Sarah's Key (29 page)

Was Sarah Starzynski still alive?

MY SISTER. HER SHINY chestnut hair, her dimples, her beautiful blue eyes. Her strong, athletic build, so like our mom’s.
Les soeurs
Jarmond. Towering above all the other women on the Tézac side. The puzzled, bright smiles. A twinge of envy. Why are you
américaines
so tall, is it something in your food, vitamins, hormones? Charla was even taller than me. A couple of pregnancies had done nothing to add padding to her powerful, sleek frame.

The minute she saw my face at the airport, Charla knew something was on my mind, and that it had nothing to do with the baby I had decided to keep, or with marital difficulties. As we drove into the city, her cell phone rang incessantly. Her assistant, her boss, her clients, her kids, the babysitter; Ben, her ex-husband from Long Island; Barry, her present husband on a business trip to Atlanta—the calls never seemed to stop. I was so happy to see her I did not care. Just being next to her, our shoulders brushing, made me happy.

Once we were alone in her narrow brownstone on East 81st Street, in her spotless, chromed kitchen, and once she had poured out white wine for her and apple juice for me (on account of my pregnancy), out the entire story came. Charla knew little about France. She did not speak much French, Spanish being the only other language she was fluent in. Occupied France meant little to her. She sat in silence as I explained the roundup, the camps, the trains to Poland. Paris in July 1942. The rue de Saintonge apartment. Sarah. Michel, her brother.

I watched her lovely face grow pale with horror. The glass of white wine remained untouched. She pressed her fingers hard upon her mouth, shook her head. I went right to the end of the story, to Sarah’s last card, dated 1955, from New York City.

Then she said:

“Oh, my God.” She took a quick sip of the wine. “You’ve come here for her, right?”

I nodded.

“How on earth are you going to start?”

“That name I called you about, remember? Richard J. Rainsferd. That’s her husband’s name.”

“Rainsferd?” she said.

I spelled it.

Charla got up swiftly, took the cordless phone.

“What are you doing?” I said.

She held up her hand, motioning for me to keep quiet.

“Hi, operator, I’m looking for a Richard J. Rainsferd. New York State. That’s right, R.A.I.N.S.F.E.R.D. Nothing? OK, can you check New Jersey please? … Nothing. … Connecticut? … Great. Yes, thank you. Just a minute.”

She wrote something down on a scrap of paper. Then she handed it to me with a flourish.

“We got her,” she said triumphantly.

Incredulous, I read the number and the address.

Mr. and Mrs. R. J. Rainsferd, 2299 Shepaug Drive, Roxbury, Connecticut.

“It can’t be them,” I muttered. “It’s just not that easy.”

“Roxbury,” Charla mused. “Isn’t that in Litchfield County? I used to have a beau there. You were gone by then. Greg Tanner. A real cutie. His dad was a doctor. Pretty place, Roxbury. About a hundred miles from Manhattan.”

I sat on my high stool, flabbergasted. I simply could not believe that finding Sarah Starzynski had been so easy, so swift. I had barely landed. I hadn’t even talked to my daughter. And I had already located Sarah. She was still alive. It seemed impossible, unreal.

“Listen,” I said, “how do we know it’s her, for sure?”

Charla was sitting at the table, busy powering up her laptop. She fished around in her bag for her glasses, and slid them over her nose.

“We’re going to find out right away.”

I came to stand behind her as her fingers ran deftly over the keyboard.

“What are you doing now?” I asked, mystified.

“Keep your hair on,” she snapped, typing away. Over her shoulder, I saw she was already on the Internet.

The screen read: “Welcome to Roxbury, Connecticut. Events, social gatherings, people, real estate.”

“Perfect. Just what we need,” said Charla, studying the screen. Then she smoothly picked the scrap of paper from my fingers, took the phone again, and dialed the number on the paper.

This was going too fast. It was knocking the wind out of me.

“Charla! Wait! What the hell are you going to say, for God’s sake!”

She cupped her palm over the receiver. The blue eyes went indignant over the rim of her glasses.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

She used the lawyer’s voice. Powerful, in control. I could only nod. I felt helpless, panicky. I got up, paced around the kitchen, fingering appliances, smooth surfaces.

When I looked back at her, she grinned.

“Maybe you should have some of that wine after all. And don’t worry about caller ID, 212 won’t show up.” She suddenly held up a forefinger, pointed to the phone. “Yes, hi, good evening, is that, uh, Mrs. Rainsferd?”

I could not help smiling at the nasal whine. She had always been good at changing her voice.

“Oh, I’m sorry. … She’s out?”

Mrs. Rainsferd was out. So there really was a Mrs. Rainsferd. I listened on, incredulous.

“Yes, uh, this is Sharon Burstall from the Minor Memorial Library on South Street. I’m wondering if you’d be interested in coming to our first summer get-together, scheduled on August 2. … Oh, I see. Gee, I’m sorry, ma’am. Hmm. Yes. I’m real sorry for the disturbance, ma’am. Thank you, good-bye.”

She put the phone down and flashed a self-satisfied smile at me.

“Well?” I gasped.

“The woman I spoke to is Richard Rainsferd’s nurse. He’s a sick, old man. Bedridden. Needs heavy treatment. She comes in every afternoon.”

“And Mrs. Rainsferd?” I asked impatiently.

“Due back any minute.”

I looked at Charla blankly.

“So what do I do?” I said. “I just go there?”

My sister laughed.

“You got any other idea?”

THERE IT WAS. NUMBER 2299 Shepaug Drive. I turned the motor off and stayed in the car, clammy palms resting on my knees.

I could see the house from where I sat, beyond the twin pillars of gray stone at the gate. It was a squat, colonial-style place, probably built in the late thirties, I guessed. Less impressive than the sprawling million-dollar estates I had glimpsed on my way there, but tasteful and harmonious.

As I had driven up Route 67, I had been struck by the unspoiled, rural beauty of Litchfield County: rolling hills, sparkling rivers, lush vegetation, even during the full blast of summer. I had forgotten how hot New England could get. Despite the powerful air conditioner, I sweltered. I wished I had taken a bottle of mineral water with me. My throat felt parched.

Charla had mentioned Roxbury inhabitants were wealthy. Roxbury was one of those special, trendy, old time artistic places that no one tired of, she explained. Artists, writers, movie stars: there were a lot of them around there, apparently. I wondered what Richard Rainsferd did for a living. Had he always had a house here? Or had he and Sarah retired from Manhattan? And what about children? How many children had they had? I peered through the windshield at the wood exterior of the house and counted the number of windows. There were probably two or three bedrooms in there, I supposed, unless the back was bigger than I thought. Children who were perhaps my age. And grandchildren. I craned my neck to see if there were any cars parked in front of the house. I could only make out a closed detached garage.

I glanced at my watch. Just after two. It had only taken me a couple of hours to drive from the city. Charla had lent me her Volvo. It was as impeccable as her kitchen. I suddenly wished she could have been with me today. But she hadn’t been able to cancel her appointments. “You’ll do fine, Sis,” she had said, tossing me the car keys. “Keep me posted, OK?”

I sat in the Volvo, anxiety rising with the stifling heat. What the hell was I going to say to Sarah Starzynski? I couldn’t even call her that. Nor Dufaure. She was Mrs. Rainsferd now, she had been Mrs. Rainsferd for the past fifty years. Getting out of the car, ringing the brass bell I could see just on the right of the front door, seemed impossible. “Yes, hello, Mrs. Rainsferd, you don’t know me, my name is Julia Jarmond, but I just wanted to talk to you about the rue de Saintonge, and what happened, and the Tézac family, and—”

It sounded lame, artificial. What was I doing here? Why had I come all this way? I should have written her a letter, waited for her to answer me. Coming here was ridiculous. A ridiculous idea. What had I hoped for anyway? For her to welcome me with open arms, pour me a cup of tea, and murmur: “Of course I forgive the Tézac family.” Crazy. Surreal. I had come here for nothing. I should be leaving, right now.

I was about to back up and go, when a voice startled me.

“You looking for someone?”

I swiveled in my damp seat to discover a tanned woman in her mid-thirties. She had short, black hair and a stocky build.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Rainsferd, but I’m not sure I’ve got the right house.”

The woman smiled.

“You got the right house. But my mom’s out. Gone shopping. She’ll be back in twenty minutes, though. I’m Ornella Harris. I live right next door.”

I was looking at Sarah’s daughter. Sarah Starzynski’s daughter.

I tried to keep perfectly calm, managed a polite smile.

“I’m Julia Jarmond.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Can I help in any way?”

I racked my brains for something to say.

“Well, I was just hoping to meet your mother. I should have phoned and all that, but I was passing through Roxbury, and I thought I’d drop by and say hi.”

“You’re a friend of Mom’s?” she said.

“Not exactly. I met one of her cousins recently, and he told me she lived here.”

Ornella’s face lit up.

“Oh, you probably met Lorenzo! Was that in Europe?”

I tried not to look lost. Who on earth was Lorenzo?

“Actually, yes, it was in Paris.”

Ornella chuckled.

“Yup, he’s quite something, Uncle Lorenzo. Mom adores him. He doesn’t come to see us much, but he calls a lot.”

She cocked her chin toward me.

“Hey, you want to come in for some iced tea or something, it’s damn hot out here. That way you can wait for Mom? We’ll hear her car when she comes in.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble …”

“My kids are out boating on Lake Lillinonah with their dad, so please, feel free!”

I got out of the car, feeling more and more nervous, and followed Ornella to the patio of a neighboring house in the same style as the Rainsferd residence. The lawn was strewn with plastic toys, Frisbees, headless Barbie dolls, and Legos. As I sat down in the cool shade, I wondered how often Sarah Starzynski came here to watch her grandchildren play. As she lived next door, she probably came every day.

Ornella handed me a large glass of iced tea, which I accepted gratefully. We sipped in silence.

“You live around here?” she asked, finally.

“No, I live in France. In Paris. I married a Frenchman.”

“Paris, wow,” she cooed. “Beautiful place, eh?”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty glad to be back home. My sister lives in Manhattan, and my parents in Boston. I’ve come to spend the summer with them.”

The phone rang. Ornella went to answer it. She murmured a few quiet words and came back to the patio.

“That was Mildred,” she said.

“Mildred?” I asked blankly.

“My dad’s nurse.”

The woman Charla had spoken to yesterday. Who had mentioned an old, bedridden man.

“Is your dad … any better?” I asked tentatively.

She shook her head.

“No, he’s not. The cancer is too advanced. He’s not going to make it. He can’t even talk anymore, he’s unconscious.”

“I’m very sorry,” I mumbled.

“Thank God Mom is such a tower of strength. She’s the one who’s pulling me through this, not the other way around. She’s wonderful. So is my husband, Eric. I don’t know what I’d do without those two.”

I nodded. Then we heard the crunch of car wheels on the gravel.

“That’s Mom!” said Ornella.

I heard a car door slam and the scrunch of footsteps on the pebbles. Then a voice came over the hedge, high-pitched and sweet, “Nella! Nella!”