THE URN
Chapter 26
May 3, 2000
Paris
Rue du Trésor
Marin, Rachel, and Maurice
They returned to Paris because it had become home and because they still had unanswered questions.
At a small bistro nearby, they sat outside with espresso and croissants.
Morning light slipped easily between the buildings. A bicycle-driven lorry sat at the corner. Laughter and conversations of pedestrians amused them as they passed by.
Marin stirred her coffee though she had yet to add sugar. “I keep thinking about how little we knew growing up,” she said. “I didn’t even know my father was born here. I thought he was American, and I know less about my mother.”
She looked at Maurice. “And you never knew you had a sibling.”
Rachel brushed crumbs from her lap. “I just read last night an article about Yael Danieli. Ever hear about her?” She asked.
Blank stares. “No?”
“She says there’s a phrase for what we are experiencing. It's called the conspiracy of silence.”
Maurice frowned slightly. “Silence about what?”
“About the past,” Rachel said. “Many Holocaust survivors tried to put that time away, locked in emotional vaults of sorts. They thought if they didn’t speak of it, it never happened and it could never hurt them anymore, or their children.”
Marin nodded slowly. “Maybe they wanted us to grow up unburdened by the past.”
“I think so,” Rachel said.
Maurice held his cup in both hands. “I remember asking once why my grandparents weren't in any of our photos,” he said. “My mother said those pictures were lost.” He gave a small shrug. “I didn’t ask again.”
He paused. “All I have now is my mother’s Polish trinket box.”
The check came. Maurice paid it without looking at the total.
Marin stood. “The Memorial is just ahead, here in La Marais. If we’re going to understand any of this, we should start there.”
Rachel slipped her bag over her shoulder. Maurice reached for Marin’s hand, and she took it, smiling.
They stepped back into the street together, folding into the rhythm of La Marais — tourists with maps, shopkeepers sweeping doorways, the ordinary flow of life.
As they approached the Shoah Memorial, the taller buildings leaned in.
Waiting.
Inviting.
A chill breeze greeted them at the entrance. Marin shivered. Maurice drew her close.
Rachel unfolded the brochure, checking the details. “Oops,” she said. “Apparently we should have made an appointment for conducting research.”
She explained they would first encounter rows of marble walls inscribed with 76,000 names of Parisian Jews sent to labor camps and death camps.
Would they find their family names there? They approached with both apprehension and hope. The silence of the walls was a roar.
How would they feel if the names they sought weren't there?
Or what if the names were there?
Alphabetical columns guided them to the S section. Names stretched in careful order, thousands of them. They moved slowly, scanning, retracing, making certain.
The first pass revealed nothing.
They began again.
Marin became aware of her breathing, shallow, controlled.
“I see it,” Rachel said, her voice tightening. “Soneberg.”
Marin stepped closer.
“There are two,” Rachel continued. “Moses and Golda.”
Marin leaned in, studying the spelling. Her fingers hovered before finally resting against the cool marble.
“Tell me your secrets,” she whispered.
“Moses could be Moishe,” Maurice said gently. “Golda… Golde.”
“Could they really be my grandparents? I do hope so.” She rose slowly.
Rachel put her arm around Marin’s shoulder. Before she could say anything, her face was rigid, then broke. “I now what you are thinking. I understand what this means.” There was a catch in Marin’s voice.
“It's okay,Marin. Let's hope they were rescued by the Allies or the Resistance. Their names here mean there are records inside.” Maurice kissed her forehead. Her pain and her joys had become his.
The docent inside was very kind. She led them to the research room. “We have a genealogist on site if you need further assistance. I will be at the reference desk. Okay, here we are.”
Ahead were long rows of tables, each area with lamps and magnifiers. Soft lighting to preserve the documents stored upon the many shelves surrounding the room.
They sat huddled together poring through page after page looking for Moses and Golda.
No sound except the rustling pages. The smell of molding paper mixed in with the faint scent of Marin’s perfume filled the room.
Time passed in a blur.
Then Maurice’s sharp intake of breath alerted them.
“What, Maurice?” Marin whispered.
“I found it, Marin.” He held up the pages. Then he carefully placed them on the table in front of her in the soft circle of light.
She read silently for a time. “They are indeed my grandparents. My grandfather was Moishe Soneberg. My grandmother was Golde Shapiro.” She read on. “Arrested in Paris. Sent to a forced labor camp — Levitan.”
“She looked up. There were tears in her eyes. “I never heard of it. Did either of you?”
“Yes, Marin, I know of it through my art recovery work.”
“What was it? Like an art gallery?”
“It was once a huge department store,” he said. “Then the Germans turned it into a forced labor camp. They stored confiscated Jewish property there — furniture, art, entire households. Prisoners were forced to repair, sort, and catalog what had been stolen.” He paused. “Then German officers and their wives visited Levitan to ‘shop.’ It was part of the machinery of erasure.”
Marin absorbed that quietly. She leaned against him, weak in the knees.
They made copies. The act felt almost ceremonial, proof that the names carved in stone belonged to flesh and breath.
They returned to four and six rue du Tresor to rest and prepare for dinner at seven.
In her room, Marin spread the copied pages across her bed and read them again, delving further.
Later, in a hot shower, strong emotions shook her shoulders, and her tears joined the water from the shower head, flowing down the drain, but not out of her heart.
She gathered herself, wrapping in a fluffy towel. She steadied herself in the mirror.
Wearing a smile, she poked her head in Rachel’s room. “Can you help me pick out a dress, something springy?”
“I'd be happy to. I think I know just the dress,” she said, smiling. “ It looks to me that you and Maurice have fallen hard for one another, am I right?”
She handed her a flowy knee length dress, yellow with a lovely bodice and red belt. She rummaged further in the little closet and found a simple tailored red jacket. “It will be cool tonight.”
“You are so dear to me, Rachel. I love you!”
“My question. You and Maurice?”
Marin was thoughtful. “We have fallen hard. But we’ve known one another for such a short time,” Marin was thoughtful. “It’s hard to explain how I feel.”
“Well, let me tell you. It’s all over your faces.”she said, zipping her dress. “It's clear to me. Such empathy for one another. Gentleness. No secrets. So important, especially now!”
“I feel that too,” Marin smiled. “We can talk more later.” I hear Maurice in the foyer now.”
Fresh flowers were in the giant vase on the ornate foyer table. The fragrance of sweet yet spicy tulips reached them as they came down the last few steps.
Maurice greeted them with a big smile. He took Marin’s hands and pulled her in for a kiss on the lips, lingering on their softness a bit.
Then he pulled Rachel in and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Oh, my!” She blushed, still unused to having a brother. She happily returned the French faire la bise.
They walked toward the Quai Celestins as twilight deepened. The river reflected bands of amber and violet. Across the water, the tips of the islands of the Seine, Île de la Cité and Île Saint-Louis, glowed against the darkening sky.
They chose a lovely, intimate bistro.
The smell of savory herbs, sautéing shallots and garlic paired with the aroma of freshly baked baguettes blanketed them as they took their seats.
Maurice ordered Chablis to pair with escargots first. After pleasantries, Maurice said, “Marin, darling, are you ready to share the documents you read?”
“No, wait! These escargots are positively luscious! I never ate snails in my life! Yum! Oops, sorry sweetie, go on.”
She unfolded the copies and began.
“They were born around 1900,” she said. “Married in 1922. My grandfather studied engineering at the École Polytechnique. He built a manufacturing business here. They bought the house on Rue du Trésor. They had a life.” She lifted her eyes. “And my father, Maxwell Soneberg, was born in 1925.”
Maurice raised his glass. “To lives that mattered!”
“Look how much I learned at Shoah Memorial in one visit. We need to return, with a proper appointment. I need to know more, and you, Maurice,” she said taking his hand, “you need to find your parents’ names, and so does Rachel.”
Rachel nodded her head vigorously. “It's like a bulb of garlic, the more you unpeel, the more cloves you find. “Yes, I feel like what we’ve found is just the beginning. For each of us.”
Dinner unfolded without hurry. Conversation moved between memory and possibility, the weight of history tempered by the warmth of the present.
After a sumptuous meal and perhaps a little too much wine, Rachel grabbed her purse and announced, “Before I lose my dignity, it would be best if I take a cab and say my goodnights here.”
He put her in the car and gave the cabbie the address, pressing money into his palm.
They waved as the cab pulled away.
“You know she’s giving us the evening,” Marin said.
“I know,” he answered.
“How do you feel about a walk along the river in the moonlight? Are you too tired?”
“I think that would be lovely. It's a beautiful moonlit night.”
They walked together along the river, hands entwined. The ripples sparkled from the street lamps and the winking stars.
They talked about nothing and everything.
They kissed and felt each other’s bodies pressing together, wanting more. Needing more.
They arrived home at number four and number six rue du Tresor. He pulled her close, and whispered hoarsely, “Number 4 or 6?”
She pointed to his door, “Number 6 tonight, mon amour.”
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