The Shoebox

The Shoebox by HOLLY LE DU

They say that you have to know what you want before you can get it.

Abby trudged up the snow-covered walkway of her parent’s house, a 19th century faded grey and white 2-story, picking up a brown paper-wrapped package left on the porch.

Nine years ago, she returned home to help her mother care for her bedridden father, and within months, her mother had a massive stroke, leaving Abby to care for both parents. She hired an assistant caretaker, juggled her work hours, and took out several loans against the house to pay for the overwhelming medical bills.

When her parents died several years ago, she thought about selling the house but there didn’t seem to be much point when no more than a couple thousand was left after paying back the loans with interest. And her jobs gave her a reassuring if monotonous structure. Almost 40, her once glossy chestnut hair turned a dull brown, with wisps of grey. Years of caring for her invalid parents had etched worry lines across her forehead. The echo of the front door shutting mirrored the emptiness of the house.

When studying at Pratt Institute, she had dreamed of moving to Paris to become an artist, painting beautiful canvases like Berthe Morisot. She found work in advertising immediately following graduation, saving a bit of each check, but when her father became ill, everything changed. Her dream of living in Paris and becoming an artist had as much dust as her art supplies stacked in one corner.

She popped her dinner in the microwave and as it heated up, Abby examined the package. The return label read:

Phillip Stanner, Esq. Attorney at Law, McLean & Stanner 260 Madison Ave NYC.

She carefully opened each end of the paper, revealing a dilapidated shoebox. Inside, a bundle of old letters tied up by a faded rose-colored ribbon, a tiny gold heart-shaped locket with a black and white photo of a young couple, a confirmation certificate in Russian and French from the Cathèdrale Alexander Nevsky, a stained, folded whitish handkerchief embroidered with the letters GMG and a small, black oilskin sketchbook, written in French with black and white drawings alongside diary entries. And a letter from an attorney.

Dear Ms. Pavel,

I regret to inform you that your great aunt Zoya Pavel has recently died. As the only heir, you will need to come to our offices in New York. We need proof of your identity and your signature on her documents before the money can be released to you. I marked our appointment for the first Monday of March at 10 am in my office.

Plan on being there most of the day. There is also a video from your aunt, made a few years before she died. If you would like, I can book you at a nearby hotel for the night.

Again, I am sorry for your loss.

Please feel free to contact our offices if you have any questions or concerns.

At your service,

Phillip Stanner

Abby stared at the letter. Great Aunt Zoya? She vaguely remembered her estranged aunt on her father’s side who had been raised Catholic when they lived in France before arriving in New York City in 1940.

Abby started to look at each of the items. She picked up the black notebook, worn and yellowed, and noted the date of the first entry: February 14th, 1937. Her aunt had been 18? Or 20? As she struggled to read the French writing, it started to come back to her.

“The day for lovers! There is a café not too far from our apartment on Avenue Foch where I go to write or draw, and I met the most wonderful boy!"

Her youthful exuberance leapt from the pages, Abby thought as she continued reading, translating in her head, French into English, fascinated by the beautiful drawings, glimpses of a Paris through her aunt’s eyes.

“On September 18, 1937

The 1937 exhibition opened its doors in May, and I hope to be able to accompany Georges before its closing in November.”

Abby kept reading, glued to the journal. “Georges says he hears in the cafe that the Germans want to take over Paris, but I think it is impossible.”

“On July 20, 1938” Abby read of Zoya’s argument with her father over Georges courting her because he wasn’t from the same class. She admired her passion and felt a pain in her heart. Her aunt had known an intense love when she was only 20. Abby was almost twice that age and she had never been in love. She stared at the rendering of Georges-Michel. She could see why her aunt fell in love with him.

She continued reading the next entry, but the last sentence gave her chills.

“The 20th of April 1939

Even though we now practice the Catholic faith, we are still Jews for the Nazis.”

“The 1st of September 1939

The government ordered the mobilization and declared the status of siege after evacuating all the children yesterday. I'm afraid.”

Abby continued to read the entry: Zoya escaped the escalating tensions between her father and her beau by walking near the river.

The entry continued on the next page. “My father thinks that the Germans would not dare cross the Maginot Line, but Georges has heard that the Germans are winning and want Paris as a crown jewel. He wants to go down to Lyon and take over his father’s restaurant. He says we should be ready to leave the country. I don’t know how I could live without him. I feel tied to his soul.”

Abby could feel the anguish through the words of her aunt. In the last pages, she discovered that 4 days after the Nazis bombed Paris, her great-grandfather had arranged for them to escape France and arrive in New York 5 months later. Georges had stayed behind in Lyon, promising that he would follow Zoya to New York or, bring her back later when it was safe.

She picked up the stack of letters next, wrapped with a faded, pink grosgrain ribbon. They were arranged by postmark; the oldest to the most recent. She started with the first one postmarked June 10th, 1940 from Lyon. She hurriedly opened it up to read the first letter. Each letter began with ‘My dearest Zoya’, every line as romantic and loving as the last, in each of the 15 letters. The letters came further apart and much more cryptic as the time passed. Finally, she got to the last letter: the handwriting, different from the others, had no return address.

July 1943

Miss Zoya Pavel

These are the effects that Monsieur Georges-Michel Gautier wished to give you.

1 Handkerchief

1 gold locket

He died honorably.

Nothing else was written on the paper. Abby cried out; hot tears poured out of her. For her aunt’s tragic love affair, for the deaths of her parents, for herself never having experienced a love so profound. She felt a deep pain in her soul as she sat back in the chair clutching the last letter to her heart and sobbed softly.

The clock chimed 3:00am.

The following Monday, Abby arrived promptly at 10am at the law office, greeted by a cheery receptionist. An older man of about 65 strode out to meet her, his youthful energy evident in his handshake. “Phillip Stanner.” He said, accompanied by a warm smile. His eyes quickly glanced over her seeing a still-beautiful woman, wearing a worn navy suit with a silk scarf as a headband, and simple silver studs with an intricate silver chain around her neck.

Phillip looked at her kindly. “I knew your great aunt from the time I joined my father’s law firm 40 years ago. I can fill in a few details from what my father told me.”

Phillip recounted how her great-aunt Zoya had been inconsolable after the death of Georges-Michel. “She visited the cathedral daily, always in black. She joined the Red Cross and helped run the neighborhood metal collections to aid in the Allied victory. She retained her French citizenship, which had been restored after the war, but she only returned to France once to visit Lyon to pay her respects to the family of Georges-Michel, and to visit his grave. On her return to the US, she put everything in a shoebox, then in a safe deposit box at her bank. She never married, never picked up another pencil or brush, and rarely socialized.” He finished, his eyes distant. “Why don’t we watch the video from your aunt, and we can lunch afterward.”

An elegantly dressed woman in a black suit with discreet embroidery around the collar appeared on the screen. She adjusted her chair and pillows then looked into the camera.

“My dear Abigail” she began, her soft voice still inflected with French, “I have been a stupid woman. But of course, it is always in hindsight that we can see 20/20. I assume that if you are seeing this, I must be dead!” she chuckled at her own morbid joke.

She looked down and began slowly, “Georges was the love of my life. When he died, I felt a part of me dying with him and I could not imagine my life without him. I could not let him go. And when I started to think that maybe there was another way that I could live post-Georges, I was too afraid. I muted my courage and now I see how I missed the point.”

She looked again directly at the camera. “Please my dear Abigail, do not make my mistakes. Do not waste your talent as an artist. Accept this gift of $20,000 to restart your life, whether here in the US, in France, or somewhere else. I did not live my dreams, but I can help you follow yours. Do not let your fear of ‘what bad might happen’ overcome the probable ‘what joy will come’. Life is short.”

Abigail sat there trying to digest what her great aunt had said.

“So, you’ve got a few options in front of you. You’re eligible for French citizenship; you just need to request it,” said Phillip. “Have you given any time at all to thinking about what you will do next?” he asked.

She shook her head. She needed some quiet.

“I was thinking that you might feel that way after hearing everything. It’s quite life-changing. I booked you at the Edition hotel down the street and prepaid for any spa services. We just need to go through the paperwork and getting everything signed. The car will drop you at your hotel for the afternoon to relax, then we can talk over dinner tonight.” Phillip said.

That sounded perfect, thought Abby. Exactly what she needed to work through her choices.

The following week, Abby sat next to the window, her purse under the seat, and her hands clutching a brand-new black Moleskine notebook. She watched as they loaded the plane with the luggage and food for the 12-hour flight to Paris.

She had made a choice. She found that she kept asking herself the same questions.

Was it better to have loved someone deeply, and then tragically lost them? Was she living any differently than her aunt? Playing it safe because she might get hurt? Isn’t it connection with our fellow humans that gives us the flavor and colors of life?

She decided that she would no longer watch life from the side and waste the opportunity to follow her dreams. With that, she went home, made sure her passport was up to date, packed a suitcase and a carry-on, gave notice at her 2 jobs, then walked out to a waiting taxi.

Abby breathed deeply, her new theme song, “Roar” by Katy Perry playing in her ears, as the plane lifted upwards. She smiled to herself. Finally, she knew what she wanted. Time to follow her dreams.