SARAH
The mice scurry back and forth, night and day, though goodness knows what they find to eat. Maybe it’s the stench of human filth that attracts them, that keeps them there. Sarah smelled it as soon as she entered the women’s block. It reminded her of the stables when she used to go riding as a child—the stagnant damp smell of sweat and decay.
She doesn’t leave Samuel, not for a minute, terrified that he will be easy prey for such scavengers. The closeness she feels to him comforts her, and she remembers the rabbi’s words on the Métro: “God will look after your child.” She holds on to this thin thread of hope, telling herself it was a prophecy. It helps cushion her from her fear.
Forty women are crammed into a small rectangular room, squashed onto bunks with only straw to soften them, but they are kind to her when they see she has a tiny baby. They always make sure she has enough water to drink, and some of them even share their food parcels. She has nothing to give them in return, just a small smile. She finds she can’t talk. Talking makes her tired, and she needs to save all her energy to feed Samuel. That’s all that matters now. Keeping him alive.
There are only two toilets at Drancy, for the thousands of prisoners—one for women and one for men—and they can only go at designated times. Every time she goes, she scans the faces in the long queue, hoping to see David, but she never does. And every day she looks at the list for the next transport, terrified that one day she will see their names there. If only they can hang on, she thinks. This war won’t last forever.
But on May 29, their names appear on the list for deportation the very next morning: David Laffitte, Sarah Laffitte, Baby Laffitte. They didn’t even ask his name. As though they never imagined he might need one.