I nod slowly.
“Everything we bake was developed in the tradition ashkénaze of my family’s past. We keep to those traditions today. Your grandmother, she is juive? Um, Jewish?”
I nod slowly. “Yes. I think. But what’s the tradition ash . . . whatever you said?”
“It’s the, how you say, le juda?sme traditionnel in Europe,” she explains. “It began in Germany, but hundreds of years ago, these juifs moved to other countries of Europe in the east. Before the war, most communautés juives, em, communities of juifs, in Europe were ashkénaze, like my great-grandparents. Before Hitler destroyed them.”
I nod slowly and look at the pastries again. “My grandmother always said her family had a bakery here in Paris,” I say quietly. “Before the war.” I look around and realize how many of Mamie’s favorite pastries are missing. “Do you have pistachio cakes?” I ask.
She shakes her head, looking at me blankly, and I go on to describe Mamie’s sweet crescent moons and her almond rose tarts. Again, the woman shakes her head. “Those do not sound familiar,” she says. She looks around, seeming to suddenly realize how crowded the shop is. “I am sorry,” she says. “I must go now. Unless you want a pastry.”
I nod and point to one of the Ronde des Pavés, which I know will taste just like one of our Star Pies. “I’ll take one of those, please,” I say.
She nods, wraps it in wax paper, and places it in a little white bakery bag for me. “There is no charge,” she says, handing it to me with a smile. “Maybe you will give me a pastry if I come to Massachusetts someday.”
I smile back. “Thank you. And thanks for all your help.”
She nods and turns away. I’m already walking toward the door when I hear her call out, “Madame?”
I turn around.
“Those other things you mentioned,” she says. “I do not think they are of the Eastern European tradition ashkénaze.” She waves and disappears into a crowd of waiting customers. I frown and stare after her in confusion.
I eat my Ronde des Pavés as I retrace my steps back to the address Monsieur Berr gave me. It’s not exactly like one of our Star Pies, but it’s close enough. The one I make is heavier on the cinnamon—Mamie has always loved cinnamon—and our crust is a little denser and more buttery. The raisins in the Ronde are golden, while I use traditional dark raisins. But it’s clear the recipes originate from the same place.
I’ve finished the pastry, but not my swirling questions, by the time I reach Alain’s door again. I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a moment, steeling myself for the feeling of disappointment I know will flood through me if he doesn’t answer. I open my eyes and press the buzzer.
At first, I’m greeted by silence. I buzz again and am about to turn away when suddenly, there’s a crackling sound and a muffled male voice on the other end.
“Hello!” I practically shout into the call box, my heart suddenly pounding. “I’m trying to find Alain Picard.”
There’s a pause and then more crackling and a muffled male voice.
“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you,” I say. “I . . . I’m trying to reach Alain Picard.”
The speaker crackles again, the voice says something, and then, to my relief, I hear the front door buzz.
I push it open and hurry into a tiny, beautiful courtyard, where vines creep up old stone walls framed by red roses and yellow daffodils. I cross quickly and make my way into the building. He’s in apartment 2B, Monsieur Berr said. I climb the flight of stairs in the corner and am momentarily surprised to see that the two apartments in front of me are labeled 1A and 1B. Then I remember that the French think of the ground floor as 0 instead of 1, and I ascend a second flight of stairs.
Heart pounding, I knock on the door marked 2B. The moment it opens and I find myself face-to-face with an old, slightly stooped man with thick white hair, I know for sure. He has Mamie’s eyes, the slate-gray, slightly almond-shaped eyes that she passed on to my mother. I’ve found my great-uncle. Mamie is part of this mysterious, lost Picard family after all, and therefore, so am I. I take a deep breath.
“Alain Picard?” I manage when I’ve found my voice.
“Oui,” he says. He’s staring at me. He shakes his head and says something in rapid French.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I say. “I only speak English. I’m sorry.”
“Forgive me, mademoiselle,” he says, switching seamlessly to English. “It is just that you look like someone I used to know. It is like seeing a ghost.”