The Urn
THE URN
Part two, April 10, 2000
Illustrated and written
by Elaine Troisi
Given the extraordinary request left by her father, Marin got to work. Bill gave her one week to put her affairs in order, personal as well as business. Of course, he was always there to help. She asked Rachel to pack their bags and handle the minutiae of planning their trip to Paris.
Rachel generally traveled with her, so she was accustomed to the preparations. In the past, she helped them plan their agendas. This time, she, too, was perplexed. What would they find in Paris? A house shuttered for years? How could she prepare an itinerary?
The week flew by. Then she and Rachel sat sipping wine in first class. Well, Marin sipped while Rachel slept soundly. Twenty-five years her senior, Rachel, too, was exhausted from the turmoil of the past traumatic weeks since Marin’s father’s death.
Tears welled up. “Daddy, I miss you so much, “she whispered. “I need your guidance now, more than ever.” She swallowed her sobs with a swish of wine and brushed her tears aside.
Marin had no idea what lay ahead, but she opened her tablet and dug in. She needed to find out what she could in the seven hours before they landed at Charles de Gaulle airport.
First, what arrondissement were they going to? It turns out rue du Trésor is in a very trendy Jewish neighborhood in the fourth arrondissement. “Good to know,” she thought, relieved.
Google Earth revealed a scene of a lovely flower-bedecked, tree-lined street. Bistros, boulangeries, and patisseries just steps from her door. “Ooh, my mouth is watering already,” Marin thought about the luscious pastries just a step away. She would have to curb her penchant for sweets.
Rachel stirred. “Are we there yet?”
Marin smiled. How often had she asked her dad the same question throughout her childhood adventures?
Marin prepares for a future unknown as she sets out to solve layers of mystery
watercolor by Elaine Troisi
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| Marin prepares for a future unknown as she sets out to solve layers of mystery watercolor by Elaine Troisi |
“Another six hours, Rachel. You can go back to your dreams, sweetie.”
Just then the flight attendant offered her a refill. “Just water for now. Thank you.”
Marin returned to her tablet. She was happy with her findings thus far. What she didn’t know was the condition of the home.
Google Earth revealed the façade. There were flowers on the terrace. That meant the caretaker was doing her job well. “Looks quite well kept,” she thought, heartened.
The day before they boarded their plane, Bill sat her down."I've been thinking," he said, "about your father's request. I think I can help you understand what he was getting at."
Marin's ears perked up, and she leaned in, eager for any insight.
Bill hesitated, collecting his thoughts before speaking . “Your father was a complex man, Marin. He had a lot of secrets, and I think this urn business is just the tip of the iceberg. But I do know that he was deeply connected to his Jewish heritage, and he wanted you to understand that part of yourself."
Marin's eyes widened as she processed Bill's words. She had always known that her father was Jewish, but she had never really explored what that meant.
He continued. “As a boy he lived in Paris with his parents, your grandparents, until WWII. Your dad was orphaned at age 10. I’m not certain how he got to the US or exactly when. He was so secretive, even to me! Marin, I wish I could tell you more. I’m so sorry. And that urn business …” his words had trailed off into a long sigh.
Marin sat up straight, her thoughts hijacked by what Bill shared just one day ago. Only now was she becoming aware of the new reality of her background. Questions, really.
A revelation. “Good grief, my father survived the Occupation, but what about his parents?”
The flight attendant appeared. “You know, I think I will have thatglass of wine after all.”
She sipped the wine and promptly joined Rachel in sleep, but a little turbulence woke them up a short time later. The flight attendant returned with dinner. “Bon appetit, Mesdames.”
Rachel asked, “Do you speak French, Marin? Because I don’t,” Rachel commented between mouthfuls.
“Well, then, we’ll just hope that more Parisians speak English than not,” she said hopefully. “Wikipedia seems to think so anyway.”
During dinner, Marin shared everything she had learned about the area. “Where the house is located, that is, where my ancestral home is! It’s in the Jewish trendy neighborhood called La Marais. Very near the Seine and La Notre Dame.” She smiled.
“Oh, my! How lovely for you!” Rachel exclaimed.
“For us, Rachel. You are my only family now.” She leaned in and kissed Rachel’s cheek. She’d always thought of her as her mother anyway. Rachel beamed.
“Ah, but what I read about the history of Jews in La Marais is disheartening,” Marin continued. “Apparently throughout the history of Paris, Jews were ejected, then allowed to return, and so it went from the seventh century til now, really.
Then finally came acceptance. Prior to WWII, the Jews prospered in La Marais, bankers, shop keepers, industrialists. Until …”
“I know this part,” Rachel interjected . “Until the German occupation … and the death camps.” She paused, her face a question mark. “It’s not just your heritage, Marin. It’s mine, too. Poland, I think, but I know less than you.”
“We can sort through our mysterious heritages while we are here in Paris. Your story. My story. I’m getting excited now. Mysteries to solve … the urn and us!” She felt the grief and weariness of the past month abate a little, driven away by curiosity.
The flight attendant announced, “stow your gear and fasten your seat belts. Prepare for landing.”
Then the captain, “Bienvenue les amis, the morning is bright, the sky is clear. It is a perfect day for a walk in the Tuileries!” he paused. “And remember, mon amis, April in Paris is for lovers! Oui?”
Smiling passengers replied, “Oui!”
Dear Readers
The adventure will continue on March 28! One question leads to another as Marin and Rachel unravel their personal sagas. How does everything intertwine and lead to revealing the story of the urn? What strangers will come into their lives to bring more mystery and perhaps … love?
More chapters to come. Wish I could paint and write faster for you so you don’t have to wait two weeks for the next chapter.
Let me know what you think!
I’m listening!
Etlainie92@gmail.com
www.elainestories.com
April 16, 2000, Paris
Part three
Illustrated and written by Elaine Troisi
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| a stroll along the Seine watercolor by Elaine Troisi |
The next few days passed in a blur of activity as Marin and Rachel settled into their Parisian home and began to explore the city a little.
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| Marin steps outside her Paris home to explore La Marais watercolor by Elaine |
Now Marin sat in their favorite café, nursing a cup of coffee as she stared out the window at the wet morning streets of Paris. Rachel, her loyal companion, sat across from her, sipping a tea and watching Marin with concern.
"Hey, kiddo, you okay?" Rachel asked, her voice soft. “You haven’t touched your croissant, and I know you love them.” She picked at the remaining crumbs on her plate.
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| Rachel and Marin enjoy a petit dejeuner watercolor by Elaine |
Marin nodded, but her eyes betrayed her. She picked up the buttery croissant, brought it to her lips, and set it down again. She was struggling to come to terms with her father's past and the mysterious request he'd left her. The urn, with its strange symbol and unknown secrets, weighed heavily on her mind. How would she ever find it?
She asked Rachel to re-read the letter one more time. They had discovered the letter when they arrived, right there, on the foyer table, now smudged and crumpled from living in her pocket this past week.
“Okay, here goes for the tenth time, Rachel said. “My dearest daughter, if you are reading this, it means I’m gone. But you are not alone. You have Bill, Rachel, and Maurice to help you” … Rachel paused with an aside, “That caretaker is quite a hunk of you ask me, she sighed. “Okay, okay, she continued. “As you now know, I am French. My parents were French. I don’t know what became of them. Just that they sent me away during the Vel d’ Hiv in 1942. I need to know what became of them! I want you to know everything. The memories were just too horrible, so I never had the courage to do my own research. Now it is your turn. You need to know your heritage. The urn is the key.” Rachel stopped for a breath.
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| Rachel reads Max’s letter drawing by Elaine |
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Marin nodded her head, and Maurice sat down?” In a week’s time the caretaker had become a comforting familiarity in their lives. "I've been thinking," he said, "about your father's request. I think I can help you understand what he was getting at."
He continued, “From what my parents told me when they were your grandparents’ caretakers, they were prominent members of the Jewish community here in La Marais, and they played a significant role in the city's history.” The waiter brought him a café au lait.
“I knew they had a business here, but not much else,” Marin was thoughtful. “Do you know what business they were in?”
“Look,” Maurice paused for a sip. “I know you think I’m just the caretaker of your ancestral home … but there’s more you don’t know about me. And I don’t know how much you want me in your personal affairs.” He let his sentiment sit heavily on the air, not sure whether to proceed.
Marin looked at Maurice in surprise. She realized she knew nothing about him, beyond the fact that her father trusted him. But who was he really? Forty-ish, ice blue eyes like Rachel’s and hers, jet black hair, easy on the eyes. Caretaker. “Hmm, He could be a fraud or a crook, for all I know,” she thought.
“Okay, I’m interested in knowing more.” Maurice looked at Rachel. She nodded.
He continued. “I inherited the job of caretaker from my parents who owned the boulangerie next door. When your father bought this house in 1964, it was in terrible disrepair. The Nazis ransacked it during the German occupation,” he stopped. Marin and Rachel stared at him in surprise. “Tell me you weren’t aware?”
“My God,” Marin gasped. She was about to say something but stopped.
“Anyway,” he went on. “I was a boy at the time when my dad took on the task of restoring the house. Your dad returned often to oversee the progress until it was done. After that my mother and dad became the caretakers of the manse.”
Marin sat silent, staring into her coffee, as though reading tea leaves. So Rachel spoke for her, “Honestly, Maurice, we had no idea. Did you take over for you parents?”
“Well, not at first. They passed while I was in school, at Columbia University. So, the house sat shuttered while I finished my internship at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
Marin looked up. “I went to college there, too. Administrative Affairs. Masters. That’s quite a coincidence. Wow!.”
“When did you graduate?”
“We’ve been sitting too long,” Marin sighed. “My tush is getting numb!”
“How about a walk along the Seine?” he offered. “It’s a lovely day.”
“Ooh,” Rachel jumped up. “What a wonderful idea!”
As they walked, Marin and Maurice talked about their time at Columbia, though they graduated 20 years apart.
“After I came home,” Maurice explained, “I took over the care of your house. But I also attended the Sorbonne.”
“Did you continue studying art there?”
“Indeed. Particularly art conservation and provenance research.”
Rachel interjected, “I don’t know what that means.”
Marin explained, “I’m assuming it means Maurice tries to locate and uncover the provenance of lost or recovered artifacts. Am I right, Maurice?”
“Exactly. Now I work as a consultant to museums around the world, including the Louvre here in Paris.”
They walked on past the Notre Dame. Marin was deep in thought, while Maurice and Rachel chatted amiably.
Later that night, Marin went up to the third floor to her father’s library. There she found huge ornate bookshelves laden with heavy volumes.
The streetlights came on. She sat in her father’s green leather chair, art books strewn across the desk. She started to nod off when she suddenly became uncomfortable, sensing that she was being watched. Chills climbed her spine. She stood up and turned. No one was there… but she heard a door closed softly somewhere down the hall.
“Maurice?” she wondered. “What’s his game?”
But with each new discovery in the week that followed, Marin couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. She began to notice strange occurrences around her – a misplaced book, a faint scent of lavender, a whispered conversation in the hallway.
To learn more about the secrets the house holds, you will have to read part 4 in two weeks, on April 11, 2025.
In the meantime, talk to me. I’ll be listening.