“God,” I breathe. “They were just babies.”
Monsieur Berr nods. “Most of the young ones never returned. They were taken to the gas chamber immediately because the Germans considered them useless.” He swallows and continues reading. “Helene, age eighteen, and Claude, age sixteen, died at Auschwitz, in 1942. So too did the mother, Cecile. The father, Albert, died in Auschwitz at the end of 1943.” He pauses and adds softly, “It says here that he worked in the crematorium, until he became ill in the winter. That must have been terrible. He knew his own fate.”
I feel tears in my eyes, and this time, it’s too late to blink them back. Monsieur Berr is silent as the rivers run down my cheeks. It takes a few moments for his words to fully settle into my soul. “All of them died there?” I whisper. “At Auschwitz?” He meets my eye and nods slowly, a look of pity on his face. “What about Alain? How did he die?”
For the first time today, Monsieur Berr looks surprised. “Die? But he is the one who gave me this information.”
I stare at him. “I don’t understand.”
He squints at the page again. “Yes, this interview is dated the sixth of June, 2005. I remember him. A very nice man. Kind eyes. You can always know a person by his eyes. He was playing chess with another survivor, a man I knew. That is how I came upon him.”
“Wait,” I say. My heart is thudding as I struggle to understand what he’s saying. “You’re telling me that Alain Picard, my grandmother’s brother, is still alive? And that you talked to him?”
Monsieur Berr looks concerned. “Bien sur, he was alive in 2005. I do not know what became of him after that. He was never deported, but he suffered during the war. Everyone did. He told me that he went into hiding, and for nearly three years, he had very little food. A man, his old piano teacher, gave him a place to sleep on the coldest winter nights, but the man was afraid of putting his own family in danger. So Alain, he slept on the streets, and sometimes, the nuns at the church would give him meals. He would be eighty now, if he is still alive. Then again, I am ninety-three, my dear. And I am not giving up anytime soon.”
He smiles at this. I’m too stunned to reply.
“My grandmother’s brother,” I murmur. “Do you know where he is?”
Monsieur Berr reaches for a pad of paper. “Do you have a pen?” he asks. I nod and fumble in my purse. He jots something down on a piece of paper, rips it off, and hands it to me. “This is the address he gave me in 2005. It is in the Marais, the Jewish quarter, near the Place des Vosges. That is where I found him playing chess.”
“That’s near my hotel,” I tell him. I look at the address he’s handed me: 27, rue du Foin, no. 2B. I feel a chill run down my spine.
“Well then,” Monsieur Berr says. “You should go now. The past waits on no one.”
Chapter Twelve
I’m in stunned disbelief as I bid Monsieur Berr adieu and hurry downstairs. My feet carry me back toward the Seine, where I hail a cab on the main street and hand the driver the slip of paper Monsieur Berr has just given me. The driver grunts in reply and pulls away from the curb. He veers across lanes of traffic, takes a bridge over the Seine, and cuts back to the east, where he parallels the river as I watch the twin towers of Notre-Dame grow closer and closer out the right window. Finally, he turns left and, after a series of twists and turns, screeches to a halt in front of a gray stone building with a pair of massive, dark wooden doors. I pay the driver, and as he pulls away, I approach the call box.
There, in black and white, is the name Picard, A. I take a deep breath and push the buzzer next to the now familiar last name. Only then do I realize my hands are shaking.
My heart pounds wildly as I wait. There’s no reply. I push the buzzer again, but there’s still no response. My heart sinks. What if it’s too late; what if he’s dead? I remind myself that it’s equally possible he’s merely out; it’s midafternoon on a lovely fall day. Perhaps he’s gone for a walk, or to the store. I linger outside the building for a few minutes, in hopes that someone will come in or out and I’ll be able to ask about him, but the street is quiet, and there’s no one coming or going.
I check my watch. Perhaps he’s in the Place des Vosges, playing chess, like Monsieur Berr said. I pull out my map, flip to the correct page, and realize the park is less than a block away. I turn and walk in that direction.
On the way, I stop at a pay phone, and after spending a few minutes trying to get an English-speaking operator, I use my Visa to make a call to Annie’s cell. I realize she’s probably asleep and won’t answer, but I’m suddenly dying to tell her what I’ve found. The call goes to voice mail, and although I’d expected that, my heart still sinks. I consider telling her about Alain, but instead, I say, “I was just thinking about you, honey, and I wanted to say hi. It’s beautiful here in Paris. I think I might have found something, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I’ll call you later. I love you.”