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He tried to get that straight in his mind, but standing here again, he realized that the corner where the photomaton had been was not directly across from the Tuileries, as he had recalled. The gardens were some distance down the street. It made little sense that she would have him wait so far away from the photomaton. With millions of people misremembering a war, could anyone ever get straight what had happened?

At the Colonnade, he stopped at a souvenir shop and on a whim purchased a blue beret for Annette. He bought a black one for himself—to commemorate 1944, when he was Julien Baudouin, stonemason.

42.

“I DON’T REALLY REMEMBER YOU, YOU KNOW,” SAID THE DELICATE woman at the café table. She was carefully stirring two lumps of sugar into her tea. She wore a thin gray scarf knotted at her neck, as if she might be slightly chilly.

“I do remember you—just a little,” Marshall answered. “I lived at your apartment for about two weeks.”

“Bien sûr. There were so many of you. But I am very happy to make your acquaintance once more.” Her smile was genuine but her eye contact uneasy.

Annette had said that her younger sister, Monique, lived in Paris, and she had suggested that Marshall call her. Marshall had been hesitant. This morning, however, only a couple of days before seeing Annette again, he decided to look her up.

Monique had a soft, shy manner. Her hands were nervous, and her voice was thin. They chatted about Paris in the old days, Monique’s parents, and Marshall’s flying career. Marshall told her about finding the Alberts, and Monique mentioned her husband, two children. Their daughter was at Boston College.

“I’m glad you have found my sister,” said Monique, touching her lips with her small napkin. “She has had a very difficult way.”

“Losing her husband must have been hard. But she seems to be emerging, don’t you think? I admire her spirit. She’s full of life, like I remember her. There was a special quality—”

“That’s not all, monsieur,” said Monique, leaning forward. “She won’t tell you about it, probably, unless you probe. I can see you don’t even know.”

Marshall was at a loss. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Monique paused. Then, spearing him with her eyes, she said, “In the spring of 1944, not long after you say you were with us, Annette and our parents were arrested and sent to the concentration camps in Germany. I was left behind. I did not see my mother and sister for more than a year. And my father did not return.”

Marshall froze. He stared at his hands. He had never been so shocked. For long moments, he heard and saw nothing. He couldn’t remember later what he had said then. Monique’s eyes seemed haunted. They were the color of Annette’s eyes. He remembered only what Monique said as they parted.

“I’m sorry, monsieur. I can’t talk about it. Perhaps my sister will tell you, but it is very hard for her. You comprehend? Even if you ask her, she won’t offer it easily.”

43.

ON THE TRAIN TO ANGOULÊME, HE STARED OUT THE WINDOW, hardly seeing the landscape. Having risen at five, he arrived at the Gare Montparnasse in time for an early train. But even after he bought his ticket he thought maybe he should turn back, postpone this trip until he had gathered himself. He had no idea what he should say or do when he saw Annette. Nightmare newsreels ran though his mind. Piles of skeleton people, bulldozers coming toward them, one or two arms waving feebly. A young girl and her mother, shrunken and curled. He saw skeleton people stuffed in bunks, skeleton people dressed in stripes. He saw gaping mouths. In a sealed room vapors hissed from the ceiling.

He knew so little—mainly headlines and film clips, the shocking revelations at the end of the war. Gold teeth and fillings yanked and stockpiled. Adolf Eichmann. Himmler. Barbed wire. The open pits, the bulldozers, the poison-spitting showers, the monstrous ovens. How did she ever survive?

He carried a copy of Le Monde but did not read it. Next to him a middle-aged woman with a feather in her hat was