Monsieur Albert PICARD né le 26/03/1897. Déporté à Auschwitz par le convoi n° 58 au départ de Drancy le 31/07/1942. De profession médecin.
I quickly cut and paste the entry into an online translator and stare at the results. Albert Picard. Born March 26, 1897. Deported to Auschwitz in convoy number 58 from Drancy on July 31, 1942. He was a doctor.
Numb, I enter the other family names. It doesn’t say what happened to them, only the dates of their deportations. They’d all been taken to Auschwitz in convoys 57 or 58, in late July 1942. I find all of the names except Alain, who, according to Mamie’s list, would have been eleven when it appeared his whole family was taken away. I stare at the screen, puzzled.
I check my watch. It’s five thirty in the morning here. France is six hours ahead of us, so it’s likely that there will be someone at the memorial’s offices now. I take a deep breath, try not to think of my phone bill, and dial the number on the screen.
On the sixth ring, a machine answers in French. I hang up and redial, but once again, a machine picks up. I look at my watch again. They should be open by now. I dial a third time, and after a few rings, a woman answers in French.
“Hello,” I say, exhaling in relief. “I’m calling from America, and I’m sorry, but I don’t really speak French.”
The woman switches immediately to heavily accented English. “We are closed,” she says. “It is a Saturday. We close every Saturday. For the Sabbath. I am here completing some research.”
“Oh,” I say, my heart sinking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” I pause and ask in a small voice, “Is it possible to answer a question for me quickly?”
“It is not our policy.” Her tone is firm.
“Please,” I say in a small voice. “I’m trying to find someone. Please.”
She is silent for a moment, then she sighs. “Fine. Quickly.”
I hastily explain that I’m looking for people who may be my grandmother’s family, and that I’ve found some of their names, but I’m missing one. She sighs again and tells me that the memorial has some of the best records in Europe because the deportations were recorded meticulously by the French police, who carried them out.
“Through Europe,” she says, “half of the records are missing. But in France, we know the names of almost every person deported from our country.”
“But how can I find out what happened to them after the deportations?” I ask.
“In many cases, you cannot, I am afraid,” she says. “Mais, well, in certain cases you can. We have here the written records, the census documents, and some other things. Some of the deportation cards have notes on them about what happened to the people.”
“What about finding Alain? The name that’s not in your database?”
“That is more difficult,” she says. “If he was not deported, we would not have a record of him. But you can feel welcome to come here and look through our records. There is a librarian who will help you. Maybe you will find him.”
“Come to Paris?” I ask.
“Oui,” she says. “It is the only way.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. “Merci beaucoup.”
“De rien,” she replies. “Maybe we will see you soon?”
I hesitate for only a moment. “Maybe you will see me soon.”
I’m so shaken by the results of the search, and by the conversation with the woman at the memorial, that I’m late in getting the Star Pies in the oven and the almond rose tarts prepped. This is very unlike me; sticking rigidly to the morning schedule is what keeps me sane most days. So when the alarm clock in the kitchen goes off, alerting me to the fact that it’s 6:00 a.m. and time to unlock the front door, I’m in an uncharacteristic state of disarray.
I hurry out front and am surprised to see Gavin patiently standing outside. When he sees me through the glass, he smiles and raises a hand in greeting. I unlock the door. “Why didn’t you knock?” I ask as I push it open toward him. “I would have let you in.”
He follows me inside and watches as I flip the switch on the Open sign. “I haven’t been here long,” he says. “Besides, you open at six. Didn’t seem right to bother you before that.”
I gesture for him to follow me. “I have pies in the oven. Sorry; I’m running a little late this morning. Coffee?”
“Sure,” he says.
He pauses at the counter, and I gesture again for him to follow me back into the kitchen. “Can I do anything to help?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves like he’s already prepared to dive in.