“Stay, stay,” the duchess said, and turned to Madame Couture. “By the end of the month, I want her living in the village near the midwife.”
After the duchess and her pregnant friend left, Madame Couture searched through the collection of fabrics in the armoire and muttered, “To think that my family’s name is so debased that I must stoop so low as to sew for a Jewess!”
As if slapped, Claudette raised her head. “Madame Galvin is a Jewess? How do you know?”
“Her maiden name was Chiraze. The leather-goods family. Jewish. Why a Galvin would marry someone from that crooked tribe is beyond me.”
“Where is her husband?”
“He stays in Paris to take care of his affairs, but Madame Galvin is living here in one of the posh guest rooms! She should hide in the cellar like the rats that the Jews are.”
“Some Jews are good people. My mémère used to say that they were close to God.”
Madame Couture snorted. “The duchess must think so too.”
Claudette couldn’t wait for Madame Galvin to return for a fitting. In spite of Madame Couture’s distaste, she had sewn two frocks for her, and Claudette crocheted a pink collar for one and fashioned a silk poppy for the other. She’d stitched black-silk stamens to match Madame Galvin’s eyes.
Madame Galvin collected the dresses, complimented both of them on their fine work, and hurried out. Claudette followed her.
“Madame Galvin,” she whispered.
The woman looked back at her, her eyebrows raised in surprise.
Claudette gathered the courage to say the words for the first time. “My baby. It’s—he’s—Jewish too.”
Madame Galvin smiled and turned to fully face her. “You aren’t Jewish, are you?”
Claudette spoke fast. “His father is, and I want him to be Jewish too.”
“In Judaism, the lineage goes through the mother.”
Claudette narrowed her eyes at the blow. “I love your people. How can my baby belong to them?”
Madame Galvin shook her head. “First, you’d have to convert, and that’s a long process of studying, requiring a rabbi.” She softened her voice. “Anyway, this is the worst time for anyone in France to be Jewish. If your baby is a boy, you wouldn’t want him to be circumcised.”
“What’s that?”
Madame Galvin blushed. “Jewish male babies go through a special cutting that marks our covenant with God.”
“Oh.” Claudette had noticed the difference between Raphaël’s penis and her little brothers’ from the time she still lived with her parents but had attributed it to physical variations, like noses. “Maybe something simpler, like baptism, but Jewish, so his soul can enter God’s Kingdom?”
Madame Galvin shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “We have no such shortcuts. Wanting to be Jewish is not enough. Sorry. I must go. I wish you all the best.” She started to leave.
“Wait!” There was so much Claudette wanted to learn from the first Jewish woman she’d ever met. “What’s the most important thing for Jews?”
Madame Galvin stopped again. Her dark eyes looked at Claudette for a long moment. “To do good in the world. That’s what God expects of us.”
Claudette had witnessed that in Isaac Baume’s unending kindness, a stark contrast to the village priest’s cruelty. Even Mémère had looked favorably on Jews. Now Claudette had learned that they actually had a covenant with Him!
She lowered her head in reverence. Madame Galvin, like Raphaël, seemed oblivious to the fact that they were barred from paradise by original sin, since it hadn’t been washed away by baptism. Instead, some inner strength sustained them; they didn’t shy away from the religion that made the world hate them so.
Her thoughts swirled. She would inch closer to Raphaël’s people through their baby. She would gift their baby’s innocent soul to God by giving him both religions. The infant’s illegitimate status would be diminished by the double consecrations.
Then an idea came to her. “I want to give my baby a good Jewish first name. It will be a blessing coming from you.”
Madame Galvin let out a small laugh that was as delicate as she was. “I’ve picked Rebecca or Benjamin for my baby.”
At that instant, Claudette’s baby felt real. A name had been bestowed on him or her—a Jewish name, one that Claudette could
whisper when the two of them were alone. “Those are beautiful names, Madame,” she said, breathless with the magnitude of the
moment. She took Madame Galvin’s hand and kissed it with all the reverence she felt. “May God be with you.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sharon
Cherbourg, France
September 1968
Two hours into Sharon’s work on the maps, Danny appears. “I’m pleased, and Kadmon is pleased.”
“I’m pleased too, in case anyone wonders.”
He laughs and looks down at the map she drew of a section of Heathrow airport; it’s filled with arrows and notes. “Wow, kiddo. You can draw well.”
She chuckles. “One item that hasn’t come up in your investigation of me: I did drafting during summer vacations at my uncle’s factory.” Had her father lived, he would have become an artist; everyone said so. Her own art was often displayed in the school’s halls.
“A pleasant surprise.” Danny pauses. “By the way, I’ve never asked you: How does an Ashkenazi girl who grew up in Tel Aviv and attended a French high school happen to become fluent in Arabic?”
