Fantastique! — We are in Paris for a few days to visit our niece Evie, who is studying there. We have rented an apartment near the Marais, still a major centre of the Parisian Jewish community.

After we unpack, we pop to a local supermarket for a few basics — butter, milk, eggs etc. I am toying with the idea of having Parma ham and melon for breakfast the next morning, as The Husband usually relaxes his no-treif-past-the-threshold rule on holiday (only for me; he is a treif-free zone all year round, with no time off for good behaviour). But as I lift the packet of ham to give it a little affectionate pat before placing it in our basket, The Teen pipes up, “Oh, Mum — you’re not getting that, are you? Really?”

“Well, not if you’re bothered by it?”

The chaps band together, united in their anti-ham coalition, with further comments about how it would make them feel uncomfortable. Who knew that the snowflake generation extended over such a wide age range?

Anticipating what his dad will surely suggest any minute now as we have been here for almost a whole hour, The Teen says, “Please tell me we don’t have to visit the Jewish Museum, do we?”

The Husband takes being Jewish very seriously, and not just as a connoisseur of salt beef and haimische cucumbers. When he talks about being Jewish, or tries to explain to a non-Jew why we like to go to synagogue sometimes even though we are not Believers, he thumps his chest repeatedly. For Ben, it is all about Heart.

His Jewish identity is hard-wired into his DNA (of course) but it also informs almost every aspect of his being, from his taste in food to his rigorous sense of justice. If you were casting around to find a one-man exemplar of a true mensch, look no further.

Whenever we go on holiday to a city, we visit the Jewish museum if they have one, or “go for a wander” that mysteriously leads us to the former Jewish quarter. The Teen is used to meandering along back streets, looking for the ghostly outlines of long-gone mezuzahs (yes, I do know it’s mezuzot but that always sounds like some sort of snack).

Once, in Nice, Ben made us schlep in the scorching heat to visit the Jewish section of the cemetery. No, we didn’t have a single relative buried there. For over an hour, we looked at gravestones with Magen Davids on them when we could have been frolicking in the hotel swimming pool (The Teen) or sitting outside a café, sipping a chilled Chablis (me).

Oddly, Ben is almost equally enthusiastic about looking at churches, so he insists we visit Notre Dame. We were there just before the fire. The Teen objects: “Why are you so obsessed with visiting churches the whole time? We’re Jewish! It’s just weird.” My own reluctance possibly stems from too many mandatory church services while at my Christian primary school (I once vomited as a result of inhaling too much incense so the associations are not good).

Still The Husband prevails and luckily the queue is quite short.

Given that I have been to Paris probably a dozen times in my life, it is extraordinary that I have never visited Notre Dame before, but then I’ve never been up the Eiffel Tower either.

We enter and immediately I feel like a fool for never having been before. The stained-glass windows are quite breathtakingly beautiful and I gaze up at them in absolute awe like a small child. When we return to England and hear about the fire on the news, we are none of us surprised that Parisians are weeping on the streets.

As the gilets jaunes protests seem to have rather mislaid the spirit of “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité” and are now host to pockets of “When in doubt, blame the Jews” extremists, we steer clear of the Champs Élysées on Saturday, when they habitually protest. But on Sunday we walk along it and see just how many grand stores now have metal mesh screens in front of their expensive window displays. All the stores have security guards at the door, though of course that’s probably more to do with deranged terrorists than the gilets jaunes —great to have a choice of options to worry about while on holiday …

It reminds me that one of our local Jewish shops back home has clearly had a brick thrown at its glass door. You can see the broken glass beneath a layer of clear plastic film to hold it in place.

It’s been like that for a few weeks. Every time I pop in for yet another box of matzahs (why “the bread of affliction”? The Teen can’t get enough of them.), I wonder if they haven’t had the glass replaced because a) they think it will just get smashed again or b) it’s a sobering reminder to all of us not to take our freedom and sense of security for granted.

Liberté, egalité, fraternité — but keep your eyes open.

Zelda Leon is half-Jewish by birth then did half a conversion course as an adult (half-measures in all things….) to affirm her Jewish status before a Rabbinical Board. She is a member of a Reform synagogue. Zelda Leon is a pseudonym.