How would she know this town in which she’d spent one night before being sent out? “Last I saw you, you were playing cards. Nothing more exciting has happened since?”

“A French colleague took us out to a disco. He drank so much that he couldn’t remember how to bring us back.”

In her room, her suitcase is still on the floor, still packed. So much has been crammed into her day, and now, when she expected a quiet evening, Israeli-style hilarity and camaraderie will draw her out.

They go to a bar around the corner, and her roommates recognize two Frenchmen they met at work and with whom they’ve developed a form of hand-signal communication. They all gather around small tables pushed together, and again, Sharon is the only woman. There is hardly a chance for a female friend close to her age.

“We heard we can order seafood,” Oded says.

She laughs. “Let’s live dangerously.” She examines the mussels and oysters on the menu. In Israel, the Orthodox minority that controls the government through a political coalition enforces religious dietary laws. Only fish that have fins and scales are kosher. Israeli fishermen catch the same sea creatures that Italian and Greek fishermen do, but the Israelis must throw the nonkosher harvest back into the water before returning to shore.

Sharon turns to order mugs of beer from the waitress and spots Danny in a dark section of the room, seated kitty-corner to a young woman. Their heads are close together in intimate conversation. The woman’s wavy blond hair and her jaunty tilted beret are clearly French, as is the elegance of the blue dress hugging her slim figure, her printed scarf, and the beige trench coat thrown over the back of her chair.

When the food is served, Oded’s eyes widen. He stares at the plate. “The oysters are raw?”

“I call for a dare!” Gideon says.

“I’m in!” Laughing, Sharon lifts the first shell and sucks in the slimy creature. It is so slippery that it slides right down her throat, leaving a seaweed flavor. One of the Frenchmen raises his mug to salute her, the winner of the dare. Pleased, she samples the meaty mussels swimming in a warm garlicky wine broth, then dunks her bread in it. “C’est délicieux,” Sharon tells the Frenchmen.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Danny bring the woman’s hand to his lips. She feels a tightening at the bottom of her stomach. How she longs for Alon and his spontaneous displays of affection.

She puts down her mug of beer and rises. “Guys, I’m beat. I need to sleep.”

Gideon and Oded rise too. The latter holds a handful of coins out to Sharon; she scoops out their share to pay the bill.

The three of them run through the rain. Sharon’s shoes slap the wet cobblestones, splashing water onto her calves. If Alon were there, they’d be holding hands and dashing through puddles, laughing in the rain. With him, she wouldn’t have minded the water drenching her hair and making her dress cling to her body. Perhaps this is a scene in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg? The passion of Catherine Deneuve awakens in Sharon like a thirsty internal flower seeking to bloom.

Back in the apartment, she claims the shower. Then, with her freshly washed hair wrapped in a towel, she finally unpacks her suitcase and places Alon’s framed photo on the nightstand. Twenty minutes later, under the wool cover, she stares at it, willing Alon’s smile to turn into laughter that will infuse their night with love.

Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, will arrive Sunday. She’s looking forward to helping Rina cook, to the aroma of the matzo ball soup, and to the evening filled with whatever secular version of reciting or singing that Rina and the officers’ team designs. Is she ready to mark the new year as a healing stage in her mourning process?

Chapter Seventeen

Claudette

Valençay Village, France

October 1942

The sudden abdominal contraction made Claudette gasp. This was too early! It had been only eight months since Raphaël’s departure. Claudette had awakened this morning feeling odd; the room seemed out of focus, as if she had a cold. Even her teeth felt foreign in her mouth. But this?

“Léonie!” she called to the woman in whose house she was staying for her confinement. “My back is killing me.”

As Léonie felt around Claudette’s bulging stomach, a second contraction hardened it. “It’s mild. They may stop. Pray that they will. I’ll go get Madame Duchamp.”

“Hurry up,” Claudette called after Léonie in a small voice. She lay in her room, alone and frightened. Coming a month too early, her baby—Raphaël’s baby—might not survive. She prayed to Mary, the Mother, who now stood by her bed, holding her hand. “Not yet, please. Let my baby grow a bit more inside.”

It must have helped, because there were no more contractions until Léonie returned. Claudette heard her children whining when a third contraction seized her.

Léonie entered the room with a few folded towels. “Where is Madame Duchamp?” Claudette called. “Why isn’t she here?”

“On her way. But your water hasn’t broken yet. You have time.” She left again, and Claudette heard her in the kitchen, pumping water into a pot.

She’d never felt so scared as she did when another sudden pain clutched her entire body, stronger than the previous ones. She gulped a lungful of air. Then a knife slashed her lower abdomen. Another knife stabbed her back. With a swoosh she could almost hear, a gush of warm water puddled in the bedding beneath her. She screamed as a huge contraction squeezed her abdomen. A guttural moan, like a roar, tore out of her.

Léonie reappeared. “Hold back. Just breathe out with each—” She stopped as Claudette had another contraction.

She panted so hard that her lungs emptied with a long growl.

“Jesus and Mary,” Léonie said. “Please. Don’t push.” She peeked under the cover and pulled Claudette’s legs up. “Just wait! Madame Duchamp is coming!” She propped a pillow under the left leg, which couldn’t stay up.

Another huge contraction made all of Claudette’s muscles spasm, and a wild groan emerged from her lungs, long and rumbling. Something slippery slid out.

“Oh no,” Léonie said. “It’s here!”

The air returned to Claudette’s lungs. She was heaving, sobbing, and laughing. The perspiration that coated her face mixed with her tears. “What is it?”

Léonie lifted a tiny pinkish baby covered with waxlike white mucus; the umbilical cord dangled, not much narrower than the thin limbs. “You have a boy!”

From the front of the house flowed the sounds of Léonie’s children. Claudette was in bed, the week-old baby snuggled in the crook of her arm, sleeping after being nursed by Léonie. Claudette was holding back tears. Her heavy breasts had failed to produce enough milk. Not only had her baby been born too small, vulnerable, but in his first few days, he hadn’t stopped crying. The pitiful braying from weak lungs had torn at Claudette’s heart. What was wrong with him? Could he die? She kept him latched to her nipple, and he sucked briefly, only to stop in frustration and resume his crying. Finally Léonie, whose two-year-old daughter still nursed, offered to try feeding him. It worked.

“You should continue to breastfeed,” the midwife had told Claudette. “In a few days, you’ll produce more milk. Let Léonie only supplement you.”

Now Claudette examined her baby’s fine features, each as perfect as a work of art. His miniature cleft chin was more pronounced than Raphaël’s. Gently, she shifted Benjamin so he was lying belly-down on her chest and listened to his even puffs of air. He was content, trusting in her care. She breathed in his sweet milk-and-talc scent, and her heart broadened with so much love, she was unable to contain it.

Raphaël was present in their new baby, yet that made her feel his absence more acutely. “My baby. Raphaël’s and my baby.” She wept. By not producing enough milk, she was failing both her loved ones.

Outside, the late-fall wind assailed the trees, and rain pelted the window. Since coal was unavailable, and there was no man to chop wood, Claudette stayed in bed to keep warm. Where were Raphaël and his father? Were they at least in a dry barn? Or had they found a cave where they could light a fire? If only Raphaël were here to caress their baby’s legs through the flannel swaddling and be grateful as she was that both legs were healthy. Madame Duchamp had assured her that in a year, Benjamin would walk normally. Claudette couldn’t stop checking him to reassure herself that he had not inherited his parents’ affliction, that his legs matched perfectly.

Madame Couture poked her head in the door. “Coucou,” she crooned. Smiling, she entered, carrying a covered dish. She gave each of Claudette’s cheeks la bise, removed her drenched coat and scarf, and blew on her fingers to warm them. Then she leaned over the baby, who was sucking his fist. “Small, but handsome. Don’t let him suck on his fingers,” she warned. “It’s bad for him.”

Claudette lowered his hand and planted a kiss on the soft spot in his scalp under the fuzz of light hair. The pulse of his heart in the still-unfused dent made him so defenseless, so needing of her protection.

“What’s his name?”

Claudette shifted him to reveal the side of his face. She wished he’d open his not-yet-focusing eyes. “Meet Benjamin-Pierre Baume,” she answered with pride.

Madame Couture’s smile vanished. “Baume as in Sainte-Baume?”

Claudette had never heard of him but liked the unintended association. “Yes. Like that.”

“Since you’re not married, your baby is a Pelletier.”

Claudette said in a steady voice, “After the war his father will return, and we’ll be a family.”