haven’t been able to figure out.” He passed the watch across the table to Amelie. “It’s just numbers. Any clue what they might mean?”
Amelie frowned down at the numbers engraved on the inside cover. “I have no idea.”
“May I?” Maurice asked.
“Please,” Luis said. “I thought maybe it was a birthdate or the day the watch was given as a gift, but it has too many numbers.”
Maurice pulled out his cell phone and snapped several photos of the watch and the numbers inside it. “There are too many numbers for it to be one set of coordinates and not enough for two sets.”
“Yeah. That’s what I figured. What group of numbers would’ve been important to my grandfather, who lived in Paris? I thought, for a moment, they were the numbers tattooed on the arms of my father’s French neighbors who’d been sent to Nazi death camps.”
“Makes more sense.” Amelie stared at the numbers. “You say your father didn’t have any keepsakes or journals. Did you keep any of his old photos?”
