“She died when I was six weeks old. In our War of Independence.”

“I’m so sorry. How old was she?”

“Nineteen.”

“Almost your age now,” he states more than asks. Sharon is certain that he keeps a dossier on each member of the Israeli team.

“A Holocaust survivor,” she says, then wonders whether he might take it as a reproach. Maybe, but why should she spare his feelings?

He shakes his head sadly. “The tragedy of your people goes on. And here we failed them so miserably. There’s no atonement for what we did.”

Is he implying that his own current extraordinary effort for Israel is his atonement? Sharon is angry at herself for having fallen for his charm, for having enjoyed this lunch and the wine that loosened her tongue. She opens her mouth to confront him about his Nazi-sympathizing past, to let him know that, unlike Danny, she understands Rachelle’s disgust at what he did.

Her jaw clenches as she holds back the impulse to speak her mind. Israel needs the Saars—and this man’s cooperation. As Rina said, exploiting these anti-Semites is the only moral way.

Only when Sharon drives away does she remember the handsome young stranger who might still be lingering in the plaza café.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Claudette

Loire Valley, France

Summer 1945

The farmer whom Claudette had paid to take her on the last leg of her journey entered the village of Valençay via the road farthest from the château. When she saw the destruction, her heart sank. She retained a flicker of hope until the cart stopped in front of what had once been Léonie’s home.

She stared at the charred remains in despair. A smoky smell burned her lungs. Had Benjamin been in the house when it was set on fire? Léonie must have fled with all the children in time—but to where?

The house to the right had been burned down too, but the house on its left still stood. Its vegetable garden was covered with debris and weeds. Laundry on the clothesline flapped in the breeze.

“Madame, are you getting off?” the farmer asked.

“Please wait until I find out what happened here.”

“I don’t have all day.”

“Please. I’ll pay you.” Her savings were dwindling fast. Merchants refused the Allied-issued paper francs, and some money had been taken out of circulation. Aluminum and zinc coins were worth more than ones of the same denominations made of iron. Her foreign currency was her best savings, but whom could she trust to tell her its worth? She would be robbed in any exchange; she had never learned to calculate beyond measuring a waistline or a hem. Nor had she anticipated the difficulty of arranging for transportation—or how much it would cost. Cars weren’t an option due to a severe petrol shortage, and horses that hadn’t died of starvation had been requisitioned by the Nazis.

The old woman who opened the door recognized Claudette and hugged her, sobbing. “They are all gone.”

Claudette felt as if her heart would explode. “To where? Where’s Léonie? And my baby? You remember him, right?” She pressed her palm against her chest. “What happened? Who burned the houses?”

Out on the road, the farmer clanked his bell.

“The Nazis found a Jewish family in the Doisneaus’ house,” the old woman cried. “They shot Léonie and took the couple away, but they burned the houses much later, when they retreated—”

Claudette cut her off. “Léonie is dead? For two and a half years now?” Who had been taking care of Benjamin? And the Parisian professors had turned out to be Jewish? Their daughter, Emmaline, had worn a cross on a thin gold chain. The professors must have glimpsed Benjamin’s blue star, yet they had made no comment. “The children? Where are they?”

“Father Sauveterre took them.”

Claudette sagged against the doorframe. At least they were alive; Benjamin hadn’t been burned in a fire. By receiving the blessings of two religions, her baby might have doubled his chances of salvation!

“The girl too? Emmaline was about twelve.” Wildly, Claudette hoped that the girl had protected him.

“She hid in our tree when the Boche arrested her parents.”

But where had Benjamin been all that time? Where was he now?

Claudette kissed the neighbor’s cheeks and rushed back to the cart. As the farmer helped her heave her body up, a sharp pain shot across her lower back. She groaned and bent over.

The farmer looked toward the setting sun. “I won’t be out in the dark on a road overrun by robbers. Where shall I drop you off?”

The château’s gates were surely locked at this hour. The neighbor had said that the priest had taken the children.

The area around the church was quiet, deserted, and mostly in ruins, like a ghost village. The damp charred-wood smell hung in the air. In one of the few houses still standing, a dim light glowed in a window. The barking of a dog broke the silence, triggering other dogs. Panting in panic, one hand pressed against her cramped back, Claudette lifted and dropped the iron knocker on the church’s door.

An unfamiliar young man in a black cassock opened a wicket door set in one of the large wooden double doors. Claudette couldn’t make herself coherent as she tried to explain through her crying that she was searching for her son. She knew she looked like a madwoman, bent over, her hair disheveled, and her clothes wrinkled from days of traveling.

“Come in, mademoiselle, and tell me everything,” the young priest said.

“Where is Father Sauveterre?”

“Unfortunately, the Lord called him. I am Father Hugo. What’s your name?”

“Claudette Pelletier.” Breathing hard, she raised her eyes to him. His cheeks were round and his jaw still tight, but he was balding prematurely. “Do you have a record of the town children who were dispersed during the Nazi invasion?”

“We’ll see what we can find.”

She grabbed the doorframe, hoisted herself over the step, then followed him unsteadily through the church. She averted her eyes from the tortured Christ and His suffering mother. The holy space spun. She clutched the back of a bench as weakness overtook her. At her last stop, in her frenzied attempt to hire a cart, she had not wasted time hunting for food.

“Come this way.” Father Hugo changed directions and entered a room with a long table in the center. Half a dozen people were eating. The homey smell of vegetable stew was in the air. “Have some nourishment first,” he said.

“My baby—” she began, then swooned and dropped onto the edge of a bench. The knife-sharp pain in her back was like the agony of childbirth.

After a quick glance at her, the people at the table resumed eating. A kerchiefed woman smiled at Claudette and began to fill a bowl. Claudette dropped her head into her hands and reminded herself that she had to regain her strength for Benjamin.

The root vegetable soup with chunks of rabbit meat was the first warm meal she had had in three days. She soaked up the last of the broth with bread and sipped the red wine from the decanter passed around, hoping it would ease her back pain. When she pushed herself away from the table, she couldn’t straighten. For the first time since receiving the Paris-made brace, she wished she had her old cane.

Father Hugo, supporting her by the arm, guided her to his office. “Here, sit comfortably and tell me what happened to your baby.” He perched on top of his desk, facing her.

“He’s gone.” Claudette choked out the words. “Benjamin-Pierre Baume. He has a blue tattoo on the bottom of his right foot,” she added.

“How were you two separated?”

She told him her saga.

Of course he had heard of the duchess. He raised his eyebrows. “She’s not coming back? The livelihood of so many families depends on the château,” he said. “I arrived here last fall, and I have been trying since then to take care of my flock. These people have gone through loss, fear, illnesses, starvation. Lifelong friendships and blood ties have been ruptured beyond repair by betrayals. Collaborators tried to get along with the Nazis, and collaborationists actually worked for the Nazis, spying and snitching on their own people. Who could anyone trust? Luckily, we have the Lord on whose everlasting care we can rely.” Father Hugo walked to a filing cabinet and took out a folder. “Nine children were brought in on November twelfth, 1942.” His finger ran down a list. “There’s no Benjamin-Pierre Baume. There’s a Benjamin-Pierre Pelletier. Like your name? Six weeks old.”