As I walked, I looked from time to time at the photo of the woman in a padded jacket. And now I understood what gave her face a distant resemblance to the people in the albums of my adoptive family. It was that slight smile that appeared thanks to Charlotte's magic formula, "petite pomme"! Yes, the woman photographed beside the camp fence must have pronounced those enigmatic syllables to herself… I stopped for a moment; I stared at her eyes. Then I said to myself, "I must get used to the idea that this woman, younger than me, is my mother."

I put away the photo, and went on. And when I thought of Charlotte, her presence in these drowsy streets had the reality, discreet and spontaneous, of life itself.

What I still had to find were the words to tell it with.