Henri and Alain are staring at me in confusion, but Simon looks like he’s just seen a ghost. All the blood has drained from his face.
I half laugh, uneasily. “What?” I ask.
“Those aren’t pastries from any traditional Jewish bakery I’ve ever heard of,” Henri says. “Your grandmother wouldn’t have gotten those from her family.”
I watch as Henri and Simon exchange looks.
“What?” I ask again.
It’s Simon who speaks first. “Hope,” he says softly, all trace of jest gone from his voice. “I think those are Muslim pastries. From North Africa.”
I stare back. “Muslim pastries?” I shake my head. “What?”
Henri and Simon glance at each other again. Alain looks like he understands what they’re talking about now too. He asks something in French, and when Simon replies, Alain murmurs, “It cannot be true. Can it?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, leaning forward. They’re making me nervous. The men ignore me and exchange a few more words in rapid French. Alain checks his watch, nods, and stands up. The other two men stand too.
“Come, Hope,” Alain says. “There is something we must do.”
“What?” I ask, completely baffled. “Do we even have time?”
Alain looks at his watch again, and I check mine too. It’s nearly eight.
“We will find the time,” he says. “This is important. Let us go. Bring your things.”
I grab my duffel bag and follow behind the men as we silently leave the apartment.
“Where are we going?” I demand once we get to the rue de Turenne and Henri puts his arm up to hail a cab.
“To the Grand Mosquée de Paris,” Simon says. “The Grand Mosque.”
I stare at him. “Wait, we’re going to a mosque?”
Alain reaches out and touches my cheek. “Trust us, Hope,” he says. His eyes are sparkling, and he smiles at me. “We will explain on the way.”
Chapter Fifteen
We never knew whether to believe the rumors,” Alain begins once we’ve piled into a cab and are hurtling south toward the river. Outside, the streets are just coming alive with people as the sun begins to warm the earth and bathe the buildings in lemon light.
“What rumors?” I ask. “What are you talking about?”
Alain and Simon exchange looks.
Henri speaks first. “There have been rumors that the Muslims in Paris saved many Jews during the war,” he says flatly.
I stare at him, then I look at Alain and Simon, who are nodding. “Wait, you’re telling me that Muslims saved Jewish people?”
“We never heard about it during the war,” says Simon. He glances at Alain. “Well, almost never.”
Alain nods. “Jacob said something once that made me think . . .” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “But I never really believed it.”
“There was a time,” Henri says, “that we viewed each other as brothers, in a way. The Jews and the Muslims. The Muslims were not persecuted during the war as we were, but they were always made to feel as outsiders, just like the Jews. I would guess that to some Muslims, seeing Jews being persecuted felt very personal. Who was to say that the country wouldn’t turn its back on them next?”
“And so the rumor was that they helped us,” Simon says. “I never knew if it was true.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The rumors have always said that they gave housing and shelter to many children whose parents had been deported, and a few adults too,” Alain says. “And that eventually, they sent those people through underground channels to the free zone, in some cases helping them to get false papers.”
“You’re telling me Muslims smuggled Jews out of Paris?” I ask. I shake my head; it’s difficult to believe.
“The leader of the Grand Mosque of Paris was, at that time, the most powerful Muslim in Europe,” Henri says. He glances at Alain. “Si Kaddour Beng—Comment s’est-il appelé?”
“Benghabrit,” Alain says.
Henri nods. “Yes, that is it. Si Kaddour Benghabrit. The French government was afraid to touch him. And it is possible he used that power and influence to save many lives.”
I shake my head and stare out the window at Paris rolling by. The towers of Notre-Dame are silhouetted in the distance against the sky to the right as we cross over a bridge and hurtle toward the Left Bank. Far away, I can hear church bells striking the hour. “So you’re saying that might be how my grandmother got out of Paris? That Muslims from the Grand Mosque may have gotten her out?”