Sarah's Key (26 page)

I had waited for her call all day. Nothing. I kept checking my mobile, making sure the batteries were charged, that it was turned on properly. Still nothing. Maybe Gaspard Dufaure was not interested in talking to a journalist about Sarah. Maybe I had not been persuasive enough. Maybe I had been too persuasive. Maybe I shouldn’t have said I was a journalist. I should have said a friend of the family. But no, I couldn’t say that. It wasn’t true. I couldn’t lie. I didn’t want to.

Aschères-le-Marché. I had looked it up on a map. A small village halfway between Orléans and Pithiviers, the sister camp to Beaune-la-Rolande, not far away, either. It was not Jules and Geneviève’s old address. So it had not been where Sarah had spent ten years of her life.

I grew impatient. Should I call Nathalie Dufaure back? As I was toying with the idea, the mobile rang. I grabbed it, breathed,
“Allô?”
It was my husband, calling from Brussels. I felt disappointment jab my nerves.

I realized I did not want to talk to Bertrand. What could I say to him?

T

HE NIGHT HAD BEEN brief and restless. At dawn, a matronly nurse had appeared, a folded blue paper gown in her arms. I would be needing it for “the operation.” She smiled. There was also a blue paper bonnet and blue paper shoes. She would come back in half an hour, and I’d be wheeled straight to the operation room. She reminded me, still with the same hearty smile, that I was not allowed to drink or eat anything because of the anesthesia. She left, closing the door gently. I wondered how many women she was going to wake up this morning with that smile, how many pregnant women about to have a baby scraped out of their womb. Like me.

I put the gown on, docile. The paper felt itchy next to my skin. There was nothing else to do but wait. I turned the television on, zapped to LCI, the nonstop news channel. I watched, not concentrating. My mind felt numb. Blank. In an hour or so, it would be over. Was I ready for this? Could I cope with it? Was I strong enough? I felt incapable of answering those questions. I could only lie there in my paper dress and paper hat, and wait. Wait to be wheeled into the operating room. Wait to be put to sleep. Wait for the doctor to perform. I didn’t want to think about the exact movements he was going to undertake within me, between my opened thighs. I blocked the thought out, fast, focused on a svelte blonde making professional, sweeping motions with manicured hands over a map of France dotted with sunny round faces. I remembered the last session with the therapist, a week ago. Bertrand’s hand on my knee. “No, we do not want this child. We both agree.” I had remained silent. The therapist had looked at me. Had I nodded? I couldn’t remember. I remember feeling sedated, hypnotized. And then Bertrand, in the car: “That was the right thing to do,
amour.
You’ll see. It will soon be over.” And the way he had kissed me, passionate, heated.

The blonde vanished. An anchorman appeared, and the familiar jingle for the newsreel was heard. “Today, July 16, 2002, marks the sixtieth anniversary of the Vélodrome d’Hiver roundup, in which thousands of Jewish families were arrested by the French police. A black moment in France’s past.”

Quickly, I put up the sound. As the camera zoomed along the rue Nélaton, I thought of Sarah, wherever she was now. She would remember today. She didn’t need to be reminded. Ever. For her, and for all those families who had lost loved ones, July 16 was not to be forgotten, and this morning, of all mornings, they would open eyelids heavy with pain. I wanted to tell her, tell them, tell all these people—how? I thought, feeling helpless, useless—I wanted to shout, to scream out to her, to them, that I knew, that I remembered, and that I could not forget.

Several survivors—some of whom I had already met and interviewed—were shown in front of the Vel’ d’Hiv’ plaque. I realized I had not yet seen this week’s issue of
Seine Scenes
with my article in it. It was out today. I decided to leave a message on Bamber’s mobile, asking him to have a copy sent to the clinic. I turned on my phone, eyes riveted to the television. Franck Lévy’s grave face appeared. He talked about the commemoration. It was going to be more important than the previous years, he pointed out. The phone beeped, telling me I had voice mail. One message was from Bertrand, late last night, telling me he loved me.

The next one was from Nathalie Dufaure. She was sorry to be calling so late, she hadn’t been able to phone before. She had good news: her grandfather was intent on meeting me, he had said he could tell me all about Sarah Dufaure. He had seemed so excited that Nathalie’s curiosity had been aroused. Her animated voice drowned out Franck Lévy’s level tones: “If you want, I could take you to Aschères tomorrow, Tuesday, I could drive you there, no problem. I really want to hear what Papy has to say. Please phone me, so we can meet somewhere.”

My heart was beating fast, almost painfully. The anchorman was back on the screen, presenting another topic. It was too early to call Nathalie Dufaure now. I’d have to wait a couple of hours. My feet danced with anticipation in their paper slippers. “. . . tell me all about Sarah Dufaure.” What did Gaspard Dufaure have to say? What would I learn?

A knock on the door startled me. The nurse’s garish smile jolted me back to reality.

“Time to go, Madame,” she said briskly, showing teeth and gums.

I heard the stretcher’s rubbery wheels squeak outside the door.

All of a sudden, everything was perfectly clear. It had never been so clear, so easy.

I got up, faced her.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I’ve changed my mind.”

I pulled the paper bonnet off. She stared at me, unblinking.

“But Madame—,” she began.

I tore the paper dress open. The nurse averted shocked eyes from my sudden nudity.

“The doctors are waiting,” she said.

“I don’t care,” I said, firmly. “I’m not going to do this. I want to keep this baby.”

Her mouth quivered with indignation.

“I will send the doctor to see you immediately.”

She turned and walked away. I heard the click of her sandals along the linoleum, sharp with disapproval. I slipped a denim dress over my head, stepped into my shoes, seized my bag and left the room. As I scrambled down the stairs, past startled nurses carrying breakfast trays, I realized I’d left my toothbrush, towels, shampoo, soap, deodorant, makeup kit and face cream in the bathroom. So what, I thought, rushing through the prim, tidy entrance, so what! So what!

The street was empty with that fresh, gleaming look Parisian sidewalks boast early in the morning. I hailed a taxi and rode home.

July 16, 2002.

My baby. My baby was safe within me. I wanted to laugh and cry. I did. The taxi driver eyed me several times in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t care. I was going to have this baby.

I

MADE A ROUGH ESTIMATE, counting over two thousand people grouped by the Seine, along the Bir-Hakeim bridge. The survivors. The families. Children, grandchildren. Rabbis. The mayor of the city. The prime minister. The minister of defense. Numerous politicians. Journalists. Photographers. Franck Lévy. Thousands of flowers, a soaring marquee, a white platform. An impressive gathering. Guillaume stood by my side, his face solemn, his eyes downcast.

Fleetingly, I recalled the old lady from the rue Nélaton. What was it she had said? “Nobody remembers. Why should they? Those were the darkest days of our country.”

I suddenly wished she could be here now, gazing at the hundreds of silent, emotional faces around me. From the stand, a beautiful middle-aged woman with thick auburn hair sang. Her clear voice rose above the roar of the nearby traffic. Then the prime minister began his speech.

“Sixty years ago, right here, in Paris, but also throughout France, the appalling tragedy began to take place. The march toward horror was speeding up. Already, the Shoah’s shadow darkened the innocent people herded into the Vélodrome d’Hiver. This year, like every year, we are gathered together in this place to remember. So as to forget nothing of the persecutions, the hunting down, and shattered destiny of so many French Jews.”

An old man on my left took a handkerchief from his pocket and wept noiselessly. My heart went out to him. Who was he crying for? I wondered. Who had he lost? As the prime minister went on, my eyes moved over the crowd. Was there anyone here who knew and remembered Sarah Starzynski? Was she here herself? Right now, at this very moment? Was she here with a husband, a child, a grandchild? Behind me, in front of me? I carefully picked out women in their seventies, scanning wrinkled, solemn faces for the slanted green eyes. But I did not feel comfortable ogling these grieving strangers. I lowered my gaze. The prime minister’s voice seemed to gain in strength and clarity, booming out over us.

“Yes, Vel’ d’Hiv’, Drancy, and all the transit camps, those antechambers of death, were organized, run, and guarded by Frenchmen. Yes, the first act of the Shoah took place right here, with the complicity of the French State.”

The many faces around me appeared to be serene, listening to the prime minister. I watched them as he continued with the same powerful voice. But every one of those faces contained sorrow. Sorrow that could never be erased. The prime minister’s speech was applauded for a long time. I noticed people crying, hugging each other.

Still with Guillaume, I went to speak to Franck Lévy, who was carrying a copy of
Seine Scenes
under his arm. He greeted me warmly, introduced us to a couple of journalists. A few moments later, we left. I told Guillaume I had found out who lived in the Tézac apartment, that somehow this had brought me closer to my father-in-law, who had kept a dark secret for over sixty years. And that I was trying to trace Sarah, the little girl who had escaped from Beaune-la-Rolande.

In half an hour, I was meeting Nathalie Dufaure in front of the Pasteur
métro
station. She was going to drive me to Orléans, to her grandfather. Guillaume kissed me warmly and hugged me. He said he wished me luck.

As I crossed the busy avenue, my palm caressed my stomach. If I had not left the clinic this morning, I would have been regaining consciousness by now in my cozy apricot room, watched over by the beaming nurse. A dainty breakfast—croissant, jam, and café au lait—and I would have left the place alone in the afternoon, a little unsteadily, a sanitary pad between my legs, a dull pain in my lower abdomen. A void in my mind and in my heart.

I had not heard a word from Bertrand. Had the clinic telephoned him to inform him I’d left before the abortion? I did not know. He was still in Brussels, due back tonight.

I wondered how I’d tell him. How he would take it.

As I walked down the avenue Émile Zola, anxious not to be late for Nathalie Dufaure, I wondered if I still cared about what Bertrand thought, about what Bertrand felt? The unsettling thought frightened me.

W

HEN I GOT BACK from Orléans in the early evening, the apartment felt hot and stuffy. I went to open a window, leaned out to the noisy boulevard du Montparnasse. It was strange to imagine that we’d soon be leaving for the quiet rue de Saintonge. We had spent twelve years here. Zoë had never lived anywhere else. It would be our last summer here, I thought fleetingly. I had grown fond of this apartment, the sunlight coming in every afternoon into the large white living room, the Luxembourg Garden just down the rue Vavin, the easiness of being situated in one of Paris’s most active arrondissements, one of the places you could actually feel the city’s heartbeat, its rapid, exciting pulse.