Sarah's Key (7 page)

“You just don’t look yourself,” Hervé said, concerned. He came to sit next to me, putting his slim, white hand on my knee. “I know that face, Julia. That’s your sad face. Now you tell me what’s going on.”

T

HE ONLY WAY TO shut out the hell around her was to bury her head between her pointed knees, and cup her hands over her ears. She rocked back and forth, pressing her face down onto her legs. Think of nice things, think of all the things you like, of all the things that make you happy, of all those special, magical moments you remember. Her mother taking her to the hairdresser, and everyone complimenting her thick, honey-colored hair. You will be proud of that head of hair later on,
ma petite
!

Her father’s hands working on the leather in the warehouse, how fast and strong they were, how she admired his skill. Her tenth birthday and the new watch, the beautiful blue box, the leather strap her father had made, its rich, intoxicating smell, and the discreet tick-tock of the watch that fascinated her. She had been so proud. But Maman had said not to wear it to school. She might break it or lose it. Only her best friend Armelle had seen it. And she had been so jealous!

Where was Armelle now? She lived just down the road, they went to the same school. But Armelle had left the city at the beginning of the school vacations. She had gone somewhere with her parents, somewhere south. There had been one letter, and that was all. Armelle was small and red-haired and very clever. She knew all her multiplication tables by heart, and she even mastered the trickiest grammar.

Armelle was never afraid, the girl admired that about her. Even when the sirens went off in the middle of class, howling like enraged wolves, making everyone jump, Armelle remained calm, in control, she would take the girl’s hand and lead her down to the musty school cellar, impervious to all the other children’s frightened whispers and Mademoiselle Dixsaut’s quavering orders. And they would huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, in the dark dampness, candlelight flickering on pale faces, for what seemed hours, and listen to the drone of the planes far above their heads, while Mademoiselle Dixsaut read Jean de La Fontaine or Molière and tried to stop her hands from trembling. Look at her hands, Armelle would giggle, she’s afraid, she can hardly read, look. And the girl would glance at Armelle with wonder and whisper, “Aren’t you afraid? Not even the tiniest bit?” A contemptuous shake of glossy red curls. No, I’m not. I’m not afraid. And sometimes, when the shudder of the bombs seeped through the grimy floor, making Mademoiselle Dixsaut’s voice falter and stop, Armelle would grab the girl’s hand and hold it tight.

She missed Armelle, she wished Armelle could be here now, to hold her hand and tell her not to be afraid. She missed Armelle’s freckles and her mischievous green eyes and her insolent grin. Think of the things you love, of the things that make you happy.

Last summer, or was it two summers ago, she couldn’t remember, Papa had taken them to spend a couple of days in the countryside by a river. She couldn’t remember the name of the river. But the water had felt so smooth and wonderful to her skin. Her father had tried to teach her to swim. After a few days, she managed an inelegant dog paddle that made everybody laugh. By the river, her brother had gone mad with joy and excitement. He was tiny then, a mere toddler. She had spent the day running after him as he slipped and shrieked along the muddy shore. And Maman and Papa had looked so peaceful, young, and in love, her mother’s head against her father’s shoulder. She remembered the little hotel by the water, where they had eaten simple, succulent meals beneath the cool, leafy bower, and when the
patronne
had asked her to help behind the counter, and there she was handing out coffee and feeling very grown up and proud, until she dropped coffee on someone’s foot, but the
patronne
had been very nice about it.

The girl lifted her head, saw her mother talking to Eva, a young woman who lived near them. Eva had four young children, a bunch of rambunctious boys the girl wasn’t overly fond of. Eva’s face, like her mother’s, looked haggard and old. How was it they looked so much older overnight, she wondered. Eva was Polish, too. Her French, like her mother’s, was not good. Like the girl’s mother and father, Eva had family back in Poland. Her parents, aunts, and uncles. The girl remembered the awful day–when was it?–not very long ago, when Eva had received a letter from Poland, and she had turned up at the apartment, her face streaming with tears, and she had broken down in her mother’s arms. Her mother had tried to comfort Eva, but the girl could tell she was stricken as well. Nobody wanted to tell the girl exactly what had happened, but the girl understood, hung on to every Yiddish word she could make out between the sobs. Something terrible, back in Poland, entire families had been killed, houses burnt down, only ashes and ruins remained. She had asked her father if her grandparents were safe. Her mother’s parents, the ones whose black-and-white photograph was on the marble mantelpiece in the living room. Her father had said that he did not know. There had been very bad news from Poland. But he wouldn’t tell her what the news was.

As she looked at Eva and her mother, the girl wondered if her parents had been right to protect her from everything, if they had been right to keep disturbing, bad news away from her. If they had been right not to explain why so many things had changed for them since the beginning of the war. Like when Eva’s husband never came back last year. He had disappeared. Where? Nobody would tell her. Nobody would explain. She hated being treated like a baby. She hated the voices being lowered when she entered the room.

If they had told her, if they had told her everything they knew, wouldn’t that have made today easier?

I

’M FINE, JUST TIRED, that’s all. So who’s coming tonight then?”

Before Hervé could answer, Christophe entered the room, a vision of Parisian chic, khaki and cream overtones, exuding expensive men’s perfume. Christophe was a little younger than Hervé, tanned all year round, skinny, and wore his long salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a thick ponytail, à la Karl Lagerfeld.

Almost simultaneously, the doorbell rang.

“Aha,” said Christophe, blowing me a kiss, “that must be Guillaume.”

He rushed to the front door.

“Guillaume?” I mouthed at Hervé.

“Our new pal. Does something in advertising. Divorced. Bright boy. You’ll like him. He’s our only guest. Everyone else is out of town because of the long weekend.”

The man who entered the room was tall, dark, in his late thirties. He was carrying a wrapped scented candle and roses.

“This is Julia Jarmond,” said Christophe. “Our very dear journalist friend from a long, long time ago when we were young.”

“Which was merely yesterday,” murmured Guillaume, in true gallant French fashion.

I tried to keep an easy smile on my face, aware of Hervé’s inquiring eyes moving to me from time to time. It was odd, because usually I would have confided in Hervé. I would have told him how strange I had been feeling for the past week. And the business with Bertrand. I had always put up with Bertrand’s provocative, sometimes downright nasty sense of humor. It had never hurt me. It had never bothered me. Until now. I used to admire his wit, his sarcasm. It had made me love him all the more.

People laughed at his jokes. They were even a little afraid of him. Behind the irresistible laugh, the twinkling blue-gray eyes, the charming smile, was a tough, demanding man who was used to getting what he wanted. I had put up with it because he made up to me every time, every time he realized he had hurt me, he showered me with gifts, flowers, and passionate sex. In bed was probably the only place Bertrand and I truly communicated, the only place where nobody dominated the other. I remember Charla saying to me once, after witnessing a particularly sharp tirade delivered by my husband, “Is this creep ever
nice
to you?” And watching my face slowly redden, “Jesus. I get the picture. Pillow talk. Actions speak louder than words.” And she had sighed and patted my hand. Why hadn’t I opened up to Hervé tonight? Something held me back. Something sealed my lips.

Once seated around the octagonal marble table, Guillaume asked me what newspaper I worked for. When I told him, his face remained blank. I wasn’t surprised. French people had never heard of
Seine Scenes.
It was mostly read by Americans living in Paris. That didn’t bother me; I had never craved fame. I was content with a well-paid job that kept my hours relatively free, despite Joshua’s occasional despotism.

“And what are you writing about at the present?” asked Guillaume politely, twisting green pasta around his fork.

“The Vel’ d’Hiv’,” I said. “The sixtieth commemoration is coming up.”

“You mean that roundup during the war?” asked Christophe, his mouth full.

I was about to answer him when I noticed that Guillaume’s fork had stopped halfway between his plate and his mouth.

“Yes, the big roundup at the Vélodrome d’Hiver,” I said.

“Didn’t that take place somewhere out of Paris?” Christophe went on, munching away.

Guillaume had put his fork down, quietly. Somehow his eyes had locked onto mine. He had dark eyes, a sensitive, fine mouth.

“It was the Nazis, I believe,” said Hervé, pouring out more Chardonnay. Neither of them seemed to have noticed Guillaume’s tight face. “The Nazis who arrested Jews during the Occupation.”

“Actually, it wasn’t the Germans—,” I began.

“It was the French police,” interrupted Guillaume. “And it happened in the middle of Paris. In a stadium which used to house famous bike races.”

“Really?” asked Hervé. “I thought it was the Nazis, in the suburbs.”

“I’ve been researching this for the past week,” I said. “German orders, yes, but French police action. Weren’t you taught this in school?”

“I can’t remember. I don’t think so,” admitted Christophe.

Guillaume’s eyes, looking at me again, as if he were drawing something out of me, probing me. I felt perturbed.

“It’s quite amazing,” said Guillaume, with an ironic smile, “the number of French people who still don’t know what happened. What about the Americans? Did you know about it, Julia?”

I did not avert my eyes.

“No, I didn’t know, and I wasn’t told about it at school back in Boston in the seventies. But now I know a lot more. And what I have found out has overwhelmed me.”

Hervé and Christophe remained silent. They seemed at a loss, not knowing what to say. Guillaume finally spoke.

“In July ’95, Jacques Chirac was the first president ever to draw attention to the role of the French government during the Occupation. And toward this particular roundup. His speech made headlines. Do you remember it?”

I had read Chirac’s speech during my recent research. He had certainly gone out on a limb. But I had not recalled it although I must have heard it on the news six years ago. And the boys—I couldn’t help calling them that, I always had—obviously had not read or remembered Chirac’s speech. They gazed at Guillaume, embarrassed. Hervé chain-smoked and Christophe bit his nails, which he always did when he felt nervous or ill at ease.

Silence fell upon us. It was odd, silence in this room. There had been so many joyful, noisy parties here, people roaring with laughter, endless jokes, loud music. So many games, birthday speeches, dancing till the small hours, despite irate neighbors banging from underneath with a broom.

The silence felt heavy and painful. When Guillaume started to speak again, his voice had changed. His face had changed too. He was pale, and he could not look at us any longer. He stared down at his plate of untouched pasta.

“My grandmother was fifteen the day of the roundup. She was told she was free because they were only taking small children between two and twelve with their parents. She was left behind. And they took all the others. Her little brothers, her little sister, her mother, her father, her aunt, her uncle. Her grandparents. It was the last time she ever saw them. No one came back. No one at all.”