THE URN
Chapter 10
Paris
April 25, 2000
written and illustrated by Elaine Troisi
Rachel confessed, “I can’t believe how much we have learned in just one week!” She shuffled through the pile of papers on the desk, looking for a picture of her grandparents from 1937. The Rabinowicz Jewelry Store on the sign where they stood was lettered in gold, reminding her of the wonderful life her family must have enjoyed in Warsaw, before the war. “Look, Marin, weren’t they a handsome family? And see the smile on the young girl’s face? That’s my mother, Hannah!” She stroked the paper as if she could feel the softness of her mother’s skin.
Marin, too, pulled out a photo taken in Paris at around the same time, in front of the same house her father bought in 1964 and later restored. “This is the same house we live in now,” she marveled. “And that boy in the photo is my father, Max Soneberg.”
They continued sorting the papers for another hour, slipping deeper into their stories, mysterious and confusing as they were.
Marin felt an ache in the small of her back. She stood and stretched, arms raised high. “It’s time for a break, don’t you think?"
“But we still need to know more. I now know that Hannah, my mother, escaped to Paris in 1940, but how? I need to know more about her life in Paris.” She groaned, “There is much more to their story. It’s … like …” she stalled, searching for the right words.
“It’s like an onion, and we’ve only peeled away a bit of the first layer! “Don’t worry, I …”
Just then they heard footfalls fade away down the hall. Rachel exclaimed, “He’s back again, and he heard every word we said!”
“Perhaps it’s time to hire a private detective. I’d call the police, but I don’t think we are in danger.” She shuddered.” Do you?”
Rachel agreed. “I’ve gone over every nook and cranny in this house,” Rachel said. “And I still have no idea how he gets in and out.”
“The alarm system should alert us of any intruder, but it doesn’t. This has gone on too long, and I’m scared!”
Rachel added “It’s so weird. He seems awfully interested in our search. What would we report to the police anyway? That a few towels went missing? I think you’re right. This is a job for …”
Just then a door slammed, loudly. Startled, they both jumped.
“Are you ladies at home?” A man’s deep voice rose from the front hall.
“It’s Maurice, back from his travels,” Marin whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” Rachel grabbed her hand, leading her downstairs to greet the wanderer.
When he saw them, he dropped his bags, and wrapped his arms around them, lingering on Marin a bit longer. She smiled up into his beaming face. “It’s good to see you, Maurice,” she said softly.
“Let me take a quick shower. I already made a dinner reservation at Bistrot 65. Just across the bridge to the Ile St. Louis, on the Rive Gauche. Do you know the spot? Meet you back here in 30,” he said excitedly. “Is that okay with you guys?”
At dinner, under winking stars, they dined. Somewhere a saxophone played French songs of the past. It was a mournful yet soothing sound.
They shared a bottle of wine after dinner and chatted amicably, just 3 friends together. A Bateaux Mouche went by on the Seine. Laughter greeted them, and they waved. Fairie lights danced capriciously in the trees, on a soft breeze.
Rachel told him about their discoveries thus far into their stories. “I can’t wait to show you the photos we found!” she said. She was about to tell him about the intruder, but she refrained, feeling suddenly uneasy.
Maurice listened intently. Then, pausing a breath, he said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I did a little digging myself. Did you know that the private art collections like your father’s, Marin, were stolen by the Germans during the war?” He swirled his wine, sniffed its bouquet, and took another sip. “Sadly, a lot were never recovered. There are thousands of works of art that remain missing in Paris alone, mostly looted from Jewish homes. It’s a horrifying story. But, I have to say, your enthusiasm has spurred my own.”
He caught Marin’s gaze. “I know so little about my personal history. I mean, who were the Rabineaus, really?” He looked into Marin’s eyes and moved his hand toward hers.
Marin felt a flutter deep in her belly. Uncomfortable, yet pleasurable at the same time. She cast her eyes down, breaking the moment. “Do you know what became of my grandfather’s collection?” she posed.
“I have searched but can find nothing," he replied. “There is no record of what became of the Grecian urn you are looking for. But we do know there was at least one Renoir and a Rembrandt in his collection.” He looked into her eyes again. “I wish I could tell you more.”
Rachel said, “But how can that be? Paris museums are full of statuary and beautiful paintings. How were they recovered?” She looked at Maurice and then Marin, aware of something happening between them.
He continued. “Yes, the Germans hid the art, often in salt mines across Europe. It was meant for Hitler’s personal collection.” His voice thickened with anger. “But he left instructions that the works were to be burned if the Allies came for them, or in the event of his death. Cruel. Lives exchanged for art! And in the end, it meant nothing to him at all!” Maurice grit his teeth as the words spilled out.
Marin gasped. “Then how did we get it back?”
“Between the Allies and the work of the Resistance movements,” he said his voice softening again. “That’s how!”
All three sat pondering the art that was stolen, and all the lives lost to death camps so that Hitler could fill his coffers and his private museum. Yet along with the inhumanity, there was incredible bravery. The Resistance. And brave Parisians.
The three grew silent. Rachel gazed into her glass, as though it were a crystal ball. Marin stared into the silent Seine. Were there answers in its silvery glitter? Maurice looked up at the sky, his breath caught on a shooting star. Could it lead him to the secrets of the past?
Eventually he caught Marin’s gaze. “Could it be the answers can’t be found in Paris …”
Marin stood up. “We need to go to Warsaw!”
Author note:
I brought the story back to Marin, Rachel, and Maurice because it was time. I didn’t know ant you to forget the original theme of the story line! I hope you don’t mind!
If you are following the story, please let me know. Constructive criticism is welcome! I’m listening.
etlainie92@gmail.com
https://www.elainestories.com