Introduction

Like the braiding of three strands of brioche, the lives of three women?Sophie Zabél Sullivan, Marcelle Pourrette Zabél, and Kate Barrington?become inextricably intertwined as each struggles to resolve issues from past wars that have profoundly impacted their lives. Sophie believed her childhood nightmares were safely behind her once she married and moved to the U.S. from France ?until she is called to her mother, Marcelle’s, deathbed to honor one final request: “Search for my father! Search for Pourrette!” Born on the last day of World War I, Marcelle, whose life epitomizes the human cost of war, never knew her father, yet carried the Pourrette name, along with the shame of illegitimacy, as did her two oldest sons born during World War II. Enlisting the expertise of a friend and family therapist, Sophie encourages Kate to join her in France to help find her grandfather scour the stain of illegitimacy from her family’s name. Unbeknownst to Sophie, Kate’s 34-year-old illegitimate daughter, given up for adoption during the Vietnam War, has recently reappeared. Kate, struggling with her own shame and guilt, pushes aside her feelings to join Sophie in France. Rising out of the collateral damage wrought by war, A Cup of Redemption is a touching story about love, loss, and the search for identity.

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Excerpt

October 2001

The autumnal breeze swept over the French village cemetery of Evaux-les-Bains and cut through the tombstones where the three adults remained before their mother’s grave. No one spoke. No one cried. Sophie swallowed hard. Grief, she thought, is a private matter. She knew how to contain her emotions, as did her brothers. Their mother, Marcelle, had taught them well.

A blue silk scarf slid off Sophie’s head and onto her shoulders. Her short brown curls, touched faintly with grey, appeared to have sprouted wings as the wind buffeted her bird-like body. She felt her brothers sway on either side of her, as swirling dry leaves lifted up and around them. Thierry, the oldest, breathed in hard, touched his chest and then gasped. At sixty-four, he already had heart problems. She feared their mother’s death would push him over the edge. Sophie looked up at him, his face tense and taut as a mask. Has he ever forgiven Maman for abandoning him? Over fifty years of explanations should have helped, but had they? Does anyone ever get over being abandoned?

She turned toward Julien. Her youngest brother stood tall. He had taken their mother’s death in stride, although his experience with her had been altogether different. He’d always known their mother’s love. Sophie, too, had been held in her mother’s embrace. No, she shook her head, the loss of Maman will hit Thierry the hardest. She reached over to squeeze Thierry’s hand, but it was stuffed tight into a ball in his pocket.

“Are you all right, Thierry?” Sophie whispered.

He cleared his throat and something incoherent slipped out. She didn’t catch it; she didn’t ask again. Pain seemed to eke out through the seams of his old leather coat. She longed to wrap her arms around him, but instead clutched her wool cape closer to her. Her small frame began to shake. Every part of her wanted to wail; to howl. Why now, Maman? Why now?

Once again, she swallowed her anguish. Repression was her ally. The trees creaked and whined with the wind. Dust rose from the open grave. Her scarf took liberties and fled from her shoulders. After the heartbreaking suicide of Gérard, their brother, fifteen years ago, she had closed down. Even when her father’s death followed three years later, she deigned not to weep. Why would I? She stifled a sob. But with the loss of their beloved mother . . . ? These two dear brothers were all she had left of her immediate family. She gritted her teeth, and once again, held tough. Thank God for antidépressseurs!

Julien scooped up her scarf, knocked off a dried leaf and handed it back to her. A smile crossed Sophie’s lips; her shoulders relaxed. Tying her scarf about her neck, she skillfully executed a French knot as thoughts of her mother softened. Her mother’s death had come so suddenly. Although eighty-three, her mother had been in excellent health, or so she had said.

“Do you think her doctor expected this,” she asked her brothers. Sophie thought of the last call she had made from her home in California to her mother’s doctor in Fontanière. Had she misunderstood his words? A pall of guilt pressed down on her.

“He never mentioned anything to me, Sophie,” Julien replied. They both looked at Thierry; he remained mute.

“Thirty years ago I promised Maman I would be here for her. Did I fail her?” Sophie’s voice was barely audible.

“If so, then we all failed her,” Julien said. “We live here in France and still didn’t know the seriousness of her illness. Besides, that was a promise you made when you married Jerome and moved to the States. Maman knew you would be here when you could and we all knew you left to get away from Papa . . .”

As if openly bidden, an image of their father’s scowling face floated through her mind. Shards of rage followed and then spread down through her body. She shuddered, blinked her eyes and focused on the grave once more.

When Julien had called her to come immediately to France, the realization that her mother’s life was ending was startling. Only a few short weeks after the Twin Towers had fallen in New York, it had been a wild flight from the States to reach her mother’s bedside in time. She shook her head again as her nerves strained at the memory. But the crowning blow came when she arrived at the hospital, just in time to say goodbye. Her mother died within minutes—as if she had been awaiting her arrival. With her last breath she hoarsely whispered, “Cherchez moi; cherchez Pourrette,” “Find me; find Pourrette.” Stunned and shaken, Sophie started to pull back when her mother firmly grabbed her sleeve and said, “China,” before she passed.

Sophie stewed over her mother’s final request: cherchez moi; cherchez Pourrette. She understood her mother’s desire to find Pourrette. Her mother had never known her own father, lost after WWI, but carried his name forward. Sophie’s two oldest brothers, Thierry, a product of rape and Gérard, the love child of a failed WWII affair, had also carried the same surname. Perhaps, she wanted to remove the stigma that had followed her all her days. Sophie’s father had never failed to point out the ‘bâtards’ in her mother’s family. But why the mention of China? Was that where her mother’s father, Pourrette, was supposed to have gone?

Only slightly aware of the workmen who shuffled quietly to the open grave, Sophie paid them little heed as they went about completing the interment. The lacquered coffin reflected a hint of sunlight just as it was lowered into the crypt. The concrete lid, which was scraped into place, startled her. She grabbed her stomach. The finality was even more painful than she expected. Funny, she didn’t remember feeling anything when her father died. In fact, it had been years now and she had yet to cry for him. But this was her Maman. She choked back her tears.

Staring straight ahead, yet seeing only a blur, her eyes rested on the black granite grave marker before her. The names etched in gold read: Famille Fermier/Pourrette. The Fermier and Pourrette Families. She knew the Fermiers were Thierry’s in-laws, but where was her family’s surname? Where was the name Zabél? Her father had been buried here. Sophie shrunk back with disbelief.

Sophie felt like whimpering. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from verbalizing her thoughts. Mon Dieu, what a mess! Three generations of Pourrettes who don’t know who they are or where they came from . . . So, Maman, where do I begin?

“Ashes to ashes; dust to dust . . .” Those words, those final words, spoken only thirty minutes before, reverberated through her head. Père Laurent had been kind enough, but Sophie had winced at his words. Those dutiful prayers had been spoken by a priest for a woman he probably had never met. That very priest, who blessed and commended her beloved Maman’s body to heaven, probably didn’t have a clue who her mother was!

Well now, that was the mystery, wasn’t it! Her own mother, Marcelle Pourrette Zabél, hadn’t known who she was either! She hadn’t known her father; her mother had basically abandoned her . . . Why, had she ever found anything to link her to any person, place, or a piece of God’s green earth? And now that she was gone, her mother’s last words haunted her, “Sophie, find me. Find Pourrette.”

CHAPTER ONE: A FLOOD OF MEMORIES

Dusk was falling as Sophie drove the few kilometers to her mother’s house in Fontanières. After the funeral, she, Julien, and Thierry had gone back to Thierry’s farm for the reception. The house had been filled with friends and family awaiting their arrival, but once they pulled into the farm yard, Thierry had climbed out of the car, and immediately bolted around back. Julien and Sophie looked at each other.

“This is going to be a difficult time for him,” Sophie said as they both made their entrance and attempted to enter into the celebration of their mother’s life.

Yes, it had been a long day and she needed time alone. Sophie pulled her car up in front of her mother’s house and turned off the engine. Her tired eyes rested on the house before her. She sighed. She loved this little cracker-box of a house. It represented the only place she knew her mother to be happy. It was snuggled comfortably off the main road, yet in the center of the village. The lace curtains on the two front windows reminded Sophie of eyelashes on welcoming eyes. The dilapidated, wooden benches in front of the small fenced yard were now in shadows; withered sunflowers and weeds leaned back for support. They, too, reminded her of the hours she had spent sitting sipping wine with her mother, as they laughed, told stories and caught up.

Sophie took a deep breath. Her arms slackened as her hands slid off the steering wheel. For once she allowed herself to reflect on the true enigma of her mother. Subtly hidden within the bravado and cheerfulness her mother had put forth lurked a deep core of sadness—a sadness which Sophie believed had permeated her mother’s every waking moment. Rare were the times when her mother had openly revealed her past or her darkest secrets, but they were there.

And where was my father when I visited? Sophie could almost hear the sound of the TV blaring in the background. He rarely joined in on family time unless Sophie brought Jerome, her husband. In fact, marrying Jerome was the only time her father had shown pride in her. Sophie looked back at the forlorn little house; the only house her parents had ever owned. To this day, she had no earthly idea what secret weapon her mother had wielded to force her father to move here. It was so unlike her. Maman, who had been so quiet and reserved in her father’s company, had never attempted to rock his boat. His voluminous rages kept her silent. So how did this happen? Their marriage had never held a moment of happiness. So, when they moved here to Fontanières, far away from his roots and those filthy iron mines he had worked in Ste. Barbe, what did she have on him?

Sophie pondered that question as she reached for her purse. Of course, she knew why Maman wanted to move here. She wanted to be near Thierry. And why not? After World War II, she had been forced to leave him behind and she had missed out on much of her eldest son’s life.

Sophie climbed out of the car and looked around the empty streets. A feeling of desolation engulfed her. Not far from here, her parents had met during the war. Barely nine months and a day later, she, Sophie, was born. So why had her father forced her mother to abandon young Thierry here in the Auvergne while he moved the rest of the family to Ste. Barbe in the Lorraine? No wonder Thierry had been unconvinced.

She slammed the car door. No one talked; no one explained a thing. Again, niggling thoughts of her father came to mind, but she didn’t have the energy to think about him now. She shook her head in despair and trundled off through the garden gate. How her father had figured into any of this old drama was yet to be determined—and that wouldn’t be tonight.

Fumbling in her purse she found the key to the front door. She took three steps to cross the yard, inserted the key in the lock, and set her shoulder against the door. She pushed hard and the stubborn old door, swollen from rains and time, creaked open. Sophie smiled. She had helped her parents make this purchase. Actually, it was because of her husband, Jerome’s, generous nature, as he had put up the money. She was proud of him.

Ruminating over these tidbits of history, she flipped on the light and walked through the living room. Tossing her purse on the table, she picked up the phone and dialed her husband in California.

“Honey? Oh, did I wake you?” Sophie said, cupping the phone against her chin. She silently counted on her fingers the number of hours between time zones of California and central France. Nine hours. Why do I always forget that?

Jerome was recovering from hip surgery when they received the call about her mother. He was unable to go but, graciously, insisted she leave right away. Sophie had no choice. Blessedly, she never questioned his love for her during their twenty-eight years of marriage and had always been able to count on him. In fact, he had been the only man, beside her brothers, she had ever counted on.

“No, it’s okay. I’m just happy to hear from you. How did the funeral go, my dear?” He yawned into the receiver.

“It went as well as could be expected, although I’m so tired I can barely think.” She reached for her purse splashing its contents onto the table to find her cigarettes. Realizing she had given them up years ago, she inwardly moaned, Oh, a cigarette would taste sooo good right now.

How are you feeling, love?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Ahh, much better. I’m still a bit groggy, although better. I think the pain medication is finally kicking in. How long will you be staying, Soph?”

“I don’t know. I know there will be legal papers to handle tomorrow, and then I should probably decide what to do with Maman’s house before I head back. If the doctor gives you the okay, maybe you could come over and join me.” Her voice lifted in hopes of cheering him.

Sophie paused as she thought of the many times she and Jerome had travelled back and forth to France to visit her family.

“It’s funny,” she said, almost to herself, “you never learned to speak French.”

“What my dear?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Jerome. I’m just really tired. I’m beginning to talk nonsense. That’s so like me, mais oui? I’m so glad you’re feeling better, but I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I’ll talk to you at length tomorrow.”

“Talk to you tomorrow, love.”

Sophie hung up the phone. Funny how a conversation she’d recently had with her friend, Kate, surfaced just now. It was Kate who had asked her why Jerome had never learned French. Sophie enjoyed that about Kate. She was straightforward, and not afraid to ask questions. This was a trait she found appealing about Americans, but she, herself, even after moving to the U.S. to marry Jerome thirty years before, had not picked up the habit. She found Kate an easy woman to be around; one whom she had warmed to immediately. Why, once their mutual hairdresser had introduced them, they had become inseparable. And over the past six months, Kate had become the easiest friend to confide in. Plus, it didn’t hurt that Kate had become fond of her mother. They both enjoyed talking about food. Oh, those lengthy yet delightful coffee conversations the three of them had had together—talking, drinking coffee, sampling desserts, sharing stories and recipes. What else would have compelled the three of them to decide to tour through France together?

Thinking of food, Sophie walked into her mother’s kitchen and pulled on the light chain that hung over the wooden table. The blue ceiling light, which swung back and forth, swirled in the air forming eerie shadows across the walls. Her eyes scanned the mottled and badly worn kitchen counter. Just a bit of leftover wine, she thought. Surely there is at least a bottle or two here, somewhere. Opening the cupboard doors, her hands glided along the chipped edges of the handles as if searching for her mother’s last handhold. Ah, ha, she said to herself. One bottle tucked in the back of the cupboard still had some dregs left. She jerked open the middle drawer, grabbed out the corkscrew and noted the ‘Wente’ name of a local California winery embossed on the handle; one she had frequented with her mother. Memories crowded every corner.

Mais oui! But, of course, that was how it all began—over a glass of champagne and dinner with Kate. She pulled the cork free, and searched for a clean glass. Sorrow flooded Sophie as she continued her thoughts. Kate and I were supposed to be traveling with Maman--now. For months they had been discussing their plans to take her mother to Vannes, her mother’s birthplace in Brittany—just one last time. But 9/11 happened; we postponed the trip and now, Maman, you are gone! Sophie choked as her grief welled up in her throat. She gulped at the wine. Egad! How long has this been around? She gasped. Vintage. It will have to do. She swilled down another gulp.

Yes, that was it, she thought as her eyes watered. Maman had opened up to Kate about her childhood in Brittany, being abandoned by her mother, molested by her step-father, and about the rape which gave her, at the age of 16, my brother, Thierry. Why on earth, after all these years of silence, was she so open with her?

Sophie fussed about the kitchen, poking through the cupboards, and peering into the fridge, all in hopes of finding a scrap of something to eat. I should have eaten more at the wake. She had no idea what she would find as her mother’s death had come only hours after her own arrival from the States. There had been so much to take care of for the funeral that she barely remembered how long she had been there. Tucked back in the corner of the refrigerator was a blue crock of eggs. A small container of boleti mushrooms was hidden on a shelf in the door along with a scrap of brie and some butter. Une omelette champignon, she chirped.

With omelet essentials in hand, she closed the refrigerator door with her foot, just as the cheese, mushrooms and butter tumbled out of her hands and onto the counter. Hanging onto the eggs, she pulled out the omelet pan—the very one her mother had taught her how to use—and set it on the stove to heat. Oh, the laughter they used to share, as her mother patiently taught her and Julien how to break an egg and make an omelet. And then the crêpes. . .Crêpes, she laughed out loud. The fun the families had together during Chandeleur, the Festival of Lights. She couldn’t recall the reason for the religious holiday, but the laughter rang through the air each time they were given turns to flip the crêpes high in the air. The goal was to catch it back on the paddle without dropping the crêpe or sticking it to the ceiling. Wait! She stopped to think. That’s it! We held a gold coin in one hand, while tossing the crêpe with the other, all in order to win good fortune or money. Not an easy task when you are laughing, she chortled out loud to herself. While adding a knob of butter to sauté the mushrooms, she quickly broke two eggs into a bowl, added a dash of water, and lightly whisked them together. She cocked her head and listened for the very moment the mushrooms had finished sizzling, and then she poured the eggs into the pan.

Quickly tilting the pan back and forth, her thoughts again drifted back to the first conversations her mother had had with Kate. Kate knew enough French, but of course, Sophie still had to translate many of her mother’s words. It was during those translations she became painfully aware of the depth of information her mother was revealing. And Kate hadn’t wanted to miss a single word. She had been honestly captivated by her mother’s story.

Anguish shot through her and surprised her with its force. Sophie shook her head in disbelief and choked down another swallow of bad wine. She minced the chunk of brie, dumped it into the egg mixture and deftly lifted one edge of the omelet, folding it over. Within moments she slid the omelet onto a plate and called it good. Sophie picked up a fork and her glass of wine and sat down at the kitchen table. She inhaled the eggs almost before they cooled.

It was through Kate that I began to truly listen to Maman’s story, she thought, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She should call Kate tomorrow and tell her what had happened. Again, grief and disappointment shot through Sophie.

Leaning back, Sophie looked around the kitchen—from the old splotched cupboards, to the dinged-up counter, to her mother’s green chipped recipe box, to the very table where she sat. She ran her fingers over the surface of the tablecloth and caressed the shape of the cracked dinner plate. This was where the most intimate of conversations with Maman took place, she reminisced, yet, in all those years, I never dared to ask her a single personal question. Nor had Sophie revealed her own secrets. For the past forty years, she had been suffering from the same recurring nightmare and had not breathed a word about it to her mother. Somehow she knew her father was involved, but even after he died, she couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother. Her eyes filled with tears as images of the nightmare came into focus. Always, just beyond her bed, she sensed a man standing near the doorway. Separated only by a gauze-like curtain, which moved gently and ethereally, she could never make out who was standing there. Always, she would rise up in bed to call out, yet terror would set in. Sensations of the almost mystical moved with the curtain, yet pangs of foreboding persisted. Was it Papa? She let out a wail, grabbed up her empty glass, and rushed out of the kitchen. Suddenly, she stopped.

“China? Mama, you said the word ‘China’, before you died. Did you mean ‘china cabinet’? She spun around and walked directly to the china hutch where only a few pieces of fine porcelain remained—few, because she had so few in the first place. Sophie swung open the upper glass doors where she remembered a treasure trove used to reside. Yes, when she was little, she used to dream of having something as fine as this. But, when the time came and her mother offered her the cabinet, she lived half a world away.

As for the dishes? She couldn’t bear the memories of those ghastly family dinners. What had they called them? Diner de la Vache Enragée. Dining with a Mad Cow! Mon Dieu! Back then, her mother was a paragon of sanguine expectation. Always hoping that they, as a family, could have a pleasant meal together. But no matter what, her father would sabotage each and every one of her efforts. Not a single word was uttered or a note of laughter was allowed to escape into the air in his presence. There they were—Julien, Gérard and herself—sitting in stark silence with their parents, choking down each and every morsel their mother had lovingly prepared. Unfortunately, all they wanted to do was flee from their father’s glare. Time and again, nervousness would set in—oh, it was so like them—and she and her brothers would find themselves breaking into fits of laughter, which would quickly end with them getting spanked and sent to bed. No, she had no desire to eat off those plates again. She poked through the wild array of contents from her purse, and pulled her glasses free of the mire. Slipping them onto her nose, she peered more closely into the cabinet. Fortunately, only a few pieces of the old china remained.

She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she peeked into the blue-glass vase and deep into the bottle-green pitcher. Nothing. She opened the silverware drawer and rummaged through the tarnished pieces. She stooped to look into the cabinets below, where some of her mother’s old serving bowls greeted her. She got on her hands and knees and ran her fingers lovingly along the old blue crock her mother had used to make bread. A new flood of emotions caught her off guard. She reeled back on her haunches and then . . . Wait. What is that? In the back of the hutch, a glimpse of something white caught her attention. She stuck her hand behind a wooden salad bowl and pulled out an envelope. Lifting it into the light, Sophie could see her name written carefully across the front in her mother’s meticulous handwriting. Her hands began to tremble. She recognized her mother’s blue stationery. Tears began to flow down her cheeks as she wrested the envelope open. She pulled the two onion-skin sheets free and hurried to the sofa to turn up the light. She shifted her glasses up before wiping her eyes with her sleeve and then began reading:

My dearest Sophie,

When you find this letter, it will be after I’m gone. I had hoped that I could tell you some of these things in person; alas, I am out of time. Please do not be sad for me. You children and my darling grandchildren have given me a most gratifying life.

Mon Cherie, I have two requests. Thierry’s son, Christian, has asked that I help him find his grandfather. He convinced me to break my silence. He expressed his concern about his father’s bouts with depression and feared he would take his life, like Gérard. He will need your help in searching for this family. It may be an uncomfortable affair, although, he now has their names.

For my second request: After our lengthy talks with Kate last winter, and with Christian more recently, I realize the importance of seeking the identity of my own father. I know that may surprise you. Actually, I started this process thirty years ago when I wrote to find out details of my father from my Tante Suzanne in Paris. Unfortunately, she passed away about that time. I grieved for her as she was the last family member to know the truth about my father. It is possible that she left word with her daughter, your Cousin Madeleine, so, in addition to helping Christian, I would like you to find out what happened to my father—Pourrette. You might begin by contacting Madeleine and see if she was given any information. Christian may also be able to help, but I think he has his hands full. Your brother, Julien, may also be helpful, although his allegiance has always been colored by his love for his father.

So why now, I know you are asking? Why after all of this time? Well, my dear, for the same reasons Christian needs to find his grandfather. The pain of having no father—even the memory of one—has rent my soul and affected me all my days. Unfortunately, the ridicule I endured blinded me to the pain and suffering your brothers also must have felt. My heart breaks for my sons and if I cannot alleviate their pain before my death, perhaps I can provide some salve in the form of knowledge for their children. As Christian pointed out, that could be my final gift: my redemption. You see, Sophie, it’s not just what we know that guides us through life, but also what we don’t know that can rise like a specter and impact our every waking moment.

Now, where to begin? The attic. For years now, I have not been able to climb those steep steps, so I have failed to pull things together for you. Among your father’s and my collective boxes, you should be able to find some of my own individual things. You’ll find mine marked and separate from the others. In them you will find papers, legal documents, and hidden below you should find some old letters, address books and journals dating from just after WWII.

Don’t be dismayed if you don’t have the earlier journals. Most of those I’ve left in the care of my dear friend, Marie Chirade. You might remember me mentioning her, although never in front of your father. She lives nearby and her number is in the address book and I would ask you to contact her soon. She, too, is in poor health. She will be expecting you. She has promised to give you the earlier journals to help you piece my life story together. Maybe with this information, along with your cousin, Madeleine, you will be able to find enough clues to lead you to my father’s family.

One of the reasons I was hoping to visit Vannes with you and Kate was to check the records at the town hall. Take Kate with you. I think she has good instincts. Also, I contacted your good friend and mine, Mimi Thionet, to help in the research of my father’s records in Brittany. She still works near the hall of records in Vannes so, she may be able to help you.

Please know that as my strength is waning, my mind is clear and I know what a tremendous weight I am placing on you. Sophie, if anyone in the family can manage this, it is you. Please know that I love and trust you, my darling daughter, and I know that you will do your best.

My deepest love and gratitude, Maman

Sophie slid down on the sofa scrunching a crocheted pillow behind her head. What did she make of this letter? She was still so jet lagged—yet she felt relief to have some direction. When she had first heard her mother’s last words, she had felt like she was free-floating. She looked at the last paragraph again, and then crushed the letter close to her heart. No longer was she feeling the need to run from her mother’s challenge. She felt the love and gratitude her mother had expressed in her final letter.

Gripping the letter tightly to her, she stood and walked to the stairs to climb up to her mother’s bedroom. She needed some sleep and tomorrow . . . tomorrow, she thought, she would call Kate. But on the fifth step, she spun on her heels and descended down the stairs to the phone. She dialed Kate’s number in the States and sat back down on the sofa. I have to tell Kate about Maman’s death and Maman’s letter. Then convince her to come to France to help me fulfill my mother’s dying wishes. She’s the only friend I can turn to; the only one I trust. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. What did Marcelle sacrifice in order to survive Nazi-occupied Paris during World War II?

2. The three main characters--Marcelle, Sophie and Kate--each have hidden a part of their pasts. How does this keep them apart, and how does it bind them together?

3. What understanding of women and families in times of war do you have after reading this book? How has your perspective about the people of France changed?

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