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.”
MAMÉ’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 Tézac family stood around the bed. Bertrand. His mother, Colette. Edouard. Laure and Cécile. 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 Mamé’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 Amélie, 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 Mamé 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 discovered 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 Tézac 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, Cécile, 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 Tézac. 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.
WILLIAM 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 café. 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’Université, 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.