Sarah's Key (5 page)

She felt something cold and horrible seep through her. Once again she remembered what she had overheard, her parents’ faces glimpsed from behind the door, their fear, their anguish in the middle of the night.

“What do you mean, Papa? Where are we going? Why aren’t we going back home? You tell me! Tell me!”

She nearly screamed the last words.

Her father looked down at her. He said her name again, very softly. His eyes were still wet, his eyelashes spiked with tears. He put his hand on the back of her neck.

“Be brave, my sweet love. Be brave, as brave as you can.”

She could not cry. Her fear was so great it seemed to engulf everything else, it seemed to suck up every single emotion within her, like a monstrous, powerful vacuum.

“But I promised him I’d come back, Papa. I promised him.”

The girl saw that he had started to cry again, that he wasn’t listening to her. He was wrapped up in his own grief, in his own fear.

They were all sent outside. The street was empty, save for buses lined up by the sidewalks. The kind of ordinary buses the girl used to take with her mother and her brother to get about town–ordinary, everyday green-and-white buses with platforms at the rear.

They were ordered to get on the buses and were pushed against each other. The girl looked again for green-gray uniforms, for the curt, guttural language she had grown to fear. But these were only policemen. French policemen.

Through the bus’s dusty pane, she recognized one of them, the young red-haired one who had often helped her cross the street on her way home from school. She tapped on the glass to attract his attention. When his eyes locked onto hers, he quickly looked away. He seemed embarrassed, almost annoyed. She wondered why. As they were all pushed into the buses, a man protested and was shoved, violently by police. A policeman yelled that he’d shoot if anybody tried to get away.

Listlessly, the girl watched the buildings, the trees drift by. She could only think of her brother in the cupboard, in the empty house, waiting for her. She could only think of him. They crossed a bridge, she saw the Seine sparkle. Where were they going? Papa didn’t know. Nobody knew. They were all afraid.

A loud clap of thunder startled everybody. The rain came pouring down so thickly the bus had to halt. The girl listened to the drops pounding on the bus’s roof. It did not last long. Soon the bus resumed its route, wheels hissing on glistening cobblestones. The sun came out.

The bus stopped and they all got off, laden with bundles, suitcases, crying children. The girl did not know this street. She had never been here. She saw the elevated
métro
on one end of the road.

They were led to a great pale building. There was something written on it in huge dark letters, but she couldn’t make it out. She saw that the entire street was full of families like hers, stepping out of buses, shouted at by the police. The French police, again.

Clutching her father’s hand, she was pushed and shoved into an enormous covered arena. Crowds of people were massed there in the middle of the arena, as well as on the hard, iron seats in the galleries. How many people? She didn’t know. Hundreds. And there were more pouring in. The girl looked up at the immense blue skylight, shaped like a dome. The merciless sun shone through.

Her father found a place for them to sit. The girl watched the steady trickle of people thicken the crowd. The noise grew louder and louder, a constant hum of thousands of voices, children whimpering, women moaning. The heat grew unbearable, more and more stifling as the sun rose higher in the sky. There was less and less room, they were all huddled against each other. She watched the men, the women, the children, their pinched faces, their frightened eyes.

“Papa,” she said, “how long are we going to stay here?”

“I don’t know, my sweet.”

“Why are we here?”

She put her hand on the yellow star sewn on the front of her blouse.

“It’s because of this, isn’t it?” she said. “Everybody here has one.”

Her father smiled, a sad, pathetic smile.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s because of that.”

The girl frowned.

“It’s not fair, Papa,” she hissed. “It’s not fair!”

He hugged her, said her name tenderly.

“Yes, my darling one, you’re right. It’s not fair.”

She sat against him, her cheek pressed against the star he wore on his jacket.

A month or so ago, her mother had sewn the stars on all her clothes. On all the family’s clothes, except the little brother’s. Before that their identity cards had been stamped with the words “Jew” or “Jewess.” And then, there had been all the things they were suddenly no longer allowed to do. Like playing in the park. Like riding a bicycle, going to the cinema, the theater, the restaurant, the swimming pool. Like no longer being allowed to borrow books from the library.

She had seen the signs that seemed to be put up everywhere: JEWS FORBIDDEN. And on the door of the warehouse where her father worked, a big card read JEWISH FIRM. Maman had to shop after four o’clock in the afternoon, when there was nothing left in the shops because of the rationings. They had to ride in the last carriage of the
métro
. And they had to be home before curfew and not leave their house till morning. What were they still allowed to do? Nothing. Nothing, she thought.

Unfair. So unfair. Why? Why them? Why all this? It suddenly seemed that nobody could possibly explain it to her.

J

OSHUA WAS ALREADY IN the meeting room, drinking the weak coffee he was fond of. I hurried in and sat between Bamber, the photo director, and Alessandra, the features editor.

The room looked out onto the busy rue Marbeuf, just a stone’s throw away from the Champs-Élysées. It wasn’t my favorite area of Paris—too crowded, too gaudy—but I was used to coming here every day and making my way down the avenue, along the large, dusty sidewalks packed with tourists at every hour of the day, no matter what the season was.

I had been writing for the weekly American magazine
Seine Scenes
for the past six years. We published a paper edition as well as an online version. I usually chronicled any event capable of interesting an American Paris-based audience. This included “local color,” which ranged from social and cultural life—shows, movies, restaurants, books—to the upcoming French presidential elections.

It was actually hard work. The deadlines were tight. Joshua was a tyrant. I liked him, but he was a tyrant. He was the kind of boss that had little respect for private lives, marriages, and children. If somebody got pregnant, she became a nonentity. If somebody had a sick child, she was glared at. But he had a shrewd eye, excellent editorial skills, and an uncanny gift for perfect timing. We all bowed down to him. We complained about him every time his back was turned, but we wallowed no end. Fiftyish, a born and bred New Yorker who’d spent the past ten years in Paris, Joshua looked deceptively placid. He had a longish face and drooping eyes. But the minute he opened his mouth, he ruled. One listened to Joshua. And one never interrupted him.

Bamber was from London, nearly thirty. He soared over six feet, wore purple-tinted glasses, sported various body-piercings, and dyed his hair marmalade. He had a marvelous British sense of humor that I found irresistible, but that Joshua rarely understood. I had a soft spot for Bamber. He was a discreet, efficient colleague. He was also wonderful support when Joshua was going through a bad day and unleashing his temper on each of us. Bamber was a precious ally.

Alessandra was part Italian, smooth-skinned, and terrifyingly ambitious. A pretty girl with a head of glossy black curls and the kind of plump, moist mouth men grow stupid about. I could never quite make up my mind whether I liked her or not. She was half my age and already getting paid as much as I was, even if my name was above hers on the masthead.

Joshua went through the charts for upcoming issues. There was a hefty article coming up for the presidential elections, a big topic since Jean-Marie Le Pen’s controversial victory in the first round. I wasn’t too eager to write about it and was secretly glad when it was allotted to Alessandra.

“Julia,” said Joshua, looking up at me over his glasses, “this is up your alley. Sixtieth commemoration of the Vel’ d’Hiv’.”

I cleared my throat. What had he said? It sounded like “the veldeef.”

My mind went blank.

Alessandra looked at me patronizingly.

“July 16, 1942? Ring a bell?” she said. Sometimes I hated her whining Miss Know-All-ish voice. Like today.

Joshua continued.

“The great roundup at the Vélodrome d’Hiver. That’s what Vel’ d’Hiv’ is short for. A famous indoor stadium where biking races were held. Thousands of Jewish families, locked up there for days, in appalling conditions. Then sent to Auschwitz. And gassed.”

It did ring a bell. Only faintly.

“Yes,” I said firmly, looking at Joshua. “OK, what then?”

He shrugged.

“Well, you could start with finding Vel’ d’Hiv’ survivors or witnesses. Then check up on the exact commemoration, who’s organizing it, where, when. Finally, facts. What happened, exactly. It’ll be delicate work, you know. The French aren’t fond of talking about Vichy, Pétain, all that. Not something they’re overly proud of.”

“There’s a man who could help you,” said Alessandra, slightly less patronizingly. “Franck Lévy. He created one of the biggest associations to help Jewish people find their families after the Holocaust.”

“I’ve heard of him,” I said, jotting his name down. I had. Franck Lévy was a public figure. He gave conferences and wrote articles about stolen Jewish goods and the horrors of deportation.

Joshua gulped another coffee down.

“Nothing wishy-washy,” he said. “No sentimentalism. Facts. Testimonies. And”—glancing at Bamber—“good, strong photos. Look up old material as well. There isn’t much available, as you will discover, but maybe this Lévy guy could help you.”

“I’ll start by going to the Vel’ d’Hiv’,” said Bamber. “Check it out.”

Joshua smiled wryly.

“The Vel’ d’Hiv’ doesn’t exist anymore. Torn down in ’59.”

“Where was it?” I asked, glad that I wasn’t the only ignoramus.

Alessandra answered once again.

“Rue Nélaton. In the fifteenth arrondissement.”

“We could still go there,” I said, looking at Bamber. “Maybe there are people living on the street who remember what happened.”

Joshua raised his shoulders.

“You could give it a try,” he said. “But I don’t think you’ll find many people willing to talk to you. As I told you, the French are touchy. This is highly sensitive subject matter. Don’t forget, it’s the French police who arrested all those Jewish families. Not the Nazis.”

Listening to Joshua, I realized how little I knew about what happened in Paris in July 1942. I hadn’t learned about it in class back in Boston. And since I had come to Paris twenty-five years ago, I had not read much about it. It was like a secret. Something buried in the past. Something no one mentioned. I was itching to get in front of the computer and start searching the Internet.

As soon as the meeting was over, I went to my little cubbyhole of an office, overlooking the noisy rue Marbeuf. We had cramped working space. But I was used to it. It didn’t bother me. I had no place to write at home. Bertrand had promised I’d have a large room to myself in the new apartment. My own private office. At last. It seemed too good to be true. The kind of luxury that would take some getting used to.

I turned on the computer, logged on to the Internet, then on to Google. I typed,
“vélodrome d’hiver vel’ d’hiv’.”
The listings were numerous. Most of them were in French. A lot of them were very detailed.

I read for the entire afternoon. I did nothing but read and store information and search for books about the Occupation and roundups. Many of the books, I noticed, were out of print. I wondered why. Because nobody wanted to read about the Vel’ d’Hiv’? Because no one cared anymore? I called a couple of bookstores. I was told it was going to be tough getting hold of the books. Please try, I said.

When I turned the computer off, I felt overwhelmingly tired. My eyes ached. My head and heart were heavy with everything I’d learned.

There had been over four thousand Jewish children penned in the Vel’ d’Hiv’, aged between two and twelve. Most of the children were French, born in France.

None of them came back from Auschwitz.