Sarah's Key (13 page)

WITH RACHEL, SHE HAD made up her mind. They were going to escape. They were going to leave this place. It was that, or die. She knew it. She knew that if she stayed here with the other children, it would be the end. Many of the children were ill. Half a dozen had already died. Once, she had seen a nurse, like the one in the stadium, a woman with a blue veil. One nurse, for so many sick, starving children.

Escaping was their secret. They had not told any of the other children. No one was to guess anything. They were going to escape in broad daylight. They had noticed that during the day, at most times, the policemen hardly paid attention to them. It could be easy and fast. Down behind the sheds, toward the water tower, where the village women had tried to push food through the barbed wire, they had found a small gap in the rolls of wire. Small, but maybe big enough for a child to crawl through.

Some children had already left the camp, surrounded by policemen. She had watched them leave, frail, thin creatures with their shorn heads and ragged clothes. Where were they being taken? Far away? To the mothers and fathers? She didn’t believe that. Rachel didn’t either. If they were all to be taken to the same place, why had the police separated the parents from the children in the first place? Why so much pain, so much suffering, thought the girl. “It’s because they hate us,” Rachel had told her with her deep, hoarse voice. “They hate Jews.” Such hate, thought the girl. Why such hate? She had never hated anyone in her life, except perhaps a teacher, once. A teacher who had severely punished her because she had not learned her lesson. Had she ever wished that woman dead? she pondered. Yes, she had. So maybe that’s how it worked. That’s how all this had happened. Hating people so much that you wanted to kill them. Hating them because they wore a yellow star. It made her shiver. She felt as if all the evil, all the hatred in the world was concentrated right here, stocked up all around her, in the policemen’s hard faces, in their indifference, their disdain. And outside the camp, did everybody hate Jews, too? Is this what her life was going to be about from now on?

She remembered, last June, overhearing neighbors in the stairway on her way home from school. Feminine voices, lowered to whispers. She had paused on the stairs, her ears cocked like a puppy’s. “And do you know, his jacket opened, and there it was, the star. I never would have thought he was a Jew.” She heard the other woman’s sharp intake of breath. “Him, a Jew! Such a proper gentleman, too. What a surprise.”

She had asked her mother why some of the neighbors didn’t like Jewish people. Her mother had shrugged, had sighed, bending her head over her ironing. But she had not answered the girl. So the girl had gone to see her father. What was wrong with being a Jew? Why did some people hate Jews? Her father had scratched his head, had looked down at her with a quizzical smile. He had said, hesitatingly, “Because they think we are different. So they are frightened of us.” But what was different? thought the girl. What was so different?

Her mother. Her father. Her brother. She missed them so much she felt physically ill. She felt as if she had fallen into a bottomless hole. Escaping was the only way for her to have some sort of grip on her life, on this new life she could not understand. Maybe her parents had managed to escape as well? Maybe they were all able to make their way back home? Maybe. … Maybe. …

She thought of the empty apartment, the unmade beds, the food slowly rotting in the kitchen. And her brother in that silence. In the dead silence of the place.

Rachel touched her arm, making her jump.

“Now,” she whispered. “Let’s try, now.”

The camp was silent, almost deserted. Since the adults had been taken away, there were fewer policemen, they had noticed. And the policemen hardly talked to the children. They left them alone.

The heat pounded down on the sheds, unbearable. Inside, feeble, sick children lay on damp straw. The girls could hear male voices and laughs from farther on. The men were probably in one of the barracks, keeping out of the sun.

The only policeman they could see was sitting in the shade, his rifle at his feet. His head was tilted back against the wall, and he seemed fast asleep, his mouth open. They crept toward the fences, like quick, small animals. They could glimpse green meadows and fields stretching before them.

Silence, still. Heat and silence. Had anybody seen them? They crouched in the grass, hearts pounding. They peered back over their shoulders. No movement. No noise. Was it that easy, thought the girl. No, it couldn’t be. Nothing was ever easy, not anymore.

Rachel was clutching a bundle of clothes in her arms. She urged the girl to put them on, the extra layers would protect their skin against the barbs, she said. The girl shuddered as she struggled into a dirty, ragged sweater, a tight, tattered pair of trousers. Who had these clothes belonged to, she wondered, some poor dead child whose mother had gone, and who had been left here to die alone?

Still crouching, they drew near the small gap in the rolls of wire. There was a policeman standing a little way off. They could not make out his face, just the sharp outline of his high round cap. Rachel pointed to the opening in the wire. They would have to hurry now. No time to waste. They got down on their stomachs, snaked their way to the hole. It seemed so small, thought the girl. How could they possibly wriggle through, not cut themselves on the barbed wire despite the extra clothes? How did they ever think they were going to make it? That nobody was going to see them? That they’d get away with it? They were crazy, she thought. Crazy.

The grass tickled her nose. It smelled delicious. She wanted to bury her face in it and breathe in the green, tangy scent. She saw that Rachel had already reached the gap and was gingerly pushing her head through it.

Suddenly the girl heard heavy thuds on the grass. Her heart stopped. She looked up to a huge shape looming over her. A policeman. He dragged her up by the frayed collar of her blouse, shook her. She felt herself go limp with terror.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

His voice hissing in her ear.

Rachel was halfway through the rolls. The man, still holding the girl by the scruff of her neck, reached down and seized Rachel’s ankle. She fought and kicked, but he was too strong, pulling her back through the barbed wire, her face and hands bleeding.

They stood in front of him, Rachel sobbing, the girl straight-backed, her chin up. Inside she was trembling, but she had decided she would not show her fear. At least she was going to try.

And then she looked at him and gasped.

It was the red-haired policeman. He recognized her instantly. She saw his Adam’s apple bob, felt the thick hand on her collar quiver.

“You can’t escape,” he said gruffly. “You must stay here, you understand?”

He was young, just over twenty, massive, and pink-skinned. The girl noticed he was sweating under the thick dark uniform. His forehead was glistening with moisture, his upper lip, too. His eyes blinked, he shifted from foot to foot.

She realized she was not afraid of him. She felt a sort of strange pity for him, which puzzled her. She put her hand on his arm. He looked down at it with surprise and embarrassment.

She said, “You remember me, don’t you.”

It was not a question. It was a fact.

He nodded, dabbing at the moist patch under his nose. She took the key from her pocket and showed it to him. Her hand did not waver.

“You remember my little brother,” she said. “The little blond boy with the curly hair?”

He nodded again.

“You must let me go, Monsieur. My little brother, Monsieur. He is in Paris. Alone. I locked him in the cupboard because I thought—” Her voice broke. “I thought he’d be safe there! I must go back! Let me go through this hole. You can pretend you never saw me, Monsieur.”

The man glanced back over his shoulder, toward the sheds, as if he was afraid someone might come, someone might see them or hear them.

He put a finger to his lips. He looked back at the girl. He screwed up his face, shook his head.

“I can’t do that,” he said, his voice low. “I have orders.”

She pressed her hand down on his chest.

“Please, Monsieur,” she said, quietly.

Next to her, Rachel sniffed, her face clotted with blood and tears. The man glanced over his shoulder once more. He seemed deeply perturbed. She again noticed that strange expression on his face, the one she had glimpsed the day of the roundup. A mixture of pity, shame, and anger.

The girl felt the minutes go by, leaden, heavy. Endless. She felt the sobs, the tears growing within her again, the panic. What was she going to do if he sent her and Rachel back to the barracks? How was she going to go on? How? She would try to escape again, she thought fiercely, yes, she would do it over and over again. Over and over again.

Suddenly, he said her name. He took her hand. His palm felt hot and clammy.

“Go,” he said between clenched teeth, the sweat trickling down the sides of his pasty face. “Go, now! Fast.”

Bewildered, she looked up to the golden eyes. He pushed her toward the hole, forcing her down with his hand. He held up the wire, shoved her through violently. The barbed wire stung her forehead. Then it was over. She scrambled to her feet. She was free, standing on the other side.

Rachel stared, motionless.

“I want to go, too,” Rachel said.

The policeman clamped a hand on the back of her neck.

“No, you are staying,” he said.

Rachel wailed.

“That’s not fair! Why her, and not me? Why?”

He silenced her, raising his other hand. Behind the fence, the girl stood frozen to the spot. Why couldn’t Rachel come with her? Why did Rachel have to stay?

“Please let her come,” said the girl. “Please, Monsieur.”

She spoke with a calm, quiet voice. The voice of a young woman.

The man seemed ill at ease, restless. But he didn’t hesitate long.

“Go then,” he said, pushing Rachel away. “Quickly.”

He held the wire as Rachel crawled through. She stood next to the girl, breathless.

The man fumbled in his pockets, pulled something out, and handed it to the girl, through the fence.

“Take this,” he ordered.

The girl looked at the thick wad of money in her hand. She put it in her pocket, next to the key.

The man looked back toward the barracks, his brow furrowed.

“For God’s sake, run! Run now, quick, both of you. If they see you. … Take off your stars. Try to find help. Be careful! Good luck!”

She wanted to thank him, for his help, for the money, she wanted to hold her hand out to him, but Rachel grabbed her by the arm and took off, they ran as fast as they could though the high golden wheat, straight ahead, lungs bursting, legs and arms helter-skelter, far away from the camp, as far away as possible.

AS I GOT HOME, I realized I had been feeling nauseous for the past couple of days. I hadn’t bothered about it, caught up in researching the Vel’ d’Hiv’ article. Then, last week, there had been the revelation concerning Mamé’s apartment. But it was the soreness, the tenderness of my breasts that made me pay attention to my queasiness for the first time. I checked my cycle. Yes, I was late. But that had happened, too, in the past years. I finally went down to the
pharmacie
on the boulevard to buy a pregnancy test. Just to be sure.

And there it was. A little blue line. I was pregnant. Pregnant. I couldn’t believe it.

I sat down in the kitchen and hardly dared breathe.

The last pregnancy, five years ago, after two miscarriages, had been a nightmare. Early pain and bleeding, then the discovery that the egg was developing outside the womb, in one of my tubes. There had been a difficult operation. And a messy aftermath, both mentally and physically. It had taken me a long time to get over it. One of my ovaries had been removed. The surgeon had said he was dubious about another pregnancy. And, by then, I was already forty. The disappointment, the sadness in Bertrand’s face. He never spoke about it, but I felt it. I knew it. The fact that he did not want to talk about his feelings, ever, made it worse. He kept it bottled up, away from me. The words that were never spoken grew like a tangible being between us. I had only talked about it to my psychiatrist. And with my very close friends.

I remembered a recent weekend in Burgundy, when we had invited Isabelle and her husband and children to stay. Their daughter Mathilde was Zoë’s age, and then there was little Matthieu. And the way Bertrand had looked at that little boy, a delightful little fellow of four or five. Bertrand’s eyes following him, Bertrand playing with him, carrying him around on his shoulders, smiling, but something sad and wistful in his eyes. It had been unbearable to me. Isabelle had found me crying alone in the kitchen while everybody was finishing their quiche Lorraine outside. She had hugged me hard, then poured out a hefty glass of wine and turned on the CD player, and deafened me with old Diana Ross hits. “It’s not your fault,
ma cocotte,
it’s not your fault. Remember that.”