Sarah's Key by Tatiana De Rosnay Page B

murmur something, then his voice came across clearly.
    “What’s up, amour ?” he said. “Make it quick, I’ve got someone waiting.”
    I took a deep breath.
    “Bertrand,” I said, “do you know how your grandparents got the rue de Saintonge apartment?”
    “No,” he said. “Why?”
    “I’ve just been to see Mamé. She told me they moved in during July of ’42. She said the place had been emptied because of a Jewish family arrested during the Vel’ d’Hiv’ roundup.”
    Silence.
    “So?” asked Bertrand, finally.
    I felt my face go hot. My voice echoed out through the empty apartment.
    “But doesn’t it bother you that your family moved in, knowing the Jewish people had been arrested? Did they ever tell you about it?”
    I could almost hear him shrug in that typical French fashion, the downturn of the mouth, the arched eyebrows.
    “No, it doesn’t bother me. I didn’t know, they never told me, but it still doesn’t bother me. I’m sure a lot of Parisians moved into empty apartments in July of ’42, after the roundup. Surely that doesn’t make my family collaborationists, does it?”
    His laugh hurt my ears.
    “I never said that, Bertrand.”
    “You’re getting too heated up about all this, Julia,” he said with a gentler tone. “This happened sixty years ago, you know. There was a world war going on, remember. Tough times for everybody.”
    I sighed.
    “I just want to know how it happened. I just don’t understand.”
    “It’s simple, mon ange . My grandparents had a hard time during the war. The antique shop wasn’t doing well. They were probably relieved to move into a bigger, better place. After all, they had a child. They were young. They were glad to find a roof over their heads. They probably didn’t think twice about the Jewish family.”
    “Oh, Bertrand,” I whispered. “How could they not think about that family? How could they not?”
    He blew kisses down the phone.
    “They didn’t know, I guess. I’ve got to go, amour . See you tonight.”
    And he hung up.
    I stayed in the apartment for a while, walking down the long corridor, standing in the empty living room, running my palm along the smooth marble mantelpiece, trying to understand, trying not to let my emotions overwhelm me.

 
     
    W
    ITH 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