Sharon and the commander descend a flight of steps to the quay and sit down on a bench.
“I wish you could spend longer in Paris this first time,” he says, “but there will be other opportunities.”
“Commander—” she begins.
“Danny. We’ll be working closely together—and you’re a civilian.”
“Danny, you know that I will stay only until the Dakar is found.” This also means that she must get to her agenda very soon. She must tread with caution, though, not press him.
“In the short term, we’ll be facing a few crises,” he replies.
“Since there’s an arms embargo, why does the Saars project continue? Won’t we lose the remaining seven boats the same way we lost the fifty Mirages? France didn’t return the money either, which is outright thievery.”
“You know the joke about the Jewish man who was sentenced to death, but pleaded with the king?” Danny replies.
“Which one is that?”
“‘If you give me a year,’ the Jew said, ‘I’ll teach your dog to sing.’ The king was puzzled but agreed to postpone the execution. When the Jew returned home, his wife asked, ‘How can you make such a deal? You can’t teach a dog to sing!’ The man replied, ‘A lot can happen in one year. I may die, the king may die, or the dog may learn to sing.’”
Sharon laughs. “Meaning?”
“New winds may blow. De Gaulle didn’t stay in power his full term. Now Pompidou is distracted by troubles in North Africa. Other problems might pop up. Or his fit of temper against us might subside. Who knows? In the meantime, the ban is not on building our boats, only on delivering them, and even that is unclear, according to some people in his administration. They see this breach of a contract that was signed in good faith by their government as bad for France’s reliability as an exporter of armaments.”
A barge passes by, its cargo covered with burlap, followed by a tourist boat bursting with lights and music. The people on the deck raise champagne glasses at them: “Salut! Salut!”
“Here’s your first real assignment,” Danny says when the jovial sounds roll away. “Tomorrow you’ll catch the ten-ten train from Gare Saint-Lazare to Cherbourg. Arrive at the station forty-five minutes early and look for two Israelis, Oded and Gideon. They don’t speak French, so when you find them, you’ll buy the tickets. Once you’re all on the train, there are a few rules for now and for all future trips: Don’t all sit together, though you can sit with one of them, as if you’re a couple. And don’t read anything in Hebrew or speak it until you reach Cherbourg.”
“How will I recognize these guys?”
“Are you asking how you’ll be able to recognize two bewildered kibbutzniks?”
She laughs. They’ll be wearing the standard-issue biblical sandals of double leather strips and the simple clothes that are sewn and distributed by one clothing cooperative, Atta. Kibbutz members are recognizable in Tel Aviv, let alone in Paris. Not Danny, though. This kibbutznik, again in civilian clothes, dresses impeccably.
“Where will you be?” she asks.
“I have an early meeting with Moka Limon.”
Of course. Everyone knows the retired admiral, now in Paris as a civilian diplomat. Eighteen years earlier, he had been chief of the Israeli navy, then composed of no more than walnut-shell-like former immigrants’ boats.
Sharon is about to ask why Limon is still in Paris when he can no longer procure arms, but then she figures it out: the legendary high-society literary salon his elegant wife has established in Paris. Both are close to the Rothschild family and their vast European connections. No one is better qualified or better positioned to command a spy ring than Limon.
How would Danny or the Cherbourg operation be involved in that?
“Is any of this illegal?” she asks.
“Picking up an electrician and a mechanic at a train station, buying tickets, and riding up to Cherbourg?”
She puffs hair away from her face. “You know what I mean. Anything in this Cherbourg project.”
“The difference between legal and illegal sometimes can come down to a comma in a sentence.” He smiles. “What do you call that comma?”
“What?”
“Chutzpah.”
She likes the idea of chutzpah, although Alon said she had none of that audacious attitude. “What happens when my train arrives in Cherbourg?” Sharon asks. “Where do we go?”
“Cherbourg is the last stop. Someone will fetch you.”
The last stop. One more step toward the unknown.
They walk in silence to the hotel, each deep in thought. Sharon has never sought adventure. She craved the opposite—no drama. She just wanted to belong. Her life path had been dictated by circumstances beyond her control, underpinned by her orphanhood. Her hunger for normalcy could never be fully satiated. Her six aunts and uncles included her in their families’ activities. There she watched enviously as mothers taught their daughters how to jump rope and fathers showed their sons how to climb trees. All she had was the devotion of old grandparents, and she felt guilty for wanting more. When Sharon and Alon got together, when she was thirteen, his love anchored her into his family. She developed an easy banter with his mother, who often gave her small gifts, including the satchel now slung over Sharon’s shoulder.
All this was over. For a split second, Sharon wishes that Danny would take her hand just so she could feel a human touch. She brushes away the absurd need. It’s time to grow up. Sharon had never considered living away from Alon, and to be near him, she forfeited her dream of studying architecture. It would have required her to attend the Technion in Haifa while he studied botany in the Hebrew University in Jerusalem.
Now she’s not only on her own in a foreign country, but tomorrow she will be responsible for two bewildered men.
She wakes up at six a.m. to inquire with the hotel clerk about the Métro subway. Though she is hours away from taking it, she descends the stairs at the nearest station. To her relief, she discovers a large wall map, and when she presses a button for her destination, Gare Saint-Lazare, the route lights up with miniature bulbs. Each of the two lines she should take is marked by a different color. Satisfied with her preparation, Sharon buys herself a French fashion magazine; she’ll bury her nervousness in a light feast of makeup and clothes while improving her language skills.
What she didn’t anticipate, she realizes a couple of hours later at the Gare Saint-Lazare, is how gigantic the station is, and how crowded. Where are her men?
Dragging her suitcase, she wanders for thirty minutes, checking the huge hall under the ornate canopy and then the many exits to the train platforms. Panic rises when she climbs the stairs to a second floor that seems to be a holding area for more waiting passengers. No sign of the two kibbutzniks. The huge clock tolls the half hour when she makes her way down again through people, porters, and luggage carts.
Someone taps her shoulder, and she turns. An old kerchiefed woman is holding a baby swaddled in a blanket, and Sharon is surprised when the woman asks for directions. Sharon is mumbling an apology that she’s only a visitor when she feels the tug of a hand slithering into her satchel.
In a trained hard chop, she brings down the side of her palm on the arm. The woman yelps and retreats, leaving Sharon stunned with the rush of adrenaline.
