“Berlin?”
Rather than answer me, he looked to Mat. “You said it could take months until we know anything, and all roads lead to German records. I know a little German; I can hire a translator and I can continue to search. We can even drive to Arolsen for a couple days.” He glanced to Mom, me, then back to Mat. “I don’t have months.”
“You—” I tried to interject, but Dad stayed me with a waved hand.
“We’re going only for a few days. Jason needs me in New York by next Friday for an appointment at Sloane Kettering. I don’t have months, because I have work to do, but let’s be honest, I may have squandered my best result by now. My ‘no decision’ was a decision, though perhaps not the right one.”
I nudged Mat. He looked to me and an unspoken conversation passed between us.
You should tell them.
I don’t want to raise their hopes if it doesn’t come through.
You should still tell them.
The conversation might have sounded completely different in Mat’s head and involved dinner or questions as to why we kept reaching for each other and pulling away all day, but I suspected I was right because of what he said next.
“I asked a friend for a favor and he’s trying to send us the US Archives’ file today. We may have answers—soon. Without need for Berlin.” Mat pulled his phone from his pocket and placed it on the table between us. “That’s why I keep checking my phone. I’m not trying to be rude. Just eager.”
Dad gestured to it. “Check again.”
Thirty-Nine
As we wandered back to the apartment, we stopped at a grocer and a poulterer to make dinner ourselves. Upon entering, Mom and Dad headed to the tiny kitchen and Mat retreated to the apartment’s office to edit his article. Last in the door, I watched them go their separate ways, wondering how so much could change so fast. In the span of less than a week, no aspect of my life looked the same—family, love, past, present, future.
Love?
I watched Mat drop into the library’s leather armchair.
Yes, love.
I turned toward the kitchen. One glance and I knew I’d been right about Acorn Street and small houses all along. I watched as my parents bumped around each other, laughing and chatting, while unpacking our groceries. I joined them and soon found, after a fitful and giggle-inducing start, that the three of us moved well in and between the kitchen’s tight spaces.
I even discovered that my dad and I didn’t have only one conversation topic—my failures—between us. We were conversant across several others.
“How long until dinner?” Mat filled the doorway.
Mom answered while I poured Mat a glass of wine. “It’s in the oven, but it needs a full hour. I can get you something to nibble if you’re hungry.”
“No, thank you.” Mat stepped from the doorway, inviting us into the living room. “If you’re not busy, and we have time . . . I got an email.”
Mom and Dad trailed him into the room. I followed. “The email?”
He nodded first to me, then looked to both my parents in turn. He spoke to my dad. “Shall I open it?”
“Yes. Please.”
Mat, laptop tucked under his arm, positioned himself on the couch between me and my dad. Mom sat on my dad’s far side. I glanced around wondering if anyone was breathing—I wasn’t.
The first PDF page was a copy of an old form, a mixture of a printed form and handwritten information. Cream paper. Black ink. Shadowed and smudged.
Mat slid to the floor, allowing us to tuck closer behind him. “Nanette Bellefeuille. Paris, France. Registered. 25 October 1941. #398869.”
“Would that have been tattooed on her arm?” Dad asked.
“No . . . This is a registration form for Ravensbrück. Tattoos were unique to Auschwitz.” Mat scrolled his cursor down as he scanned the information. “She was brought in on a train from Drancy and was assigned to Block 1.” He pointed to a red triangle on the page. “This means she was a political prisoner, which is how they classified the French Resistance.” He twisted back to face me. “The rolled papers . . . She really did sell her story.”
“What happened next?” Mom leaned forward.
“She was assigned construction work for the men’s camp next door.”
“I didn’t know Ravensbrück housed men.”
Mat shifted to answer my dad. “The men’s facility opened in 1942. There was also a facility for children.” He clicked on the next page. “Personal effects and description. Twenty-two years old. 5'8". As we thought, she gave them her real birthday. November 14, 1918. Dark hair upon arrival—that would have been shaved off immediately—blue eyes, and—”
He stopped.
“And?” I poked his shoulder.
“A four-inch scar on her left forearm.”
“Oh—” I pressed my fingers to my lips. “I knew we were right, but . . . it’s her.” I looked over Mat’s head to my dad. “Christophe, the guard at Schiaparelli’s, cut her arm on a June 1941 mission. She wrote field notes for the SOE files about that night and how it happened. Margaret also wrote about it in her diary. Caro told her she’d cut it on a wire and Margaret knew she was lying.”
Mat continued, “It also says she came with a necklace, which again would have been taken immediately. A gold heart.”
“My mother wore one,” my dad whispered. “I never saw her without it.”
I pulled the necklace from beneath my blouse.
Dad’s eyes caught it and held. “That’s it. How?”
“Margaret gave it to me before she died and I passed it on to Caroline, if that’s okay?” Mom’s solicitous respect didn’t escape any of us.
“I’m so glad you did that.” He clasped her hand and squeezed it before letting go and tapping Mat’s shoulder. “What happened to her? Did she make it out?”
Mat clicked through PDF pages on his computer. “My German isn’t great and this is really long. They kept scrupulous records.”
“Skip to the end, if you can. Right now, I want the punch line.”
Mat slowly scrolled past several pages of handwritten notes. “It’s here.” He tapped a line with his finger. “She was shot December 25, 1942.”
“Christmas Day?”
“I’m so sorry.” Mat lifted and dropped his shoulders. “I can’t make it all out. I’ll need to use a translator. But there is something about singen, singing . . . maybe Christmas carols? Officers came to enforce order. Ungehorsam . . . I’ve seen that . . . Disobedience? Insubordination? Maybe she challenged an officer?”
“She survived over a year there.” I sighed.
“She survived only a year there.” My dad rubbed a hand across his eyes. “What would this have changed for my mother had she known? Could she have . . .” He glanced between Mat sitting on the floor and me sitting at eye level. “Could she have found her? Without the files? With only the letters, and her diaries, and her memories? Could she have done it?”