She shrugs. “When I was little, we had a daily cleaning woman and a washerwoman who came every other day. They spoke Arabic, and when my grandfather realized that I was learning it, he bought a television set.” They both know that there was no Israeli TV back then. The only available channels were broadcast from the neighboring Arab countries. “He spoke Arabic from having been raised in Jaffa, and the two of us watched together.”
“Admirable flair for languages,” he says. “And German?”
“I learned some from a neighbor, a Holocaust survivor, who lived alone. Every day my grandma sent me over to deliver a dish of food, and I stayed to hear the old woman’s stories. She had no one else to talk to.”
“Well, I’m glad that you’re fluent in French.”
Sharon hesitates. “Danny, what happened to the flak we were supposed to catch about Saar Six?”
He shakes his head as if mystified. “Our French colleagues here were upset, all right. It wasn’t ‘gentlemanly,’ they said. To our astonishment, though, they weren’t upset enough about it to report to Paris that the boat had left without their knowledge.”
“Are they covering it up because it might seem like their own fault? Some internal problem?”
“I believe that it is our friend here who extracted a huge favor from them.” Danny points out the window toward the giant hangar. To Sharon’s perplexed look, he explains, “Félix Amiot. He averted a diplomatic confrontation.”
“The former anti-Semite? Why would he do that?”
“It might have cost the town dearly had he been forced to halt production.”
“Well, onward to Saar Seven!” She raises an imaginary champagne flute.
“Onward to seven through twelve,” Danny replies.
It won’t be so simple, she thinks. Seven’s launch might challenge the embargo once more if the Israeli leadership pulls a similar gambit. Publicly embarrassing Pompidou yet again would carry severe ramifications.
Danny glances at Sharon’s money belt, which is hanging off the back of her chair. She reaches for it and withdraws her expense list and the remaining cash. As he counts out the bills and coins, she asks, “While we’re on the subject, may I get an advance on my salary?”
They go to his office, and he opens a vault built into the wall. She signs a form, feeling a bubble of pleasure. Her first earnings in France. She’ll buy a robe right away. She’s not yet ready for a lipstick, but perhaps an eyeliner pencil?
“I suggest you deposit your passport in this safe,” Danny says.
She glances at the three pistols and stacked boxes of ammunition in the safe. “Ready for any eventuality?”
“We’re always concerned about a Palestinian attack. The crew members keep theirs in a safe on the boat they’re working on.” He smiles. “How is your gun handling these days?”
“Haven’t touched it since basic training.”
“There’s a firing range where you could practice.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t sign up for combat duty.”
But as she walks back to her desk, her sense of safety is shaken. Should she retrain in handling a pistol? Be ready for a Palestinian attack here, in Cherbourg?
On her flight from Tel Aviv, she’d looked down from ten thousand meters at the blue sheet of the Mediterranean. Low-flying helicopters will surely locate the Dakar any day now, and her mission here will be over before any terrorist action. That also means that she’s running out of time to grill Danny about his Youth Aliyah experience.
From the inside pocket of her backpack, she retrieves a black-and-white photo of her mother, the only picture of her she has other than her parents’ wedding photo. The size of two postage stamps, it’s a copy of a photo taken for her wedding certificate. Sharon has encased it in protective plastic. She examines the close-up and wonders yet again: Who was Judith Katz? The dark, almond-shaped eyes, the Cupid’s bow lips, and the long neck—all so much like Sharon’s—offer no clues. Was her mother witty and charming? Or shy and aloof? Was she a city girl or a farm girl? Did she have a sister to share secrets with, as Sharon would have loved to have? Judith Katz was surely musical, so what instrument did she play?
Would she have taught Sharon how to bake? Taken her on nature walks? Told her stories at bedtime? Sharon has heard from her aunts and uncles so many stories about her father—about Amiram’s antics, his mischievous spirit, and his artistic talent. No one knew anything about her mother.
“Who are you, Judith?” Sharon whispers. “Who am I?”
At seven o’clock, she’s still drawing her maps when one of the engineers, Elazar, pops his head in. “I’m locking up. Come. I’ll drive you home.”
“I have no idea where my apartment is. I was there barely one night.” Danny left a note with the address so she could call a taxi.
“You live right above me and my family. If you jump rope, we’ll hear it.”
She tucks her papers in an empty drawer, hoists her backpack, and follows Elazar to his Citroën. It’s dusk, but there’s just enough light for her to finally see something of Cherbourg.
Elazar takes the road that runs parallel to the canal slicing into the center of town. On Sharon’s left are warehouses, boat-repair shops, and empty lots where fishermen’s nets hang to dry. The opposite bank, though, is lined with four-story houses painted in muted beige hues. The small terraces with ornate iron railings have a distinctly European look. At street level, outdoor cafés with colorful awnings dot the sidewalk. Bienvenue, she thinks. I’m in France. It would be nice to sit with a book in a café on a lazy afternoon.
“This canal is an engineering feat conceived by Napoléon. Isn’t it amazing? They had none of today’s machinery.” Elazar points to the cliff rising in front of them. “From that fortress, you can see the entire town and all the harbors. Imagine Napoléon standing there, looking down, and planning his naval strategy?
“The location of this canal, perpendicular to the two major harbors, is great for waiting out a storm. The English Channel is famous for its gale winds—they have claimed many ships over the centuries.” He points east to somewhere past their office. “Napoléon also knew that, besides the naval war advantage, this spot opened up a commercial route to the Atlantic Ocean—to the New World—that didn’t go through the Mediterranean.” He sighs. “Before World War Two, thousands fled Europe through here.”
She recalls Danny mentioning the Titanic. “No more ocean crossings?”
“People fly. Now there’s a nuclear submarine plant instead.” He throws a quick glance at her. “I hear that you speak French. What about German? Germany still sends their engineers over. Brrrr.” He fakes a shiver. “That language.”
His words jolt Sharon. How is it possible that that genocidal nation supports the defense of the country of the Jews? “I didn’t know Germany was involved.”
“Big-time. The Saar design was adapted from their Jaguar torpedo boat. They were about to start manufacturing when the Arab countries made their usual noise, and the Germans buckled.”
“So here we are, in France.”
“Helped by the former Nazi engineers. The hardest part is not to think of where each was twenty-five years ago. Like the owner of CMN, Félix Amiot.”
