On the ground, I breeze through the tubular glass halls of Charles de Gaulle International, go through customs, and wait in the line for taxis, which I’m surprised to realize are mostly luxury cars in France. I wait my turn, climb into a Mercedes, and hand the driver the address of the hotel I booked on Travelocity; I don’t trust myself to correctly pronounce it aloud.
It takes us thirty minutes to emerge from a series of industrial suburbs into the outskirts of Paris itself. We pass by a huge sports complex, and I’m struck suddenly by the recollection of what I’d read online, about the massive roundup in 1942, where thousands of Jews were taken to a sports stadium before being deported to concentration camps. I doubt this is that stadium—it appears too modern—but the dark image stays with me as my driver weaves expertly around traffic, takes a harrowing left on a street called rue de la Verrerie, and screeches to a halt in front of a white building with big block letters identifying it as the H?tel de Mille Etoiles. I look up at the wrought-iron balconies surrounding french doors on the second floor and smile. Somehow, Paris is exactly as I’d pictured it. I also have the sense that in this neighborhood at least, it hasn’t changed much in the last century. It makes me wonder whether Mamie ever walked by this same building, marveled at these same balconies, wished she could see through the wispy curtains draping the same french doors. It’s strange for me to think of her here, as a girl not much older than Annie.
After checking in, I take a quick shower and throw on jeans, flat boots, and a sweater. Armed with directions from the concierge, I walk the few blocks toward rue Geoffroy-l’Asnier, where I know the Mémorial de la Shoah is located.
Paris in October is crisp and beautiful, I realize. I’ve never been here before, of course, so there’s little to compare it against, but the streets seem quiet and peaceful. I’m fascinated by the way the old mixes with the new here; cobblestone meets cement at some corners, and on others, stores selling electronics or high fashion inhabit buildings that look like they’re hundreds of years old. Having spent most of my life in Massachusetts, I’m accustomed to history being naturally interwoven with modern life, but it feels different here, perhaps because the history is much older, or perhaps because there’s so much more of it.
I can smell baking bread, and changing autumnal leaves, and the faint odor of fire, as I walk along, and I breathe in deeply, because it’s a blend I’m not used to. Little arched doorways, bicycles propped against stone walls, and nearly hidden gated gardens remind me that I’m in a place foreign to me, but there’s something about Paris that feels very familiar. I wonder for the first time if a sense of place can be passed down through the blood. I dismiss the thought, but despite the fact that the streets are unfamiliar and winding, I easily find my way to the Holocaust museum.
After going though a metal detector outside the stout, somber building, I cross through an open-air, gray courtyard, past a monument with the names of the concentration camps, beneath a metal Star of David, and enter the museum through the doors ahead. The woman at the front desk, who fortunately speaks English, suggests that I first try the computers opposite the desk, which are the first stop for guests seeking family members. On these too, as expected, I find the same information I found on the Internet. The names on my grandmother’s list, minus Alain.
I return to the desk and explain to the woman that I’m looking for a person whose name doesn’t appear in the records, and for information about what actually happened to the people whose names I have found. She nods and directs me to the elevator down the hall.
“Take that to the fourth level,” she says. “There, you will find a reading room. Ask at the desk for help.”
I nod, thank her, and follow her directions upstairs.
The reading room is home to computers and long tables on the lower level and rows of books and files on the second level, beneath a high ceiling that lets light pour in. I approach the desk, where a woman greets me in French and switches to English as soon as I ask, “Can you help me find some people, please?”
“Of course, madame,” she says. “How can I help you?”
I give her the names from Mamie’s list, along with their years of birth, and I explain that I can’t locate Alain. She nods and disappears for a few minutes. She returns with several pages of loose records.
“Here is all we have on these people,” she says. “Like you said, we cannot find Alain on any list of the deported.”