She had seen the signs that seemed to be put up everywhere: JEWS FORBIDDEN. And on the door of the warehouse where her father worked, a big card read JEWISH FIRM. Maman had to shop after four o’clock in the afternoon, when there was nothing left in the shops because of the rationings. They had to ride in the last carriage of the métro. And they had to be home before curfew and not leave their house till morning. What were they still allowed to do? Nothing. Nothing, she thought.
Unfair. So unfair. Why? Why them? Why all this? It suddenly seemed that nobody could possibly explain it to her.
JOSHUA WAS ALREADY IN the meeting room, drinking the weak coffee he was fond of. I hurried in and sat between Bamber, the photo director, and Alessandra, the features editor.
The room looked out onto the busy rue Marbeuf, just a stone’s throw away from the Champs-Élysées. It wasn’t my favorite area of Paris-too crowded, too gaudy-but I was used to coming here every day and making my way down the avenue, along the large, dusty sidewalks packed with tourists at every hour of the day, no matter what the season was.
I had been writing for the weekly American magazine Seine Scenes for the past six years. We published a paper edition as well as an online version. I usually chronicled any event capable of interesting an American Paris-based audience. This included “local color,” which ranged from social and cultural life-shows, movies, restaurants, books-to the upcoming French presidential elections.
It was actually hard work. The deadlines were tight. Joshua was a tyrant. I liked him, but he was a tyrant. He was the kind of boss that had little respect for private lives, marriages, and children. If somebody got pregnant, she became a nonentity. If somebody had a sick child, she was glared at. But he had a shrewd eye, excellent editorial skills, and an uncanny gift for perfect timing. We all bowed down to him. We complained about him every time his back was turned, but we wallowed no end. Fiftyish, a born and bred New Yorker who’d spent the past ten years in Paris, Joshua looked deceptively placid. He had a longish face and drooping eyes. But the minute he opened his mouth, he ruled. One listened to Joshua. And one never interrupted him.
Bamber was from London, nearly thirty. He soared over six feet, wore purple-tinted glasses, sported various body-piercings, and dyed his hair marmalade. He had a marvelous British sense of humor that I found irresistible, but that Joshua rarely understood. I had a soft spot for Bamber. He was a discreet, efficient colleague. He was also wonderful support when Joshua was going through a bad day and unleashing his temper on each of us. Bamber was a precious ally.
Alessandra was part Italian, smooth-skinned, and terrifyingly ambitious. A pretty girl with a head of glossy black curls and the kind of plump, moist mouth men grow stupid about. I could never quite make up my mind whether I liked her or not. She was half my age and already getting paid as much as I was, even if my name was above hers on the masthead.
Joshua went through the charts for upcoming issues. There was a hefty article coming up for the presidential elections, a big topic since Jean-Marie Le Pen’s controversial victory in the first round. I wasn’t too eager to write about it and was secretly glad when it was allotted to Alessandra.
“Julia,” said Joshua, looking up at me over his glasses, “this is up your alley. Sixtieth commemoration of the Vel’ d’Hiv’.”
I cleared my throat. What had he said? It sounded like “the veldeef.”
My mind went blank.
Alessandra looked at me patronizingly.
“July 16, 1942? Ring a bell?” she said. Sometimes I hated her whining Miss Know-All-ish voice. Like today.
Joshua continued.
“The great roundup at the Vélodrome d’Hiver. That’s what Vel’ d’Hiv’ is short for. A famous indoor stadium where biking races were held. Thousands of Jewish families, locked up there for days, in appalling conditions. Then sent to Auschwitz. And gassed.”
It did ring a bell. Only faintly.
“Yes,” I said firmly, looking at Joshua. “OK, what then?”
He shrugged.
“Well, you could start with finding Vel’ d’Hiv’ survivors or witnesses. Then check up on the exact commemoration, who’s organizing it, where, when. Finally, facts. What happened, exactly. It’ll be delicate work, you know. The French aren’t fond of talking about Vichy, Pétain, all that. Not something they’re overly proud of.”
“There’s a man who could help you,” said Alessandra, slightly less patronizingly. “Franck Lévy. He created one of the biggest associations to help Jewish people find their families after the Holocaust.”
“I’ve heard of him,” I said, jotting his name down. I had. Franck Lévy was a public figure. He gave conferences and wrote articles about stolen Jewish goods and the horrors of deportation.
Joshua gulped another coffee down.
“Nothing wishy-washy,” he said. “No sentimentalism. Facts. Testimonies. And”-glancing at Bamber-“good, strong photos. Look up old material as well. There isn’t much available, as you will discover, but maybe this Lévy guy could help you.”
“I’ll start by going to the Vel’ d’Hiv’,” said Bamber. “Check it out.”
Joshua smiled wryly.
“The Vel’ d’Hiv’ doesn’t exist anymore. Torn down in ’59.”
“Where was it?” I asked, glad that I wasn’t the only ignoramus.
Alessandra answered once again.
“Rue Nélaton. In the fifteenth arrondissement.”
“We could still go there,” I said, looking at Bamber. “Maybe there are people living on the street who remember what happened.”
Joshua raised his shoulders.
“You could give it a try,” he said. “But I don’t think you’ll find many people willing to talk to you. As I told you, the French are touchy. This is highly sensitive subject matter. Don’t forget, it’s the French police who arrested all those Jewish families. Not the Nazis.”
Listening to Joshua, I realized how little I knew about what happened in Paris in July 1942. I hadn’t learned about it in class back in Boston. And since I had come to Paris twenty-five years ago, I had not read much about it. It was like a secret. Something buried in the past. Something no one mentioned. I was itching to get in front of the computer and start searching the Internet.
As soon as the meeting was over, I went to my little cubbyhole of an office, overlooking the noisy rue Marbeuf. We had cramped working space. But I was used to it. It didn’t bother me. I had no place to write at home. Bertrand had promised I’d have a large room to myself in the new apartment. My own private office. At last. It seemed too good to be true. The kind of luxury that would take some getting used to.
I turned on the computer, logged on to the Internet, then on to Google. I typed, “vélodrome d’hiver vel’ d’hiv’.” The listings were numerous. Most of them were in French. A lot of them were very detailed.
I read for the entire afternoon. I did nothing but read and store information and search for books about the Occupation and roundups. Many of the books, I noticed, were out of print. I wondered why. Because nobody wanted to read about the Vel’ d’Hiv’? Because no one cared anymore? I called a couple of bookstores. I was told it was going to be tough getting hold of the books. Please try, I said.
When I turned the computer off, I felt overwhelmingly tired. My eyes ached. My head and heart were heavy with everything I’d learned.
There had been over four thousand Jewish children penned in the Vel’ d’Hiv’, aged between two and twelve. Most of the children were French, born in France.