“Pardon?” he says. He blinks a few times and says, “I am nearly sourd. Deaf. I am sorry.”
Alain repeats the question loudly, and this time, Monsieur Haddam nods.
He smiles and leans back in his chair. He looks at Alain for a long time before answering. “You are her younger brother? You had eleven years in 1942?”
“Oui,” Alain says.
“She talked of you often,” he says simply.
“She did?” Alain asks in a whisper.
Monsieur Haddam nods. “I think it is one reason why she was so kind to me. I had just ten years old that year, you see. She told me often that I made her think of you.”
Alain looks down, and I know he’s struggling not to cry in front of the other men.
“She thought you were all lost,” Monsieur Haddam says after a moment. “I think her heart, it was broken, because of this. She often cried herself to sleep, and she said your names as she wept.”
When Alain looks up again, there’s a single tear rolling down his right cheek. He brushes it away. “I thought she was lost too,” he says. “All these years.”
Monsieur Haddam turns to me. “You are her granddaughter,” he says. “And so, she lived?”
“She lived,” I say softly.
“Still, she is alive?”
I pause. “Yes.” I’m about to tell him that she’s had a stroke, but I swallow the words. I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m not ready to acknowledge the fact or because I don’t want to ruin Monsieur Haddam’s happy ending. “How . . . What happened?” I finally ask.
Monsieur Haddam smiles. “Can I get any of you a cup of tea?” he asks.
We all shake our heads. The men are as eager as I am to hear the story.
“Very well,” Monsieur Haddam says. “I will tell you.” He takes a deep breath. “She came to us in July of 1942. The night those terrible roundups began.”
“The Vel’ d’Hiv,” I say.
Monsieur Haddam nods. “Yes. Before that, I think many people were blind to what was happening. Even after that, many people remained blind. But Rose, she knew it was coming. And she came to us for sanctuary.
“My family, we took her in. She told the officials at the mosque that her mother’s family were bakers. So they asked us if we could provide her refuge for a time. That was a time in the world when a shared profession meant more than different religions.
“I looked up to Rose, in a way that concerned my father at first, because she was different, and I was not supposed to have such admiration for a young woman from a different world,” he continues. “But she was kind and gentle and taught me many things. And in time, I think my parents understood that she was not so different from us after all.”
He pauses for a moment, his head bent. Finally, he sighs and continues. “She lived with us, as a Muslim, for two months. Every morning and every night, she said our prayers with us, which made my parents happy. But she still prayed to her God too; I heard her every night, long into the night, asking for the protection of the people she loved. It seems that in you, God answered her prayers.” He smiles at Alain, who covers his face with his hands and looks away.
“We taught her many things, about Islam and about baking,” Monsieur Haddam continues. “And in turn, she taught us many things. She worked in our bakery. She and my mother spent many hours in the kitchen, whispering to each other. I do not know what about; my mother would always say it was woman talk. But Rose, she taught us the tarte des étoiles, the star pie that brought you here to me today. It was her favorite, and it was my favorite too, because Rose told me the story.”
“What story?” I ask.
Monsieur Haddam looks surprised. “The story of why she made the crust of stars.”
Alain and I exchange looks. “Why?” I ask. “What’s the story?”
“You do not know?” Monsieur Haddam asks. When Alain and I shake our heads, he continues. “It was because it made her think of her true love’s promise to love her as long as there were stars in the sky.”
I look at Alain. “Jacob,” I whisper. He nods. All these years that I’ve been making Star Pies, I realize, I’ve been baking a tribute to a man I never knew existed. A small noise rises from the back of my throat as I choke back a sob that seems to come from nowhere.
“There were many nights when it was not safe to be outside, or when the clouds covered the city, or when smoke hung thick in the air,” Monsieur Haddam continues. “On those nights that Rose could not see the stars, she said she needed comfort in something. And so she began putting the stars in her tarts. Years later, when I was a young man, my mother used to bake me these same pies and remind me that true love is worth everything. It was not a common concept in those days; there were many arranged marriages. But she was right. And I waited. I married the love of my life. And so for the rest of my days, I have made the tartes des étoiles in honor of Rose. And I taught my children, and my cousins, and the next generation, to do the same, to remember to wait for love, like Rose did. Like I did.