“These are not the kind of records they keep,” he says. “They keep official records, the ones made by the governments. These are not official. And for now, I want my lists with me, because I am always finding new names, and it is important to keep up my life’s work. When I die, these books will go to the memorial. It is my hope that they too will keep them alive and, in doing so, keep the people who live in these pages alive forever.”
“This is amazing, Monsieur Berr,” I say.
He nods, smiles slightly. “It is not so amazing. Amazing would be to live in a world where there was no need to make lists of the dead.” Before I can reply, he puts a finger on the page of his open book and says calmly, “I have found them.”
I look at him, confused.
“Your family,” he clarifies.
My eyes widen. “Wait, you found the names? Already?”
He chuckles. “I have lived inside these lists for many years, madame. I know my way.” He closes his eyes for a moment and then focuses on the page before him. “The Picard family,” he says. “Dix, rue du Général Camou, septième arrondissement.”
“What does that mean?”
“It was your grandmother’s address,” he says. “Number ten on the street of Général Camou. I tried to include addresses wherever I could.” He smiles slightly and adds, “Your grandmother, she must have lived in a nice place, in the shadow of the Tour Eiffel.”
I swallow hard. “What else does it say?”
He reads ahead for a moment before speaking. “The parents were Albert and Cecile. Albert, he was a doctor. The children were Helene, Rose, Claude, Alain, David, Danielle.”
“Rose is my grandmother,” I whisper.
He looks up from the book with a smile. “Then I will have to change my list.”
“Why?”
“She is listed as presumed dead, the fifteenth of July, 1942, in Paris.” He squints at something on the page. “She went out that night and never returned, according to my notations. The next day, her family was all taken.”
I can’t seem to muster words. I just stare at him.
“The sixteenth of July, 1942,” he continues. His voice has softened now. “The first day of the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup.”
My throat is dry. It’s the massive arrest of thirteen thousand Parisians that I’d read about online.
“I was there too,” he adds softly. “My family was taken that day.”
I stare. “I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head. “It was the end of the life I once knew,” he says softly. “The beginning of the life I now live.”
Silence descends. “What happened?” I ask finally.
He looks into the distance. “They came for us before dawn. I did not know to expect them. I did not know it could happen. As I look back, I realize I should have. We all should have. But sometimes in life, it is easier to believe things will be all right. We were blind to the truth.”
“But how could you have known?” I ask.
He nods. “It is easy to look back and question, but you are correct; it would have been impossible to know what was coming. For us, for my wife and my son, just three years old, we were taken with many others to the Vélodrome d’Hiver in the quinzième, just near the Eiffel Tower and very near the Seine. There were maybe seven thousand, maybe eight thousand people there. It was hard to count them all. It was a sea of people. There was no food. Hardly any water. We were packed together like fish in a can. Some people killed themselves. I saw a mother smother her baby, and I thought she was crazy, but by the end of the third day, I understood that she was merciful. Later, as she wailed, I watched a guard shoot her. I remember thinking quite clearly, She is lucky.”
His voice is flat, but his eyes are watery as he goes on. “We stayed there for five days before they moved us. On the fourth day, my son, my Nicolas, he died in my arms. And before we were taken away to Drancy, and then to Auschwitz, my wife and I were separated, but I could see in her eyes that she was already gone. Losing Nicolas had taken her will to live. I was told later that she did not pass the initial selection at Auschwitz when she arrived, and that she did not cry, not once, as they led her away.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, but he waves dismissively.
“It was long ago,” he says. I watch as he turns back to his book, studying the page that he said contained the records I was looking for.
“Alors,” he says. He blinks a few times. “Your family. The Picards of rue du Général Camou. The youngest two, David and Danielle, they died at Auschwitz. Upon arrival. David was eight years of age. Danielle was five.”