“It would explain where she learned to bake Muslim pastries,” Alain says.
“It would answer a lot of questions,” Henri adds. “It is doubtful that there are any records. No one speaks of it. The secrets of that time have died with that time. Today, there is much tension between the religious groups. It is impossible to know whether it is true.”
“But what if it is?” I whisper. And then I remember, suddenly, Mamie’s words for me just before I left for Paris, when I was pressing her for an answer about whether or not she was Jewish. Yes, I am Jewish, she had said. But I am also Catholic. And Muslim too. A shiver of realization runs through me and my eyes widen.
The cab pulls up to the curb alongside a white building with deep green tiles on its roof, ornate arches, and glistening domes. A green-trimmed minaret rises from the building, and although it’s decidedly Moroccan in its details, it looks a lot like one of the towers of Notre-Dame that we just passed. Something else Mamie said echoes in my head. It is mankind that creates the differences, she’d told me last week. That does not mean it is not all the same God.
Henri pays the driver, and we get out of the cab. I give both Henri and Simon a hand as they straighten their legs and step out onto the sidewalk.
“There was a time I used to be able to do that myself,” Henri says with a smile. He winks at me, and the four of us head toward an arched entrance at the corner of the building.
“If no one here ever speaks of what happened,” I whisper to Alain as we cross into a small courtyard, “what are we doing here?”
He links his arm through mine and smiles. “Looking at pastries,” he says.
The courtyard is dappled in patches of sunlight that filter through the trees and throw shadows on the tiled white ground. Small blue-and-white-tiled tables are set up in the middle of the courtyard and along the walls, and all of them are framed by wooden chairs with seats and backs of woven bright blue. Deep green plants with yellow flowers creep up the walls, and sparrows hop from table to table. It’s peaceful, tranquil, and so empty that I’m certain it’s not open yet.
A middle-aged Arab man dressed all in black approaches and says something in French. Alain replies and gestures to me, and for the next minute, the four men talk in rapid French I can’t understand. The man shakes his head at first, but finally, he shrugs and gestures for us to follow him up a small stairway into the main building.
There’s a dark-haired, olive-skinned younger man, maybe twenty-five, inside the doorway filling a clear bakery case with pastries, and my heart stops as I look inside. There, in the case, are numerous baked goods, nearly half of which are exactly the same as the pastries I make at my own bakery. There are delicate crescent moons dusted in snow-white powdered sugar; small, pale green cakes in white pastry wrappers, topped with tiny pieces of pistachios; honey-drenched slices of baklava; and sticky almond pastries topped with single cherries in their middles. There are thin rolls of phyllo dough rolled in sugar; thick slices of a sugary almond cake rolled in almonds; and even the small, dense rings of cinnamon and honey that have been Annie’s favorites since she was a little girl.
My heart is thudding as I look up at Alain.
“They are the same?” he asks.
I nod slowly. “They are the same,” I confirm.
He smiles, his eyes suddenly watery, and turns to the older man, who is frowning at us. They exchange a few sentences in French, and then Alain turns to me. “Hope, would you tell this man about your pastries? I’ve told him what we think might have happened with Rose.”
I smile at the man, who looks skeptical. “The things you make here,” I say. “They are the same as my grandmother taught me to make. They’re the same things we sell in our bakery in Cape Cod.”
The man shakes his head. “But that means nothing. These are common pastries. And there are many Jews who came from northern Africa. The pastries are not just Muslim, you see. Your grandmother, she could have learned to make them anywhere. She probably learned them from another Jew.”
My heart sinks. It’s silly for us to be staking our whole idea of the past on a collection of pastries. “Of course,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.” I nod slowly and turn away.
Alain puts a hand on my arm. “Hope?” he asks. “Are you all right?”
I nod again, but I don’t mean it. I can’t find words, because I feel like I’m about to cry, and I can’t quite understand why. I don’t know why it feels so important to me to be able to explain what happened to Mamie, but it does. I’m sure now that she wanted me to come here to learn about her past. But now we may never know how she made it out alive during the war.