Sarah's Key (16 page)

He laughed, amused.

“You look like Zoë! Does she know what the special surprise is?”

I shook my head, feeling more and more excited.

“Nope. No one knows. No one except . . . me.”

I reached out and took one of his hands. Smooth, tanned skin.

“Bertrand—,” I said.

The waiter hovered above us. We decided to order. It was done in a minute,
confit de canard
for me and
cassoulet
for Bertrand. Asparagus for starters.

I watched the waiter’s back retreat toward the kitchens, then I said it. Very fast.

“I’m going to have a baby.”

I scrutinized his face. I waited for the mouth to tilt upward, the eyes to open wide with delight. But each muscle of his face remained motionless, like a mask. His eyes flickered back at me.

“A baby?” he echoed.

I pressed his hand.

“Isn’t it wonderful? Bertrand, isn’t it wonderful?”

He said nothing. I couldn’t understand.

“How pregnant are you?” he asked, finally.

“I just found out,” I murmured, worried by his stoniness.

He rubbed his eyes, something he always did when he was tired, or upset. He said nothing, I didn’t either.

The silence stretched out between us like mist. I could almost feel it with my fingers.

The waiter came to bring the first course. Neither of us touched our asparagus.

“What’s wrong?” I said, unable to bear it any longer.

He sighed, shook his head, rubbed his eyes again.

“I thought you’d be happy, thrilled,” I continued, tears welling.

He rested his chin on his hand, looked at me.

“Julia, I had given up.”

“But so had I! Completely given up.”

His eyes were grave. I did not like the finality in them.

“What do you mean,” I said, “just because you had given up, then you can’t . . . ?”

“Julia. I’m going to be fifty in less than three years.”

“So what?” I said, cheeks burning.

“I don’t want to be an old father,” he said quietly.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said.

Silence.

“We can’t keep this baby, Julia,” he said, gently. “We have another life now. Zoë will soon be a teenager. You are forty-five. Our life is not the same. A baby would not fit into our life.”

The tears came now, splashing down my face, into my food.

“Are you trying to tell me,” I choked, “are you trying to tell me that I have to get an abortion?”

The family at the next table stared overtly. I did not give a damn.

As usual, in times of crisis, I had reverted back to my maternal tongue. No French was possible at a moment like this.

“An abortion, after three miscarriages?” I said, shaking.

His face was sad. Tender and sad. I wanted to slap it, to kick it.

But I could not. I could only cry into my napkin. He stroked my hair, murmured over and over again that he loved me.

I shut his voice out.

W

HEN THE CHILDREN AWOKE, the night had fallen. The forest was no longer the peaceful, leafy place they had wandered through that afternoon. It was large, stark, full of strange noises. Slowly, they made their way through the bracken, hand in hand, pausing at every sound. It seemed to them the night grew blacker and blacker. Deeper and deeper. They walked on. The girl thought she was going to drop with exhaustion. But Rachel’s warm hand encouraged her.

They at last came to a wide path weaving across flat meadows. The forest loomed away. They looked up at a somber, moonless sky.

“Look,” said Rachel, pointing ahead of her. “A car.”

They saw headlights shine through the night. Headlights that were darkened with black paint, only letting a strip of light through. They heard the noisy engine approaching.

“What shall we do?” said Rachel. “Shall we stop it?”

The girl saw another pair of overshadowed headlights, then another. It was a long line of cars coming closer.

“Get down,” she whispered, pulling at Rachel’s skirt. “Quick!”

There were no bushes to hide behind. She lay flat out on her stomach, her chin in the dirt.

“Why? What are you doing?” asked Rachel.

Then she, too, understood.

Soldiers. German soldiers. Patrolling in the night.

Rachel scrambled down next to the girl.

The cars drew near, powerful engines rumbling. The girls could make out the shiny, round helmets of the men in the muted light of the headlights. They are going to see us, thought the girl. We cannot hide. There is no place to hide, they are going to see us.

The first jeep rolled by, followed by the others. Thick, white dust blew into the girls’ eyes. They tried not to cough, not to move. The girl lay face down in the dirt, her hands over her ears. The line of cars seemed endless. Would the men see their dark shapes by the side of the dirt road? She braced herself for the shouts, the cars stopping, doors slamming, fast footsteps and rough hands on their shoulders.

But the last cars went by, droning in the night. Silence returned. They looked up. The dirt road was empty, save for clouds of billowing white dust. They waited a moment, then crept down the path, going in the opposite direction. A light shimmered through trees. A white beckoning light. They drew nearer, keeping to the sides of the road. They opened a gate, walked stealthily up to a house. It looked like a farm, thought the girl. Through the open window, they saw a woman reading by the fireplace, a man smoking a pipe. A rich smell of food wafted by their nostrils.

Without hesitating, Rachel knocked on the door. A cotton curtain was pulled back. The woman who looked at them through the glass pane had a long, bony face. She stared at the girls, pulled the curtain back again. She did not open the door. Rachel knocked again.

“Please, Madame, we would like some food, some water.”

The curtain did not move. The girls went to stand in front of the open window. The man with the pipe got up from his chair.

“Go away,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “Get away from here.”

Behind him, the bony-faced woman looked on, silent.

“Please, some water,” said the girl.

The window was slammed shut.

The girl felt like crying. How could these farmers be so cruel? There was bread on the table, she had seen it. There was a pitcher of water, too. Rachel dragged her on. They went back to the winding dirt road. There were more farm houses. Each time, the same thing happened. They were sent away. Each time, they fled.

It was late now. They were tired, hungry, they could hardly walk. They came to a large, old house, a little off the dirt road, lit by a high lamppost, shining down on them. Its façade was covered with ivy. They didn’t dare knock. In front of the house, they noticed a large empty dog shed. They crept inside. It was clean and warm. It had a comforting, dog-like smell. There was a bowl of water and an old bone. They lapped up the water, one after the other. The girl was frightened the dog might come back and bite them. She whispered this to Rachel. But Rachel had already fallen asleep, curled up like a little animal. The girl looked down at her exhausted face, the thin cheeks, the hollow eye sockets. Rachel looked like an old woman.

The girl dozed fitfully, leaning against Rachel. She had a strange and horrible dream. She dreamed of her brother, dead in the closet. She dreamed of her parents being hit by the police. She moaned in her sleep.

Furious barks startled her awake. She nudged Rachel, hard. They heard a man’s voice, steps coming closer. The gravel crunched. It was too late to slip out. They could only hold on to each other in despair. Now we are dead, thought the girl. Now we are going to be killed.

The dog was held back by its master. She felt a hand grope inside, grasp her arm, Rachel’s arm. They slithered out.

The man was small, wizened, with a bald head and a silver mustache.

“Now what do we have here?” he murmured, peering at them in the glare of the lamppost.

The girl felt Rachel stiffen, guessed she was going to take off, fast, like a rabbit.

“Are you lost?” asked the old man. His voice seemed concerned.

The children were startled. They had expected threats, blows, anything but kindness.

“Please, sir, we are very hungry,” said Rachel.

The man nodded.

“I can see that.”

He bent to silence the whining dog. Then he said, “Come in, children. Follow me.”

Neither of the girls moved. Could they trust this old man?

“Nobody will hurt you here,” he said.

They huddled together, fearful still.

The man smiled, a kind, gentle smile.

“Geneviève!” he called, twisting back to the house.

An elderly woman wearing a blue dressing gown appeared in the large doorway.

“What is that idiotic dog of yours barking at now, Jules?” she asked, annoyed. Then she saw the children. Her hands fluttered to her cheeks.

“Heavens above,” she murmured.

She came nearer. She had a placid, round face and a thick, white braid. She gazed at the children with pity and dismay.

The girl’s heart leaped. The old lady looked like the photograph of her grandmother from Poland. The same light-colored eyes, white hair, the same comforting plumpness.

“Jules,” the elderly lady whispered, “are they–”

The old man nodded.

“Yes, I think so.”

The old lady said, firmly, “They must come in. They must be hidden at once.”

She waddled down to the dirt road, peered both ways.

“Quick, children, come now,” she said, holding out her hands. “You are safe here. You are safe with us.”

T

HE NIGHT HAD BEEN dreadful. I woke up puffy-faced with lack of sleep. I was glad Zoë had already left for school. I would have hated for her to see me now. Bertrand was kind, tender. He said we needed to talk it over some more. We could do so that evening, once Zoë was asleep. He said all this perfectly calmly, with great gentleness. I could tell he had made up his mind. Nothing or no one was going to make him want me to have this child.

I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it yet to my friends or to my sister. Bertrand’s choice had disturbed me to such an extent that I preferred to keep it to myself, at least for the time being.

It was difficult to get going this morning. Everything I did felt laborious. Every movement was an effort. I kept having flashbacks of last night. Of what he had said. There was no other solution but to throw myself into work. That afternoon, I was to meet Franck Lévy in his office. The Vel’ d’Hiv’ seemed far away all of a sudden. I felt like I had aged overnight. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, nothing except the child I carried and that my husband did not want.

I was on my way to the office when my cell phone rang. It was Guillaume. He had found a couple of those out-of-print books I needed concerning the Vel’ d’Hiv’, at his grandmother’s place. He could lend them to me. Could I meet him later on in the day, or that evening, for a drink? His voice was cheerful, friendly. I said yes immediately. We agreed to meet at six o’clock, at the Select on the boulevard du Montparnasse, two minutes away from home. We said good-bye, and then my phone rang again.

It was my father-in-law this time. I was surprised. Edouard rarely called me. We got on, in that French polite way. We both excelled at mutual small talk. But I was never truly comfortable with him. I always felt as if he was holding something back, never showing his feelings, to me, or to anybody else for that matter.

The kind of man one listens to. The kind of man one looks up to. I could not imagine him showing any other emotion apart from anger, pride, and self-satisfaction. I never saw Edouard wearing jeans, even during those Burgundy weekends when he would sit in the garden under the oak tree reading Rousseau. I don’t think I ever saw him without a tie, either. I remembered the first time I met him. He hadn’t changed much in the last seventeen years. The same regal posture, silver hair, steely eyes. My father-in-law was overly fond of cooking, and was constantly shooing Colette away from the kitchen, turning out simple, delicious meals—pot-au-feu, onion soup, a savory ratatouille, or a truffle omelet. The only person allowed in the kitchen with him was Zoë. He had a soft spot for Zoë, although Cécile and Laure had both produced boys, Arnaud and Louis. He adored my daughter. I never knew what went on during their cooking sessions. Behind the closed door, I could hear Zoë’s giggle, and vegetables being chopped, water bubbling, fat hissing in a pan, and Edouard’s occasional deep rumble of a chuckle.