“Hey ho, what’s going on, Myriam?” he asked the woman. Lélia’s gaze flew to meet mine. My face went slack with shock. I knew the woman could see our thunderstruck expressions. “Your . . . your first name is Myriam?” my mother asked, haltingly. But instead of replying, the woman spoke to her husband. “They’re descendants of the Rabinovitch family. They have a few questions.” “We’re eating. It’s not a good time.” “We can speak later, on the phone,” the woman said. She seemed terrified of her husband, who clearly wanted to get back to his lunch.
