Alain nods. “It is the exact same recipe my grandparents made in their bakery, before World War Two. We believe there is a chance my sister may have taught your family how to make this pie, during the war.”
Monsieur Romyo looks at Alain for a long time and then nods. “Alors. My parents have both died, but they were young in the war. Just children. They would not remember. But my mother’s uncle, he may know.”
“Is he here?” I ask.
Monsieur Romyo laughs. “No, madame. He is very old. He is seventy-nine.”
“Seventy-nine is not old,” Henri mutters under his breath behind me, but Monsieur Romyo doesn’t seem to hear him.
“I will telephone him now,” he says. “But he is nearly deaf, you understand? It is difficult to talk with him.”
“Please try,” I say in a small voice.
He nods. “Now I admit I am curious too.”
He crosses behind the counter, picks up a cell phone, and scrolls through the phone’s address book. He pushes Send a moment later and lifts the phone to his ear.
It’s not until I hear him say “Hallo? Oncle Nabi?” that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale slowly.
I listen without understanding as he speaks loudly into the phone in French, repeating himself several times. Finally, he puts his hand over the mouthpiece and addresses me. “This tart of stars,” he says, “my uncle Nabi says his family learned it from a young woman.”
Alain and I exchange glances. “When?” I ask urgently.
Monsieur Romyo says something else into the phone, then he repeats himself more loudly. He puts his hand over the receiver once more. “During l’année mille neuf cents quarante-deux,” he says. “Nineteen forty-two.”
I gasp. “Is it possible . . . ?” I ask Alain, my voice trailing off. I turn to Monsieur Romyo. “Does your uncle remember anything about this woman?”
I watch as he repeats my question, in French, over the phone. A moment later, he looks up at us again. “Rose,” he says. “Elle s’est appelée Rose.”
“What?” I ask Alain in a panic.
Alain turns to me with a smile. “He says that the woman’s name was Rose.”
“That’s my grandmother,” I murmur, looking at Monsieur Romyo.
He nods, then he says something else into the phone and listens for a moment. He hangs up and scratches his head. “This is all very unusual,” he says. He glances at Alain and then back at me. “All of these years, I had no idea . . .” His voice trails off and he clears his throat. “My uncle, Nabi Haddam, would like you to visit him right away. D’accord?”
“Merci. D’accord,” Alain agrees instantly. He glances at me. “Okay,” he translates. “We will go now.”
Five minutes later, Simon, Henri, Alain, and I are in a cab heading south, toward an address on the rue des Lyonnais, which Monsieur Romyo assured us was close by. I check my watch again. It’s 8:25. We’ll barely make our flight, but right now, this feels like something we have to do.
I’m shaking by the time we pull up to Nabi Haddam’s apartment building. He’s already waiting outside for us. I know from what Mr. Romyo told us that he’s just a year younger than Alain, but he looks like he’s from a different generation entirely. His hair is jet-black and his face isn’t nearly as lined as my uncle’s. He’s dressed in a gray suit, and his hands are clasped together. As we step out of the car, he stares at me.
“You are her granddaughter,” he says haltingly, before we’ve had a chance to introduce ourselves. “You are the granddaughter of Rose.”
I take a deep breath. “Yes.”
He smiles and strides quickly over. He kisses me on both cheeks. “You are a mirror image,” he says. There are tears in his eyes as he pulls away.
Alain introduces himself as Rose’s brother, and Henri and Simon say hello too. I tell Monsieur Haddam that my name is Hope.
“It is right, this name,” he murmurs. “For your grandmother, she survived because of hope.” He blinks a few times and smiles. “Please, come in.”
He gestures to the door of the building, punches in a code, and leads us into a dark hallway. A door to the left is ajar, and he pushes it open farther for us. “My home,” he says, gesturing around. “You are welcome here.”
Once we’re seated, in a dimly lit room lined with books and photographs of who I’m guessing are Monsieur Haddam’s family members, Alain leans forward. “How did you know my sister? Rose?”