Jewish Mothers Never Die: A Novel

Copyright © Editions Robert Laffont, S. A., Paris, 2011

Translation copyright © 2014 by Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.

Originally published in France under the title Les mères juives ne meurent jamais

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Print ISBN: 978-1-62872-407-3

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62872-408-0

Printed in the United States of America

Three mothers are bragging about how much their sons spoil them.

The first one says: “My son loves me so much that for my last birthday, he gave me a fur coat.”

Not to be outdone, the second one crows: “Is that all? My son saved up for a year to send me on a cruise in the Caribbean.”

As for the third, she has them both beat. “My son is the most extraordinary of all,” she gloats. “He sees a shrink three times a week just so he can talk about me.”

For Charles, Paul, and Marie

THE MOTHERS

(in chronological order)

•   Amalia Freud, née Nathanshon (1835–1930). Wife of Jacob. Mother of Sigmund, Julius, Anna, Rosa, Mitzi, Dolfi, Paula and Alexander

•   Jeanne Proust, née Weil (1849–1905). Wife of Adrien. Mother of Marcel and Robert

•   Pauline Einstein, née Koch (1858–1920). Wife of Hermann. Mother of Albert and Maja

•   Minnie Marx, née Schönberg (1865–1929). Wife of Samuel. Mother of the Marx Brothers: Leonard (Chico), Adolph (Harpo), Julius (Groucho), Milton (Gummo), and Herbert (Zeppo)

•   Louise Cohen, née Ferro (1870–1945). Wife of Marco. Mother of Albert

•   Mina Kacew, née Iosselevna-Borisovskaia (1883–1941). Wife of Ariah. Mother of Romain (known as Romain Gary)

•   Nettie Königsberg, née Cherry (1906–2002). Wife of Martin. Mother of Allan (known as Woody Allen) and Letty

1

A Mother’s Heaven

God couldn’t be everywhere, so he created mothers.

Jewish proverb

“She’s crying. I think she’s crying.”

“How come?”

“Maybe she doesn’t realize she’s dead?”

“That’s no reason to be sad.”

“You’ve obviously forgotten the state you were in when you showed up in Jewish Mothers’ Heaven.”

“How would you know? You weren’t even here yet yourself.”

“I heard all about it.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Know it all.”

Still bickering, the two elderly ladies shuffled closer to Rebecca, who lay, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. How could she be crying? She never lamented. She’d forgotten what it was like to cry, or to be confused, or even surprised. But the tears still came, as if her whole body was slipping out of her grasp, as if she was no longer even trying to hold on. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her. Until that very moment, she had always succeeded in avoiding the unexpected. Long ago, she had decided to take control of her life, her destiny and her emotions. She had imposed the most rigorous self-discipline and had followed it to the letter. She loved order the way other people enjoyed a relaxing vacation. She had lists for everything: errands, books she had read and books she meant to read (the longest list by far), ideas, trips, appointments . . . Rebecca left nothing to chance.

To be caught so completely off guard was bewildering. What had happened and where was she? She looked more closely at the two women: they were old enough to be her grandmothers, or more likely her great-grandmothers, judging from their Twenties-era gowns. Had she gone back in time? Was this a costume party? Why were they staring and whispering? Was this someone’s home, one of theirs? She tried to get to her feet, using a table for support. Why did she notice the quality of the mahogany when she felt so utterly forlorn?

The smaller of the two women motioned to Rebecca to sit down on an overstuffed black velour sofa. Her almond-shaped, dark eyes were vividly made-up, but their beauty couldn’t hide her time-worn features or the fact that her lace dress and hat, whose netting was turned up at one corner, looked straight from a vintage rag shop. Yet her plumpness gave her an air of confidence. She smiled benevolently at Rebecca and asked in a kind voice:

“What’s your name, dear?”

“Rebecca Rosenthal. What’s yours?”

“I’m Louise Cohen, Albert’s mother,” the little woman replied. “I imagine you’ve heard of him. . .”

“Albert Cohen’s mother? The author of
Belle du Seigneur
is your son?” Rebecca couldn’t hide the awe she always felt at meeting someone famous.

“Didn’t I tell you that Albert was famous?” Louise gushed, turning towards her taller, more imposing companion, who shot back competitively:

“And the Marx Brothers? I suppose you’ve heard of them?”

“Don’t tell me you’re their mother, too?”

Minnie Marx burst out laughing, giving Rebecca the opportunity to study her more closely: finger waves crowned her round, over-powdered face, marking a stark contrast with her brightly painted lips and black dress, which was held in place at the breast by a brooch. She came straight from an Erckmann-Chatrian novel, Rebecca thought.

“They never would have become famous without me!”

“That’s quite enough bragging, Minnie; you’ll tire Rebecca.”

“On the contrary,” interjected Rebecca. “I adore the Marx Brothers. When I was younger, I went every Sunday to see their films. My favorites were
Duck Soup
and
Room Service
. They were the best medicine for a dull childhood! I loved Groucho’s big black mustache—that New York accent, that sense of the absurd. He always made me laugh the most.”

“More than Chico?” Minnie wondered.

Not wanting to disappoint the mother of the Marx Brothers, Rebecca launched into her memories.

“They were all so funny. What I liked best, though, was finding the same scenes in all the films: Harpo at his harp, Chico’s Italian accent, and Margaret Dumont, always so indignant when she found she’d been tricked all over again by that irresistible Groucho.”

“I can see you’re pretty taken with Groucho,” remarked Minnie.

“Whoever thought up the ‘walk this way’ gag was a genius,” Rebecca added.

Minnie couldn’t stop herself from laughing heartily again while imitating Groucho’s characteristic stooped gait and cigar-smoking.

“How is it you have nothing to say about Albert?” wondered Louise Cohen out loud.

“I was enthralled by
Belle du Seigneur!
Solal is intelligent, handsome, seductive and so wretched, I was crazy about him. I always thought the author must have been very much like him.”

Louise Cohen blushed with pride.

“Exactly! Even if he always denied it, Albert was like Solal, his hero, in more ways than one.”

It seemed to Rebecca as if she were taking a test for which no one had told her the question. All she could be sure of was that she was expected to display an encyclopedic knowledge of the Marx Brothers and Albert Cohen and shower them with praises. She’d managed well enough so far but she was surprised by how much she wanted to pass this exam when its purpose remained unclear. What was the point of placating these women? Was she really dead? How could she have died and not know it? She hadn’t traveled through any tunnel, hadn’t seen any white light. Her life hadn’t flashed before her eyes . . .

“I heard you say I was dead. That’s impossible. I didn’t feel anything.”

“You just don’t remember,” Minnie said gently.

Louise Cohen asked her what had happened just before she arrived there.

“Nothing.”

Rebecca looked herself over. She recognized her favorite green sweater, her suede pants that showed off her legs so well, her high-heeled boots that pinched her feet. The only unfamiliar thing was her surroundings: she was in a sort of living room she had never seen before.

“What is the last thing you remember?” Louise Cohen asked again.

“Stop torturing the poor girl!” protested Minnie. “She’s had quite a shock already. Leave her alone!”

“You’re the one who started it, Minnie. Don’t blame me. Rebecca is fine, just a bit confused. There’s nothing unusual about that.”

How could these women talk about her as if she wasn’t there? Rebecca, who hated any violation of her privacy, felt like the new girl at boarding school who hadn’t yet gotten her bearings. The whole thing was impossible. Could she really be sitting with the mothers of Albert Cohen and the Marx Brothers? How did they know each other? And why did they continue to sit together if they only argued about everything?

“You were asking me if I could remember anything,” Rebecca ventured. Curiosity was getting the best of her. What did she have to lose?

“I remember being thrown from my car. I remember that the rain was soaking my clothes and, a few seconds later, I felt a terrible pain.”

Minnie took pity on her:

“How old are you? You’re just a child.”

“Thirty-eight. That’s not all that young, you know.”

“That depends on the person.”

Louise Cohen took Minnie Marx by the arm and whispered that this was no time to ruin everything. For once something new was happening, she wanted all the details. Angering Rebecca wouldn’t help her admit that she was dead. If they went about this the wrong way, it could upset her even more and she might refuse to tell them anything, or worse, go away!

Minnie dismissed her companion’s argument with a wave of the hand:

“It’s not Rebecca you’re trying to spare but yourself.”

“Do you have anything better to do?” despaired Louise.

“No, you’re right.”

Together they turned to face Rebecca once again. She was deep in thought.

“So, it was a car accident?” said ventured Louise, hoping to start Rebecca talking.

Rebecca began to tremble, and the pain that had crushed her earlier struck her again with sudden force.

“We’re here to help you,” offered Minnie in a disarmingly gentle tone of voice. “We know exactly what you’re feeling.”

The two women watched her patiently. They waited. They had nothing but time. Rebecca tried to remember more. Speaking softly, she recounted the facts as they had happened.

“I couldn’t see anything and the minutes dragged on. I had hair and mud in my eyes but I could make out other cars. Strangely, they appeared to be driving sideways. I thought it would make a beautiful scene in a film, as if it was all taking place far from me. In fact, I was lying on the asphalt and I could see the traffic on the highway from underneath my car. Anyone else would have tried to hold on, but not me; I wanted it to end as quickly as possible. I could hear footsteps, people running and calling in my direction, sirens in the distance. . . That’s when I lost consciousness, I think.”