Sarah's Key (32 page)

THE NEXT MORNING, THE pain was back in my stomach. Nothing powerful, but it bothered me with a discreet persistence. I decided to ignore it. If it was still there after lunch, I’d ask Giovanna for a doctor. As we walked to the café, I wondered how I was going to broach the subject with William. I had put off thinking about it, and I realized now that I shouldn’t have. I was going to stir sad, painful memories. Maybe he did not want to talk about his mother at all. Maybe it was something he had put behind him. He had his life here, far from Roxbury, far from the rue de Saintonge. A peaceful, bucolic life. And here I was bringing back the past. The dead.

Zoë and I discovered that one could actually walk on the thick medieval walls that circled the small city. They were high and wide, with a large path on their crest, hemmed in by a dense row of chestnut trees. We mingled with the incessant stream of joggers, walkers, cyclists, roller skaters, mothers with children, old men talking loudly, teenagers on scooters, tourists.

The café was a little farther on, shaded by leafy trees. I drew nearer with Zoë, feeling strangely light-headed, almost numb. The terrace was empty save for a middle-aged couple having an ice cream and some German tourists poring over a map. I lowered my hat over my eyes, smoothed out my crumpled skirt.

When he said my name, I was busy reading the menu to Zoë.

“Julia Jarmond.”

I looked up to a tall, thickset man in his mid-forties. He sat down opposite Zoë and me.

“Hi,” said Zoë.

I found I could not speak. I could only stare at him. His hair was dark blond, swept with gray. Receding hairline. Square jaw. A beautiful beak of a nose.

“Hi,” he said to Zoë. “Have the tiramisu. You’ll love it.”

Then he lifted his dark glasses, gliding them back over his forehead to rest on top of his skull. His mother’s eyes. Turquoise and slanted. He smiled.

“So you’re a journalist, I gather? Based in Paris? Looked you up on the Internet.”

I coughed, fingering my watch nervously.

“I looked you up as well, you know. That was a fabulous book, your last one,
Tuscan Feasts
.”

William Rainsferd sighed and patted his stomach.

“Ah, that book contributed nicely to an extra ten pounds I’ve never been able to get rid of.”

I smiled brightly. It was going to be difficult to switch from this pleasant, easy conversation to what I knew lay ahead. Zoë looked at me purposefully.

“It’s very nice of you to come here and meet us … I appreciate it. …”

My voice sounded lame, lost.

“No problem.” He grinned, clicking his fingers at the waiter.

We ordered tiramisu and a Coke for Zoë, and two cappuccinos.

“Your first time in Lucca?” he asked.

I nodded. The waiter hovered over us. William Rainsferd spoke to him in rapid, smooth Italian. They both laughed.

“I come to this café often,” he explained. “I like hanging out here. Even on a hot day like this.”

Zoë tried out her tiramisu, her spoon clicking against the small glass bowl. A sudden silence fell upon us.

“What can I do to help?” he asked brightly. “Mara mentioned something about my mother.”

I praised Mara inwardly. She had made things easier, it seemed.

“I didn’t know your mother had passed away,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.” He shrugged, dropping a lump of sugar into his coffee. “Happened a long time ago. I was a kid. Did you know her? You look a little young for that.”

I shook my head.

“No, I never met your mother. I happen to be moving into the apartment she lived in during the war. Rue de Saintonge, in Paris. And I know people who were close to her. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I came to see you.”

He put his coffee cup down and looked at me quietly. The clear eyes were reflective, calm.

Under the table, Zoë placed a sticky hand on my bare knee. I watched a couple of cyclists wheel past. The heat was pounding down on us again. I took a deep breath.

“I’m not quite sure how to begin,” I faltered. “And I know it must be difficult for you to have to think about this again, but I felt I had to. My in-laws, the Tézacs, met your mother in the rue de Saintonge, in 1942.”

I thought the name Tézac might ring a bell, but he remained motionless. Rue de Saintonge did not seem to, either.

“After what happened, I mean, the tragic events of July ’42, and the death of your uncle, I just wanted to assure you that the Tézac family has never been able to forget your mother. My father-in-law, especially, thinks of her every day.”

There was a silence. William Rainsferd’s eyes seem to shrink.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, “I knew all this would be painful for you, I’m sorry.”

When he finally spoke his voice sounded odd, almost smothered.

“What do you mean by tragic events?”

“Well, the Vél’ d’Hiv’ roundup,” I stammered. “Jewish families, rounded up in Paris, in July ’42 …”

“Go on,” he said.

“And the camps. … The families sent to Auschwitz from Drancy …”

William Rainsferd spread his palms wide, shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see what this has to do with my mother.”

Zoë and I exchanged uneasy glances.

A long minute dragged by. I felt acutely uncomfortable.

“You mentioned the death of an uncle?” he said at last.

“Yes … Michel. Your mother’s little brother. In the rue de Saintonge.”

Silence.

“Michel?” He seemed puzzled. “My mother never had a brother called Michel. And I’ve never heard of the rue de Saintonge. You know, I don’t think we’re talking about the same person.”

“But your mother’s name was Sarah, right?” I mumbled, confused.

He nodded.

“Yes, that’s right. Sarah Dufaure.”

“Yes, Sarah Dufaure, that’s her,” I said eagerly. “Or rather, Sarah Starzynski.”

I expected his eyes to light up.

“Excuse me?” he said, eyebrows slanting downward. “Sarah what?”

“Starzynski. Your mother’s maiden name.”

William Rainsferd stared at me, lifting his chin.

“My mother’s maiden name was Dufaure.”

A warning bell went off in my head. Something was wrong. He did not know.

There was still time to leave, time to take off before I shattered the peace in this man’s life to pieces.

I pasted a blithe smile on my face, murmured something about a mistake, and scraped my chair back a couple of inches, gently urging Zoë to leave her dessert. I wouldn’t be wasting his time any longer, I was most sorry. I rose from my seat. He did as well.

“I think you’ve got the wrong Sarah,” he said, smiling. “It doesn’t matter, enjoy your stay in Lucca. It was nice meeting you, anyway.”

Before I could utter a word, Zoë put her hand into my bag and handed him something.

William Rainsferd looked down at the photograph of the little girl with the yellow star.

“Is this your mother?” Zoë asked with a small voice.

It seemed that everything had gone quiet around us. No noise came from the busy path. Even the birds seemed to have stopped chirping. There was only the heat. And silence.

“Jesus,” he said.

And then he sat down again, heavily.

THE PHOTOGRAPH LAY FLAT between us on the table. William Rainsferd looked from it to me, again and again. He read the caption on the back several times, with an incredulous, startled expression.

“This looks exactly like my mother as a child,” he said, finally. “That I can’t deny.”

Zoë and I remained silent.

“I don’t understand. This can’t be. This is not possible.”

He rubbed his hands together nervously. I noticed he wore a silver wedding band. He had long, slim fingers.

“The star …” He kept shaking his head. “That star on her chest …”

Was it possible this man did not know the truth about his mother’s past? Her religion? Was it possible that Sarah had not ever told the Rainsferds?

As I watched his puzzled face, his anxiety, I felt I knew. No, she had not told them. She had not revealed her childhood, her origins, her religion. She had made a clean break with her terrible past.

I wanted to be far away. Far from this town, this country, this man’s incomprehension. How could I have been so blind? How could I have not seen this coming? Not once had I ever thought that Sarah could have kept all this secret. Her suffering had been too great. That was why she had never written to the Dufaures. That was why she had never told her son about who she really was. In America, she had wanted to start a new life.

And here I was, a stranger, revealing the stark truth to this man, a clumsy bearer of ill tidings.

William Rainsferd pushed the photograph back toward me, his mouth taut.

“What have you come here for?” he whispered.

My throat felt dry.

“To tell me my mother was called something else? That she was involved in a tragedy? Is this why you are here?”

I could sense my legs trembling under the table. This was not what I had imagined. I had imagined pain, sorrow, but not this. Not his anger.

“I thought you knew,” I ventured. “I came because my family remembers what she went through, back in ’42. That’s why I’m here.”

He shook his head again, raked agitated fingers through his hair. His dark glasses clattered to the table.

“No,” he breathed. “No. No, no. This is crazy. My mother was French. She was called Dufaure. She was born in Orléans. She lost her parents during the war. She had no brothers. She had no family. She never lived in Paris, in that rue de Saintonge. This little Jewish girl cannot be her. You’ve got this all wrong.”

“Please,” I said, gently, “let me explain, let me tell you the whole story—”

He pushed his palms up to me, as if he meant to shove me away.

“I don’t want to know. Keep the ‘whole story’ to yourself.”

I felt the familiar ache tug at my insides, plucking at my womb with a deft gnaw.

“Please,” I said, feebly. “Please listen to me.”

William Rainsferd was on his feet, a quick, supple gesture for such a big man. He looked down at me, his face dark.

“I’m going to be very clear. I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want to talk about this again. Please don’t call me.”

And he was gone.

Zoë and I stared after him. All this, for nothing. This whole trip, all these efforts, for this. For this dead end. I could not believe Sarah’s story could end here, so quickly. It could not just dry out.

We sat in silence for a long moment. Then, shivering despite the heat, I paid the bill. Zoë did not say a word. She seemed stunned.

I got up, weariness hindering every move. What now? Where to go? Back to Paris? Back to Charla’s?

I trudged on, my feet as heavy as lead. I could hear Zoë’s voice calling out to me, but I did not want to turn around. I wanted to get back to the hotel, fast. To think. To get going. To call my sister. And Edouard. And Gaspard.

Zoë’s voice was loud now, anxious. What did she want? Why was she whining? I noticed passersby staring at me. I swiveled around to my daughter, exasperated, telling her to hurry up.

She rushed to my side, grabbed my hand. Her face was pale.

“Mom… ,” she whispered, her voice strained thin.

“What? What is it?” I snapped.

She pointed at my legs. She started to whimper, like a puppy.

I glanced down. My white skirt was soaked with blood. I looked back to my seat, imprinted with a crimson half moon. Thick red rivulets trickled down my thighs.

“Are you hurt, Mom?” choked Zoë.

I clutched my stomach.

“The baby,” I said, aghast.

Zoë stared at me.

“The baby?” she screamed, her fingers biting into my arm. “Mom, what baby? What are you talking about?”

Her pointed face loomed away from me. My legs buckled. I landed chin first on the hot, dry path.

Then silence. And darkness.

I OPENED MY EYES to Zoë’s face, a few inches from mine. I could smell the unmistakable scent of a hospital around me. A small, green room. An IV in my forearm. A woman wearing a white blouse scribbling something on a chart.