Read Sarah's Key for Free Online Page B

Juju,” he said, “are you all right?”
    I smiled brightly.
    “Yes, I’m fine.”
    But fine was far from what I felt. My recent knowledge about the events of July 1942 had awakened a vulnerability within me, triggered something deep, unspoken, that haunted me, that burdened me. I had dragged that burden around with me all week, ever since I’d started to research the Vel’ d’Hiv’ roundup.
    “You just don’t look yourself,” Hervé said, concerned. He came to sit next to me, putting his slim, white hand on my knee. “I know that face, Julia. That’s your sad face. Now you tell me what’s going on.”

 
     
    T
    HE ONLY WAY TO shut out the hell around her was to bury her head between her pointed knees, and cup her hands over her ears. She rocked back and forth, pressing her face down onto her legs. Think of nice things, think of all the things you like, of all the things that make you happy, of all those special, magical moments you remember. Her mother taking her to the hairdresser, and everyone complimenting her thick, honey-colored hair. You will be proud of that head of hair later on, ma petite !
    Her father’s hands working on the leather in the warehouse, how fast and strong they were, how she admired his skill. Her tenth birthday and the new watch, the beautiful blue box, the leather strap her father had made, its rich, intoxicating smell, and the discreet tick-tock of the watch that fascinated her. She had been so proud. But Maman had said not to wear it to school. She might break it or lose it. Only her best friend Armelle had seen it. And she had been so jealous!
    Where was Armelle now? She lived just down the road, they went to the same school. But Armelle had left the city at the beginning of the school vacations. She had gone somewhere with her parents, somewhere south. There had been one letter, and that was all. Armelle was small and red-haired and very clever. She knew all her multiplication tables by heart, and she even mastered the trickiest grammar.
    Armelle was never afraid, the girl admired that about her. Even when the sirens went off in the middle of class, howling like enraged wolves, making everyone jump, Armelle remained calm, in control, she would take the girl’s hand and lead her down to the musty school cellar, impervious to all the other children’s frightened whispers and Mademoiselle Dixsaut’s quavering orders. And they would huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, in the dark dampness, candlelight flickering on pale faces, for what seemed hours, and listen to the drone of the planes far above their heads, while Mademoiselle Dixsaut read Jean de La Fontaine or Molière and tried to stop her hands from trembling. Look at her hands, Armelle would giggle, she’s afraid, she can hardly read, look. And the girl would glance at Armelle with wonder and whisper, “Aren’t you afraid? Not even the tiniest bit?” A contemptuous shake of glossy red curls. No, I’m not. I’m not afraid. And sometimes, when the shudder of the bombs seeped through the grimy floor, making Mademoiselle Dixsaut’s voice falter and stop, Armelle would grab the girl’s hand and hold it tight.
    She missed Armelle, she wished Armelle could be here now, to hold her hand and tell her not to be afraid. She missed Armelle’s freckles and her mischievous green eyes and her insolent grin. Think of the things you love, of the things that make you happy.
    Last summer, or was it two summers ago, she couldn’t remember, Papa had taken them to spend a couple of days in the countryside by a river. She couldn’t remember the name of the river. But the water had felt so smooth and wonderful to her skin. Her father had tried to teach her to swim. After a few days, she managed an inelegant dog paddle that made everybody laugh. By the river, her brother had gone mad with joy and excitement. He was tiny then, a mere toddler. She had spent the day running after him as he slipped and shrieked along the muddy shore. And