If I did see her and could tell her I'm not sure who I really am, I think I know what she would say.

"The war is over now.

You are the Jewish child of Jewish parents.

You don't have to be Christian anymore.

In the eyes of God, it doesn't matter where you live.

It's how you live that is important.

Be a decent person who lives by her heart."

But how do I do this?

How do I live by my heart?

Mama and I come to Pere Lachaise early.

We're there when the leaders of the march arrive, the skinniest men and women I've ever seen.

These silent survivors gather in the thin rain.

They are Jews who returned from the concentration camps.

Their worn striped uniforms look like pajamas that are too big for them.

Their eyes are much too large.

They walk as if they only half remember how to do it, or why.

They seem sacred ... set apart from ordinary people.

Only one outsider, God Himself, could ever understand their thoughts and feelings.

Finally the leaders disappear into the cemetery, carrying the small wooden box.

It's the size of a baby's coffin.

Mama and I, with groups of people our own ages, follow them.

We walk in silence under the weeping sky, past sorrowful stone angels.

Some of us weep too.

Around us are grand tombs carved with the last names of single families.

First names, dates, and places have been carefully recorded.

But all we have left of our loved ones is this small box of ashes.

It may be these ashes are not even theirs.

Suddenly, out of the crowd, a woman rushes up.

She reaches for me, draws me to her, and hugs me until it hurts.

I don't know her.

I've never even seen her before.

I'm sure she doesn't know me.

But here she is, holding me as if she'd lost me, missed me terribly, and then found me again.

Should I push her away?

Should I call Mama?

In pain and joy the woman cries, "I had a daughter like you!"

Was her daughter my age?

Did she look like me?

The mother repeats again and again, "I had a daughter like you!"

She strokes my hair, presses my face into her chest.

My heart tells me what to do ...

it's so simple.

Let this woman be your mother.

Be her daughter.

So I hug her.

I stroke her back as a lost-and-found daughter would.

I am every Jewish daughter who has died.

She is every Jewish mother who has lost a child.

Slowly, she begins to run out of tears.

Her friend takes her by one hand.

Covering her eyes with the other, the woman staggers away.

I lie awake that night in my bed, the bed that's grown too small for me.

I finger my yellow blanket, thinking.

I belong to my family.

To Mama, of course.

To Papa too, if he ever returns.

To my godmother, Madame Marie, and to Monsieur Henri.

But the tears of the woman I met today have washed away every speck of dust in my heart, every trace of fear.

I'm a child of my family, a child of France.

But, more than these, my heart tells me now I'm a child of my people.

The dead we buried today in the small wooden box, the living brothers and sisters who have survived.

I don't need to hide anymore, and I don't want to keep any more secrets.

Secrets stand in my way.

They stop me from knowing who I am.

I am a Jew.

I'm sure of it.

And I will always be one.

The Present.

It's a hot, dull day in July, just before school lets out for the summer.

Our class is copying a map when a knock sounds at the schoolroom door.

It's the skinny new caretaker, the one who's taken Madame Marie's place.

She speaks to my teacher.

My teacher smiles and calls me forward.

"Your father has returned," she tells me.

"You may go home to see him."

I take my time walking there.

I should feel happy, I know.

The trouble is, I don't really know who my father is anymore.

I was only a little girl when he went away.

Except for that one visit in the hotel room, I haven't seen him in five years.

We haven't had a letter from him in more than a year.

What will we have to say to each other?

He doesn't know me and I don't know him.

What if he doesn't like me?

What if I don't like him?

Will we have to live together anyway?

Many of my friends, including Esther, have lost mothers or fathers, brothers or sisters.

Now our family will be whole again.

I'll be different from my friends.

Slowly, I open the door to our apartment.

The electricity is turned off in the daytime.

A man sits in the shadows at our table, wearing a soldier's uniform and cap.

I stand near the table with my back to the wall.

The man tries to talk to me.

I try to answer.

Out of the man's pocket comes a chocolate bar.

But even the enemy soldiers tried to make friends with children, didn't they?