THE URN
Chapter 19,
Written and illustrated by Elaine Troisi
4 Rue du Tresor
Paris
April 19,1943
Eight months passed since the break-in by the Gendarme. Moishe recovered physically, but he was never the same emotionally. He often returned to the basement bunker alone, just staring. Staring at the spot where the pool of blood had been, his blood intermingled with the genddarme’s. They were both caught in a battle for good and evil, forever.
He wanted to forget, but he could not let go. Golde felt his tension, especially at night when she wrapped her body around his.
He lived in fear of their deportation . No more weekly codes to the hidden entrance. Instead, Max brought refugee Jews home after he delivered “Combat” to Resistance headquarters. Their work continued, no matter what the cost.
Moishe was forced to visit the vault more frequently to get rare books and art works to trade on the black market. Art work to save lives and fund their operation with the French Resistance.
Max said, “Papa, can I take a look? I haven't been down since Jacob first arrived.”
They went down into the hidden vault, Moishe first, Max following. It was strangely quiet. All sounds of life and movement disappeared.
The air was dry, thick with the musty smell of age, like old books and forgotten memories. Dust motes floated in the faint light, and Max's eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness.
“It's alright, son.” He put his hand on Max’s shoulder.
“But, Papa, so much of your art is already gone. You've sacrificed so much!”
“Only what was absolutely necessary,” he explained, picking up a well-worn journal. “Look, on these pages I have scribed every sale I've made.” He pointed to an entry. “Date: September 6,1941, Piece: ‘Odalisque’ by Henri Matisse, Where: Hotel Drouot, Person: Paul Manteau, price and so on.” Moishe took in a deep breath.
Max could see his father’s eyes brim as he ran his fingers over the words. “It's okay, Papa,” he said, wrapping an arm tightly around his father shoulders. “You've done what had to be done. For us, the newspaper, the refugees …”
“And one day, I will get them back, each and every one I sold. I promise you. After the war.” Moishe took a few steps to the center of the vault.“I'm placing this journal inside my father’s Urn for safekeeping. It’s from Ancient Greece. The value is incalculable . It will never be sold! I swear to you, Max.”
They climbed up the stairs and shut the hatch. Just then Hannah came down with Rachel toddling behind her, holding onto her mother’s skirt for support on the
As soon as Rachel saw Max and Moishe, she ran to them and tried to make her arms stretch all the way around their legs. Everyone laughed.
Then out of nowhere she burbled, “Zeda, I love you!” clear as a bell, and raised her arms to Moishe.
“Well, well, my little shayna maidel!” Moishe lifted her and kissed her on the lips. “Your mama is teaching you, I see,” he said with pride.
“Well, you know she adores you, Moishe. After all, you are like a grandfather to her. We came to tell you it’s time for dinner.
Golde and Rachel went all out for Jacob’s birthday. The chicken Golde bought at the butcher was scrawny, but that just meant there were fewer feathers to pluck!
As the men came upstairs, they were greeted by a warm kitchen filled with the fragrant aromas of Rachel’s bread and rosemary mashed potatoes. The home-jarred green beans were smothered in onions and slathered in chicken schmaltz, their tender crunch with their rich, full flavor was a comforting reminder of years past.
Max was briefly transported to lazy Sundays before the war, gathered around the dining room table with lots of cousins, aunts and uncles, too. The sound of laughter and clinking crystal filled the air. He longed for those days, wishing he could linger there, but knowing he could not…
Golde had a way of roasting a chicken to savory perfection, scrawny or not. The aroma of sizzling skin and savory herbs spoke to everyone's stomachs, making them hum with anticipation.
As they sat down at the table, Hannah put the honey cake in the oven to bake. Very soon its sweet, aroma quickly wafted through the kitchen, mingling with the savory scents of roasted chicken and fresh bread. Max's stomach growled in anticipation as he watched Rachel dip her fingers into the honey jar, her eyes lighting up with delight as she licked her sweet, sticky fingers, one by one!
Hannah lit the candles and said a prayer, and Rachel piped up, “Amen.” At two years, Rachel was precocious in every way.
Hannah hugged her tightly and put her in the high chair. Jacob tucked a dish towel into her collar. She made her disgruntlement known, “I big girl now, Mama!” The room filled with laughter as she ‘let’ the towel fall to the floor.
Max jumped up,“Whoa! A little quieter, everyone, please!” he reminded them. He drew the blackout curtains. It was already past dusk. There was always danger lurking in the shadows outside.
Nevertheless, Rachel’s joyful spirit entertained them through dinner, especially when, in her sweet little voice, she began to sing “Happy Birthday” to her papa. Everyone helped her along, softly.
While the men cleared the table and did the dishes, Golde prepared a tray with tea and Hannah took the honey cake from the oven. It cooled briefly while she and Rachel dried the last of the dishes. One slipped from her little hands and went rolling across the floor with Rachel following after. It was unbroken, but tears brimmed. “I sorry, Mama,” she stammered.
Max grabbed her, kissing each tear away. “Don't worry, shayna maidel, we have lots more.”
“Cake!” She beamed when she saw her mama putting thick slices on the tray. How quickly tears vanish at the sight of cake.
As was their wartime custom, the families went down to the basement bunker after dinner. There they huddled around the radio to listen to the French BBC, Radio Londres, ever aware that to be caught listening to anything but the Vichy propagandist Radiodiffusion Nationale risked imprisonment, even death. Lights were turned off and volume was kept low.
But tonight, cake and tea came first, an excuse to hold back the pain of war. Rachel had her usual powdered milk, but for the celebration, Hannah added a little bit of their canned peach preserves to sweeten the milk.
Rachel was so excited. She sat on Jacob's lap.Then she looked at her mother who nodded conspiratorially. Rachel pulled from her dress a much folded and refolded piece of paper and handed it to her papa.
“And what is this,Rachel?” he asked. She giggled. “Open it, Papa,” she exclaimed, jumping up and down in his lap.
Jacob joined in the game. He turned the paper this way and that. He said “hmm” twice. Finally, upon unfolding it, he feigned utter rapture at her work of art. There was tickling and giggling before It was passed from adult to adult who lavished ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ upon the crayon scribbles as if the birthday card was Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
Rachel soon grew sleepy. “I'll be back shortly,” Hannah said as she gathered Rachel in her arms. “ I suspect one verse of Madeleine, and this little lady will be fast asleep.”
Moishe hesitated before he adjusted the radio. There was a lot of static at first. “Should we wait for Hannah?” he asked.
“No, I think it's bath night, so it could be awhile,” Jacob explained.
“We can fill her in if there’s anything new,” Golde said, as she offered more honey cake.
Moishe twisted the knob, and the radio sparked to life, filling the room with the soft crackle of static and the distant murmur of French voices. The sound was tinny and faint, but they leaned in, drinking in every word. Sometimes at Resistance HQ, the news was mere fact, but somehow the radio made it live
Moishe twisted the knob again. “Not that!” Max raised his hand. “No Nazi propaganda in our home.” He banged the radio with the palm of his hand, and Radiodiffusion Nationale disappeared. Another twist and Radio Londres came on.
There was more news of the Allied bombing at the Longchamp Racecourse and of a fascist group that was planning a nonviolent rally at the Grand Palais. Nothing noteworthy in the fourth arrondissement where they lived, thankfully.
Then Pierre Brossolette spoke. Everyone sat up, listening intently to their favorite commentator. “On this day in Warsaw’s ghetto …”
An alarm went off in Jacob’s head at the mention of the ghetto. He positioned himself closest to the radio and placed his ear upon its speaker. He didn't want to miss a single word.
He and Hannah had not heard from either family in the years since their own nightmare escape from the ghetto. The Nazis had already deported thousands in the first roundup of ghetto Jews in the summer of 1942. Had their parents been deported then?
The pain of not knowing was a constant ache that kept them awake at night. Why hasn't they heard anything? Would Rachel ever know her real grandparents?
Brossolette went on to say that a Jewish led uprising had just begun. Its leader was the heroic Mordechaii Anielewicz of the armed Jewish resistance, or ZOB. “Though they are severely out-manned and out-armed,” Brossolette added a personal note, "the struggle could go on for days, due to the bravery and heroism of ZOB. But the situation is dire.” He paused, taking a breath. “And, I regret to say, the very existence of the ghetto is doubtful.” He added softly, “Please pray for them.”
Moishe quickly turned the knob. The radio went silent. He looked into Jacob's eyes and saw the pain there. His face went white. “There, there, my boy,” Moishe said, wrapping his arms around Jacob. Golde went for a glass of water. Max gasped. It was all too much.
Jacob struggled, “Oh, no!”
The door from above opened. Footsteps on the stairs.
Hannah!
YIDDISH LEXICON
Shayna maidel - this expression refers to an adorable little girl
Schmaltz - rendered chicken fat used in frying and as a spread for bread as well
FACTS
Hôtel Drouot - known as the location for black market sale of art in Paris during WWII. Odalisque by Henri Matisse 
Radiofusion Nationale - the Vichy government collaborated with the Nazis. As such, they broadcast Nazi propaganda over the airwaves throughout France
BBC - this was the only source of reliable news throughout Europe. Though broadcast from London, they created Radio Londres to speak to France and beyond. Pierre Brossolette was a highly respected French commentator for Radio Londres.
ZOB - the Jewish Combat organization formed by Jewish activists like Mordechai Anielewicz.
I hope to release tchapter 20 in 2 weeks, on December 19, though I'm sure I won't have time for illustrations. I apologize in advance.
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