Sarah's Key (17 page)

Edouard asked how Zoë was doing, how the apartment was coming along. And then he got to the point. He had been to see Mamé yesterday. It had been a “bad” day, he added. Mamé was in one of her sulks. He had been about to leave her pouting at her television, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, she had said something about me.

“And what was that?” I asked, curious.

Edouard cleared his throat.

“My mother said that you had been asking her all sorts of questions about the rue de Saintonge apartment.”

I took a deep breath.

“Well, that’s true, I did,” I admitted. I wondered what he was getting at.

Silence.

“Julia, I prefer that you don’t ask Mamé anything about the rue de Saintonge.”

He spoke suddenly in English, as if he wanted to be perfectly sure I understood.

Stung, I replied in French.

“I’m sorry, Edouard. It’s just that I’m researching the Vel’ d’Hiv’ roundup at the moment for the magazine. I was surprised at the coincidence.”

Another silence.

“The coincidence?” he repeated, using French again.

“Well, yes,” I said, “about the Jewish family who lived there just before your family moved in and who were arrested during the roundup. I think Mamé was upset when she told me about it. So I stopped asking her questions.”

“Thank you, Julia,” he said. He paused. “It
does
upset Mamé. Don’t mention it to her again, please.”

I halted in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Ok, I won’t,” I said, “but I didn’t mean any harm, I only wanted to know how your family ended up in that apartment, and if Mamé knew anything about the Jewish family. Do you, Edouard? Do you know anything?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he replied smoothly. “I must go, now. Good-bye, Julia.”

The line went dead.

He had puzzled me to such an extent that for a brief moment, I forgot about Bertrand and last night. Had Mamé really complained to Edouard about my questioning her? I remembered how she had no longer wanted to answer me that day. How she had shut up, not opening her mouth once till I had left, baffled. Why had Mamé been so upset? Why were Mamé and Edouard so intent on me not asking questions about the apartment? What did they not want me to know?

Bertrand and the baby came back down on my shoulders with a heavy weight. All of a sudden, I couldn’t face going to the office. Alessandra’s curious gaze. She would be inquisitive, as usual, she would ask questions. Trying to be friendly, but failing. Bamber and Joshua glancing at my swollen face. Bamber, a true gentleman, would not say a thing, but would discreetly squeeze my shoulder. And Joshua. He would be the worst. “Well now, sugar plum, what’s the drama? Ze French husband, again?” I could almost see his sardonic grin, handing me a cup of coffee. There was no way I could go to the office this morning.

I headed back up toward the Arc de Triomphe, picking my impatient but deft way through the hordes of tourists walking along at a sluggish pace, gazing up the arch and pausing for photos. I took my address book out and dialed Franck Lévy’s association. I asked if I could come now, and not this afternoon. I was told there was no problem. Now was perfect. It wasn’t far, just off the avenue Hoche. It only took me ten minutes to get there. Once off the engorged artery of the Champs-Élysées, the other avenues springing out from the Place de l’Étoile were surprisingly empty.

Franck Lévy was in his mid-sixties, I guessed. There was something profound, noble, and weary about his face. We went into his office, a high-ceilinged room filled with books, files, computers, photographs. I let my eyes linger over the black-and-white prints hung on the wall. Babies. Toddlers. Children wearing the star.

“Many of these are Vel’ d’Hiv’ children,” he said, following my gaze. “But there are others, too. All part of the eleven thousand children deported from France.”

We sat down at his desk. I had e-mailed him a couple of questions before our interview.

“You wanted to know about the Loiret camps?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Beaune-la-Rolande and Pithiviers. There’s a lot more information available about Drancy, which is nearer to Paris. Much less on the other two.”

Franck Lévy sighed.

“You’re right. There’s little to be found about the Loiret camps compared with Drancy. And you’ll see, when you go there, there’s not much there that explains exactly what happened. The people who live there don’t want to remember either. They don’t want to talk. Also, there were few survivors.”

I looked again at the photos, at the rows of small, vulnerable faces.

“What were these camps in the first place?” I asked.

“They were standard military camps built in 1939 for imprisoning German soldiers. But under the Vichy government, Jews were sent there as from 1941. In ’42, the first direct trains to Auschwitz left Beaune-la-Rolande and Pithiviers.”

“Why weren’t the Vel’ d’Hiv’ families sent to Drancy, in the Paris suburbs?”

Franck Lévy gave a bleak smile.

“The Jews without children were sent to Drancy after the roundup. Drancy is close to Paris. The other camps were more than an hour away. Lost in the middle of the quiet Loiret countryside. And it was there, in all discretion, that the French police separated the children from their parents. They could not have done that so easily in Paris. You have read about their brutality I suppose?”

“There is not much to read.”

The bleak smile faded.

“You’re right. Not much to read. But we know how it happened. I have a couple of books you’re welcome to borrow. The children were torn from the mothers. Bludgeoned, beaten, drenched with cold water.”

My eyes wandered once more over the little faces in the photos. I thought of Zoë, alone, torn from me and Bertrand. Alone and hungry and dirty. I shivered.

“Those four thousand Vel’ d’Hiv’ children were a severe headache for the French authorities,” said Franck Lévy. “The Nazis had asked for the adults to be deported immediately. Not the children. The strict programming of the trains was not to be altered. Hence the brutal separation from the mothers in the beginning of August.”

“And then, what happened to those children?” I asked.

“Their parents were deported from the Loiret camps straight to Auschwitz. The children were left practically alone in horrifying sanitary conditions. Mid-August, the decision from Berlin came through. The children were to be deported as well. However, in order to avoid suspicion, the children were to be sent to Drancy, and then on to Poland, mixing with unknown adults from the Drancy camp, so that the public opinion would think these children were not alone, traveling east with their families to some Jewish work reserve.”

Franck Lévy paused, looking as I did at the photographs hung along the wall.

“When those children arrived in Auschwitz, there was no ‘selection’ for them. No lining up with the men and the women. No checking to see who was strong, who was sick, who could work, who could not. They were sent directly to the gas chambers.”

“By the French government, on French buses, on French trains,” I added.

Maybe it was because I was pregnant, because my hormones had gone awry, or because I hadn’t slept, but I suddenly felt devastated.

I stared at the photos, stricken.

Franck Lévy watched me in silence. Then he got up and put a hand on my shoulder.

T

HE GIRL FELL UPON the food that was placed in front of her, cramming it into her mouth with slurping noises her mother would have detested. It was heaven. It seemed she had never tasted such savory, delicious soup. Such fresh, soft bread. Creamy, rich Brie cheese. Succulent, velvety peaches. Rachel ate more slowly. Glancing across at her, the girl saw that Rachel was pale. Her hands were trembling, her eyes feverish.

The elderly couple were bustling about the kitchen, pouring out more
potage,
filling glasses with fresh water. The girl heard their soft, gentle questions, but could not bring herself to answer them. It was only later, when Geneviève took her and Rachel upstairs for a bath, that she began to talk. She told her about the big place they were all taken to and locked in for days with hardly any water, any food, then the train ride through the countryside, the camp, and the horrible separation from her parents. And finally, the escape.

The old lady listened, nodded, deftly undressing the glassy-eyed Rachel. The girl watched as the bony body emerged, covered with angry red blisters. The old lady shook her head, appalled.

“What have they done to you?” she murmured.

Rachel’s eyes barely flickered. The old woman helped Rachel slide into the warm soapy water. She washed her like the girl’s mother used to bathe her little brother.

Then Rachel was wrapped up in a large towel and carried into a nearby bed.

“Your turn, now,” said Geneviève, running a fresh bath. “What’s your name, little one? You never told me.”

“Sirka,” said the girl.

“What a pretty name!” said Geneviève, handing her a clean sponge, and the soap. She noticed the girl was shy about being naked in front of her, so she turned around to let her undress and slip into the water. The girl washed herself carefully, reveling in the hot water, then she nimbly climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in a deliciously soft lavender-scented towel.

Geneviève was busy washing the girls’ filthy clothes in the large enamel sink. The girl watched her for a while, then she timidly put her hand on the old lady’s plump, round arm.

“Madame, could you help me get back to Paris?”

The old lady, startled, turned to look at her.

“You want to go back to Paris,
petite
?”

The girl began to shake from head to foot. The old woman stared at her, concerned. She left the washing in the sink and toweled her hands dry.

“What is it, Sirka?”

The girl’s lips began to tremble.

“My little brother, Michel. He is still in the apartment. In Paris. He is locked in a cupboard, in our special hiding place. He has been there since the day the police came to get us. I thought he’d be safe there. I promised to come back and save him.”

Geneviève looked down at her with concern, tried to steady her by putting her hands on the bony little shoulders.

“Sirka, how long has your little brother been in the cupboard?”

“I don’t know,” the girl whispered dully. “I can’t remember. I can’t remember!”

All of a sudden, every ounce of hope she still harbored within her ran out. In the old lady’s eyes she read what she most dreaded. Michel was dead. Dead in the cupboard. She knew. It was too late. She had waited too long. He had not survived. He had not made it. He had died there, all alone, in the dark, with no food and no water, just the bear and the storybook, and he had trusted her, he had waited, he had probably called out to her, screamed her name again and again, “Sirka, Sirka, where are you! Where are you?” He was dead, Michel was dead. He was four years old, and he was dead, because of her. If she had not locked him up that day, he could have been here, right now, she could be bathing him now, this instant. She should have watched over him, she should have brought him here to safety. It was her fault. It was all her fault.

The girl crumpled to the floor, a broken being. Wave after wave of despair washed over her. Never in her short life had she known such acute pain. She felt Geneviève gather her close, stroke her shorn head, murmur words of comfort. She let herself go, surrendered herself completely to the kind old arms that encircled her. Then she felt the sweet sensation of a soft mattress and clean sheets enveloping her. She fell into a strange, troubled slumber.

She awoke early, feeling lost, confused. She could not remember where she was. It had been strange, sleeping in a real bed after all those nights in the barracks. She went to the window. The shutters were slightly ajar, revealing a large, sweet-smelling garden. Hens roamed across the lawn, chased by the playful dog. On a wrought-iron bench, a plump ginger cat slowly licked its paws clean. The girl heard birds singing, a rooster crowing. A nearby cow mooing. It was a sunny, fresh morning. The girl thought she had never seen a lovelier, more peaceful place. The war, the hatred, the horror seemed far away. The garden and the flowers, and the trees, and all the animals, none of these things could ever be tainted by the evil she had witnessed in the past weeks.

She examined the clothes she was wearing. A white night dress, a little too long for her. She wondered who it belonged to. Maybe the elderly couple had children, or grandchildren. She looked around at the spacious room. It was simple but comfortable. There was a bookshelf near the door. She went to look at it. Her favorites were there, Jules Verne, the Comtesse de Ségur. On the flyleaves, a juvenile, scholarly handwriting: Nicolas Dufaure. She wondered who he was.

She went down the creaking, wooden stairs, following the murmur of voices she heard from the kitchen. The house was quiet and welcoming, in a shabby, unceremonious way. Her feet glided over square wine-red tiles. She glanced into a sunny living room that smelled of beeswax and lavender. A tall grandfather clock ticked solemnly away.