when I’d started to feel I had some sort of roots, some sense of connection to my family, I’ve discovered that it comes at a price. The price of knowing how Claire suffered and seeing how that trauma was, inevitably, passed on to my mother. It seems inescapable. A life sentence. And if it’s true, if it’s built into my DNA, then how could I ever contemplate inflicting it on the people I love, passing it on to children of my own, perpetuating the pain and the loneliness in another generation?
If I thought that knowing my family history would empower me then I was sorely mistaken. What I’ve learned of Claire’s story so far has left me feeling trapped. That was the risk I took, coming to Paris, searching for the girls in the photo. I thought I had the courage to find out who I really am. But now I am afraid that it’s done more harm than good.
At the same time, there’s a sense that I’ve come too far to stop. I need to follow Claire’s story to the end. I can only hope that there’ll be some shreds of redemption in it, for me as well as for her.
Simone has continued to tell me our grandmothers’ stories, but each new instalment comes very sporadically. There are parts of the story that she herself hasn’t known until now. She says she has asked Mireille to fill in the gaps, but it takes time for her letters to arrive. I wonder whether remembering these things and writing them down is painful for her.
Simone and I are both so busy at work that it’s hard to find the time to talk at all really. That suits me just fine: I’m not ready to tell her about ending my relationship with Thierry. Would she be sorry or pleased? I’m not sure whether she’s heard anything, from him or from other mutual friends, but in any case she doesn’t bring it up. Disappointingly, we’ve been told that neither of us will be included on the trip to Nice for the eco-cosmetic launch, but Florence and two of the account managers are going and there’s still lots to do to help them prepare.
On top of everything else, the Haute Couture Autumn/Winter Shows are running this week, too. It’s the first week of July and the city seems far too hot and muggy to enjoy looking at heavy woollens and stiff tailoring so I can’t seem to summon up much enthusiasm, even when Simone and I are given tickets to the Chanel event on the Tuesday evening. We take our seats in the Grand Palais, several rows back from the celebrities and fashion editors, and watch the models stride down the catwalk in Karl Lagerfeld’s embellished tweed creations. The collection is exquisite: each item has been carefully structured to flatter the female form and the designs are both clever and quirky. But I am distracted by the floor show around us. As a backdrop to the show, the designer has brought the dressmakers from the ateliers along, to illustrate the fact that it has taken a small army of workers to make each of the finished garments that we are applauding. I watch, fascinated, as they ignore the action on the catwalk and continue to work on half-finished versions of the same garments that the models are wearing. To me, these modern-day seamstresses provide a direct connection to Claire, Mireille and Vivi and many of the traditional techniques that my grandmother would have used are still employed today.
Instead of the show being a welcome distraction, though, it only serves to remind me of the terrible ordeal that Claire and Vivi went through, sent from the city where they were tortured and imprisoned to the Nazi work camps in Germany. I feel the panic rising in my chest, squeezing the breath from my lungs. Suddenly the heat and the opulence of the Grand Palais become too much to bear and I pick up my bag, making my excuses as I slip away from the show early, hurrying back to the seclusion of my attic room across the river.
That night, I lie in my bed and wonder if I’m having some sort of a breakdown. I gaze at the photograph on the chest of drawers beside me. ‘Help me,’ I whisper.
Claire, Mireille and Vivienne smile back at me, reaching out across the years to comfort me. Three such different characters. And I remind myself that if