Sydney looked around him and inhaled deeply. There was the hydrocarbon stench, of course – you never got away from that in this city - and the odors of the river, tired and overused. Still, underneath it there was a discernable something in the air that he always found in Paris, nothing he could ever quite put a finger on. He knew it, though, as surely as one knows the smell of a familiar household. It was subliminal, but distinctive. Paris.

It had been years since he had been there. It was a limbo of seasons as summer had already relaxed its hold and autumn was still reluctant. Hands in his pockets, he strolled slowly along the boulevard, listening to the snatches of conversation, fast and guttural, laced with idioms. He let the smells, the sounds and the sights soak into him, building into a reawakening familiarity which was more impression than image. Paris.

He covered several blocks in his distraction. His thoughts were disjointed but comfortable. He needed to contact a colleague in the morning, and had to meet his coworker in an hour. Sydney wondered idly where Broots was. Anxious to practice his French, the technician had set out on his own several times in the past three days here – and managed to get lost every time. Admirably, though, he was undeterred even when he found out he was only a few blocks from his hotel or had paid too much for some trinket for his daughter. By the time the opportunity rolled around again, Broots was ready for his next adventure. You never know what you might find here, he said.

“Oh, pardon!” Sydney recoiled from the collision, teetering. The small woman put a hand on his upper arm to steady both of them. She spun off a string of rapid-fire French, apologizing for the accident, asking if he was all right, joking about their mutual lack of attention. Sydney smiled, apologizing in turn, making light of the incident. He trailed off as he noticed the woman peering at him closely. Curious, he asked if she was all right. She started to speak, then shook her head. “Excuse me,” she said, “I just… I’m sorry.” Her eyes didn’t leave his, however.

Sydney began to feel slightly uncomfortable under her continued scrutiny. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, and became acutely aware of her hand on his arm. He cleared his throat. “Alors,” he said. He took her hand in his own, shaking it politely before returning it to her. She released him reluctantly. Why was she watching him so closely? Annoyed, he sought an escape. He beat his open hand lightly against the side of his leg, exhaling quietly through his teeth.

Her reaction was amazing. Her eyes opened wide and her hand flew to her throat.

Sydney stopped stone cold. Time slowed and sounds became distant. Unaware of anything but each other, each shared a single thought: Non…c’est pas possible…

Sydney spoke, barely a whisper. “P’tite grenouille?”

The old woman’s eyes, previously so intent on his, closed. Her answer was barely audible. “Sydney.”

He reached for her shoulders, now shaking with silent sobs. She opened her eyes, tears spilling down her deeply-lined cheeks. “Mon Dieu,” he breathed. “Madeline.”

He wrapped his long arms around her tiny frame, and the siblings hung on for dear life.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Long moments passed unnoticed before they were able to help each other to a nearby bench. As they settled onto the scarred wood, both tried to speak. Laughing and crying in turn, they tried to cover a lifetime of questions and pain in an instant.

“We thought you were dead. We looked for you.”

We? Madeline looked keenly, hopefully. “Jacob…?”

Sydney said gently, “He died a few years ago.”

She nodded, her smile unfading. “But he didn’t die at their hands. I thought you had both… What records I was able to find indicated that all the twins had perished before the liberation. Falsified, without doubt, but when there was no way to trace you there, I went back to Lyons. There was nothing left there.”

They sat arm in arm, her hand reaching frequently to stroke his cheek. He just as often captured it, only to hold it to his lips and cheek himself.

“Thank God! There you are, Syd. I…” Broots stopped short. “Oh, geez, I’m sorry… I…” Who could this be? Broots was on fire with curiosity. “Uh, excuse me. Pardonnez-moi. I don’t want to interrupt…” He paused expectantly.

The pair seated on the bench looked up at the newcomer with shining eyes and large smiles. Broots couldn’t help but smile in return – Sydney’s happiness was plain.

“Broots, I’d like you to meet my sister.”

The technician’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding! No way! I mean, I didn’t know that you…”

The woman laughed and extended freed her right hand from her brother’s. She switched easily to English. “I’m pleased to meet you. You are a friend of Sydney?”

“Uh, yeah. Broots,” he supplied.

“Madeline Davis,” she rejoined.

“Davis?” the psychologist asked. “You are married?”

She nodded, but said “Widowed.” Turning back to the man standing in front of her, she asked “Is Broots a first or last name?”

“Last name, but everyone just calls me Broots.”

Madeline laughed. “Not everyone, Mr. Broots.”

“Sydney’s never said anything about you. That is to say…” he stammered.

Broots’ older colleague spoke up. “I had thought she was dead,” he explained, his smile and half-laugh evidence that he was delighted in his error. “Jacob and I thought that everyone else had died…in the war. In the camps.”

Sobering, he turned to his sister. “Madeline – our parents…?

She shook her head gently. “They died at Treblinka.” Her brother nodded, his eyes asking for more…

…The boys had been taken from them immediately and sent on to Dachau. It was merely a day later at the Polish camp when the Nazis had pulled a man from the crowd, explaining in German and crude French that the prisoners were to have a demonstration. Should any of the rules be broken, they said, there was to be only one punishment, and summarily shot the man. He had done nothing, Madeline explained, he was simply shot and left to die.

Jean Michel had tried to go to him, still moaning on the muddy compound. Greta had protested, urgently clutching at his arm, but he was already stepping out of the ranks, picking his way through the mire, ignoring the single command to halt, shrugging out of his coat as he went. He made it to a few meters from the man before he too was gunned down. He fell face-first, with his arms still trapped in his sleeves.

Greta had screamed and collapsed. Madeline tried to cradle her mother in her own small arms. The next days were spent at her mother’s side, trying to elicit a response from the woman who had withdrawn from the world. Hours of patient encouragement might or might not be rewarded with a swallow or two of cold broth or dirty water. Madeline brushed her mother’s hair and spoke to her, with little or no answer. Finally, six days after the death of her father, their barracks was summoned for showers and delousing.

She must have known, Madeline explained. They were lined up outside the shower building, told to undress in the bitter wind. Greta awoke from her twilight daze and looked at her daughter. Breaking from the group, she walked toward a guard, her daughter in tow. The guard watched them approached, his rifle ready. Greta stopped in front of him. Bitte, she said. Please. She stretched her daughter’s hand toward the man. The man squinted darkly at the young girl, his cruel eyes suspicious but hungry.

Madeline cried and tried to pull away. Greta spoke harshly to her. Quiet, she ordered. You must. Then, more tenderly, you must, my daughter. We must not die here. You must live, just as your brothers must live. Madeline stopped fighting, but could not stop crying. She cried as her mother kissed her and as she put her daughter’s hand in the guard’s. She cried as her mother walked away to join the group filing compliantly along “the tube” and into the shower building, with a final look back at her daughter. She cried as the guard pulled her with him, stopping only after he slapped her viciously before loading her into the truck which would bring them to what would be her home for coming months…

Frank tears spilled down the cheeks of the two men as they listened. Broots had at first felt like an intruder, but the intimacy of the moment was overwhelming. Sydney’s eyes never left the face of the sister he had lost so long ago.

She downplayed the brutality that she had experienced at the hand of the pitiless Nazi guard. It was Broots who asked gently, “How did you get away?”

She looked at the man who had taken a seat on the bench opposite them and smiled wearily. “It was shortly before the end of the war. Things were becoming steadily worse in the camps – for both the prisoners and the Germans.” Sydney nodded, remembering. “One afternoon, I returned from the market to find the captain at home, which was unusual. He was seated in his study…”

…and had obviously been drinking. Madeline stopped, surprised to see him there. He was mumbling, and she strove to understand. “Do you want me to bring you something?” she asked. “Something to eat?” He stared at her dully, as though he didn’t know her. She felt a knot of fear twist in her belly. Moving quietly to the kitchen, she began to unload her meager purchases from the string bag.

She didn’t hear him come up behind her. Potatoes fell to the floor as he grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around. The girl screamed and cowered. She had seen him drunken and ugly before, but he was now unrecognizable. His shirttail was untucked, his hair disheveled. But it was his eyes. They held madness.

His grip was iron; cruel bruises would soon arise. He held her inches from his face. “Please,” she whimpered. He showed no sign that he comprehended, or even heard. From his holster, he produced his pistol, bringing it up slowly between their faces. He pressed the barrel rudely under her jaw. “Do you want to go now?” he whispered. Madeline shook in terror, tears and sweat mingling on her face. The ghostly voice continued. “I am releasing you. It is over.” He put his rough cheek against hers. The stench of his breath was stupefying. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting.

The captain pulled his face back and waited for her to open her eyes. When she did, he smiled insanely. Slowly he moved the pistol from beneath her chin to beneath his. He held her eyes as he pulled the trigger…

“I don’t know how long I stood there, covered in his gore. When I could finally move, I knew I had to leave. I took his pistol, what money I could find, and what few things I could carry. I thought I would work my way toward Switzerland, but soon found myself headed on toward Alsace.” She drew a deep breath. “Then news of the liberation of Paris came, and I decided to find out what happened to you.”

Talk paused as Sydney pulled her into his embrace. Broots stood and turned, thinking to leave silently.

“Mr. Broots…” He turned back. Madeline was rising, her brother with her.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Broots said softly. “You two should have some time alone.”

She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Thank you. And I’m glad you were here.”

Sydney was unable to speak. His expression echoed his sister’s words.

“Mrs. Davis – I’m so sorry for what happened to you,” Broots said. His face was sincere and compassionate. Tear tracks still stained his cheeks.

She smiled. “You know, I’ve never told this to anyone before. Not even Jim, my husband. I only told him that the captain died just before the war ended, but not how. I thought I had lost the strength to talk about it.”

Sydney finally found his voice, hoarse though it was. “It’s amazing what one finds in Paris.”

(“Lest we forget.” Pangur Bàn)