“Sit,” she says, swatting my hand when I reach out to touch her forehead. “I have something to tell you. Something I should have told you years ago.”
“You should be resting,” I reply, hoping to put her off. I don’t want to talk about death. Or Nazis. Or how hard things are going to get. We’ve spoken of little else lately. “We can talk later. After you’ve had some sleep.”
“What I have to say cannot wait until tomorrow.”
I nod, waiting.
“Go to my dresser. In the top drawer, near the back, you’ll find a box. Bring it to me.”
The box is where she said it would be, a jeweler’s case of dark-green velvet about the size of my palm. I carry it back to the bed and return to my chair, watching with a kind of fascination as she presses the case to her chest with inexplicable tenderness. When her gaze finally lifts to mine, it’s as if she’d forgotten I was there.
Her hands tremble as she fumbles with the lid. In the end, she gives up and hands it back to me. “Open it, please.”
I do as I’m told, not realizing I’m holding my breath until it escapes all at once. Inside is a pillow-shaped locket engraved with a pair of lilies. I find Maman’s eyes. She blinks slowly, offering the slightest of nods.
It takes a moment to locate the catch, but finally I’m staring at the face of a stranger. He’s handsome in a sharp, brooding way, with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a head of thick, dark curls. His mouth is full, almost feminine, tilted up at the corners, as if trying to suppress a smile.
“His name was Erich Freede,” Maman says softly. “He was a student at the Conservatoire de Paris the summer before you were born.”
She falls silent then, though I can feel her gaze on me as I continue to stare at the photograph. Eventually, her words sink in. The summer before you were born. I look up, a question caught like a bone in my throat.
“He was your father.”
Father. The word sounds foreign on her lips, but her gaze never wavers.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because we’ve never spoken of him. We must do that now.”
I’ve always been curious about the man who’d managed to find a chink in my mother’s armor, but suddenly I don’t want to talk about him or why she’s suddenly decided to have this conversation.
“He was on his way to a rehearsal when we met. I was delivering a dress on Rue de Madrid, near the school. It had rained all morning and the streets were full of puddles. I was waiting to cross at the corner when a car sped past, soaking me with muddy water. I was horrified when I looked down at the dress box. It was soaking wet and filthy, and all I could think was, Maman will murder me if this dress is ruined. And then he was there, holding out a handkerchief.”
“Erich,” I say, pronouncing the name slowly, getting used to the feel of it.
“Yes. Erich.” A rare smile softens the lines illness has etched into her face. “He was wearing a white summer suit that looked like it had been made for him and black-and-white brogues so shiny, I could have used them to powder my nose. One of the smart set, with his straw boater and immaculately knotted tie. And there I was, dripping like a wet cat.”
“And he fell in love with you then and there,” I supply, reading the rest in her eyes.
Her expression goes soft and dreamy. “We both did. He was so handsome that when he asked me my name, I couldn’t remember. It was as if my mind had suddenly been wiped clean, as if nothing had happened to me before that moment. He helped me clean up the box, then bent down to wipe the mud off my shoes. I was so flustered I knocked his hat off into the street, and before we knew it, neither of us could stop laughing. He gave me his coat to cover my wet clothes and walked me the rest of the way.”
I find myself smiling. It’s a side of Maman I have never imagined—a young woman on the brink of a grand passion. “What happened after you delivered the dress?”
“We spent every spare moment together, usually in some park or other. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He would bring a blanket and food, and I’d make some excuse about where I was going. We’d eat, and then he would play his violin for me. He played so beautifully, as if he were telling a story every time he picked up his bow. I went to a few of his concerts at the school. All those musicians playing together on one stage, and all I could hear was him. Or at least it seemed that way to me.”
“How long did it last?”
“Seven months and thirteen days.”