‘This is an unexpected story, and a touching one’
Shelley Rubenstein goes in search of her roots in chic Le Marais, once a refuge for her émigré grandparents
To go from being fully parented up to orphandom in a week plays havoc on one’s core. Although each of my parents had suffered from a serious illness, it was nonetheless shocking when, six years ago, I lost them both in such swift succession.
When my mother’s cancer was diagnosed as terminal, I turned family chronicler, writing down as much of our history as she could recall. Ploughing through boxes of old photographs, I’d note the names of those pictured and their relationship on the back. I barely registered the appalling, yet all too familiar, stories of Jews oppressed in Europe.
My maternal grandfather, Elja Wilenczyk, known as Eli, had two sisters and five brothers. My mother told me they were locked in a synagogue in Bialystok, Poland, and burnt to death by the Nazis. In a cruel twist, two of his brothers who had gone to Argentina with their families got homesick and returned to Poland, where they were murdered.
One day, when I was visiting my uncle, he showed me a surprising document: my grandfather’s French identity papers. Puzzled, I went back to my notes: Eli had moved 500 miles west to Leipzig to study music, where he had met and married my grandmother, Feiga-Leah, in 1932. My mother had explained that they could see what was happening in Germany and relocated to Paris where he found work as a chazan, a synagogue cantor. She remembered they had “lived over a shop”.
The address on the document was 12 Vielle du Temple in Le Marais. Searching online, it was a thrill to find the actual building where the newlyweds lived.
My search revealed that this was now the Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais, a charming boutique property and Instagram favourite owing to the floral decor
and the owner’s keen eye for objets d’art. Eagerly, I emailed the hotel to ask if they had any more information. The proprietor, Alain Bigeard, replied: “This story is an unexpected and touching one.” He invited me to stay for a couple of nights.
My heart raced at the idea of staying under the same roof that gave my grandparents sanctuary. I realised too that grief had left me feeling somewhat unanchored and questioning my identity, so I decided to extend my trip to a week and to find out as much as I could.
In preparation, I emailed various French research libraries and institutions as well as the four remaining synagogues, one of which my grandfather may have worked at. All I learnt was that (these) French people don’t care for email communication.
First stop: Le Marais. Nowadays one of the hippest areas in Paris, the area used
My heart raced at the idea of staying under the same roof that gave my grandparents sanctuary
to be its Jewish quarter. After Emancipation in 1791, Jews were allowed to integrate into society and the area became a haven from persecution, with the influx of Alsatian Jews in the 19th century and artists such as Marc Chagall in the early 20th century. More recently, Jewish settlers came from North Africa in the 1960s and 1970s.
Reaching 12 Rue Vielle du Temple, I was greeted by my kind host, Brigeard. He told me that his family took possession of the property in 1992. When they bought the building, it had a dozen or so apartments without gas or electricity in the kitchens – likely unchanged from my grandparents’ time there.
As I opened the door to my characterful bedroom at the Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais, I imagined my young émigré grandparents. Were they fearful about the future or optimistic about a possible new life in France?
I met with a local guide, Helga Sturzenegger (instagram.com/helga_ inparis), at the oldest square in Paris, Place des Vosges, the beating heart of the neighbourhood. Helga explained that King Henry IV built the Royal Palace here in 1605. Shortly after, French nobil- ity moved into the area, building hôtel particuliers, u-shaped mansions with big courtyards to accommodate horses and carriages. Many of these have now been repurposed as museums, such as the recently renovated Musée Carnavalet.
The area was run down post-war and numerous hôtel particuliers were destroyed until André Malraux, the culture minister, decreed their preservation in the 1960s. The pivotal change that spearheaded the renaissance of Le Marais occurred in 1978, when the first gay bar, Le Village, opened. Its instant success attracted designers and fashionable shops to the district.
The integration of creatives and cultures is evident walking along Rue des Rosiers and Place Saint-Paul, known as the Pletzl – “little square” in Yiddish. Here, Jewish bakeries and restaurants specialising in falafel sit alongside stylish boutiques, artisans and galleries.
My visit coincided with the Jewish festival of Sukkot, or Tabernacles. One of the requirements during the week-long celebration is the recital of a prayer while holding a lulav – three boundtogether plants – and a yellow citrus fruit called an etrog. The streets were lined with piles for purchase, and passers-by were encouraged to say the blessing by religious men in black coats. It would be easy to describe this as a strange sight, but no one batted a chic eyelid, and I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude that for a brief period, this tolerance was extended to my grandparents.
Further absorbing myself in Le Marais, I moved into an apartment in a converted 18th-century hôtel particulier. I began every day attempting to connect with someone who could help access the relevant records. I repeatedly visited the Shoah Memorial, eventually haranguing a research librarian into inputting variants of my grandparent’s surname into her intranet, which proved fruitless. At the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire du Judaïsme, I knocked on random doors trying to locate the person I was assured would help with my query. I emailed her repeatedly and left answerphone messages, but there was no reply. I darted between the synagogues, where I was met with bemused looks at the return of the prodigal granddaughter.
Dejected by my inadequate sleuthing skills, I muse on my week in Le Marais and how accepted I had felt. After 18 months of travel bans, it was a joy to stroll around this area brimming with culture, creativity and acceptance. Happening upon an intriguing alleyway or doorway and wandering in, I’d be rewarded with an inspiring exhibition, such as the Chinese octogenarian Qui Shihua’s show at Gallerie Karsten Greve.
I’d marvelled at the early works of Georgia O’Keefe at the Centre Pompidou and spotted countless Invader works by the eponymous street artist. I’d earnestly undertaken my role as self-appointed judge of the best falafel in town – the winner, controversially, mi-va-mi.
Finally, I’d relished the contemplative time spent in the many green spaces dotted about, specifically Mark Ashton Garden, dedicated to the co-founder of the Lesbians and Gays Supports the Miners group, reminding me that Le Marais offers refuge to all. It was in this peaceful park that I accepted that, though I hadn’t achieved my objective, I did manage a brief insight into my grandparents’ Marais life, and felt closer to them and to my roots. It may now be a neighbourhood of trendy boutiques and bars, but it is no less a tolerant melting pot than it was all those years ago.