Sarah's Key

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  "And the name is?"

  "She wrote to say she was marrying Richard J. Rainsferd." She spelled the name out. "The card is dated March 15, 1955. No address. Nothing else. Just that."

  "Richard J. Rainsferd," I repeated, writing it in block letters on my skin.

  I thanked Nathalie, promised to keep her informed of my progress, then dialed Charla's number in Manhattan. I got her assistant, Tina, who put me on hold for a while. Then Charla's voice came through.

  "You again, honey pie?"

  I went straight to the point.

  "How do you find someone in the States, get hold of someone?"

  "Phone book," she said.

  "Is it that easy?"

  "There are other ways," she replied cryptically.

  "What about a person who disappeared in 1955?"

  "You got a Social Security number, license plate, or even an address?"

  "Nope. Nothing."

  She whistled through her teeth.

  "It'll be tough. Might not work. I'll try, though, I have a couple of pals who could help. Give me the name."

  At that moment, I heard the front door slam, the jangle of keys being tossed onto the table.

  My husband, back from Brussels.

  "I'll get back to you," I whispered to my sister, and hung up.

  B

  ERTRAND WALKED INTO THE ROOM. He looked tense, pale, his face was drawn. He came to me, took me in his arms. I felt his chin nestle on top of my head.

  I felt I had to speak fast.

  "I didn't do it," I said.

  He hardly moved.

  "I know," he answered. "The doctor phoned me."

  I pulled away from him.

  "I couldn't, Bertrand."

  He smiled, a strange, desperate smile. He went over to the tray by the window where we kept liquor and poured cognac into a glass. I noticed how fast he drank it, his head snapping back. It was an ugly gesture and it stirred me.

  "So what now?" he said, putting the glass down squarely. "What do we do now?"

  I tried to smile, but I could fell it was a fake, cheerless one. Bertrand sat on the sofa, loosened his tie, opening the first two buttons of his shirt.

  Then he said, "I can't face the idea of this child, Julia. I tried to tell you. You wouldn't listen."

  Something in his voice made me look closer at him. He seemed vulnerable, rundown. For a split second I saw Edouard Tezac's weary face, the expression he had in the car, when he told me about Sarah coming back.

  "I can't stop you having this baby. But I need you to know that I just can't come to terms with it. Having this child is going to destroy me."

  I wanted to express pity--he seemed lost, defenseless--but instead an unexpected feeling of resentment took over me.

  "Destroy you?" I repeated.

  Bertrand got up, poured himself another drink. I glanced away as he swallowed it.

  "Ever heard of midlife crisis, amour? You Americans are so fond of that expression. You've been wrapped up in your job, your friends, your daughter, you haven't even noticed what I've been going through. To tell the truth, you don't care. Do you?"

  I stared at him, startled.

  He lay back on the sofa, slowly, carefully, gazing up at the ceiling. Slow, precautious gestures I'd never seen him use. The skin of his face seemed crumpled. All of a sudden, I was looking at an aging husband. Gone was the young Bertrand. Bertrand had always been triumphantly young, vibrant, energetic. The kind of person who never sits still, always on the go, buoyant, fast, eager. The man I was staring at was like a ghost of his former self. When had this happened? How could I not have seen it? Bertrand and his tremendous laugh. His jokes. His audacity. Is that your husband? people would whisper, awed, galvanized. Bertrand at dinner parties, monopolizing conversations, but nobody cared, he was so riveting. Bertrand's way of looking at you, the powerful flicker of his blue eyes and that crooked, devilish smile.

  Tonight there was nothing tight, nothing taut about him. He seemed to have let go. He sat there, flaccid, limp. His eyes were mournful, his lids drooped.

  "You've never noticed, have you, what I've been going through. Have you?"

  His voice was flat, toneless. I sat down next to him, stroked his hand. How could I ever admit I had not noticed? How could I ever explain how guilty I felt?

  "Why didn't you tell me, Bertrand?"

  The corners of his mouth turned down.

  "I tried. It never worked." "Why?"

  Then his face went hard. He let out a small, dry laugh.

  "You don't listen to me, Julia."

  And I knew he was right. That awful night, when his voice had become hoarse. When he had expressed his greatest fear, growing old. When I realized he was fragile. Much more fragile than I had ever imagined. And I had looked away. It had disturbed me. It had repelled me. And he had sensed it. And he had not dared tell me how bad that had made him feel.

  I said nothing, sitting next to him, holding his hand. The irony of the situation dawned upon me. A depressed husband. A failing marriage. A baby on the way.

  "Why don't we go out for a bite to eat, down to the Select, or the Rotonde?" I said gently. "We can talk things over."

  He heaved himself up.

  "Another time, maybe. I'm tired."

  It occurred to me that he had often been tired in the past months. Too tired to go to the movies, too tired to go jogging around the Luxembourg Garden, too tired to take Zoe to Versailles on a Sunday afternoon. Too tired to make love. Make love . . . When was the last time? Weeks ago. I watched him lumber across the room, his gait heavy. He had put on weight. I hadn't noticed that either. Bertrand was so careful about his appearance. "You've been wrapped up in your job, your friends, your daughter, you haven't even noticed. . . . You don't listen to me, Julia." I felt shame race through me. Didn't I need to face up to the truth? Bertrand had not been part of my life in the past weeks, even if we shared the same bed, lived under the same roof. I hadn't told him about Sarah Starzynski. About my new relationship with Edouard. Hadn't I left Bertrand out of everything important to me? I had cut him out of my life, and the irony was that I was carrying his child.

  From the kitchen, I heard him opening the fridge, caught the rustle of tinfoil. He came back to the living room, a chicken leg in one hand, foil in the other.

  "Just one thing, Julia."

  "Yes?" I said.

  "When I told you I couldn't face this child, I meant it. You've made up your mind. Fine. Now this is my decision. I need time to myself. I need time off. You and Zoe will move into the rue de Saintonge after the summer. I'll find another place to live, nearby. Then we'll see how things go. Maybe by then, I can come to terms with this pregnancy. If not, we'll get a divorce."

  This was no surprise. I had expected it all along. I got up, smoothed out my dress. I said, calmly, "The only thing that matters now is Zoe. Whatever happens, we will have to talk to her, you and I. We will have to prepare her. We have to do this right."

  He put the chicken leg back into the foil.

  "Why are you so tough, Julia?" he said. There was no sarcasm in his tone. Only bitterness. "You sound just like your sister."

  I did not reply, heading out of the room. I went to the bathroom and turned on the water. Then it hit me: Hadn't I made my choice? I had chosen the baby over Bertrand. I had not been softened by his point of view, his inner fears, I had not been scared of his moving out for a couple of months, or indefinitely. Bertrand could not disappear. He was the father of my daughter, of the child within me. He could never completely walk out of our lives.

  But as I looked at myself in the mirror, steam slowly filling the room, erasing my reflection with its misty breath, I felt everything had changed drastically. Did I still love Bertrand? Did I still need him? How could I want his child and not him?

  I wanted to cry, but the tears did not come.

  I

  WAS STILL IN the bath when he came in. He was holding the red Sarah file I had left in my bag.

&nb
sp; "What is this?" he said, brandishing the file.

  Startled, I moved abruptly, making the water slop over one side of the bath. His face was confused, flushed. He promptly sat down on the closed toilet. At any other time, I would have laughed outright at the ludicrousness of his position.

  "Let me explain--," I began.

  He raised his hand.

  "You just can't help it, can you? You just can't leave the past alone." He glanced through the file, leafed through the letters from Jules Dufaure to Andre Tezac, examined the photographs of Sarah.

  "What is all this? Who gave this to you?"

  "Your father," I answered quietly.

  He stared at me.

  "What does my father have to do with this?"

  I stepped out of the bath, grabbed a towel, turned my back on him as I dried myself. Somehow I did not want his eyes on my naked skin.

  "It's a long story, Bertrand."

  "Why did you have to bring all this back? This stuff happened sixty years ago! It's all dead, it's all forgotten."

  I swung around to face him.

  "No, it isn't. Sixty years ago something happened to your family. Something you don't know about. You and your sisters don't know anything. Neither does Mame."

  His mouth fell open. He seemed astounded.

  "What happened? You tell me!" he demanded.

  I snatched the file away from him, holding it against me.

  "You tell me what you were doing going through my bag."

  We sounded like kids fighting it out at recess. He rolled his eyes.

  "I saw the file in your bag. I wondered what it was. That's all."

  "I often have files in my bag. You've never looked at them before."

  "That is not the issue. You tell me what all this is about. You tell me right now."

  I shook my head.

  "Bertrand, call your father. Tell him you found the file. Ask him."

  "You don't trust me, is that it?"

  His face sagged. I felt sudden pity for him. He seemed hurt, incredulous.

  "Your father begged me not to tell you," I said gently.

  Bertrand got up wearily from the toilet seat and reached over to put his hand on the doorknob. He looked beaten, spent.

  He stepped back to stroke my cheek softly. His fingers were warm against my face.

  "Julia, what happened to us? Where did it all go?"

  Then he left the room.

  The tears came, and I let them run down my face. He heard me sobbing, but he did not come back.

  D

  URING SUMMER OF 2002, with the knowledge that Sarah Starzynski had left Paris for New York City fifty years ago, I felt propelled back across the Atlantic like a piece of steel pulled by a powerful magnet. I could not wait to leave town. I could not wait to see Zoe, and to search for Richard J. Rainsferd. I could not wait to board that plane.

  I wondered if Bertrand called his father to find out what had happened in the rue de Saintonge apartment all those years ago. Bertrand said nothing. He remained cordial, but aloof. I felt he, too, was impatient for me to leave. So that he could think things over? See Amelie? I did not know. I did not care. I told myself I did not care.

  A couple of hours before my departure to New York, I called my father-in-law to say good-bye. He did not mention having a conversation with Bertrand, and I did not ask him.

  "Why did Sarah stop writing to the Dufaures?" Edouard asked. "What do you think happened, Julia?"

  "I don't know, Edouard. But I am going to do my best to find out."

  Those very questions haunted me night and day. When I boarded the plane a few hours later, I was still asking myself the same thing.

  Was Sarah Starzynski still alive?

  M

  Y SISTER. HER SHINY chestnut hair, her dimples, her beautiful blue eyes. Her strong, athletic build, so like our mom's. Les soeurs Jarmond. Towering above all the other women on the Tezac side. The puzzled, bright smiles. A twinge of envy. Why are you americaines so tall, is it something in your food, vitamins, hormones? Charla was even taller than me. A couple of pregnancies had done nothing to add padding to her powerful, sleek frame.

  The minute she saw my face at the airport, Charla knew something was on my mind, and that it had nothing to do with the baby I had decided to keep, or with marital difficulties. As we drove into the city, her cell phone rang incessantly. Her assistant, her boss, her clients, her kids, the babysitter; Ben, her ex-husband from Long Island; Barry, her present husband on a business trip to Atlanta--the calls never seemed to stop. I was so happy to see her I did not care. Just being next to her, our shoulders brushing, made me happy.

  Once we were alone in her narrow brownstone on East 81st Street, in her spotless, chromed kitchen, and once she had poured out white wine for her and apple juice for me (on account of my pregnancy), out the entire story came. Charla knew little about France. She did not speak much French, Spanish being the only other language she was fluent in. Occupied France meant little to her. She sat in silence as I explained the roundup, the camps, the trains to Poland. Paris in July 1942. The rue de Saintonge apartment. Sarah. Michel, her brother.

  I watched her lovely face grow pale with horror. The glass of white wine remained untouched. She pressed her fingers hard upon her mouth, shook her head. I went right to the end of the story, to Sarah's last card, dated 1955, from New York City.

  Then she said:

  "Oh, my God." She took a quick sip of the wine. "You've come here for her, right?"

  I nodded.

  "How on earth are you going to start?"

  "That name I called you about, remember? Richard J. Rainsferd. That's her husband's name."

  "Rainsferd?" she said.

  I spelled it.

  Charla got up swiftly, took the cordless phone.

  "What are you doing?" I said.

  She held up her hand, motioning for me to keep quiet.

  "Hi, operator, I'm looking for a Richard J. Rainsferd. New York State. That's right, R.A.I.N.S.F.E.R.D. Nothing? OK, can you check New Jersey please? . . . Nothing. . . . Connecticut? . . . Great. Yes, thank you. Just a minute."

  She wrote something down on a scrap of paper. Then she handed it to me with a flourish.

  "We got her," she said triumphantly.

  Incredulous, I read the number and the address.

  Mr. and Mrs. R. J. Rainsferd, 2299 Shepaug Drive, Roxbury, Connecticut.

  "It can't be them," I muttered. "It's just not that easy."

  "Roxbury," Charla mused. "Isn't that in Litchfield County? I used to have a beau there. You were gone by then. Greg Tanner. A real cutie. His dad was a doctor. Pretty place, Roxbury. About a hundred miles from Manhattan."

  I sat on my high stool, flabbergasted. I simply could not believe that finding Sarah Starzynski had been so easy, so swift. I had barely landed. I hadn't even talked to my daughter. And I had already located Sarah. She was still alive. It seemed impossible, unreal.

  "Listen," I said, "how do we know it's her, for sure?"

  Charla was sitting at the table, busy powering up her laptop. She fished around in her bag for her glasses, and slid them over her nose.

  "We're going to find out right away."

  I came to stand behind her as her fingers ran deftly over the keyboard.

  "What are you doing now?" I asked, mystified.

  "Keep your hair on," she snapped, typing away. Over her shoulder, I saw she was already on the Internet.

  The screen read: "Welcome to Roxbury, Connecticut. Events, social gatherings, people, real estate."

  "Perfect. Just what we need," said Charla, studying the screen. Then she smoothly picked the scrap of paper from my fingers, took the phone again, and dialed the number on the paper.

  This was going too fast. It was knocking the wind out of me.

  "Charla! Wait! What the hell are you going to say, for God's sake!"

  She cupped her palm over the receiver. The blue eyes went indignant over the rim of her glasses.

&nb
sp; "You trust me, don't you?"

  She used the lawyer's voice. Powerful, in control. I could only nod. I felt helpless, panicky. I got up, paced around the kitchen, fingering appliances, smooth surfaces.

  When I looked back at her, she grinned.

  "Maybe you should have some of that wine after all. And don't worry about caller ID, 212 won't show up." She suddenly held up a forefinger, pointed to the phone. "Yes, hi, good evening, is that, uh, Mrs. Rainsferd?"

  I could not help smiling at the nasal whine. She had always been good at changing her voice.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. . . . She's out?"

  Mrs. Rainsferd was out. So there really was a Mrs. Rainsferd. I listened on, incredulous.

  "Yes, uh, this is Sharon Burstall from the Minor Memorial Library on South Street. I'm wondering if you'd be interested in coming to our first summer get-together, scheduled on August 2. . . . Oh, I see. Gee, I'm sorry, ma'am. Hmm. Yes. I'm real sorry for the disturbance, ma'am. Thank you, good-bye."

  She put the phone down and flashed a self-satisfied smile at me.

  "Well?" I gasped.

  "The woman I spoke to is Richard Rainsferd's nurse. He's a sick, old man. Bedridden. Needs heavy treatment. She comes in every afternoon."

  "And Mrs. Rainsferd?" I asked impatiently.

  "Due back any minute."

  I looked at Charla blankly.

  "So what do I do?" I said. "I just go there?"

  My sister laughed.

  "You got any other idea?"

  T

  HERE IT WAS. NUMBER 2299 Shepaug Drive. I turned the motor off and stayed in the car, clammy palms resting on my knees.

  I could see the house from where I sat, beyond the twin pillars of gray stone at the gate. It was a squat, colonial-style place, probably built in the late thirties, I guessed. Less impressive than the sprawling million-dollar estates I had glimpsed on my way there, but tasteful and harmonious.

  As I had driven up Route 67, I had been struck by the unspoiled, rural beauty of Litchfield County: rolling hills, sparkling rivers, lush vegetation, even during the full blast of summer. I had forgotten how hot New England could get. Despite the powerful air conditioner, I sweltered. I wished I had taken a bottle of mineral water with me. My throat felt parched.