Today was “visiting Mamé” day. For the first time, I nearly telephoned to cancel. I felt drained. I wanted to stay in bed and sleep all morning. But I knew she would be waiting for me. I knew she would be wearing her best gray-and-lavender dress and her ruby lipstick and her Shalimar perfume. I couldn’t let her down. When I turned up just before noon, I noticed my father-in-law’s silver Mercedes parked in the courtyard of the nursing home. That unnerved me.

He was here because he wanted to see me. He never came to visit his mother at the same time as me. We all had our specific schedules. Laure and Cécile came on weekends, Colette on Monday afternoons, Edouard on Tuesdays and Fridays, I generally came on Wednesday afternoons with Zoë, and alone on Thursdays at midday. And we each stuck to our schedules.

Sure enough, there he was, sitting very straight, listening to his mother. She had just finished her lunch, always served ridiculously early. I felt nervous, all of a sudden, like a guilty schoolgirl. What did he want with me? Couldn’t he just pick up his phone and call me if he wanted to see me? Why wait till now?

Masking all resentment and anxiety behind a warm smile, I kissed him on both cheeks and sat next to Mamé, taking her hand, as I always did. I half expected him to leave, but he stayed on, watching us with a genial expression. It was uncomfortable. I felt like my privacy had been invaded, that every single word I said to Mamé was listened to and judged.

After half an hour, he got up, glancing at his watch. He darted a strange smile at me.

“I need to talk to you, Julia, please,” he murmured, lowering his voice so that Mamé’s old ears wouldn’t hear. I noticed he seemed nervous all of a sudden, shuffling his feet, glancing at me with impatience. So I kissed Mamé farewell and followed him to his car. He made a motion for me to get in. He sat down next to me, fingered the keys, but did not turn on the ignition. I waited, surprised by the anxious movement of his fingers. The silence thrived, full and heavy. I looked around us at the paved courtyard, watching nurses wheel helpless old people in and out of the premises.

Finally he spoke.

“How are you?” he asked, with the same forced smile.

“All right,” I answered. “And you?”

“I am fine. And so is Colette.”

Another silence.

“I spoke to Zoë last night while you were out,” he said, not looking at me.

I studied his profile, the imperial nose, the regal chin.

“Yes?” I said, warily.

“She told me you’d been doing research-”

He halted, the keys jingling in his hands.

“Research about the apartment,” he said, finally turning his eyes to mine.

I nodded.

“Yes, I found out who lived there before you moved in. Zoë probably told you that.”

He sighed, and his chin sagged upon his chest, small folds of flesh covering his collar.

“Julia, I had warned you, remember?”

My blood began to pump faster.

“You told me to stop asking Mamé questions,” I said, my voice blunt. “And that is what I did.”

“Then why did you have to go on prying into the past?” he asked. His face had gone ashen. He was breathing painfully, as if it hurt him.

So it was out now. Now I knew why he had wanted to talk to me today.

“I found out who lived there,” I went on heatedly, “and that’s all. I had to know who they were. I don’t know anything else. I don’t know what your family had to do with the whole business-”

“Nothing!” he interrupted, nearly shouting. “We had nothing to do with that family’s arrest.”

I remained silent, staring at him. He was trembling, but I could not tell whether it was anger, or something else.

“We had nothing to do with that family’s arrest,” he repeated forcefully. “They were taken away during the Vel’ d’Hiv’ roundup. We never turned them in, did anything like that, do you understand?”

I looked back at him, shocked.

“Edouard, I never imagined such a thing. Never!”

He tried to recover his calm, smoothing his brow with nervous fingers.

“You were asking many questions, Julia. You were being very curious. Let me tell you how it happened. Listen to me. There was that concierge, Madame Royer. She was friendly with our concierge, when we lived on the rue de Turenne, not far from the rue de Saintonge. Madame Royer was fond of Mamé. Mamé was nice to her. She’s the one who told my parents the apartment was free in the first place. The rent was good, cheap. It was bigger than our place on rue de Turenne. That’s how it happened. That’s how we moved in. That’s all!”

I continued to stare at him and he continued to tremble. I had never seen him look so distraught, so lost. I touched his sleeve tentatively.

“Are you all right, Edouard?” I asked. His body shook beneath my hand. I wondered if he was sick.

“Yes, fine,” he answered, but his voice was hoarse. I couldn’t understand why he looked so agitated, so livid.

“Mamé doesn’t know,” he went on, lowering his voice. “Nobody knows. You understand? She mustn’t know. She mustn’t ever know.”

I was puzzled.

“Know what?” I asked. “What are you talking about, Edouard?”

“Julia,” he said, his eyes boring into mine, “you know who the family was, you saw their name.”

“I don’t understand,” I murmured.

“You saw their name, didn’t you?” he barked, making me jump. “You know what happened. Don’t you?”

I must have looked completely lost because he sighed and buried his face in his hands.

I sat there, speechless. What on earth was he talking about? What had happened that nobody knew of?

“The girl,” he said at last, looking up, his voice so low I could hardly hear. “What did you find out about the girl?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, petrified.

There was something about his voice, his eyes, that frightened me.

“The girl,” he repeated, his voice muffled and strange, “she came back. A couple of weeks after we had moved in. She came back to the rue de Saintonge. I was twelve years old. I’ll never forget. I’ll never forget Sarah Starzynski.”

To my horror, his face crumpled. Tears began to trickle down his face. I could not speak. I could only wait and listen. This was no longer my arrogant father-in-law.

This was somebody else. Somebody with a secret he had carried within him for years. For sixty years.

IT HAD BEEN A swift métro ride to the rue de Saintonge, only a couple of stops and a change at Bastille. As they turned into the rue de Bretagne, Sarah’s heart started to beat faster. She was going home. In a few minutes, she would be home. Maybe while she had been away her mother or her father had been able to come back and maybe they were all waiting for her, with Michel, in the apartment, waiting for her to return. Was she crazy to think that? Was she out of her mind? Could she not hope, was that not allowed? She was ten years old and she wanted to hope, she wanted to believe, more than anything, more than life itself.

As she tugged on Jules’s hand, urging him up the street, she felt hope grow, like a mad, wild plant she could no longer tame. A quiet, grave voice within her said, Sarah, don’t hope, don’t believe, try to prepare yourself, try to imagine that nobody is waiting for you, that Papa and Maman are not there, that the apartment is all dusty and dirty, and that Michel… Michel…

Number 26 appeared in front of them. Nothing had changed in the street, she noticed. It was still the same calm, narrow road she had always known. How was it possible that entire lives could change, could be destroyed, and that streets and buildings remained the same, she wondered.

Jules pushed the heavy door open. The courtyard was exactly the same, with its green leafiness, its musty smell of dust, of humidity. As they made their way through the courtyard, Madame Royer opened the door to her loge and poked her head out. Sarah let go of Jules’s hand and dashed into the staircase. Quick now, she had to be quick, she was home at last, there was no time to lose.