The Paris Necklace, Part Two

My Paris Necklace

My trip to Europe for the summer of 2016 had already been booked and paid for since the fall of 2015 (I can barely wait a month or two past the last vacation before booking the next one).  Already it was longer than the time I was allowed to officially take off from work; I couldn't tack on a trip to Paris, however much I would have loved to.  What I could do, thanks to the modern wonder of the Eurostar, was to take one of my already-scheduled 3 days in London, and make a mad dash across the Chunnel, to Paris and back in a day.  That would have to suffice for this time.  In any case, a taste was all I wanted for now, a preview of coming attractions which would unfold, hopefully, in years to come.  In my dream scenario, I would have lunch at Closerie des Lilas and walk around the Left Bank, and find myself a special souvenir before returning to London that evening.  So I purchased my Eurostar ticket and called it a day.

Of course, my thoughts immediately turned to Nevenka.  After much rooting around through dusty piles of papers, I found an old address book with the address where she, Norman and David had lived all those decades ago.  I had no idea whether she lived there still, but I was determined this time I would try to contact her, and this was my only portal.  In the letter I wrote to her, I asked if she remembered me, and told her I'd never forgotten her great kindness to me and the magical summer I had spent with her and her family; I told her I was coming to Paris for a day, and that nothing would make me happier than if she would allow me the privilege of treating her to lunch.  I enclosed my email address, something which had not even been conceived of the last time we'd corresponded, posted the letter and uttered a prayer.

Not long after, I was elated to find her name in my inbox.  It was a very brief epistle, she merely said that of course she remembered me, and if I had a few days coming or going, she would be happy to have me as a guest in her home.  Excited beyond words that something I'd longed for for so long was actually going to happen, I replied to say that sadly I was going to have a brief 7 hours in Paris, to which she said that she would meet me at the Gare du Nord if I'd send her my train information, and yes, we would go to lunch.  This time when I responded, I felt compelled to say something about David, since it felt too strange not to.  I didn't know if she remembered that I had sent her a letter at the time of his murder, and thus I didn't know if she even knew that I was aware of his tragic death.  So, I told her of my devastation upon hearing of it, about his photo which I always had prominently featured in every home I'd lived in.  Although she confirmed that she'd be at the Gare du Nord to meet my train, she mentioned nothing about David in her reply.

I arrived in London on a Monday morning in late July, and the following morning boarded the Eurostar for Paris.  Because it had been several decades since I'd seen so much as a photo of Nevenka, I worried that I wouldn't recognize her, but I did as soon as I stepped off the train.  Her hair was completely grey now, not the lustrous chestnut I remembered, and the decades had left their mark on her, of course, but she was immediately recognizable.  We fell into each other's arms as I fought back tears.  I couldn't help but think of our last sighting of each other, how different we had been, our lives, the world entire.

She indulged me by agreeing to lunch at Closerie.  As we sat in that lovely garden cafe steeped in history, mine and of course so many others', I looked across the table at her in awe.  I just simply could not believe I was in Paris, having lunch with Nevenka at Closerie.  Everything I'd hoped for from my day in Paris had come to pass, as if I'd written the script and it had miraculously manifested.

Although I was terrified to mention David, she eventually did bring up his name, and we spoke of him at length.  She told me of how he'd loved Israel, Jerusalem in particular, and had been proud of the Jewish roots he had through Norman, his father.  He had visited it often before deciding to spend a year there at university, but had only been there two weeks before the assassin stole his young life.  She told me of her trepidation when he'd told her of his plan, and how she'd pleaded with him to at least never eat in the cafeteria, but to just buy his food there if he needed to, then go elsewhere to eat it.  She told me how, on the fateful day, a friend of his who knew the campus had come to meet him and show him around; how they had just sat down to eat in the cafeteria when the bomb exploded; how the friend saw David fall but only thought he'd fainted; how the friend was gravely injured and spent two months in hospital; how he kept asking whether David was in a hospital room near him; how no one had the heart to tell him until he was stronger, of David's terrible death.

Nevenka said she and Norman had been in New York visiting friends when they saw news of the bombing on television.  When no word came from David, they feared the worst, knowing he would have called to reassure them had he been alright.  In Israel, she said, only the police have the right to tell parents these horrific news, so they waited all day in an agony of unknowing.  They sent a friend to all the hospitals in Jerusalem, to no avail.  Finally, at 5 p.m., the call came.  She and Norman and their friends embraced and supported each other as they sobbed.  Nevenka told me that the first words she spoke were, "David has been killed, but he is not dead!"  She said that according to the autopsy, a fragment of the bomb pierced the back of his head, and he died instantly, some small consolation.  Apparently he never even knew what happened.

Norman, she said, never spoke of this, and internalized it all, whereas she spoke of David and what happened constantly, and she is certain that it was this which led to the cancer which took Norman's life four years later.  I asked her whether the assassin had died that day as well, but she said that no, he was in prison in Israel.  When I said I hoped it was forever, she shrugged and said she didn't know nor care, and that she'd never for a moment felt any hatred towards this monster, had never wasted any thought or emotion on him.  She told me she still keeps in touch with David's friends, most of whom are married with children now, and never does she wonder why they get those blessings while David did not, why their parents still have their children and grandchildren, but she doesn't.  She told me that all she feels, is enormously fortunate, that she had David and Norman for the years that she did.  I could only stare at her, dumbfounded with awe, and ask, "where do you get this enormous strength?" to which she replied, "I get it form them.  They are always with me."

She told me she'd established a scholarship in David's name at the university where he'd died, for music students, since music had been his greatest love, and that she'd also willed her lovely flat to the university, so that they could sell it to keep the scholarship funded.  She told me of the time right after, and how for a long time in the mornings, she and Norman would look at each other, and she'd ask him whether they should even bother getting up; he'd replied that yes, we must, what else can we do.  And so they'd gotten up and gone through the motions of life, though the last thing they'd felt was alive.

Nevenka was leaving for Berlin the day after our Paris meeting.  I asked her why Berlin, and she told me she'd never been, but David had loved it, and that she was following his footsteps and going to places he'd been, which was why she often went to Israel, where she was going again later in the year.  When I said that I was glad I'd been on time to see her before she left, she assured me she would have changed her flight to another day in order to see me, which touched me.

Once our meal was concluded, I only had a couple of hours left before my Eurostar waited to take me back to London.  I'd wanted to to to the more familiar streets such as St. Germain des Prés or Blvd. St. Michel, to wander around the streets and explore the boutiques and patisseries, find myself something special as a souvenir of my only day in Paris in so long.  I hadn't thought that Nevenka would want to spend the entire time with me, so when she did, of course I deferred to her when she suggested a walk to her neighborhood, a short distance from Closerie.  She said there was a street called Rue Mouffetard around the corner from her flat which had some boutiques I could look at.  I regretted that I wouldn't be visiting the more familiar Left Bank streets, but of course I didn't protest, and in the end I was incalculably grateful that I'd held my tongue.

Rue Mouffetard was the quintessential old-world Parisian street, straight out of La Boheme.  it was paved with cobblestones, had a bustling, charming square with a farmers' market, and lots of unique boutiques, all filled with lovely, charming wares.  There was a chocolatier where I bought the best chocolates I'd eaten in years, and a delightful neighborhood patisserie.  Almost best of all, Nevenka took me around the corner and showed me the apartment where Hemingway and Hadley had lived during the "A Moveable Feast" years.  I'd written the address down back in LA, but had misplaced it, so I'd resigned myself to not seeing it, and in fact hadn't even mentioned it to Nevenka, thinking there was no point.  So when she took me right to it, and I immediately recognized the street name, Rue Cardinal Lemon, it was in keeping with what seemed to me a near-miraculous series of events that day.  As I gazed on the blue door to the building and the plaque commemorating Hemingway and Hadley's residency there, I honestly couldn't believe my eyes.

Walking along the charming Rue Mouffetard, Nevenka kept pointing out potential souvenirs for me to purchase, but nothing was exactly what I was looking for, and I wondered if that ideal souvenir even existed at all.  But then, we came upon a jewelry store (of course!) called Vade Retro.  In the window was an extraordinary bib-style enameled necklace in a riot of greens and reds and blues, with crystals and a silver chain.  My eyes lit up, and I murmured that this was something very interesting.  We stepped inside for a closer look and to inquire the price, and as the saleswoman took it out of the window, she told us that it was by a famous artist from....Israel, named Ayala Bar.  Nevenka and I exchanged a glance, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I knew it had to be mine.  The necklace also came in a smaller version, which was just as lovely, but a lot more dainty and delicate.  I debated between the two for a moment, but was particularly enamored of the larger, so I spent all the Euros I'd exchanged, plus some credit card availability as well.  Nevenka then said, "what would you think if I got the smaller one for your mom?"  I was amazed, again, and could not believe her kindness, thoughtfulness, and generosity.  I exclaimed that my mom would faint away with joy to get something so precious and beautiful!  Nevenka bought her the stunning necklace, then asked what she should get for my aunt.  We picked out a gorgeous brooch shaped like a rose, then, all our priceless purchases in hand, stopped at the patisserie on her block before going up to her flat.

Although I hadn't seen it since 1982, the memories rushed at me as I walked in the door, and a sob caught in my throat.  I saw the candles she always kept during, and the photos of Norman and David. One photo of David in particular caught my eye.  I always remember him as the beautiful, charming little 6-or-7-year-old he was when I saw him last, but in this photo, taken a year or two before his death, he was a movie-star-handsome young man with a look of fierce intelligence, a son to make any mother proud.

Nevenka made us lemonade, and I ate my patisserie while we enjoyed our last moments together, then it was time to say goodbye to her and to this enchanted Paris summer day.  Nevenka said she was coming to the US in September, and I pleaded with her to visit us in LA, since there are also family members of Norman's who live there.  She was headed to the East Coast, but said she'd consider it.  I didn't have words enough to thank her, to express how very happy I was to see her again after all these decades of regret and thinking I'd never see her again; how appreciative and grateful I was for absolution, granted without words.  We embraced warmly and, wearing my beautiful necklace, I got in a cab bound for the Gard du Nord, where the Eurostar waited to take me back to London in a fog of wonder over the events of the day.

After a couple more days in London, my next and last destination was my homeland of Croatia.  First, in my hometown of Zagreb, I stayed with my family's dear friend Mario Bebek, and his ravishing (inside and out) girlfriend of many years, Dajana Misetić (pronounced Diana).  Dajana works in a position of influence at Zagreb airport, so we always enjoy special privileges there, this time having her and Mario meet my flight and making me feel instantly at home in the city of my birth.  Of course, they both commented on my stunning necklace, and of course I took great joy in telling them the story  behind it, which made it even more special in my eyes, and theirs too.

After a wonderful few days with them and my cousin Mirjam in Zagreb, I spent eight days on the magical island of Hvar, where my father was born and where we are lucky enough to have an apartment on the main square.  I wore my magic necklace every day, and every day I was showered with compliments on its beauty and specialness.  People would stop me as I walked along the streets just to say how lovely it was.

I left Hvar on August 8th, as always heartbroken to be leaving.  As I was going through the metal detectors at Split airport before boarding my London-bound flight, I was asked to remove the necklace at the last moment, necessitating another bin, since I'd already put all my things in several other bins, which had already gone through.  The night before had been a difficult one for me, my last night on Hvar, and I had barely slept at all.  My brain was so addled, that it wasn't until we had taken off for London that my hand flew to my throat, as I realized with horror that I'd forgotten to retrieve my beloved necklace!

I was seated at a window seat, and the two people next to me had just gotten their snacks from the flight crew, so their tables were down, but I could have cared less.  I barged my way out and tore to the front of the plane, to the first attendant I spotted.  I insisted they must contact the airport immediately, as I had left an extremely valuable necklace in a bin.  She plastered a phony smile on her face as she complacently told me that would be impossible, and that I'd have to wait the entire two hours until we landed in London, at which time I was to go to the lost and found for all the airlines and fill out some forms.  I was beside myself, and implored and begged and cajoled, all of which did nothing to wipe the smirk off her smug face.  Since I hadn't slept all night the night before, I'd hoped to spend those two hours asleep on the plane, but now instead I spent them screaming internally; it was a hellish nightmare of two hours' duration which felt like many more.

The wheels had not yet touched British soil before my phone was on and I was frantically dialing Mario's number, begging him to call Dajana immediately to see if she knew anyone at all at Split airport who might save me.  He promised to call her immediately, told me not to worry (easy for him to say!), and that he'd let me know as soon as he knew anything.  I sent him a photo of the necklace, but I felt pretty hopeless.  The necklace was so uniquely beautiful, I was convinced that anyone who laid eyes on it would want to snatch it.  After two hours when there was no word from Mario, I began to try to resign myself that my gorgeous magic necklace from Rue Mouffetard was gone forever.  I looked up Ayala Bar's site on the internet and scoured every item on there, but there was nothing as gorgeous as my lost treasure.

In despair and resignation, I texted Mario to ask if Dajana had been able to contact anyone in Split and at least set something in motion to try to locate it, but I added that I realized the odds were against me, and that I blamed my stupidity on my sleep deprivation.  My eyes nearly popped out of my head, and my heart out of my chest, when his reply came: "Don't worry.  It will be in Dajana's hands by tonight."  Even now as I write this, tears begin to flow.  Apparently my savior Dajana, who thankfully knew the story of the necklace and its incalculable value to me, had telephoned the director of Split airport, had told him how important this was, and he had apparently put the fear of God into everyone there, resulting in this miraculous and miraculously rapid discovery.  I told Mario and Dajana that they had quite literally saved my entire vacation, because had that necklace disappeared, the bitterness of the loss would have tainted all the happy memories I had.  But now, thanks to them, the story of my magic necklace will forever be even better and more special.  It told Mario he had better marry Dajana posthaste, or else I would, because I was certainly not risking her escaping from the family!

Later that night, as I walked near Sloane Square, my phone glowed with a text from Mario: my necklace in Dajana's hand.