“You okay?” Nathaniel asked. His father looked up from his hunched posture.
“I was just thinking about her,” he said. “Bubbe Nina was a forceful woman.”
“Stronger than most,” Nathaniel agreed. “Didn’t she walk from France to Spain?”
“Yes, in nineteen forty-one, just after the Rafle du Vel’ d’Hiv’,” Lionel said. “She feared it would spread to the south.”
A loud rap came from the front door and they jumped to their feet. Lionel waved his hand at Nathaniel, indicating he should sit again. The senior family member always greeted doctors. It was a measure of their importance.
Doctor Llewelyn was a jolly man, dressed in an old coat and carrying a battered medical bag. He beamed at Nathaniel as he entered and held out his hand.
“Doctor,” Nathaniel acknowledged.
“You’ve grown, Nathaniel,” he said. “I remember you as a boy, screaming the surgery down when you came for your jabs.”
“I’m twenty now,” Nathaniel said. “Second-year medical school”.
“Really?” The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
“UCH, London,” Nathaniel said.
“An excellent school. I was at Barts,” the doctor said, “played your lot at rugby. Dirty bastards. Anyway, where’s your grandmother?”
“In the backroom,” interjected Lionel.
They moved single-file into the backroom, where Bubbe Nina sat in her chair, her body inclined forward. The doctor examined her briefly, then reached into his bag for a pad of Medical Certificates.
“Here, take this to the Register Office,” he said, “They’ll issue the Death Certificate.”
At that moment, Bubbe Nina fell forward crashing into the table, scattering a plate of uneaten biscuits across the floor.
“Hello, what’s this?” said Llewelyn reaching for an envelope partly hidden under the old woman’s cushion. He handed it to Lionel, who tore open the flap.
“It’s a title deed,” said Lionel. He held up a sheaf of papers bearing a crest and the heading, ‘Plans Cadastraux’.
“It’s for a property in the department of Haute-Garonne,” he continued, “near Toulouse. A sizeable house by the look of things.”
“I’ve heard of this,” said Llewelyn, “refugees, I mean, holding on to deeds for property all over Europe, but not doing anything with them.”
“I wonder why,” Nathaniel mused.
“What would she have said?” Lionel said shrugging his shoulders, “We used to own a house in France? It’s ancient history now.”
“No, it’s not,” said Llewelyn, “there are cases of refugees regaining their family properties.”
Lionel thought for a moment, returned the deeds to the envelope and tossed them into the empty grate, then reaching into his pocket he pulled out an old Zippo lighter, flicked it open and lit the wick.
“Dad,” said Nathaniel, “That’s Bubbe Nina’s gift to us.”
“No, Nathaniel,” said Lionel firmly, “her gift to us was the wisdom to know when to let things be. She had her reasons not to pursue this and that is good enough for me.”
With that, he lit the pile of paper in the grate and watched as the past disappeared into smoky remnants.
