The Echo of Old Books(66)

“I’m sorry. I’ve shredded them and thrown them in the bin.”

I turn and walk away then, headed for the bullpen and its messy warren of desks. I’m aware of the eyes fastened between my shoulder blades as I paw haphazardly through my desk, tossing some of the contents into a small paper sack, pitching others into the trash with unnecessary force. They’ll be settling up on the office pool the minute I’m gone. I beat the last fellow but fell short of the one before him. I know what they thought when I came to work here, and I know what they’ll be thinking as I leave. It doesn’t make a damn’s worth of difference to me.

Tomorrow, I start over. Clean. With you.



I’m not expecting to find you at the apartment when I return, but there you are on the sofa, a sheaf of papers clutched in your fist. You say nothing, just sit there with your face hard and white. It takes a moment to realize what’s happened. You’ve found my story notes—the ones I told Goldie I’d thrown away.

“You wrote this . . .” Your hand trembles as you hold out the crumpled pages. “This . . . filth?”

There’s nothing to say, no way to explain what you’re holding without sounding like a liar. “You weren’t supposed to see it. Not like this.”

“Of that I’m certain.”

Your glare is so full of venom, it’s all I can do not to look away. But looking away would be the guilty thing to do. And so I stand there and let you pin me to the spot with those brittle amber eyes. “I was going to tell you tonight,” I say evenly. “I was going to explain it all.”

You launch up off the sofa, hurling the papers at me. They flutter through the air like a cloud of angry wings before rustling to a stop at my feet. “That’s what you think I’m upset about? How I found out? The things I told you . . . All the times we talked about her . . . You were taking it all down, wheedling the details from me so you could twist them into something foul! How could you write these lies? Why would you write them?”

“Nothing’s been twisted, Belle. I’ve learned some things . . . things you didn’t know. I never meant for you to learn about them like this, but I swear, every word is true.”

“I don’t believe you!”

How can I blame you? The words sound clumsy coming out of my mouth, the plea of a man caught in his own lie. All the way home, I rehearsed how I would tell you, the words I would use and how I would begin, but I can’t recall any of it now. I’m utterly unprepared for the force of your anger.

“Let me explain,” I say feebly. “We’ll sit down—”

“It says my mother was Jewish. And that my father . . . that he . . .”

“She was Jewish,” I say quietly. “And he did.” You’ve gone still now, your eyes wide and unfocused as you attempt to process what I’ve said. “I know it’s hard to hear, Belle, but it’s what happened. Your father had your mother put away. Not because she was sick but because he was ashamed of her. He’d begun making new friends—political friends—and he didn’t want them to know he was married to a Jew.”

“No.” You shake your head repeatedly, as if my words are a swarm of bees you’re trying to ward off. “My mother was French.”

“Yes. She was French. She was also Jewish. Her maiden name was Treves. Her father, Julien, was the eldest son of a wealthy wine merchant from Bergerac. Her mother, Simone, was the daughter of a rabbi. There was a sister, too, Agnes, who was three years younger than Helene. Did your mother never talk about her family?”

You stand frozen, unblinking.

“Belle?”

“Yes,” you say, clearly dazed. “There were pictures. An album full of pictures. But she never said anything. No one knew.”

“Your father knew.”

Your eyes sharpen suddenly. “How long have you known?”

“The story has been . . . evolving for some time.”

“Before or after we met?”

I already see where you’re going, but I can’t lie “Before. At least some of it.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. This isn’t what it looks like. I promise you, I had no idea where this would lead when I got involved in this part of it.”

“And how did you . . . get involved?”

“It started with a call from a friend of your mother’s.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

“I’m just supposed to take your word?”

“There are rules about divulging sources. But I can tell you that the things she told us came from your mother’s mouth. About how your father forced her to sever all ties with her family, how she was forbidden to speak a word of Yiddish or even French, ever, and the threats he made if she ever breathed a word about her heritage to you or your sister. But she found a way to tell you anyway. The stories she used to tell, the words that weren’t real words. You remember telling me about them, the songs and the prayers. They were Hebrew words, Belle. They were prayers in Hebrew. It was her way of sharing her faith, her heritage, with you without your father knowing.”

A pair of tears tracks down your cheeks. You close your eyes, absorbing the pain of it. I search for something to say, something that will comfort you and exonerate me, but there’s nothing in the English language for this.