“Please show her Claudette’s work. Maybe their seamstress can use help?”
Claudette’s jaw dropped. A château? She selected a silk rose nestled between a pair of leaves and offered it to Dorothée. Since May, no girl had ordered alterations of a dress.
“Claudette, give her also my gabardine jacket.” Mémère’s voice was weak. “The repair is so perfect. No one can tell it’s there.”
“But you need it for church!” Claudette protested.
“The only way I’ll get to church again is in a coffin.”
Claudette handed the jacket to Dorothée. A stone crushed her heart.
Before Dorothée left with samples of Claudette’s work, she addressed the man seated in the upholstered chair in the front room, smoking a pipe. His wife was reading a book. The nanny was keeping the children occupied upstairs.
“What if I get you a jerrican of petrol?” Dorothée asked the man.
He looked up, and his eyes narrowed. Blue smoke suspended over his head. “A full can?”
“I’ll sell it to you, but only when you are all packed in your car to leave.”
He glanced at the rain outside.
Dorothée started for the door. “I guess I’ll sell it to someone else.”
“No! Wait!”
Twenty-five minutes later, Claudette closed the door and leaned against it. The empty front room was suddenly quiet. The air smelled of pipe smoke. And now there was also the sour scent of the Angel of Death, waiting for Mémère to take her last breath.
Claudette hugged the dog and cried. If only the Jew would show up and make Mémère better. She wished for his quiet, reassuring
presence, but she had no idea where his family lived. She didn’t even know his name.
Chapter Seven
Sharon
Cherbourg, France
September 1968
A full-figured young woman, her hair gathered at her nape, waves to Sharon and the two kibbutzniks at the Cherbourg station. She rocks an infant in her arms and says in Hebrew, “I’m Rina, the Israeli mission’s unofficial welcome committee.” She lets out a small laugh. “And this is Daphna. My husband is at sea today, testing Saar Six.”
The only other passengers disembarking at this last stop are the uniformed men with blue duffel bags. Noticing Sharon’s glance, Rina says, “The naval port is one of the largest in the world. For security reasons, the French give us anchorage facility in their protected harbor. They also host our seamen in their barrack, caserne.” She giggles. “They even supply our guys with heavy winter jackets so they won’t freeze to death in winter.”
Taking Rina’s cue that it’s now safe to speak Hebrew in public, Sharon asks, “Are you saying that the French host the Saars operation?”
A pleasant, toothy smile spreads over Rina’s face. “Embargo or not, they love us here. Come to my Rosh Hashanah dinner Sunday and meet some of the French officers. They adore my matzo ball soup.”
In Rina’s car, Sharon settles in the passenger seat, the baby in her lap. She coos and jiggles her long, beaded necklace for Daphna, then tightens her arms around the fleshy, warm little body.
Rina maneuvers the stick shift. “She’s ten months old. By the end of the year, God willing, she’ll have a brother or a sister.” Her hand flits over her bulging middle. She glances at the rearview mirror. “You guys have kids?”
“Three each,” Gideon responds. “What’s the rush to get us here? They literally pulled me away while I was milking a cow, told me to throw a toothbrush and some underwear into a bag, then drove me to the passport office. I’m not even navy—”
“They picked me up on the way,” Oded says. “And I’m a tank commander. Can’t even swim.”
“Kidnapped and taken to France. How delicious.” Rina chuckles. “Get your kishkes ready for days of sea testing when the weather isn’t good, which is often. But we have fun too. With each launch of a boat, the French throw us a big party. They even grill whole lambs. Then, weeks later, once a boat’s testing is finished and she’s ready to leave for good, we organize a farewell banquet. Lots of champagne flowing.” She glances at Sharon. “I guess you’ll take the party planning off my hands.”
Sharon wonders about the budget for this shipbuilding project. In her military unit, they saved paper clips and reused the disposable coffee filters. Here she learns of French-union salaries, travel budgets, and champagne parties. None of these war toys are free. Heavy taxes are borne by Israelis, even Savta, whose meager income from a rental property is slashed in half by taxes. Whatever money she manages to save is taxed again, taken outright from her bank account.
“I’m confused,” Sharon says. “I was told that the Saars are built in a private shipyard, but you’re talking about the French navy’s patronage.” Where is the utmost secrecy that Danny insisted on?
Rina tucks a tendril that has escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “Félix Amiot, the owner of Constructions Mécaniques de Normandie, what we call CMN, is an interesting former anti-Semite. In this small town, he’s a friend of the navy brass, and he’s also asked the local media not to mention us, so they don’t.”
“Can one be a former anti-Semite?” Sharon asks.
But Rina is navigating the car into a narrow street. Daphna is asleep, her fist clutching a clump of Sharon’s hair. Sharon strokes with a tentative finger the baby’s rounded cheek; it’s like a ripened peach.
“Your invitation for Rosh Hashanah means a lot to me,” she says to Rina. It feels good to know that the small community Danny talked about is so welcoming. “May I help with the cooking? I learned from my savta.”
“Sure. My apartment is right above yours.”
The narrow alleys are lined with three- and four-story homes, all with chiseled stone façades—so different from the rough, uneven fieldstones of farmhouses she saw on the way. Sharon cranes her neck to examine the picturesque masonry. Each window is topped by a lintel—a flat block that supports the load of the structure above. She smiles at the realization that traveling abroad will feed her interest in architecture.
Rina parks the car and selects a key to enter the building. The men bring the suitcases; Sharon carries her satchel and the baby.
Rina opens the door of a third-floor apartment to reveal a room with two plaid sofas and a pair of matching upholstered chairs over a maroon area rug. The polished teakwood dining table and eight chairs are in mint condition. Printed curtains flank the windows. There is even a television set on top of a bookcase.
“Sharon, take the small bedroom.” Rina gestures to the left with her chin, then points to the short corridor on the right. “You guys share a bedroom. The men from the third bedroom are at sea today.” She moves to the door. “See you for Rosh Hashanah dinner.”
“You forgot Daphna.” Sharon holds out the baby, still asleep.
