“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.

DURING 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 Zoë, 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 Amélie? 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?

MY 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 Tézac side. The puzzled, bright smiles. A twinge of envy. Why are you américaines 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.

“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?”