Days of Winter (27 page)

Leon sat quietly. Finally he answered. “Well, so be it. If that is what you really wish, I will provide for—”

“I’m most grateful, Uncle, but I do have a bit of my father in me. I just cannot accept your generous offer. You supported me and my father all these years, and now it is time I began for myself. After all, I’m qualified to teach. I have credentials in music, and there must be a demand for English tutoring in Paris.”

“Jeanette, please, my dearest, you are very hurt and angry, but you are like our child. Be sensible—”

“I’m trying to be, Uncle … and you are right. I am angry and hurt, but I will have to solve that myself.”

Finally he saw there was no point in arguing further. “At least, let me give you enough money to see you settled.”

“Only on one condition, that it be a loan.”

He shrugged, nodded. “I have a barrister friend in Paris. Charles Dryfus. I’ll write to him that you’re coming. At least I’ll know that someone is looking after you.”

Jeanette went to him and put her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Uncle, I know I sound stubborn and ungrateful, but you know how much I love you and Aunt Deborah. I don’t know how I can really thank you … for being my comfort, the way you were my father’s. …”

“We loved you both very much. …When will you go?”

“I would like to stay until after the first of the year, February, March perhaps. I need the time to be close to my father and visit his grave. …You know I remember once my father looking out through the window here, and talking as though he were seeing Paris. He said he loved Paris, especially in the spring. The last time he’d been there, he told me, was in April of 1914. He was so … well, poetic and carried away that I remember crying. …I want to be there, in Paris, by April.”

Leon looked at his niece, and then held her close. Together they shed tears for the past. Pray God, he thought, she would have a kinder future. …

T
HE PENSION JARDIN DE
Neuilly had been a family dwelling in one of the best parts of Paris in the 1800s. It was a large mansion with a formal salon, a dining room, a small, charming sitting room, and a large kitchen on the first floor. The imposing circular staircase led to the second floor where there was a master suite, replete with a bedroom, a bathroom and a dressing room. For many years, this suite had been occupied by an elderly couple. In addition, there were seven other bedrooms and a central bathroom. The old servants’ quarters on the third floor had been converted into guest rooms. Jeanette was fortunate; hers was the only room with a private bath. Other guests had to trudge to the toilet down the hall in the middle of the night, if need be. A shower had been installed in one of the hall closets by the present owners.

Jeanette had loved the spacious, light room the moment she saw it. The walls were soft pink-mauve, and the double brass bed was covered with a blue velvet spread. But, best of all, the French windows looked down on a garden below. The first thing Jeanette did after unpacking was write a letter to her aunt and uncle. It was a cheerful letter, but a short one. Then she took out the journal she’d been keeping since her father’s death. She began to write:

February 3rd … Dearest Papa,

I arrived in Paris this afternoon and stood in front of the station San La Gare for a long time, with so many thoughts, and most of them were of you. It was as though you were beside me. …I couldn’t see your Paris, or remember its first embrace, because tears blurred my vision. Then I took a taxi to Monsieur Dryfus’ office. They greeted me warmly, and surely not as a stranger. You would have been proud. Monsieur Dryfus is a charming man with three sons … two are barristers and one is in banking. It was he who found my lodgings.

A strange thought occurred to me, Papa, as I waited to be seen. You were once a barrister … but, imagine, I’ve never even seen the inside of the Hack office where you used to work. Isn’t it strange what we think of sometimes. …Monsieur Dryfus offered me little encouragement so far as teaching piano is concerned. Paris, he says, is full of starving musicians. He was more encouraging about tutoring English. Somehow, dearest Papa, the bravado I started out with seems to be crumbling a little … but big adjustments aren’t easy to make, are they? Who understood that better than you? Monsieur Dryfus was so kind, I could almost imagine he was you. On his desk was a portrait of his children as small boys. …I often feel that I never had a childhood … my mother came to my mind. …Why did she discard us so easily …?

I don’t need to pretend with you, Papa. I miss you terribly. I’m unsure of myself, but with your inspiration to guide me I will conquer myself. And now I say good night … and sleep well.

Jeanette closed the journal slowly, put it back into the desk drawer, and sat for a moment.

Taking her purse and keys, she went downstairs to post the letter to Leon and Deborah. Two blocks away were shops and vending stalls. She went to the tobacconist’s to buy stamps, attached one to the letter, kissed it and posted it. Then she bought a small slice of cheese, a loaf of French bread, a can of sardines and a crocheted shopping bag into which she put two of her purchases. In the French style, she carried the thin loaf of bread under her arm. Tonight she wouldn’t have dinner with the other guests; she was afraid all eyes would be on her. Tonight she would eat at a table for one.

After eating she tried to read. But her thoughts wandered back to the past. At ten o’clock she turned out the bedside lamp and waited for sleep, but sleep eluded her. She gazed out at the moonlight. When she turned on the lamp and looked at the travel clock Uncle Leon had given her, it was one o’clock. Impulsively, she decided to take a walk. Quietly she dressed, went outside and walked toward the Seine.

After an hour or so, she sat down on a bench to watch the moonlight play on the waters.

“Mademoiselle?” It was a gendarme. “Can I help you?”

She was startled, not knowing what to say. “No … no, thank you. I’m just on my way home.”

“I think that’s a good idea. It’s much too late for a young lady to walk the streets of Paris alone.”

“You’re quite right. …Thank you.”

She got up and hurried away. When she let herself back into her room it was almost four o’clock in the morning. She went to bed without undressing, and this time fell quickly asleep.

She woke up at ten, feeling curiously refreshed. A feeling of spiritual strength coursed through her. …Thank you, Papa. Today is the day I begin the rest of my life here in Paris. And for both our sakes, I’ll try to accept the past. …No more indulging in self-pity. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. …

She asked the concierge to have breakfast sent up. She undressed, brushed her teeth and bathed. As she finished drying, there was a knock on the door. “One moment, please.” She slipped into her robe, tying the sash around her waist. When she opened the door, she was greeted by a smiling young girl, about the same age as herself.

“Good morning, mademoiselle. My name is Madeleine. I hope you slept well.”

“Thank you, yes.”

Madeleine placed the tray on the table. On her way out, she said, “Enjoy your breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

Under a white napkin, Jeanette found two warm, fresh croissants, sweet rolls that smelled of cinnamon and walnuts, a bowl of fresh churned butter, marmalade, a pot of coffee and a pitcher of cream. Since she had eaten little the night before, she took a large bite from a croissant, poured a cup of café au lait and walked to the window.

Below, the gardener was on his knees, spading the rich, black earth between daffodil bulbs. As he got up to stretch, throwing back his shoulders, he happened to glance up and saw Jeanette. “Good morning, mademoiselle,” he called out, smiling.

“Good morning, monsieur.”

“Beautiful morning, is it not?”

“Oh, yes, it is, it
is
. …”

She was going to wear her tweed suit; it was warm and simple. She chose her navy shoes and bag, and short white cotton gloves. She made sure to button the jacket, and adjusted her hair under the pink felt cloche. Then she appraised herself. She approved.

She decided to take a taxi, since cabbies were often a storehouse of information. She asked her driver for the name of the most likely newspaper in which to advertise for a position. He was most helpful. He drove her there—going twelve blocks out of his way to insure a big fare. Jeanette thanked him and tipped him generously.

She placed an ad in the classified section, offering both tutoring and piano instruction. Then she decided to be a tourist and walk the streets of Paris.

It seemed that all of Paris was alive. …She soaked up the sounds, the smells and the sights. In bakers’ shops queues of people waited to buy bread. On the Rue de la Paix women went in and out of dress shops. Jeanette looked at the jewelry stores … they were magnificent, especially Cartier’s. She admired the petite lingerie shops, all soft lace and silk. Her heart beat faster with excitement as her pace quickened. She turned into the Avenue de l’Opéra and watched the people at sidewalk cafés. Seating herself at a table, she fantasized about the people around her. She gazed at the opera house. How beautiful it was. And how incredible to be so close to the source of such wonderful music. …She had a demitasse.

Next she went to a bookstore, where she bought a map of Paris, a guide to the metro system (which she had been told was the greatest in the world) and a guide to the Louvre. Then she registered with three employment agencies.

That night, after first considering eating alone in her room, she decided to go down to the dining room. Dinner was served from seven-thirty to nine. By the time she got there, many guests were already seated. Most were widows on small pensions who had lived in the same room for years. They were hardly friendly. The only welcome sight was Madeleine, who had been questioned endlessly by the dowagers about the new tenant, and pretended by evasion that she knew a great deal more than she was willing to divulge. She greeted Jeanette warmly, and with a true native Parisian’s love of the city told Jeanette she hoped she was enjoying her first view of the sights.

Later, alone in her room, Jeanette told herself to be patient in her search for a job. Things were bound to work out. She was in the city where Mama and Papa had first met. Surely good things would happen here, where they had fallen in love, before the bad times. …

For a moment she stood staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. …Well, face it, Jeanette Hack, you are not your mother, with her strength, are you? You don’t
want
to be like her, but still you would like to share the part of her that was strong enough to let go, to walk away from what she could not live with. …You despise her, and yet you do admire that. She was fourteen when she came to Paris, fatherless, motherless and penniless, but she
survived
. …

The next morning Jeanette arose early. Today held the promise of something she had dreamed of doing since she had been a little girl. As she walked along the Seine, she could almost hear her father telling her the story, before his bitterness had set in. She followed the route up the steep stone stairs to Nôtre Dame, and paused at the lonely café where Rubin had met Magda. Then on to 27 Rue de Fleures … she tried without success to find Sylvia Beach’s shop, but it was gone. She walked the crooked streets of Montmartre, hoping her footsteps might fall in exactly the same places as her father’s once had. Finally she stood at the stone railing along the Seine, once again watching the boats glide up and down. But her thoughts were in another place. …Should I stand before the door, dearest Tante Solange, where you lived, or should I leave that in the past, where it belongs …? You are all gone … your world is gone. …Dear Papa, only the ghosts of your memories remain through me. May they all rest in peace. …

On Saturday morning she went to the synagogue for memorial services, and wept during the Kaddish. But she was filled with gratitude that the depth of her loss could be faced with quiet bereavement. …Later, she went to the Tuileries, remembering the happy times when she and her father, Rubin, had gone on Saturdays to the synagogue and then to Hyde Park. Her thoughts were interrupted by a small boy who asked if she could reach his ball, which had rolled under her bench. She handed the ball to him, impulsively kissing his cheek, and watched him run back to his mother. What a beautiful sight … mother and child. Suddenly she was so happy. …Tomorrow was Sunday, her first Sunday in France, and she would be spending it with the Dryfuses and their children, her very first invitation. …

The Dryfuses lived on the outskirts of Paris, near Versailles, in a house three hundred years old. Although Madame Dryfus was twenty years younger than her husband, and a head taller, it seemed not at all odd. There was an unmistakable bond of love between these two, which greatly impressed Jeanette. Devotion was so rare. Most people seemed to tolerate each other … if they stayed together at all. …

“The children are so eager to meet you,” said Madame Dryfus as she led Jeanette out into the garden. She introduced Jeanette to Berton, who was five, and Meirer, who was eight.

They ate lunch in the garden under a huge chestnut tree. Monsieur Dryfus observed Jeanette’s pleasure with the children. What an extraordinary young woman, he thought … not only beautiful but poised and perfectly charming. She seemed far too mature to be only nineteen … but there was such sadness in her eyes. …Of course, how could it be different? A father who had gone mad, and a mother who had abandoned her when she was only a small child. …

“Tell me, Jeanette, are you satisfied with your lodgings?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m very pleased.”

“And Paris …?”

“Oh, monsieur, how could anyone not fall in love with Paris?”

Her only problem, she added, was in finding a job, but he told her not to worry, sooner or later something would turn up, and meanwhile, she should enjoy the city.

When it was time to leave, Madame Dryfus told her how very welcome she was. She hoped Jeanette would visit frequently. Monsieur Dryfus took both her hands in his. “I want you to know that your happiness is ours, that you can call upon my dear wife for
any
reason … and consider me as an uncle in the absence of your own. …Will you do that?”