Was Bertrand really going through a crisis? If that was the case, I had not seen it coming. How was that possible? I simply thought he was being selfish, that he was thinking of himself, as usual. I had told him that, during our talk. I had told him everything that was on my mind. How could he impose abortion after the numerous miscarriages I had gone through, after the pain, the crushed hope, the despair? Did he love me? I had asked, desperate. Did he truly love me? He had looked at me, nodding his head. Of course he loved me. How could I be so stupid? he had said. He loved me. And his broken voice came back to me, the stilted way he had admitted his fear of growing old. A midlife crisis. Maybe the doctor was right, after all. And maybe I hadn't realized it because I had so many things on my mind in the past few months. I felt totally lost. Incapable of dealing with Bertrand and his anxiety.
My doctor had informed me I did not have much time to make my mind up. I was already six weeks pregnant. If I was to abort, I would have to do it within the next two weeks. Tests had to be done, a clinic had to be found. She suggested we talk about it, Bertrand and I, with a marriage counselor. We had to discuss it, we had to bring it out into the open. "If you abort against your will," my doctor had pointed out, "you will never forgive him. And if you don't, he has admitted to you how much this is an intolerable situation for him. This all needs to be worked out, and fast."
She was right. But I could not bring myself to speed things up. Every minute I earned was sixty seconds more for this child. A child I already loved. It wasn't even bigger than a lima bean and I loved it as much as I loved Zoe.
I went to Isabelle's place. She lived in a small, colorful duplex on the rue de Tolbiac. I felt I just couldn't come home from the office and wait for my husband's return. I couldn't face it. I called Elsa, the babysitter, and asked her to take over. Isabelle made me some crottin de chavignol toasts and threw together a quick, delicate salad. Her husband was away on a business trip. "OK, cocotte," she said, sitting in front of me and smoking away from me, "try to visualize life without Bertrand. To imagine it. The divorce. The lawyers. The aftermath. What it would do to Zoe. What your lives will be like. Separate homes. Separate existences. Zoe going from you to him. From him to you. No longer a real family. No longer breakfast together, Christmas together, vacations together. Can you do this? Can you imagine this?"
I stared at her. It seemed unthinkable. Impossible. And yet, it happened so often. Zoe was practically the only child in her class with parents who'd been married for fifteen years. I told Isabelle I couldn't talk about it anymore. She offered me some chocolate mousse and we watched Les Demoiselles de Rochefort on her DVD player. When I got home, Bertrand was in the shower and Zoe in the land of Nod. I crawled into bed. My husband went to watch television in the living room. By the time he got to bed, I was fast asleep.
Today was "visiting Mame" day. For the first time, I nearly telephoned to cancel. I felt drained. I wanted to stay in bed and sleep all morning. But I knew she would be waiting for me. I knew she would be wearing her best gray-and-lavender dress and her ruby lipstick and her Shalimar perfume. I couldn't let her down. When I turned up just before noon, I noticed my father-in-law's silver Mercedes parked in the courtyard of the nursing home. That unnerved me.
He was here because he wanted to see me. He never came to visit his mother at the same time as me. We all had our specific schedules. Laure and Cecile came on weekends, Colette on Monday afternoons, Edouard on Tuesdays and Fridays, I generally came on Wednesday afternoons with Zoe, and alone on Thursdays at midday. And we each stuck to our schedules.
Sure enough, there he was, sitting very straight, listening to his mother. She had just finished her lunch, always served ridiculously early. I felt nervous, all of a sudden, like a guilty schoolgirl. What did he want with me? Couldn't he just pick up his phone and call me if he wanted to see me? Why wait till now?
Masking all resentment and anxiety behind a warm smile, I kissed him on both cheeks and sat next to Mame, taking her hand, as I always did. I half expected him to leave, but he stayed on, watching us with a genial expression. It was uncomfortable. I felt like my privacy had been invaded, that every single word I said to Mame was listened to and judged.
After half an hour, he got up, glancing at his watch. He darted a strange smile at me.
"I need to talk to you, Julia, please," he murmured, lowering his voice so that Mame's old ears wouldn't hear. I noticed he seemed nervous all of a sudden, shuffling his feet, glancing at me with impatience. So I kissed Mame farewell and followed him to his car. He made a motion for me to get in. He sat down next to me, fingered the keys, but did not turn on the ignition. I waited, surprised by the anxious movement of his fingers. The silence thrived, full and heavy. I looked around us at the paved courtyard, watching nurses wheel helpless old people in and out of the premises.
Finally he spoke.
"How are you?" he asked, with the same forced smile.
"All right," I answered. "And you?"
"I am fine. And so is Colette."
Another silence.
"I spoke to Zoe last night while you were out," he said, not looking at me.
I studied his profile, the imperial nose, the regal chin.
"Yes?" I said, warily.
"She told me you'd been doing research--"
He halted, the keys jingling in his hands.
"Research about the apartment," he said, finally turning his eyes to mine.
I nodded.
"Yes, I found out who lived there before you moved in. Zoe probably told you that."
He sighed, and his chin sagged upon his chest, small folds of flesh covering his collar.
"Julia, I had warned you, remember?"
My blood began to pump faster.
"You told me to stop asking Mame questions," I said, my voice blunt. "And that is what I did."
"Then why did you have to go on prying into the past?" he asked. His face had gone ashen. He was breathing painfully, as if it hurt him.
So it was out now. Now I knew why he had wanted to talk to me today.
"I found out who lived there," I went on heatedly, "and that's all. I had to know who they were. I don't know anything else. I don't know what your family had to do with the whole business--"
"Nothing!" he interrupted, nearly shouting. "We had nothing to do with that family's arrest."
I remained silent, staring at him. He was trembling, but I could not tell whether it was anger, or something else.
"We had nothing to do with that family's arrest," he repeated forcefully. "They were taken away during the Vel' d'Hiv' roundup. We never turned them in, did anything like that, do you understand?"
I looked back at him, shocked.
"Edouard, I never imagined such a thing. Never!"
He tried to recover his calm, smoothing his brow with nervous fingers.
"You were asking many questions, Julia. You were being very curious. Let me tell you how it happened. Listen to me. There was that concierge, Madame Royer. She was friendly with our concierge, when we lived on the rue de Turenne, not far from the rue de Saintonge. Madame Royer was fond of Mame. Mame was nice to her. She's the one who told my parents the apartment was free in the first place. The rent was good, cheap. It was bigger than our place on rue de Turenne. That's how it happened. That's how we moved in. That's all!"
I continued to stare at him and he continued to tremble. I had never seen him look so distraught, so lost. I touched his sleeve tentatively.
"Are you all right, Edouard?" I asked. His body shook beneath my hand. I wondered if he was sick.
"Yes, fine," he answered, but his voice was hoarse. I couldn't understand why he looked so agitated, so livid.
"Mame doesn't know," he went on, lowering his voice. "Nobody knows. You understand? She mustn't know. She mustn't ever know."
I was puzzled.
"Know what?" I asked. "What are you talking about, Edouard?"
"Julia," he said, his eyes boring into mine, "you know who
the family was, you saw their name."
"I don't understand," I murmured.
"You saw their name, didn't you?" he barked, making me jump. "You know what happened. Don't you?"
I must have looked completely lost because he sighed and buried his face in his hands.
I sat there, speechless. What on earth was he talking about? What had happened that nobody knew of?
"The girl," he said at last, looking up, his voice so low I could hardly hear. "What did you find out about the girl?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, petrified.
There was something about his voice, his eyes, that frightened me.
"The girl," he repeated, his voice muffled and strange, "she came back. A couple of weeks after we had moved in. She came back to the rue de Saintonge. I was twelve years old. I'll never forget. I'll never forget Sarah Starzynski."
To my horror, his face crumpled. Tears began to trickle down his face. I could not speak. I could only wait and listen. This was no longer my arrogant father-in-law.
This was somebody else. Somebody with a secret he had carried within him for years. For sixty years.
I
T HAD BEEN A swift metro ride to the rue de Saintonge, only a couple of stops and a change at Bastille. As they turned into the rue de Bretagne, Sarah's heart started to beat faster. She was going home. In a few minutes, she would be home. Maybe while she had been away her mother or her father had been able to come back and maybe they were all waiting for her, with Michel, in the apartment, waiting for her to return. Was she crazy to think that? Was she out of her mind? Could she not hope, was that not allowed? She was ten years old and she wanted to hope, she wanted to believe, more than anything, more than life itself.
As she tugged on Jules's hand, urging him up the street, she felt hope grow, like a mad, wild plant she could no longer tame. A quiet, grave voice within her said, Sarah, don't hope, don't believe, try to prepare yourself, try to imagine that nobody is waiting for you, that Papa and Maman are not there, that the apartment is all dusty and dirty, and that Michel . . . Michel . . .
Number 26 appeared in front of them. Nothing had changed in the street, she noticed. It was still the same calm, narrow road she had always known. How was it possible that entire lives could change, could be destroyed, and that streets and buildings remained the same, she wondered.
Jules pushed the heavy door open. The courtyard was exactly the same, with its green leafiness, its musty smell of dust, of humidity. As they made their way through the courtyard, Madame Royer opened the door to her loge and poked her head out. Sarah let go of Jules's hand and dashed into the staircase. Quick now, she had to be quick, she was home at last, there was no time to lose.
She heard the concierge's inquisitive "Looking for anybody?" as she reached the first floor, already out of breath.
Jules's voice followed her up the steps: "We are looking for the Starzynski family."
Sarah caught Madame Royer's laugh, a disturbing, grating sound: "Gone, Monsieur! Vanished! Won't find them here, that's for sure."
Sarah paused on the second-floor landing, peering out onto the courtyard. She could see Madame Royer standing there, in her dirty blue apron, with little Suzanne slung over her shoulder. Gone . . . Vanished. . . . What did the concierge mean? Vanished where? When?
No time to waste, no time to think about it now, thought the girl, another two flights to go before home. But the concierge's shrill voice floated up to her as she rapidly ascended the stairs: "The cops came to get them, Monsieur. Came to get all the Jews in the area. Took 'em away in a big bus. A lot of empty rooms here now, Monsieur. You looking for a place to rent? The Starzynskis' has been let out, but I might be able to help. There's a very nice place on the second floor, if you're interested. I can show you!"
Panting, Sarah reached the fourth floor. She was so out of breath, she had to lean against the wall and press her fist into her aching side.
She pounded on the door of her parents' apartment, quick, sharp blows with the palms of her hands. No answer. She pounded again, harder, with her fists.
Then she heard steps behind the door. It opened.
A young boy of twelve or thirteen appeared.
"Yes?" he asked.
Who was he? What was he doing in her apartment?
"I've come to get my brother," she stuttered. "Who are you? Where is Michel?"
"Your brother?" said the boy, slowly. "There is no Michel here."
She pushed him aside brutally, hardly noticing the new paintings on the entrance wall, an unknown bookshelf, a strange red and green carpet. The astonished boy shouted, but she did not stop, she rushed down the long familiar corridor and turned left, into her bedroom. She did not notice the new wallpaper, the new bed, the books, the belongings that had nothing to do with her.
The boy called out for his father, and there was a startled scuffle of footsteps in the next room.
Sarah whipped the key out of her pocket, pressed on the device with her palm. The hidden lock swung into view.
She heard the peal of the doorbell, a murmur of alarmed voices drawing near. Jules's voice, Genevieve's, and an unknown man's.
Fast now, she had to be fast. Over and over she mumbled, "Michel, Michel, Michel, it's me, Sirka." Her fingers were trembling so hard she dropped the key.
Behind her shoulder, the boy came running, out of breath.
"What are you doing?" he gasped. "What are you doing in my room?"
She ignored him, picked up the key, fumbled with the lock. She was too nervous, too impatient. It took her a moment to work it. Finally, the lock clicked, and she tugged the secret door open.
A rotten stench hit her like a fist. She drew away. The boy at her side recoiled, afraid. Sarah fell to her knees.
A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair burst into the room, followed by Jules and Genevieve.
Sarah could not speak, she could only quiver, her fingers covering her eyes, her nose, blocking out the smell.
Jules drew near, put a hand on her shoulder, glanced into the cupboard. She felt him wrap her in his arms, try to carry her away.
He murmured into her ear, "Come, Sarah, come with me."
She fought him with all her might, scratching, kicking, all teeth and nails, and managed to scramble back to the open cupboard door.
In the back of the cupboard, she glimpsed the small lump of a motionless, curled-up body, then she saw the beloved little face, blackened, unrecognizable.
She sank to her knees again, and she screamed at the top of her lungs, she screamed for her mother, for her father, screamed for Michel.
E
DOUARD TEZAC GRIPPED THE steering wheel with his hands till his knuckles turned white. I stared at them, mesmerized.
"I can still hear her scream," he whispered. "I cannot forget it. Ever."
I felt stunned with what I now knew. Sarah Starzynski had escaped from Beaune-la-Rolande. She had come back to the rue de Saintonge. She had made a hideous discovery.
I couldn't talk. I could only look at my father-in-law. He went on with a hoarse, low voice.
"There was a ghastly moment, when my father looked into the cupboard. I tried to look too. He pushed me away. I couldn't understand what was going on. There was this smell . . . The smell of something rotten, putrid. Then my father slowly pulled out the body of a dead boy. A child, not more than three or four. I had never seen a dead body in my life. It was the most heartbreaking sight. The boy had wavy blond hair. He was stiff, curled up, his face resting upon his hands. He had gone a horrible, green color."
He stopped, the words choking in his throat. I thought he was going to retch. I touched his elbow, tried to communicate my sympathy, my warmth. It was an unreal situation, me trying to comfort my proud, haughty father-in-law, reduced to tears, a quivering old man. He dabbed at his eyes with unsure fingertips. Then he went on.
"We all stood there, horrified. The girl fainted. She fell, right to the floor. My father picked her up, put her on my bed. Sh
e came around, saw his face, and backed away, screaming. I began to understand, listening to my father, to the couple who had come with her. The dead boy was her little brother. Our new apartment had been her home. The boy had been hidden there the day of the Vel' d'Hiv' roundup, on July 16. The girl thought she was going to be able to come back to free him, but she had been taken to a camp, outside Paris."
A new pause. It seemed endless to me.
"And then? What happened then?" I said, finding my voice at last.
"The old couple came from Orleans. The girl had escaped from a nearby camp and had ended up on their property. They had decided to help her, to bring her back to Paris, to her home. My father told them that our family had moved in at the end of July. He did not know about the cupboard, which was in my room. None of us knew. I had noticed a strong, bad smell, and my father thought there was something wrong with the drains, and we were expecting the plumber that week."
"What did your father do with . . . with the little boy?"
"I don't know. I remember he said he wanted to take care of everything. He was in shock, terribly unhappy. I think the old couple took the body away. I'm not sure. I don't remember."
"And then what?" I asked, breathless.
He glanced at me sardonically.
"And then what? And then what!" A bitter laugh. "Julia, can you imagine what we felt like when the girl left? The way she looked at us. She hated us. She loathed us. For her, we were responsible. We were criminals. Criminals of the worst sort. We had moved into her home. We had let her brother die. Her eyes . . . Such hatred, pain, despair. The eyes of a woman in the face of a ten-year-old girl."
I could see those eyes too. I shivered.
Edouard sighed, rubbed his tired, withered face with his palms. "After they left, my father sat down and put his head in his hands. He cried. For a long time. I had never seen him cry. I never saw him cry again. My father was such a strong, rugged fellow. I was told that Tezac men never cry. Never show their emotions. It was a dreadful moment. He said that something monstrous had happened. Something that he and I would remember our entire lives. Then he began to tell me things he had never mentioned. He said I was old enough now to know. He said that he had not asked Madame Royer about who lived in the apartment before we moved in. He knew it had been a Jewish family, and that they had been arrested during that big roundup. But he had closed his eyes. He had closed his eyes, like so many other Parisians, during that terrible year of 1942. He had closed his eyes the day of the roundup, when he had seen all those people being driven away, packed on buses, taken God knows where. He hadn't even asked why the apartment was empty, what had happened to the family's belongings. He had acted like any other Parisian family, eager to move into a bigger, better place. He had closed his eyes. And now, this had happened. The girl had come back and the little boy was dead. He was probably already dead when we moved in. My father said that we could never forget. Never. And he was right, Julia. It has been there, within us. And it has been there for me, for the past sixty years."