Broken for You (43 page)

M.J. sipped his coffee and then took the pen. He twirled it, thumped it, tapped it, made it do flips.

Irma gave an exasperated groan. "Why are you schlepping now?"

"I don't know what to say."

"What's so difficult? You're living like God in Paris, tell them."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Irma said, "you're doing well. You're happy. You had an actual conversation with a lady professor from Moscow, Idaho. You took a walk with her. You sat with her at dinner. That's plenty of news, coming from you." She returned to her postcard.

After a few more seconds, M.J. began to write. It didn't take him long.

"There," he said, stamping the postcard with a flourish and dropping it onto Irma's completed pile. "You happy now?"

Irma picked it up. "But there's no message on here. Just an address in Chicago."

"That's okay," M.J. said tightly. "They'll know who it's from."

"They must have records," Margaret explained excitedly. "Documentation. Inventories." Susan and Gus exchanged a look. "I know how many people died," she continued, reading the subtext in their expressions. "I know it's probably impossible. But here it is and here we are. I can't just walk away. Couldn't we at least wait until they open and talk to someone?"

Gus replied, "Of course, lassie."

Susan added, "I just don't think you should get your hopes up."

"Where have you been?" Irma said, pretending to read her paperback. "The seat belt sign has been on for ten minutes."

"The head," M.J. replied. He buckled up and then pulled the flight magazine out of its seat pocket. "Also, I figured it'd be a good time to say good-bye to Joyce. It'll be pretty chaotic once we get to baggage claim."
I
see.

He feigned interest in an article about a Seattle artist who liked to break things. "We exchanged addresses."

"Good," Irma said. "You'll have somebody else to send a postcard to."

The serious, bespectacled young woman who answered their initial questions about the CDJC was named Sylvie. She had been courteous enough at first—but then Margaret stated her request: that she be allowed to access inventories of possessions confiscated from Parisian Jews. Sylvie was adamant about CDJC rules, which required anyone who wanted access to the archives to submit a "legitimate request" in writing, and well in advance of visiting the Centre.

Gus placed a hand on Margaret's arm. "May I try and explain, dear?" "Please," Margaret replied. She felt as though she were going to cry;

her French was clearly inadequate to communicate the urgency of their

situation.

Although Margaret did not completely understand the content of Gus's speech—and it was quite a long one—she recognized a gradual softening of Sylvie's expression and demeanor.

"Je
vois,
" Sylvie kept repeating. She glanced frequently at Margaret— who found she didn't mind being on the receiving end of a pitying look if it meant she could get what she wanted.

When Gus came to the end of his monologue, Sylvie muttered a few quick phrases and gestured, indicating that they should sit and wait.
"Excusez-moi,"
she said, making a brisk exit.

"Where's she going?" Margaret asked.

"She's getting her supervisor," Susan answered, grinning at Gus. "Mr. MacPherson, you could have had a career in the diplomatic corps."

"Ach, but I have, my dear! I've been a hotel valet for fifty years."

Sylvie returned with a trim, impeccably suited man in his late forties. He extended his hand to Margaret. "Hello, Mrs. Hughes. I am Claude Berger, the director." His resonant voice had only the barest trace of an accent. "I have read of your remarkable collection in the art and antique journals." Margaret glanced beyond him to Sylvie, whose cheeks were noticeably pink. "You are of course welcome to use the Centre and all its resources during your stay in Paris. We have just the smallest bit of paperwork to fill out—Sylvie, could you see to that, please?—merely a formality. And then of course you are free to access the archives in any way you see fit." Director Berger leaned down and kissed Margaret's hand. "It is an honor to meet you."

The next morning, Gus and Margaret told Susan that they would be spending their days in the CDJC archives, doing research. They insisted that she spend this time on her own. Gus assured her that he'd make certain Margaret didn't overextend herself.

"But I'll feel so guilty!" Susan protested. "What if something happens?"

Margaret presented her with a beeper. "Now go!" she ordered, a la Babs. "Enjoy! Be a tourist!"

The Germans and their French assistants were very good about keeping records, Sylvie told them. She suggested that Margaret and Gus begin by examining the inventories dating from July of 1942. "That was when the big
rafles
started in Paris," she explained as she led them through the archives. "It is as good a place as any to commence to look."

"Rafles?"
Gus asked.

Margaret eyed the towering shelves of books, the file cabinets, the drawers. The rooms and their contents seemed to go on forever.

"'Roundups,' I think you'd say," Sylvie continued. Her English was good, but she spoke quickly and in a rote manner, like an overworked tour guide. In addition, her accent was quite strong, so Margaret had to struggle to understand what she was saying.

"Jews were dragged out of their homes and taken to the Velodrome d'Hiver—a large sports arena—for registration. As soon as their apartments were empty—if the German police or the French police or the neighbors didn't get there first and start stealing things—the ERR would appear."

Thankfully, Gus jumped in again to get clarification. "The ERR?" "The Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg," Sylvie rattled off. "It was a special operations unit of the Nazi party. A man named Alfred Rosenberg had special permission from Hitler to steal whatever he thought would further the Nazi cause. The ERR took everything: furniture, books, toys, dishes, kitchen utensils, photos, paintings, curtains . . . even socks and underwear, if you can believe it. And every bit of it was inventoried. This way."

Sylvie turned a corner and kept walking. Gus had no trouble keeping up, but Margaret felt like a tardy child being tugged along by a punctual parent.

"After they were processed and registered at the Vel' d'Hiv, they were sent to one of the holding camps in France—Pithiviers, Beaune-la-Rolande, Drancy. Anything they had of value on them at that time was inventoried and confiscated. These were small things, though—wedding rings, cash, jewelry, things like that—so what you're looking for wouldn't be found in those records." Sylvie paused and glanced back. "Is this helpful?"

"Oh, yes," Margaret said breathlessly. She was already exhausted.

Sylvie resumed walking and talking in her glib manner. She might have been telling them how to make paper clips. "After they left the holding camps, they were put on the convoys—the cattle cars, you know, to the concentration camps. Drancy was the worst. It was basically a dispatch station for Auschwitz. Here we are."

Sylvie stopped abruptly. Gus and Margaret almost ran into her.

"Please, sit," Sylvie said, indicating a large table.

Margaret plopped down and tried to catch her breath. Her face felt sweaty.

"So," Sylvie said. "The inventories I'm going to bring first for your studies were made by the ERR."

"Thank you," Gus replied.

"Is Madame all right?"

Gus answered, "It's all just a bit overwhelming."

Sylvie smiled. It was a pinched, cynical smile—oddly out of place on the face of such a pretty young woman—and Margaret puzzled over it. Then she realized that Sylvie probably saw a lot of people come and go through here, people who began with energy and good intentions that wearied fast. People for whom this kind of work was just too hard. That was it, Margaret thought: Sylvie was like an old soldier indoctrinating a pair of new recruits who weren't going to make it.

"I'll be right back," Sylvie said.

"Do you think this is a mistake?" Margaret said.

Gus put a hand on her shoulder. "Why would you ask that?"

Because it is,
she wanted to say.
Because I can't do this. It's too much.
Instead, she said, "It isn't a very romantic way to spend our time together, is it?"

Gus sat down. He took out a handkerchief and began gently pressing it to Margaret's forehead, temples, and cheeks. "Do you know what it reminds me of?"

Margaret shook her head.

"The day after we met. You remember? I called every 'Hughes' listing in the Seattle phone book, playing detective, looking for you. I felt like a teenager." Gus took her hands. "That turned out just grand, didn't it? So will this."

Gus leaned close, so that their foreheads were touching. A few of Margaret's tears fell onto their hands.

"Besides," he stated, "it's what you have to do, isn't it, lassie. Before

you go? I'm going to help you. You're not going to have to do this
alone.
”

When they separated, Sylvie was there, giving them a look that was
equal parts disapproval and surprise. She placed a large drawer on the table in front of them.

"So." All business. "Perhaps you will find something in here, yes?"

"I hope so," Margaret said, still holding tight to Gus.

"If you need me for anything, do not hesitate to ask. I'll be just over there."

"Tris bien, mademoiselle"
Gus said.
"Merci."

"Merci,
" Margaret echoed.

"All right, then.
Bonne chance.
"

The inventories, penned in hundreds of small notebooks and receipt-voucher ledgers, were meticulously detailed.

"One silver spoon, bent," one of the entries read. Another:
"The Story of Babar
with flyleaf inscription: 'To Georgy, 1941. Happy 4th Birthday. Love, Auntie Gitu.'"

Another: "Porcelain girl doll with four ensembles: ballerina, equestrienne, ball gown, nurse. Missing ribbon from one ballet shoe."

As the days went on and their research continued, it became clear that—whether out of choice or directorial mandate—Sylvie had been assigned to Gus and Margaret for their exclusive use as a research assistant. She checked in with them frequently, answering questions and bringing them whatever they needed. She even reserved their table; when they arrived at the start of each day they always found a pitcher of water, glasses, pads of paper, and sharpened pencils.

One morning their table was graced with a large bouquet of lilacs, and fresh flowers greeted them every day after that.

"I guess we've passed the test," Margaret joked. "She likes us." Near the end of their second week, Gus said, "Didn't we move a box of children's ware into the studio?" "At least one."

Gus placed his index finger on a line from the ledger he was examining. "Do you have a green and gold chocolate service that's missing a piece?

Margaret's heart thumped. "The tete-a-tete. Yes." "What's the factory name?"

“S
evres.
”

"You should look at this."

Margaret leaned close and read the page heading: "Sendler Residence, July 16, 1942." Her eyes traveled down the page to where Gus's finger indicated one of the inventoried items. Margaret inhaled sharply.

"We need to cancel our trip to Chartres," she declared. "And we need to call home. Right away. Tell Tink not to break anything for a while."

The next step was to find out what happened to the Sendlers after they were evacuated.

"If they were taken to Drancy or one of the other substations on the way to the camps," Sylvie explained, "there might be a record of their arrival there." She took off her eyeglasses and looked at Margaret. "Why don't you two leave early today. Go to le
cinema,
perhaps, or
faites vous une promenade.
"

Let's go to the par
k
, Mom!
Daniel cried.

Oh!
Margaret's mother whined.
I'd much rather go to the cinema, wouldn't you
?

The dead,
Margaret thought.
They can be so loud.

Sylvie's voice seemed muted and indistinct by comparison. "Let me see what I can find out about the Sendlers," she said. She placed a hand on Margaret's arm. "There will be time enough tomorrow, and Madame looks tired."