“Yes. Before I was imprisoned. Before I was sent to Ravensbrück.”
“The guards there had dogs,” he said, and there was something odd about his voice. He was angry, she realized, so angry that he could barely speak.
“They did.” They walked on, and she knew she had to tell him the rest of it. “There is something else you must know. I am a Jew.”
He squeezed her hand even tighter. He did not let go. “I thought you might be.”
“How?” How was it that he was not surprised?
“I’m not much of a detective. But you did speak of your grandmother’s Friday-night chicken. And there’s your name. Miriam isn’t a very typical name for a Catholic. Combined with your reluctance to speak of your life before the war, it seemed likely.”
“Why did you not say anything?”
“I was waiting for you to tell me. I didn’t want to push you. I certainly didn’t wish you to feel threatened.”
“And you do not care?”
“I think the better question is if I mind. To that I say, no, I don’t mind at all. But I do care. Very much so.”
“I do not understand the difference.”
“Your being Jewish is a part of you. It’s a part of your family and your history, and also your suffering. How can I truly know you without also knowing you are a Jew?”
He embraced her then, opening his arms so she might huddle close, one big hand cradling her head against his chest. He held her, and waited while she wept, and when her sobs had tapered into hiccups he handed her a wrinkled handkerchief.
“It’s clean. I promise.”
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and then, because she still needed to be close to him, she looped her arm through his. “Do you mind if we walk some more?”
“Not at all. Perhaps . . . would you like to tell me a little of your family? Where did you grow up?”
“In Colombes, just across the river from Argenteuil. We had a little house on rue des Cerisiers. My mother’s parents lived on the next street over.”
“A close family, then.”
“Yes.” And then, after they’d walked for another minute or so, “Have you heard of the Affaire Dreyfus?”
“Of course.”
“My father used to say that it had forced his parents to make a choice. They could be French, or they could be Jews. And they chose France, and I suppose my father did, too. There was hardly anything in our home that would tell you we were Jewish.”
“I see.”
“But my mother’s parents were devout. When I was little we would have le d?ner de Chabbat at their house every Friday, and Grand-Mère would serve her special chicken. It was my favorite thing in the world.”
“Only when you were little? What happened?”
“Grand-Mère died when I was twelve. After that we had no more Sabbath dinners. And Papa had become fearful, too. We could see what was happening in Germany.”
He wrapped his hands around hers, engulfing them, and she was safe enough, in that moment, to let the door to her memories open. Only a fraction, only enough to see her father’s face and, written on it, the fear he had tried to hide for so long. The knowledge he had swallowed down, like poison, for her sake.
“You said, earlier, that you left home when you were fourteen. What year was that?”
“It was the spring of 1938. Even then, Papa was forever warning me to say nothing about being a Jew. And he was so worried I obeyed.”
“And after the Occupation?”
“There was a census. They counted us, all the Jews in France, and marked where we lived. Papa knew it would happen, for he had a friend who worked for the police, and he came all the way into Paris to tell me. He waited for me outside my lodgings, and then he took me to a café and told me what was going to happen. He and Maman could not avoid the census, for they were known to be Jews, and there was my grandfather to think of, too. He was too frail to travel.”
“And when it was your turn to be counted?”
She shook her head. “Papa gave me false papers. Dassin is a Jewish surname, so I became Marianne Dessin, with an e. He put as my birthplace a small town in the Auvergne. I knew a little about it, for we used to go on holiday there in the summers. Then he told me to look for new work, to leave Maison Lesage, and to hide in plain sight. It was that, or try to leave France altogether.”
“Was it difficult to find a new position?”
“Not at all. I had a position at Maison Rébé within the week, and I moved to new lodgings as well, and when the census of Jews was made I was not counted. I never wore the star. I lied. I hid. And I never saw my family again.”