He pulled out the dictionary and found the word for “morning.” “I will return,” he said, drawing an outward arch with his finger. Then he touched his own temple: Think about it.

It was dusk when he caught a ride with a farmer heading back to Châtillon-sur-Indre. In the horse-drawn cart’s bed, two sheep were lying on straw. Uzi stretched out alongside them and closed his eyes, taking comfort in these familiar creatures that never hurt anyone. Guilt gnawed at him; he’d been warned not to burst through a door. For a while, the tavern and the farm had given the boys some permanency—but now a stranger had shown up and exposed their identities without the chance of bringing their parents back from the dead.

Uzi recalled the evening in the kibbutz’s common dining room when the members had made the decision to send representatives to Europe to rescue children. One member, who had come from Poland as a child, was sent there; he spoke the language, though he knew nothing about the country. But whom to send to France? No one was fluent in the language or had any experience there, so the only useful skill the group could think of was ingenuity. And Uzi, already a young leader, was chosen. There simply was no one else.

No wonder that he’d failed in his first attempt. What hubris had made him think that removing two traumatized boys from their secure environment was best for them? But then again, they must have been circumcised, a practice Hilda told him was unheard of among the locals. In the long run, after a trying transition in Israel, embraced by their people, they would never have to dread exposure again.

Madame Therrien smiled widely when she opened the door, revealing a crooked front tooth. She gestured for Uzi to follow her.

Perplexed, he walked behind his landlady as she crossed her kitchen, where her mother was at the stove. She went out the back door and through her lush small garden shaded by an oak tree, the air suffused with the fragrance of thyme and marjoram. Her steps were quick, a reminder that, despite her mourning dress and tight hair bun, she was still young. She walked across the alley and entered another home.

The house was dark, the kitchen a deserted mess of piled-up dirty pots and dishes. A putrid-smelling garbage pail was overflowing. Madame Therrien led Uzi to the front parlor, where a man was sprawled on an upholstered chair, drinking directly from an uptilted bottle.

At his feet, a child of perhaps four years was playing with building blocks. His light hair was matted. When he lifted a dirty face to the visitors, it lit up with a broad smile. The man glanced at Uzi, then raised his bottle in salute.

Madame Therrien pointed to a photo on the mantel and nodded sadly heavenward. The photo showed a lovely bride wearing a hat over chin-length brown hair and holding a bouquet of flowers.

Uzi was certain that word about his inquiries had reached his landlady, but he doubted that she understood that his search was exclusively for Jewish children. This boy was too young anyway. Hilda had made it clear that the network didn’t have the resources to care for small children, and in any case, you couldn’t bring a young child along on a clandestine entry into Palestine—it would endanger everyone. Uzi lowered himself to the floor, picked up an arch-shaped building block, and placed it on the top of the small tower that the boy had constructed. A strong smell of urine hit him. While Madame Therrien carried more dirty dishes into the kitchen, Uzi played with the boy, gathering his thoughts. Judging by the filth and disarray, the widower could no more manage the boy than he could his home.

Uzi heard the back door close. Madame Therrien had left. The man on the chair closed his eyes and let out a loud belch.

The tower that the boy and Uzi were building collapsed, and the boy broke into laughter. He punched at the rest of the blocks with delight. His laugh was like bells, contagious, making Uzi laugh with him. The boy’s eyes were wide, green, with long lashes. Despite the smeared snot and dry streaks of tears through dirt, he was beautiful.

There had to be a charity in town to assist this man and his child, or at least some neighbors who would help care for this boy. For now, all Uzi could do was wash him and change his clothes.

“On y va?” Uzi got up, extended his hand to the boy, and led him to the stairs. Discarded clothes, boxes, and tools cluttered the steps, and Uzi had to nudge them aside in order to climb up.

The tiny washroom consisted of a rusty sink and a hole in the rotten wood floor flanked by twin footrests. Judging by the stench, the bucket used to pour water from the sink into the hole hadn’t been touched in a long while. Uzi removed a small dirty towel from a nail, rinsed it, and wrung it out. He dipped a hesitant finger in melted soap in a dish and washed the boy’s face and hands. Since the boy seemed to enjoy his ministering, Uzi removed his shirt and rubbed the damp towel over his small body. The shape of his ribs was clear beneath his skin. The boy chattered, asking Uzi questions; Uzi, having no idea what he was saying, responded in Hebrew. The boy laughed as if Uzi had invented gibberish. What a sunny personality this kid had!

He helped the boy remove his soiled pants and immediately noticed the uncircumcised penis. Uzi was relieved—now there was no question of taking this young child with him. He lifted him to stand up in the sink, and the boy wrapped his arm over Uzi’s shoulder for support and kept chattering in his sweet voice. The rusty sink made it hard to tell how much dirt came off him, but the skin that was revealed was pink. The water from the faucet turned cold, and the boy squirmed. Uzi placed him on the floor again and wiped his hair with the wet cloth. He took off his own shirt and dried him with it as best he could.

The boy put his small hand, so soft and trusting, in Uzi’s and pulled him to a wall niche. It had a four-foot-long shelf with a mattress and a curtain made of a faded flowery skirt. The boy pointed to a trunk underneath the shelf, and when Uzi opened it, he found a few pieces of clean clothing. Again he wondered about the neighbors; he’d expected more from a village. Even a family feud couldn’t justify such neglect. This boy was so lovable that Uzi already regretted that he had to leave him.

From downstairs came the clanking of pots and utensils. Uzi dressed the boy and put his own damp shirt back on. They descended the stairs.

Madame Therrien was at the sink, attacking the pile of dirty dishes. She had brought a bowl of vegetable soup and bread and placed them on the table. At the sight, the boy climbed on the chair and stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth.

Uzi handed him the spoon, and the boy began to slurp with it. He raised his green eyes to Uzi and pointed to the other empty chair.

This friendly child would be all right, Uzi told himself; he was gifted with strength of personality. Uzi made a sad face to convey that he couldn’t stay and waved goodbye.

Holding the dripping spoon, the boy jumped up on his chair and clutched Uzi’s neck. His little arms tightened. His neediness was heartbreaking. Still, there was nothing Uzi could do for him. He had to save children he could help.

He lowered the boy back into the chair, then took out a piece of hard candy and placed it on the table. Not knowing the word for “goodbye,” Uzi said, “Bonjour,” and headed to the door.

“L’enfant?” Madame Therrien asked.

“No juif,” Uzi replied.

“Oui, juif,” she said.

Uzi couldn’t explain about circumcision, certainly not with a hand gesture. Madame Therrien might have learned about his search for children, but Uzi doubted she knew the specifics. He pointed to himself, said, “Juif,” then to her and the boy. “No juif. No juif.”

The woman said something to the boy, and he lifted his foot.

And there, centered in the arch, was an unmistakable blue Star of David.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sharon

Cherbourg, France

November 1968

Tomer, the reserve officer with magnificent teeth, has sent Sharon two four-page letters describing his time-pressured life in Tel Aviv. He attends law school at night and labors in his father’s garage during the day. He studies at stolen dawn hours and on weekends. It’s as if my brain is split—the academic part is given over to comprehending Ottoman, Talmudic, and British laws, and the mechanic part fixes cars and thrives on the smell of machine oil, he wrote. And then there’s a separate chamber that fantasizes about what can pass between us when we finally meet again.

She admires Tomer’s facility with language, loves his imagery, and regrets not giving herself more to their passionate kiss. Yet in her responses she commits to nothing, especially since she’s taken a liking to one of her “Norwegian” officers, who has returned for a second business trip.

“Jorgen,” as she calls him playfully, traveled first to Munich. If his steps were traced back, he’d be remembered, since he met with a real estate agent about the possible purchase of an office building. Then he headed to Oslo, where he purposely registered with a travel agent to buy his plane ticket to Paris. Since he can’t socialize with the Israelis in Cherbourg, Sharon meets him at his Parisian hotel.

She must take the plunge, she reminds herself when he helps her pull off her boots, then her sweater. His lanky body can’t possibly feel like Alon’s, and a polite man with European manners feels safe. The excitement of newness rises in her and propels her to reach for him.

Jorgen’s body hair is so fair that she detects it only in the light from the bedside lamp, which she would have liked to keep on had it not inhibited his lovemaking. His prim, punctilious Germanic nature suits the role Yaniv assigned him, but Sharon craves the touch of a man who is expressive, warm, and open to laughter. After failing to loosen Jorgen up, she dozes off.

She leaves alone in the morning and takes her coffee in a corner café. The glass window fogs against the cold outside, and the air is saturated with the aroma of pastries baking, men’s aftershave, and cigarette smoke. In her head, Sharon reviews the details of the night. She chose a man who would satisfy her body without involving her heart, but she hadn’t expected the encounter to be so meaningless, like footprints on the sand washed away by a wave. No regrets, she tells herself. It had to be done, like swallowing bitter medicine.

On the train back to Cherbourg, she gazes at the rushing scenery, stone houses surrounded by the muted green of vegetation that is in hibernation until spring teases back its lushness. She recalls questioning Danny about his childhood home and discovering that he had left France at age four. As soon as she abandoned her agenda to probe his history, she discovered his tattoo. It has thrown her into a new orbit.

The image of his foot flits through her mind as it has since she first spotted it a few weeks ago. Someone must know something about this unusual Star of David tattooed on an infant’s foot. It is a message, a traceable one, from his deceased parents. Or could it be an identifying mark from a parent who is still alive somewhere, aching for his or her lost infant? How Sharon would have pursued any thread, even as flimsy as this, leading to her mother’s relatives. She cannot leave this sign alone.

Like a hunter in wait, she is on the alert for a chance to talk to Danny at a relaxed time away from the office. He’s resisted her prying before, and she racks her brain for questions that would direct the conversation to his tattoo. These days, she rarely sees Danny. He’s been spending hours in the hangar where Saar Seven is getting fitted with its communication and electronic systems.

Saturday afternoon, while bicycling across the town’s plaza, she spots him through the glass window of a café. The top window in the church tower reflects the sun. On the ground, pigeons strut about, pecking at refuse left from the morning market.

Sharon dismounts her bike and steps inside. “Waiting for me?” She chuckles, guessing that Dominique will join him shortly, since the froth on his beer is still fresh. He gestures at the empty chair. “Coffee or wine?”

“Hot chocolate. Thanks.” She keeps her coat on and releases her hair from the confines of her collar.

“Nice haircut.” Danny’s glance stays on her a second longer than usual, as if he’s seeing her in a new way. “Very becoming.”

“Thanks.” She had her hair cut to just below her shoulders. Following Rachelle’s guidance, she tossed her collection of headbands into the garbage and shed her hippie style in favor of a sophisticated look.

The waitress serves her hot chocolate, and Sharon lifts her mug. “To Saar Seven.” Her smile masks her worry. Once the Saar is launched, in the dead of winter, Danny’s twenty men will be taking it out for weeks of testing. The turbulent English Channel has, over centuries, swallowed thousands of vessels. She glances outside at the scattered November clouds. “The worst weather of the year.”