Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

Tom, Arch, and Julian slid in next to us. Pru had been accompanied by Wanda Cooney to the front. The widow had apparently made the decision not to have her husband’s coffin present. Arch gave my shoulder a quick squeeze when the organ began to play.

An altar boy had opened the side door overlooking the mountains. A breeze scented with pine wafted over us. The huge church was about half filled with mourners, which I found gratifying. André had touched a number of people, despite his eccentric ways and long-winded tales of his own history, real or imagined. While the lessons from Isaiah and Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians were read, I prayed for my teacher. I gave thanks that he had given me the gift of cooking as a way to care for people. I gave thanks that he’d come into my life just when I’d needed him.

The monsignor gave a brief homily on not fearing death. He took his seat, and the congregation waited. According to the service leaflet, a remembrance was to be offered by Rabbi Sol Horowitz. This was something I’d never heard of in a Roman Catholic church, and I mentally gave them points for open-mindedness. After a few moments, a stooped, white-haired man shook off offers of assistance and climbed to the pulpit.

“The organist has agreed to help me,” the rabbi began in a heavy accent. We waited, but no music was forthcoming. The rabbi pursed his lips, looked out over the congregation, then opened a folded sheet.

“This is my remembrance, from the time of the war.” Holding the sheet with one hand, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “In my brother’s town of Clermont-Ferrand, André Hibbard was a fearless Resistance fighter, despite the fact that he was but eleven years old. Although André was a child, he hated the Nazis, and he helped my brother and his wife avoid deportation to the camps.” The rabbi faltered, then went on.

“André Hibbard concealed my brother and his wife, an Italian Jew, in a barn. My brother was a violinist. Every day, André brought them cheese and milk.” The rabbi cleared his throat. “The Resistance was organized, and they taught codes to all their trainees. But André had no radio, of course. So when the trains to take the Jews away arrived, André Hibbard used music to alert my brother’s family. If there was danger, André would whistle ‘Für Elise’ to my brother.” Rabbi Horowitz waited While the rippling notes of Beethoven’s tune rolled through the blue-lit church.

When the organ music faded, the congregation was still. Rabbi Horowitz went on: “One night, a man waited to take my brother and his family out, to try to get them to Switzerland, to safety. Andre’s job was to watch for the Nazis and whistle again to my brother’s family, to indicate it was safe to move. The tune he chose was from Felix Mendelssohn.”

The entire congregation listened intently as the organ pealed forth with “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Marla’s face brightened. Arch smiled broadly. The rabbi folded his paper and pocketed it with the handkerchief. He grinned and nodded down at us.

“With the help of André Hibbard, my brother and his wife escaped to Zurich. After playing many years with the Boston Symphony, my brother retired. Last year, he died. But he always made a good joke, about how the French boy fooled the Nazis, by using a Christian hymn to save a family of Jews.”

The congregation broke into spontaneous applause as Rabbi Horowitz found his seat. Visibly moved, the monsignor led us through the Lord’s Prayer, the intercessions, additional prayers, and the final commendation and blessing. One of the cooks from André’s old restaurant led Pru down the nave. The congregation followed. As we all filed out, the organist broke into an enthusiastic, multiversed rendition of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

After the service, I dimly registered Monsignor Fields walking toward me across the church’s large patio. Marla was eating, but I couldn’t. I was sitting on the patio’s stone wall—in a state of shock, I think—realizing that the stories André had told, the stories that I’d doubted, that I’d only been half listening to—had been true. The monsignor interrupted my thoughts.

“Pru is extremely tired. She does not want to stay for the reception, but she would like to visit with you at her condominium, if you feel up to driving out there.” He seemed almost apologetic.

“I’d love to.”

When I told Tom where I was going, he chuckled. “I told the boys this buffet food was it for dinner, so we’ll be here for a While.”

On the way to Blue Spruce, dark-bellied clouds again gathered and spit raindrops on my van as I followed Wanda and Pru in Wanda’s Suburban. André had indeed been a Resistance fighter , I thought with newfound admiration. He was a genuine hero . I felt like a better person, just from knowing him. I turned on the wipers as the road snaked beside a creek edged with cottonwoods and will daisies bowed by the rain. A golden eagle soared gracefully downward, then skimmed the tops of the lodgepole pines before disappearing from view. I braked as Wanda slowed to enter the Blue Spruce Retirement Village.

“I’m going to go take a shower, if you don’t mind,” Wanda confided once she had Pru settled on a chaise longue in her sitting room. We were standing in the small condo kitchen. “There’s something about a funeral that just … makes me want to get out of my clothes and start over.” She placed Andre’s old tea ball stuffed with leaves into one of the many teapots and checked the water she’d set on to boil. “You’ll tend to her if she needs anything? She just wanted to see you again, since you’ve called so many times.”

“No problem,” I said softly. “It’s unlikely our visit will be disrupted by visitors this time. Has anyone called to bother you in the last week?”

“Two more real estate agents appeared, plus that horrible caterer dropped by again.” She shuddered and carefully poured the steaming water over the tea ball. The scent of orange and black pekoe wafted upward. “I told Litchfield if he had the nerve to come here again I’d report him to the police. He hasn’t been back.”

“Wanda,” I said suddenly as I glanced around the kitchen, “where are André’s cooking tools?”

“You mean the ones he kept in his red box?” When I nodded, she answered, “The police brought them back, along with his apron and pans. Pru had me put them in the spare bedroom. Why?”

“No reason.” I took the tray. “Thanks for the tea.”

Pru was fast asleep by the time I returned to her sitting room. With her head tilted back, her mouth slightly open, she looked as young and innocent as a bride. I put the tray down and sat on an ottoman by the chaise lounge. When I heard the shower water running, I quickly went looking for the spare bedroom.

It was upstairs, a spotless, sparsely decorated room featuring white curtains and chenille bedspreads. My heartbeat sped up as I pulled open the closet door and heard it creak. I held my breath; Wanda’s shower continued to run. André’s red metal chef’s toolbox had been placed on the floor of the closet.

The old metal hinge squeaked when I cracked back the top. Again I froze and waited for some response in the house, but heard only running water. I opened the partitions of the box that I knew so well: butcher and paring knives, balloon whisks, can openers, butter-ball scoop, vegetable brushes and peelers, garlic press, spatulas of all sizes, old wooden spoons. Only one item was missing: André’s salamander.

Although André had never used the bottom compartment for tools—he liked having his tools out where he could see them—I lifted the top layer just to see if I’d missed something. The spoons clanked and the metal layer scraped the sides of the box as I heaved the compartment free. When it was finally out, I gaped, uncomprehending, into the bottom of the box.