It was late now. They were tired, hungry, they could hardly walk. They came to a large, old house, a little off the dirt road, lit by a high lamppost, shining down on them. Its façade was covered with ivy. They didn’t dare knock. In front of the house, they noticed a large empty dog shed. They crept inside. It was clean and warm. It had a comforting, dog-like smell. There was a bowl of water and an old bone. They lapped up the water, one after the other. The girl was frightened the dog might come back and bite them. She whispered this to Rachel. But Rachel had already fallen asleep, curled up like a little animal. The girl looked down at her exhausted face, the thin cheeks, the hollow eye sockets. Rachel looked like an old woman.
The girl dozed fitfully, leaning against Rachel. She had a strange and horrible dream. She dreamed of her brother, dead in the closet. She dreamed of her parents being hit by the police. She moaned in her sleep.
Furious barks startled her awake. She nudged Rachel, hard. They heard a man’s voice, steps coming closer. The gravel crunched. It was too late to slip out. They could only hold on to each other in despair. Now we are dead, thought the girl. Now we are going to be killed.
The dog was held back by its master. She felt a hand grope inside, grasp her arm, Rachel’s arm. They slithered out.
The man was small, wizened, with a bald head and a silver mustache.
“Now what do we have here?” he murmured, peering at them in the glare of the lamppost.
The girl felt Rachel stiffen, guessed she was going to take off, fast, like a rabbit.
“Are you lost?” asked the old man. His voice seemed concerned.
The children were startled. They had expected threats, blows, anything but kindness.
“Please, sir, we are very hungry,” said Rachel.
The man nodded.
“I can see that.”
He bent to silence the whining dog. Then he said, “Come in, children. Follow me.”
Neither of the girls moved. Could they trust this old man?
“Nobody will hurt you here,” he said.
They huddled together, fearful still.
The man smiled, a kind, gentle smile.
“Geneviève!” he called, twisting back to the house.
An elderly woman wearing a blue dressing gown appeared in the large doorway.
“What is that idiotic dog of yours barking at now, Jules?” she asked, annoyed. Then she saw the children. Her hands fluttered to her cheeks.
“Heavens above,” she murmured.
She came nearer. She had a placid, round face and a thick, white braid. She gazed at the children with pity and dismay.
The girl’s heart leaped. The old lady looked like the photograph of her grandmother from Poland. The same light-colored eyes, white hair, the same comforting plumpness.
“Jules,” the elderly lady whispered, “are they-”
The old man nodded.
“Yes, I think so.”
The old lady said, firmly, “They must come in. They must be hidden at once.”
She waddled down to the dirt road, peered both ways.
“Quick, children, come now,” she said, holding out her hands. “You are safe here. You are safe with us.”
THE NIGHT HAD BEEN dreadful. I woke up puffy-faced with lack of sleep. I was glad Zoë had already left for school. I would have hated for her to see me now. Bertrand was kind, tender. He said we needed to talk it over some more. We could do so that evening, once Zoë was asleep. He said all this perfectly calmly, with great gentleness. I could tell he had made up his mind. Nothing or no one was going to make him want me to have this child.
I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it yet to my friends or to my sister. Bertrand’s choice had disturbed me to such an extent that I preferred to keep it to myself, at least for the time being.
It was difficult to get going this morning. Everything I did felt laborious. Every movement was an effort. I kept having flashbacks of last night. Of what he had said. There was no other solution but to throw myself into work. That afternoon, I was to meet Franck Lévy in his office. The Vel’ d’Hiv’ seemed far away all of a sudden. I felt like I had aged overnight. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, nothing except the child I carried and that my husband did not want.
I was on my way to the office when my cell phone rang. It was Guillaume. He had found a couple of those out-of-print books I needed concerning the Vel’ d’Hiv’, at his grandmother’s place. He could lend them to me. Could I meet him later on in the day, or that evening, for a drink? His voice was cheerful, friendly. I said yes immediately. We agreed to meet at six o’clock, at the Select on the boulevard du Montparnasse, two minutes away from home. We said good-bye, and then my phone rang again.
It was my father-in-law this time. I was surprised. Edouard rarely called me. We got on, in that French polite way. We both excelled at mutual small talk. But I was never truly comfortable with him. I always felt as if he was holding something back, never showing his feelings, to me, or to anybody else for that matter.
The kind of man one listens to. The kind of man one looks up to. I could not imagine him showing any other emotion apart from anger, pride, and self-satisfaction. I never saw Edouard wearing jeans, even during those Burgundy weekends when he would sit in the garden under the oak tree reading Rousseau. I don’t think I ever saw him without a tie, either. I remembered the first time I met him. He hadn’t changed much in the last seventeen years. The same regal posture, silver hair, steely eyes. My father-in-law was overly fond of cooking, and was constantly shooing Colette away from the kitchen, turning out simple, delicious meals-pot-au-feu, onion soup, a savory ratatouille, or a truffle omelet. The only person allowed in the kitchen with him was Zoë. He had a soft spot for Zoë, although Cécile and Laure had both produced boys, Arnaud and Louis. He adored my daughter. I never knew what went on during their cooking sessions. Behind the closed door, I could hear Zoë’s giggle, and vegetables being chopped, water bubbling, fat hissing in a pan, and Edouard’s occasional deep rumble of a chuckle.
Edouard asked how Zoë was doing, how the apartment was coming along. And then he got to the point. He had been to see Mamé yesterday. It had been a “bad” day, he added. Mamé was in one of her sulks. He had been about to leave her pouting at her television, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, she had said something about me.
“And what was that?” I asked, curious.
Edouard cleared his throat.
“My mother said that you had been asking her all sorts of questions about the rue de Saintonge apartment.”
I took a deep breath.
“Well, that’s true, I did,” I admitted. I wondered what he was getting at.
Silence.
“Julia, I prefer that you don’t ask Mamé anything about the rue de Saintonge.”
He spoke suddenly in English, as if he wanted to be perfectly sure I understood.
Stung, I replied in French.
“I’m sorry, Edouard. It’s just that I’m researching the Vel’ d’Hiv’ roundup at the moment for the magazine. I was surprised at the coincidence.”
Another silence.
“The coincidence?” he repeated, using French again.
“Well, yes,” I said, “about the Jewish family who lived there just before your family moved in and who were arrested during the roundup. I think Mamé was upset when she told me about it. So I stopped asking her questions.”
“Thank you, Julia,” he said. He paused. “It does upset Mamé. Don’t mention it to her again, please.”
I halted in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Ok, I won’t,” I said, “but I didn’t mean any harm, I only wanted to know how your family ended up in that apartment, and if Mamé knew anything about the Jewish family. Do you, Edouard? Do you know anything?”