Natalia refused to let go of her grandchildren. If anything, that was her philosophy. That was the reason she had slapped Claire’s face. “Wake up!” she cried.
Claire held a hand to her cheek and looked stunned.
“What did you think you were doing out there? Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Claire shook her head. She didn’t seem to know.
Natalia’s eyesight was failing, but that night as she made her way to the bathroom she spied something with black wings. She could hear it, trapped like a moth in the narrow hall. She saw a dark haze flit past the gold-framed mirror beside the door. There was no reflection cast, but something was definitely there. She steadied herself. She saw what she believed to be a tiny woman with black wings.
Natalia sat down and had a drink, a good-sized glass of whiskey from a bottle of Johnnie Walker that had belonged to her husband. She always missed Martin, but she especially missed him tonight. She felt quite confused. Had she created the creature in the hallway, imagined it into existence? She wondered if she should see an ophthalmologist, perhaps even a psychiatrist. She had another drink after the first and was considering a third. Madame Cohen had always insisted there were demons in this world. How else would all the troubles that beset humankind come to be? Whatever these creatures were made of, skin and bones, ashes and memory, Natalia was not about to let them get hold of her granddaughter.
SHE WENT TO see Madame Cohen the next day at her shop at the end of the Rue des Rosiers. Each had sorrows she never discussed with anyone else. Their camaraderie was unusual and rare. Friendships were usually based on trivial matters, played out over games of cards and cups of coffee, but theirs was rooted in sterner stuff, catastrophe and survival. They sat in the back room of the shop beside the cabinet of diamonds and onions. They drank steamy cups of Marco Polo tea from the Marriage Frères tea shop on Rue du Bourg Tibourg, where more than four hundred varieties were sold. Good tea was one of Madame Cohen’s few indulgences. There was a freshly pressed tablecloth on the small, round table. The linoleum on the floor was peeling, but the spoons they used to stir their sugar were 22-karat gold, brought from Moscow. The family had always been jewelers and goldsmiths; Madame Cohen’s grandmother had sewn the spoons into the hem of her coat when she’d fled to France. She had eaten a handful of diamonds meant for a countess’s brooch, then shat them out painfully into a bowl. The largest diamond had been set into an engagement ring, which had belonged to Madame Cohen’s mother and now belonged to her. It served to remind her of her grandmother’s suffering and dedication every single day.
Because Madame Cohen had seen demons before, she was hardly surprised when Natalia reported her vision in the hall. This was not a sign of insanity, but rather a clear-eyed vision of evil in the world. Leah Cohen’s sisters, whom she never spoke of because their memory caused her such grief, had disappeared into a hail of ashes, surely a demon’s touch. She often thought of a particular summer day when they’d traveled into the country by train for the weekend. It was the last time they were together. They had no idea that demons were already flying into the city of Paris, perching in the trees. At their picnic, the peaches had stained their fingers with juice. They were wearing dresses that were too warm for the season. When no one was looking, they threw off their dresses and lounged in the grass in their slips. Leah Cohen had her watercolors along and she quickly painted her sisters in shades of yellow and wheat and tangerine. Her sisters’ names were Hannah and Marlena. Not long after that, they were murdered during the war. The painting of their picnic had been lost during a hurried move when Madame Cohen first married. Things were easily lost back then. But when Madame Cohen closed her eyes, her sisters’ faces came back to her, even now. They were beautiful, sitting in the grass in their white slips.
Of course she would help Natalia. She was something of a demon expert, actually. She had learned everything from her grandmother and her mother, who knew tricks few people did. This was reason enough to have a daughter, someone to whom you could tell your secrets.
Madame Cohen suggested setting out saucers of salt at every window. She told her friend to spray the air with salt water that very evening. Natalia went home and followed her advice. Soon enough the buzzing went away. There were no more creatures flitting about the hallway. This was excellent news, Madame Cohen said when Natalia reported back. But it wasn’t enough. Claire was still listless, barely rising from bed.
When Madame Cohen said she must find meaningful work, Natalia suggested that Claire work at the Cohens’ jewelry shop, only a few blocks away. She needed a schedule, responsibility, guidance. Madame Cohen would be doing a mitzvah, a good deed, in hiring Claire, who had no work experience and very little to recommend her other than her grandmother’s love. Leah Cohen insisted on interviewing Claire first. Charitable actions did not mean stupid, blind faith, after all.
When she came to the apartment on the appointed night, Madame Cohen brought along a cake that was so delicious no one could turn it down, not even a woman who claimed never to be hungry. The batter was a mixture of fresh eggs, flour, sugar, lemon rind. Anise seed was added and dry cherries were mixed in. It was an old recipe, handed down from her grandmother. Some people called it Honesty Cake. No one could eat it and not tell the truth. She’d often made it for her grandsons when they got into mischief to discover who the culprit was. Now it would be a way for Madame Cohen to find out Claire’s true nature. This was the job interview.