Sarah's Key (20 page)

SARAH SLEPT BADLY THAT night. She kept hearing Rachel scream, over and over again. Where was Rachel now? Was she all right? Was somebody looking after her, helping her get well again? Where had all those Jewish families been taken? And her mother, and her father? And the children back in the camp at Beaune-la-Rolande?

Sarah lay on her back in the bed and listened to the silence of the old house. So many questions. And no answers. Her father used to answer all her queries. Why the sky was blue, and what were clouds made of, and how babies came into the world. Why the sea had tides, and how flowers grew, and why people fell in love. He had always taken time to answer her, patiently, calmly, with clear, easy words and gestures. He had never told her he was too busy. He loved her incessant questions. He used to say she was such a bright little girl.

But recently, her father had not answered her questions the way he used to, she recalled. Her questions about the yellow star, about not being able to go the cinema, the public swimming pool. About the curfew. About that man, in Germany, who hated Jews, and whose very name made her shiver. No, he had not answered her questions properly. He had remained vague, silent. And when she had asked him, again, for the second or the third time, just before the men had come to get them on that black Thursday, what was it exactly about being a Jew that made others hate them—surely it couldn’t be that they were afraid of Jews because Jews were “different”—he had looked away, as if he hadn’t heard. But she knew that he had.

She didn’t want to think about her father. It hurt too much. She couldn’t even remember the last time she saw him. At the camp … but when exactly? She didn’t know. With her mother, there had been that last time she had seen her mother’s face turn to her, as she had walked away with the other sobbing women, up that long dusty road to the station. She had a clear image pasted in her mind, like a photograph. Her mother’s pale face, the startling blue of her eyes. The ghost of a smile.

But there had been no last time with her father. No last image she could cling to, she could conjure. So she tried to remember him, to bring back his thin, dark face, his haunted eyes. The white teeth in the dark face. She had always heard she looked like her mother, and so did Michel. They had her fair, Slavic looks, the high, broad cheekbones, the slanted eyes. Her father used to complain that none of his children resembled him. She mentally pushed her father’s smile away. It was too painful. Too deep.

Tomorrow she had to get to Paris. She had to get home. She had to find out what had happened to Michel. Maybe he was safe, too, like she was now. Maybe some good, generous people had been able to open up the door of the hiding place and free him. But who? she wondered. Who could have helped him? She had never trusted Madame Royer, the concierge. Sly eyes, thin smile. No, not her. Maybe the nice violin teacher, the one who had yelled out on that black Thursday morning, “Where are you taking them? They’re honest, good people! You can’t do this!” Yes, maybe he had been able to save Michel, maybe Michel was safe in the man’s home, and the man was playing Polish tunes to him on his violin. Michel’s laugh, his pink cheeks, Michel clapping his hands and dancing round and round. Maybe Michel was waiting for her, maybe he said to the violin teacher every morning, “Is Sirka coming today, when is Sirka coming? She promised she would come back and get me, she promised!”

When she was awoken at dawn by the call of a rooster, she realized her pillow was wet, sodden with her tears. She dressed quickly, slipping into the clothes that Geneviève had laid out for her. Clean, sturdy, old-fashioned boy clothes. She wondered who they belonged to. That Nicolas Dufaure who had painstakingly written his name out in all those books? She put the key and the money into her pocket.

Downstairs, the large, cool kitchen was empty. It was early still. The cat slept on, curled up in a chair. The girl nibbled on a soft loaf of bread, drank some milk. She kept feeling in her pocket for the wad of money and the key, making sure they were safe.

It was a hot, gray morning. There would be violent storms tonight, she knew. Those loud frightening storms that used to scare Michel so. She wondered how she was going to get to the station. Was Orléans far? She had no idea. How was she going to manage? How would she find her way? I got this far, she kept saying, I got this far, so I can’t give up now, I’ll find my way, I’ll find a way. And she couldn’t leave without saying good-bye to Jules and Geneviève. So she waited, throwing crumbs to the hens and chicks from the doorstep.

Geneviève came down half an hour later. Her face still carried the traces of last night’s crisis. A few minutes later, Jules appeared, planting an affectionate kiss on Sarah’s crew cut. The girl watched them prepare breakfast, with slow careful gestures. She had grown fond of them, she thought. More than fond of them. How was she going to tell them she was leaving today? They would be heartbroken, she was sure of that. But she had no choice. She had to get back to Paris.

When she did tell them, they had finished breakfast and were clearing up.

“Oh, but you can’t do that,” gasped the old lady, nearly dropping the cup she was drying. “The roads are patrolled, the trains are watched. You don’t even have an identity card. You will be stopped and sent back to the camp.”

“I have money,” said Sarah.

“But that won’t prevent the Germans from—”

Jules interrupted his wife with an uplifted hand. He tried to convince Sarah to stay a little longer. He spoke to her calmly, and firmly, like her father used to, she thought. She listened, nodding her head absently. But she had to make them understand. How could she explain her need to get home? How could she remain as calm and as firm as Jules?

Her words came out rushed and jumbled. She was fed up with trying to be adult. She stamped her foot in irritation.

“If you try and stop me,” she said darkly, “if you stop me, I’ll run away.”

She stood up, headed to the door. They hadn’t moved, they were staring at her, petrified.

“Wait!” said Jules at last. “Wait one minute.”

“No. I am not waiting. I am going to the station,” said Sarah, her hand on the handle.

“You don’t even know where the station is,” Jules said.

“I’ll find out. I’ll find my way.”

She unlatched the door.

“Good-bye,” she said to the old couple. “Good-bye, and thank you.”

She turned and walked to the gates. It had been simple. It had been easy. But as she walked past the gates, bending to stroke the dog’s head, she suddenly realized what she had done. She was on her own now. Completely on her own. She remembered Rachel’s shrill scream. The loud, marching steps. The Lieutenant’s chilling laugh. Her courage petered out. Against her will, she turned her head, looked back at the house.

Jules and Geneviève were still watching her through the windowpane, frozen. When they both moved, it was exactly at the same time. Jules grabbed his cap and Geneviève her purse. They hurried outside, locked the front door. When they caught up with her, Jules put a hand on her shoulder.

“Please don’t stop me,” mumbled Sarah, reddening. She was both happy and annoyed that they had followed her.

“Stop you?” Jules smiled. “We’re not stopping you, you silly, stubborn girl. We’re coming with you.”

WE MADE OUR WAY to the cemetery under a hot, dry sun. I felt queasy all of a sudden. I had to stop and breathe. Bamber was concerned. I told him not to worry, it was just lack of sleep. Once again, he looked dubious, but made no comment.

The graveyard was small, but we took a long time finding anything. We had nearly given up when Bamber noticed pebbles on one of the graves. A Jewish tradition. We came closer. On the flat white stone, we read:

The Jewish deported veterans had this monument established ten years after their internment in order to perpetuate the memory of their martyrs, victims of Hitlerian barbarity. May 1941—May 1951

“Hitlerian barbarity!” remarked Bamber dryly. “Makes the French sound like they didn’t have anything to do with the whole business.”

There were several names and dates on the side of the tombstone. I leaned forward for a closer look. Children. Barely two or three years old. Children who had died at the camp, in July and August 1942. Vel’ d’Hiv’ children.

I had always been acutely aware that everything I had read about the roundup was true. And yet, on that hot spring day, as I stood looking at the grave, it hit me. The whole reality of it hit me.

And I knew that I would no longer rest, no longer be at peace, until I found out precisely what had become of Sarah Starzynski. And what the Tézacs knew and were so reluctant to tell me.

On our way back to the town center, we saw an old man shuffling along, carrying a bag of vegetables. He must have been in his eighties, with a round, red face and white hair. I asked him if he knew where the former Jewish camp used to be. He looked at us suspiciously.

“The camp?” he asked. “You want to know where the camp was?”

We nodded.

“Nobody asks about the camp,” he mumbled. He picked at the leeks in his basket, avoiding our eyes.

“Do you know where it was?” I persisted.

He coughed.

“Of course I do. Lived here all my life. When I was a kid, I didn’t know what that camp was. Nobody mentioned it. We acted as if it wasn’t there. We knew it had something to do with Jews, but we didn’t ask. We were too afraid. So we minded our own business.”

“Do you remember anything specific about the camp?” I asked.

“I was about fifteen years old,” he said. “I remember the summer of ’42, crowds of Jews coming from the station, passing on this very street. Right here.” His crooked finger pointed down the large street we were standing on. “Avenue de la Gare. Hordes of Jews. And one day, there was a noise. An awful noise. My parents used to live at a distance from the camp. But we still heard it. A roar that went through the entire town. Went on all day. I heard my parents talking to the neighbors. They were saying that the mothers had been separated from the children, back at the camp. What for? We didn’t know. I saw a group of Jewish women walking to the station. No, they weren’t walking. They were stumbling along the road, crying, bullied by the police.”

His eyes looked back down the street, remembering. Then he picked up his basket with a grunt.

“One day,” he said, “the camp was empty. I thought, the Jews have gone. I didn’t know where. I stopped thinking about it. We all have. We don’t talk about it. We don’t want to remember. Some people here don’t even know.”

He turned and walked away. I scribbled it all down, feeling my stomach heave again. But this time I wasn’t sure whether it was morning sickness, or what I deciphered in the old man’s eyes, his indifference, his scorn.

We drove up the rue Roland from the Place du Marché and parked in front of the school. Bamber pointed out that the street was called rue des Déportés—Deportee Road. I was thankful for that. I don’t think I could have stood it if it had been called avenue de la République.

The technical school was a grim, modern building with an old water tower looming over it. It was difficult to imagine the camp had been here, under thick cement and parking lots. Students were standing around the entrance, smoking. It was their lunch break. On an unkempt square of grass in front of the school, we noticed strange, curving sculptures with figures carved into them. On one of them, we read, “They must act with and for each other, in a spirit of fraternity.” Nothing more. Bamber and I looked at each other, puzzled.

I asked one of the students if the sculptures had anything to do with the camp. He asked, “What camp?” A fellow student tittered. I explained the nature of the camp. It seemed to sober him up a little. Then the other student, a girl, said there was some sort of plaque, just a little farther down the road, heading back to the village. We hadn’t noticed it on our drive up. I asked the girl if it was a memorial. She said she thought so.

The monument was in black marble with faded gold lettering. It had been erected in 1965 by the mayor of Beaune-la-Rolande. A gold star of David was etched out on its summit. And there were names. Endless names. I picked out two names that had become painfully, achingly familiar: “Starzynski, Wladyslaw. Starzynski, Rywka.”

On the bottom of the marble post, I noticed a small, square urn. “Here are deposited the ashes of our martyrs from Auschwitz-Birkenau.” A little farther up, beneath the list of names, I read another sentence: “To the 3,500 Jewish children torn from their parents, interned at Beaune-la-Rolande and Pithiviers, deported and exterminated at Auschwitz.” Then Bamber read out loud, with his polished British accent: “Victims of the Nazis, buried at the graveyard of Beaune-la-Rolande.” Below, we discovered the same names engraved on the tomb in the cemetery. The Vel’ d’Hiv’ children who had died in the camp.

“ ‘Victims of the Nazis’ again,” muttered Bamber. “Looks like a good case of amnesia to me.”

He and I stood and looked on, in silence. Bamber had taken a few photographs, but now his camera was back in its case. On the black marble, there was no mention that the French police alone had been responsible for running the camp, and for what had happened behind the barbed wire.