Page 22 of The Velvet Hours
The Jewish Section of Paris was full of winding streets and small family-run stores, tailor shops, and kosher butchers. Eastern European immigrants who had fled their own countries after enduring years of pogroms and vehement anti-Semitism had flooded to Le Marais, bringing with them traces of the countries they had left behind. The air was laced with the strong, briny scent of vinegar and garlic from the pickle barrels outside the delicatessen shops and the sweet fragrance of cinnamon and dates coming from a bakery next door. I had walked there on occasion, curious about the people among whom my mother had once lived, and from whom I had become so far removed.
I took my grandfather’s books fromMaman’s bookshelf, hoping that I’d learn more of a still-emerging story. One that was as intricate as the one I was learning from Marthe, inspired by a portrait and a strand of pearls.
I wrapped the books carefully in brown paper to protect them from the outside world, and then set out from the apartment. I went on a Thursday morning, knowing that many of the shops would be shuttered the following afternoon as the Sabbath approached. I took the Métro to the Saint-Paul stop and began to walk the cobblestone streets, my eyes wandering over the storefronts and their signs. I saw the occasional men in dark coats, black hats, and long beards who filled the streets, but I also saw young women who looked just like me—some even wearing the wide-cuff trousers that were now the latest style. I wasn’t sure where I was going or what I might discoverhere. But I knew I had to learn more about the books that connected my mother to her past.
***
It was right in the center of the Pletzl, the heart of the Jewish quarter, on the Rue des Écouffes, that I found a small shop with a sign outside that read:Rare Jewish Books and Manuscripts.
I pulled my books close to my chest and opened the door.
When I entered, I was struck by the comforting smell of paper and ink. Books lined the shelves, and I noticed two in a special glass display case. But it wasn’t as crowded as the other bookstores I had frequented in the past. An older man with an apron tied around his waist moved past me.
I heard him holler toward the back of the store that he’d return later in the day. His accent sounded slightly German.
In the back sat a young man, his shoulders hunched over a desk, the green dome of a brass lamp obstructing his face. All I could see was his thick shock of black hair, like the pelt of a black miniature poodle, illuminated by the light.
He must have heard the door close behind me, for I was only a few steps into the store when he moved his head to see more clearly.
“May I help you?” he asked politely. He placed a small piece of note paper between the pages he was reading and closed the book shut.
I felt slightly bewildered as my eyes scanned the shelves lined with old leather volumes.
“I must tell you, mademoiselle, we’re not a regular bookshop. We specialize in rare books and manuscripts... specifically rare, Jewish books...”
I smiled. “Well, then, I’ve come to the right place.”
I approached him and pulled the package of books from my chest. “Is there a quiet place where we can open these?”
The color of his complexion changed at my suggestion, as if someone had added another layer to his coloring. His blush bolstered my confidence.
“Yes,” he said. “Come this way, please.”
In the store’s back room stretched a long wooden table. A lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, and he flicked on the switch.
“Why don’t we take a look at them here? But first I should introduce myself,” he said, with a shyness I found endearing. He extended his hand. “I’m Alex. Alex Armel. I work with my father.”
“And I am Solange Beaugiron,” I returned the introduction. “Was that your father who just left?” My curiosity had gotten the better of me. While there were many immigrants that had flooded the Marais in recent years, Alex spoke French like a native.
“Oh, no, that’s Solomon... he does amazing work restoring old bindings,” Alex explained. “He used to do restoration work in Berlin. We’re lucky to have him here with us now.”
I smiled and began to slowly unwrap the books. When I had taken away the paper and string,Maman’s two volumes, each with its own distinct leather cover and binding, rested on the table between us.
“I never get tired of seeing what people bring in,” he said as he moved closer to the books. “May I take a look?”
“Yes, of course...” I stepped away from the table so he could see the books more clearly. He approached cautiously as if assessing them visually before he began to touch them.
I watched, mesmerized, as he examined the outside leather binding before carefully opening the first book. Just as my mother had, he opened it from left to right.
“The rag paper is in good condition considering the book’s age,” he said. “And look at this filigree motif.” He pointed to the design printed around the border of the title page. In the center, Hebrew writing was printed in dark calligraphic type.
“It’s quite old and very beautiful... printed in Venice in thesixteenth century by Giovanni di Gara, one of the great printing houses in Europe during that time. Even though di Gara wasn’t Jewish himself, he printed many books in Hebrew.”
He took the book and now held it up closer to the light. “Whoever has had this in his possession over the years certainly took great care of it.”
“Thank you,” I answered softly.
“Have you had these books for very long?”
