He paused, "Now Hôtel Lutetia is a four-star hotel, but then it was the terminus for trucks bringing camp survivors. Maman said she held up signs and photos, running from stretcher to stretcher, asking if someone had seen her family. Person to person, by word of mouth, maybe a chance encounter or remembrance…maybe someone would recall. One man remembered seeing her sister, my aunt, stumble off the train at Auschwitz. That was all."

Abraham's eyes fluttered but he continued. "A year after Liberation, she found my grand-père, almost unrecognizable. I remember him as a quiet man who jumped at little noises. She told me she'd never forget those who took her family. 'Cheri,' she told me, 'I can't let them be forgotten. You must remember.'"

Aimee figured little had changed in this dim room with its musty old-lady smell since then. She pulled her gloves back on to ward off the chill. "Why didn't the Gestapo take your mother, Monsieur Stein?"

"Even they made mistakes with their famous lists. Several survivors I know were in the park or at a piano lesson when their families were taken. Maman said she came home from school but the satchels, filled with clothing and necessities in the hallway, were gone. Hers, too. That's how she knew."

"Knew what?"

"That her parents had saved her."

Aimee remembered her own mother's note taped to their front door: "Gone for a few days-Stay with Sophie next door until daddy comes home." She'd never returned. But how awful to come home from school and find your whole family gone!

"Your mother stayed here, a young girl by herself?"

He nodded. "For a while with the concierge's help. She never talked about the rest of the war."