“Oh.” I just look at him. “I didn’t know that.”
He shrugs. “Anyhow, the word tashlich basically means ‘casting out.’ ”
I realize suddenly that the phrase rings a bell. “I think my grandmother said something like that last night.”
He nods. “The ceremony involves throwing crumbs into the water to symbolize the casting out of our sins. Usually bread crumbs, but I guess pie crumbs would work too.” He pauses and adds, “Do you think that might have been what your grandmother was doing?”
I shake my head. “It can’t be,” I say. “My grandmother’s Catholic.” As the words leave my mouth, I’m suddenly struck by the fact that two of the people I’d reached in Paris today suggested I call synagogues.
Gavin arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Maybe she wasn’t always Catholic.”
“But that’s crazy. If she was Jewish, I would know.”
“Not necessarily,” he says. “My grandmother on my mom’s side, my nana, lived through the Holocaust,” he says. “Bergen-Belsen. She lost both her parents and one of her brothers. Because of her, I got started volunteering with survivors when I was about fifteen. Some of them say that for a while, they abandoned their roots. It was hard for them to hang on to who they’d been when everything was taken away. Especially those who were kids taken in by Christian families. But all of them eventually came back to Judaism. Kind of like coming home.”
I just stare at him. “Your grandmother was a Holocaust survivor?” I repeat, trying to piece together a whole new side to Gavin. “You used to work with survivors?”
“I still do. I volunteer once a week at the Jewish nursing home in Chelsea.”
“But that’s a two-hour drive,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s where my grandmother lived until she died. The place means something to me.”
“Wow.” I don’t know what else to say. “What do you do there? When you volunteer?”
“Art classes,” he says simply. “Painting. Sculpture. Drawing. Things like that. I bring them cookies too.”
“That’s where you’re always going with the boxes of cookies you pick up here?”
He nods. I just stare at him. I’m realizing there are more layers to Gavin Keyes than I’d ever appreciated. It makes me wonder what else I’m missing. “You do . . . art?” I ask finally.
He looks away and doesn’t answer. “Look, I know this thing with your grandmother, it’s probably a lot to take in. And I may be totally off base here. But you know, some people who escaped before they were sent to concentration camps were snuck out of Europe with false papers that identified them as Christians,” he says. “Is it possible your grandmother could have come here under an assumed identity?”
I shake my head immediately. “No. No way. She would have told us.” But, I realize suddenly, this could explain why everyone on the list she gave us had the last name Picard, while I’d always believed her maiden name to be Durand.
Gavin scratches his head. “Annie’s right, Hope. You have to find out what happened to your grandmother.”
We talk for another hour, Gavin patiently explaining all the things I don’t understand. If Mamie is indeed from a Jewish family in Paris, I ask, why can’t I just call the synagogues in Paris? Or aren’t there Holocaust organizations that help you track down survivors? I’m sure I’ve heard of places like that, although I’ve never had reason to look into them before.
Gavin explains that it’s worth trying Holocaust organizations as a first step, but that he thinks it’s unlikely I’ll find all my answers there. At most, even if I can find the names on a list somewhere, I’ll only get a date and place of birth, maybe a date of deportation, and if I’m lucky, the name of a camp where they were taken.
“But that won’t tell you the whole story,” he adds. “And I think your grandmother deserves to know what really became of the people she loved.”
“If she even is who you’re saying she is,” I interject. “I think this sounds crazy.”
Gavin nods. “I don’t blame you. But you have to go find out.”
I’m not convinced, and I look away as he explains that the synagogues might have better records, that they might be able to point me to other survivors who remember the Picard family. Besides, he says, even though the Holocaust happened seventy years ago, some of the record keepers are reluctant to give out information over the phone. While there had been many efforts made over the years to open things up, for many of the people who’d been alive during the war, giving away names was like giving away lives.