“What’s with him? Is he German?”
“As Froggy as can be, but he was a Nazi collaborator. He managed to avoid being executed afterward.”
“How did he collaborate?” The former anti-Semite, she thinks.
“Isn’t building over fifty planes and a ton of aeronautic engines for the Third Reich a collaboration?”
“Why would a Nazi sympathizer manufacture boats for Israel? He must suspect that eventually they’ll be fitted with arms.”
“Some say that life is not black or white.”
“An anti-Semite is an anti-Semite.”
“In fact, what saved him from the firing squad was that he took over his Jewish friends’ business—Coco Chanel perfumes, no less—and even paid their debts, then after the war handed it back to them.”
“While at the same time his planes dropped bombs on the populace in France?” Sharon adds in a sarcastic tone, “Can’t wait to meet him.”
She stretches and yawns. It’s been a very long day. One of several very long days.
Elazar tells her that he’s been stationed in Cherbourg since the start of the year. He left behind a son serving in the IDF. His wife and fifteen-year-old daughter are here with him; the girl is miserable over being uprooted, pulled away from her school and her friends.
“We have a great team here.” He glances at Sharon. “The guys will fall all over you.”
She scoffs. Moments later, she follows Elazar into the building. “You live on the second floor, I’m on the third, and Rina’s on the fourth. Who lives on the first?” Sharon asks.
“It’s been empty since the family got transferred after some juicy drama.” Before she has the chance to ask for details, he stops at his door. “Come in and meet my family.”
She’s exhausted and hasn’t had a chance to let Savta know that she’s arrived safely. It was out of the question to send postcards bearing stamps from Belgium or England. She’ll try sending a telegram tomorrow because an airmail letter will take two weeks to reach Tel Aviv.
“I’ll come in just for a minute,” she tells Elazar and is already being welcomed by a petite woman whose brown hair is gathered into pigtails that make her look as young as her teenage daughter, who sits in front of the TV. The girl’s arms are crossed as if she’s angry at the TV, and her expression is sullen.
“I’m Naomi,” the woman says. “This is Pazit. Would you like to join us for dinner?”
The teenager doesn’t react to the mention of her name, nor does she smile when the British sitcom booms with canned laughter. Sharon promises to come for dinner tomorrow and goes upstairs.
Oded and Gideon are playing cards with two of the three new men. Israeli music is drifting from the cassette recorder under the TV. Sharon notices that the floors have been washed, and the dining table is cleared of dishes.
“Welcome back!” they greet her. “We were hoping you’d return to show us around.”
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
