"Oh, Julia, I can't bear the idea of Mame . . . You know . . . It's too awful. . . ."
I told her I couldn't get hold of Bertrand. She sounded surprised.
"But I just spoke to him," she said.
"Did you reach him on his cell phone?"
"No," she replied, her voice hesitant.
"At the office, then?"
"He's coming to pick me up any minute. He's taking me to the nursing home."
"I wasn't able to contact him."
"Oh?" she said carefully. "I see."
Then I got it. I felt anger surge through me.
"He was at Amelie's, right?"
"Amelie's?" she repeated blandly.
I stamped impatiently.
"Oh, come on, Cecile. You know exactly who I'm talking about."
"The buzzer's going, that's Bertrand," she breathed, rushed.
And she hung up. I stood in the middle of the empty room, cell phone clenched in my hand like a weapon. I pressed my forehead against the coolness of the windowpane. I wanted to hit Bertrand. It was no longer his never-ending affair with Amelie that got to me. It was the fact his sisters had that woman's number and knew where to reach him in case of an emergency like this one. And I did not. It was the fact that even if our marriage was dying, he still did not have the courage to tell me he was still seeing this woman. As usual, I was the last to know. The eternal, vaudevillesque wronged spouse.
I stood there for a long time, motionless, feeling the baby kick within me. I did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
Did I still care for Bertrand, was this why it still hurt? Or was it just a question of wounded pride? Amelie and her Parisian glamour and perfection, her daringly modern apartment overlooking the Trocadero, her well-mannered children--"Bonjour, Madame"--and her powerful perfume that lingered in Bertrand's hair and his clothes. If he loved her, and no longer me, why was he afraid of telling me? Was he afraid of hurting me? Hurting Zoe? What made him so frightened? When would he realize that it wasn't his infidelity I couldn't bear, but his cowardice?
I went to the kitchen. My mouth felt parched. I turned on the tap and drank directly from the faucet, my cumbersome belly brushing against the sink. I peered out again. The rain seemed to have abated. I slipped my raincoat on, grabbed my purse, and headed to the door.
Somebody knocked, three short blows.
Bertrand, I thought, grimly. Antoine or Cecile had probably told him to call or come.
I imagined Cecile waiting in the car below. Her embarrassment. The nervous, tight silence that would ensue as soon as I would get into the Audi.
Well, I'd show them. I'd tell them. I wasn't going to play timid, nice French wife. I was going to ask Bertrand to tell me the truth from now on.
I flung the door open.
But the man waiting for me on the threshold was not Bertrand.
I recognized the height, the broad shoulders immediately. Ash blond hair darkened by the rain plastered back over his skull.
William Rainsferd.
I stepped back, startled.
"Is this a bad moment?" he said.
"No," I managed.
What on earth was he doing here? What did he want?
We stared at each other. Something in his face had changed since the last time I'd seen him. He seemed gaunt, haunted. No longer the easygoing gourmet with a tan.
"I need to talk to you," he said. "It's urgent. I'm sorry, I couldn't find your number. So I came here. You weren't in last night, so I thought I'd come back this morning."
"How did you get this address?" I asked, confused. "It's not listed yet, we haven't moved in yet."
He took an envelope out of the pocket of his jacket.
"The address was in here. The same street you mentioned in Lucca. Rue de Saintonge."
I shook my head.
"I don't get it."
He handed the envelope to me. It was old, torn at the corners. There was nothing written on it.
"Open it," he said.
I pulled out a slim, tattered notebook, a faded drawing and a long, brass key that fell to the floor with a clank. He bent to pick it up, nestling it in the palm of his hand for me to see.
"What is all this?" I asked warily.
"When you left Lucca, I was in a state of shock. I could not get that photograph out of my mind. I could not stop thinking about it."
"Yes," I said, my heart beating fast.
"I flew to Roxbury, to see my dad. He's very ill, as I think you know. Dying of cancer. He can't speak anymore. I looked around, I found this envelope in his desk. He had kept it, after all these years. He had never shown it to me."
"Why are you here?" I whispered.
There was pain in his eyes, pain and fear.
"Because I need you to tell me what happened. What happened to my mother as a child. I need to know everything. You're the only person who can help me."
I looked down at the key in his hand. Then I glanced at the drawing. An awkward sketch of a little boy with fair, curly hair. He seemed to be sitting in a small cupboard, with a book on his knee and a toy bear next to him. On the back, a faded scrawl, "Michel, 26, rue de Saintonge." I leafed through the notebook. No dates. Short sentences scribbled like a poem, in French, difficult to make out. A few words jumped out at me: "le camp," "la clef," "ne jamais oublier," "mourir."
"Did you read this?" I asked.
"I tried. My French is bad. I can only understand parts of it."
The phone in my pocket rang, startling us. I fumbled for it. It was Edouard.
"Where are you, Julia?" he asked, gently. "She's not well. She wants you."
"I'm coming," I replied.
William Rainsferd looked down at me.
"You have to go?"
"Yes. A family emergency. My husband's grandmother. She's had a stroke."
"I'm sorry."
He hesitated, then put a hand on my shoulder.
"When can I see you? Talk to you?"
I opened the front door, turned back to him, looked down at his hand on my shoulder. It was strange, moving, to see him on the threshold of that apartment, the very place that had caused his mother so much pain, so much sorrow, and to think he did not yet know, he did not yet know what had happened here, to his family, his grandparents, his uncle.
"You're coming with me," I said. "There's someone I want you to meet."
M
AME'S TIRED, WITHERED FACE. She seemed asleep. I spoke to her, but I wasn't sure she heard me. Then I felt her fingers encircle my wrist. She held on tight. She knew I was there.
Behind me, the Tezac family stood around the bed. Bertrand. His mother, Colette. Edouard. Laure and Cecile. And behind them, hesitating in the hall, stood William Rainsferd. Bertrand had glanced at him once or twice, puzzled. He probably thought he was my new boyfriend. At any other time than this, I would have laughed. Edouard had looked at him several times, curious, eyes screwed up, then back at me with insistence.
It was later, when we were filing out of the nursing home, that I took my father-in-law's arm. We had just been told by Docteur Roche that Mame's condition had stabilized. But she was weak. There was no telling what would happen next. We had to prepare ourselves, he had said. We had to convince each other this was probably the end.
"I'm so sad and sorry, Edouard," I murmured.
He stroked my cheek.
"My mother loves you, Julia. She loves you dearly."
Bertrand appeared, his face glum. I glanced at him, briefly thinking of Amelie, toying with the idea of saying something that would hurt, that would sting, and finally letting go. After all, there would be time ahead to discuss it. It did not matter right now. Only Mame mattered now, and the tall silhouette waiting for me in the hall.
"Julia," said Edouard, looking back over his shoulder, "who is that man?"
"Sarah's son."
Awed, Edouard gazed at the tall figure for a couple of minutes.
"Did you phone him?"
"No. He recently disco
vered some papers that his father had hidden all this time. Something Sarah wrote. He's here because he wants to know the whole story. He came today."
"I would like to speak to him," said Edouard.
I went to fetch William, I told him my father-in-law wanted to meet him. He followed me, dwarfing Bertrand and Edouard, Colette, her daughters.
Edouard Tezac looked up at him. His face was calm, composed, but there was a wetness in his eyes.
He held out his hand. William took it. It was a powerful, silent moment. No one spoke.
"Sarah Starzynski's son," murmured Edouard.
I shot a glance at Colette, Cecile, and Laure looking on in polite, curious incomprehension. They could not understand what was going on. Only Bertrand understood, only he knew the whole story, although he had never discussed it with me since the evening he had discovered the red "Sarah" file. He had not even brought it up after having met the Dufaures in our apartment, a couple of months before.
Edouard cleared his throat. Their hands were still clasped. He spoke in English. Decent English, with a strong French accent.
"I am Edouard Tezac. This is a difficult time to meet you. My mother is dying."
"Yes, I'm sorry," said William.
"Julia will tell you the whole story. But your mother, Sarah--"
Edouard paused. His voice broke. His wife and daughters glanced at him, surprised.
"What is all this about?" murmured Colette, concerned. "Who is Sarah?"
"This is about something that happened sixty years ago," said Edouard, fighting to control his voice.
I fought an urge to reach out and slip an arm around his shoulder. Edouard took a deep breath and some color came back into his face. He smiled up at William, a small, timid smile I had not seen him use before.
"I will never forget your mother. Never."
His face twitched, the smile vanished, and I saw the pain, the sadness make him breathe once again with difficulty, like he had on the day he'd told me.
The silence grew heavy, unbearable, the women looked on, puzzled.
"I am most relieved to be able to tell you this today, all these years later."
William Rainsferd nodded.
"Thank you, sir," he said, his voice low. His face was pale, too, I noticed. "I don't know much, I came here to understand. I believe my mother suffered. And I need to know why."
"We did what we could for her," said Edouard. "That I can promise you. Julia will tell you. She will explain. She will tell you your mother's story. She will tell you what my father did for your mother. Good-bye."
He drew back, an old man all of a sudden, shrunken and wan. Bertrand's eyes watching him, curious, detached. He had probably never seen his father so moved. I wonder what it did to him, what it meant to him.
Edouard walked away, followed by his wife, his daughters, bombarding him with questions. His son trailed after them, hands in pockets, silent. I wondered if Edouard was going to tell Colette and his daughters the truth. Most likely, I thought. And I imagined their shock.
W
ILLIAM RAINSFERD AND I stood alone in the hall of the nursing home. Outside, on the rue de Courcelles, it was still raining. "How about some coffee?" he said.
He had a beautiful smile.
We walked under the drizzle to the nearest cafe. We sat down, ordered two espressos. For a moment, we sat there in silence.
Then he asked: "Are you close to the old lady?"
"Yes," I said. "Very close."
"I see you're expecting a baby?"
I patted my plump stomach. "Due in February."
At last he said, slowly, "Tell me my mother's story."
"This isn't going to be easy," I said.
"Yes. But I need to hear it. Please, Julia."
Slowly, I began to talk, in a low hushed voice, only glancing up at him from time to time. As I spoke, my thoughts went to Edouard, probably sitting in his elegant, salmon-colored living room on the rue de l'Universite, telling the exact same story to his wife, his daughters, his son. The roundup. The Vel' d'Hiv'. The camp. The escape. The little girl who came back. The dead child in the cupboard. Two families, linked by death, and a secret. Two families linked by sorrow. Part of me wanted this man to know the entire truth. Another yearned to protect him, to shield him from blunt reality. From the awful image of the little girl and her suffering. Her pain, her loss. His pain, his loss. The more I talked, the more details I gave, the more questions I answered, the more I felt my words enter him like blades and wound him.
When I finished, I looked up at him. His face and lips were pale. He took out the notebook from the envelope and gave it to me in silence. The brass key lay on the table between us.
I held the notebook between my hands, looking back at him. His eyes egged me on.
I opened the book. I read the first sentence to myself. Then I read out loud, translating the French directly into our mother tongue. It was a slow process; the writing, a thin, slanted scribble, was hard to read.
Where are you, my little Michel? My beautiful Michel.
Where are you now?
Would you remember me?
Michel.
Me, Sarah, your sister.
The one who never came back. The one who left you in the cupboard. The one who thought you'd be safe.
Michel.
The years have gone by and I still have the key.
The key to our secret hiding place.
You see, I've kept it, day after day, touching it, remembering you.
It has never left me since July 16, 1942.
No one here knows. No one here knows about the key, about you.
About you in the cupboard.
About Mother, about Father.
About the camp.
About summer 1942.
About who I really am.
Michel.
Not one day has gone by without me thinking of you.
Remembering 26, rue de Saintonge.
I carry the burden of your death like I would a child.
I will carry it till the day I die.
Sometimes, I want to die.
I cannot bear the weight of your death.
Of Mother's death, of Father's death.
Visions of cattle trains carrying them to their deaths.
I hear the train in my mind, I have heard it over and over again for the past thirty years.
I cannot bear the weight of my past.
Yet I cannot throw away the key to your cupboard.
It is the only concrete thing that links me to you, apart from your grave.
Michel.
How can I pretend I am someone else.
How can I make them believe I am another woman.
No, I cannot forget.
The stadium.
The camp.
The train.
Jules and Genevieve.
Alain and Henriette.
Nicolas and Gaspard.
My child cannot make me forget. I love him. He is my son.
My husband does not know who I am.
What my story is.
But I cannot forget.
Coming here was a terrible mistake.
I thought I could change. I thought I could put it all behind me.
But I cannot.
They went to Auschwitz. They were killed.
My brother. He died in the cupboard.
There is nothing left for me.
I thought there was but I was wrong.
A child and a husband are not enough.
They know nothing.
They don't know who I am.
They will never know.
Michel.
In my dreams, you come and get me.
You take me by the hand and you lead me away.
This life is too much for me to bear.
I look at the key and I long for you and for the past.
For the innocent, easy days before the war.
I know now my scars will never heal.
I hope m
y son will forgive me.
He will never know.
No one will ever know.
Zakhor. Al Tichkah.
Remember. Never forget.
T
HE CAFE WAS A noisy, lively place, yet around William and me grew a bubble of total silence.