“Here you are!” A teenage girl emerges from behind Sharon. “I’m Christine, Félix Amiot’s favorite granddaughter—actually, the only one.” She chuckles and loops her arm through Sharon’s as if they are longtime friends. “You’re the only young woman here and, thankfully, not a naval officer. Are you a spy?”
“A detective, perhaps.” Conversation is easy with the charming Christine, who’s only four years younger than Sharon but far more refined. She tells Sharon that she attends a Swiss boarding school and is visiting for the weekend, having been flown here in her grandfather’s private plane. As the girl chatters about the royalty and European elite at her school and the safari trip to Africa she’ll be taking with her grandfather, Sharon feels the yawning gap expand between herself and this cosmopolitan, self-possessed teen. Her expression must show her bewilderment because Christine turns serious. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to cheer you up.”
Taken aback, Sharon asks, “Do I look like I need cheering up?”
“Your fiancé. I heard. Sorry.”
“Oh. I’m fine.” Sharon is piqued at the label applied to her: The poor woman is awaiting news of her fiancé, whose submarine was lost at sea. In a light tone, she says, “What’s mouton salé?”
“My grandfather’s famous sheep up there.” Christine points to the bluff, now shrouded in bluish mist. “The ocean salt clings to the grass, and the meat of the sheep that graze on it is both tender and salty.”
“Like our kosher meat,” Sharon says, “minus the tender part.”
The meal turns out to be delicious. Sharon is seated next to Rina, who is poking at an asparagus spear when Sharon asks her, “What’s the story with Amiot? A good guy or a bad guy?”
Rina strokes her protruding belly. “I live in a house he owns and I eat the great food he serves. I don’t single him out as a Nazi collaborator. I hold all French people accountable for the fact that just twenty-five years ago, they rounded up Jewish children, whom even the Nazis were sparing, and sent them to their death. What kind of horrible people would do such a thing? We are living in a cesspool of anti-Semites, so let’s just exploit whatever we can.”
Sharon shivers at the reminder of the world of hatred her mother must have endured—and escaped. How? Did she have siblings who perished? Where did Judith Katz hide to survive the war that hadn’t spared her parents? Sharon could have had grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins right here in France had they not all been murdered. Murdered by French people.
The next sip of champagne turns sour in her mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Claudette
Château de Valençay, France
November 1942
Back in her tower room, terrified for herself and for Benjamin, Claudette prayed with all her might until a rumble below sent her to the window. A convoy of canvas-topped trucks pulled through the porte cochère in the front wing and stopped in the inside courtyard. Men in green-gray uniforms poured out of the trucks, shouting orders in a harsh language.
The enemy was here, bringing their barking dogs. Claudette’s mouth tasted sour. The men and dogs streamed into the building, and she could no longer hear them. They could be anywhere in the vast château. A paralyzing terror washed over Claudette along with a primal instinct to live for her baby and protect him. Never before had she felt the burden of being crippled so acutely.
How long before the Nazis entered her chamber? Would she be better off climbing to the turret? Not with the dogs sniffing. There was no place to hide. She washed her face and sat down to wait, hugging herself. Benjamin, my baby. I will do whatever it takes to stay alive for you.
At three o’clock, when the gold sunlight was fading, screams and keening outside made Claudette rush to the window.
At first, her brain didn’t register what her eyes saw. Among the five people pushed toward a truck was the pregnant Madame Galvin, whom Claudette hadn’t seen in months. Peeking from beneath the coat that didn’t close across a belly at full term was the blue frock with the pink collar Claudette had crocheted. A soldier shoved her, and she fell to the ground. An older woman leaned over to help her. An officer in shiny knee-high black boots pointed his handgun at her forehead. The woman’s hands rose in supplication. The officer shot her.
Claudette shrieked, then clamped her hand over her mouth. Nausea rose in her at the sight of the three people—Jews, she realized—being shoved onto the truck. Madame Galvin rose from the gravel and, her arms supporting her stomach, stumbled to join them.
Claudette rushed to the bowl on her nightstand and vomited. Were these Madame Galvin’s parents, the leather-goods magnates? Had the Chirazes been living here, possibly as long ago as when she had hidden Isaac and Raphaël Baume?
The Nazis shot anyone who hid Jews. Now that the duchess’s crime had been exposed, she would be executed. A choked cry escaped Claudette’s throat. She knelt by her bed. Her prayers came through her whimpering as her ears tuned in to hearing the shots of a death squad.
The kind, beautiful duchess—her protector—was about to be killed!
The sound of thudding boots in the long gallery made Claudette freeze. Still on her knees, she shrank into herself, anticipating the dogs. No barking, only the boots’ clomping as they receded from her tower. She crawled stealthily to the storage space near the stairs Isaac and Raphaël had used and curled up in the dark behind discarded furniture.
Much later, shivering in the cold, she heard the tower door open and the squeaking of leather boots. Someone stepped into the small vestibule. One by one, he opened the doors to the rooms. Soon he would find her. Claudette panted hard, certain that he would hear her.
The door was yanked open, and a ray of light slashed onto the floor and the pile of furniture. Claudette held her breath. Seconds passed. Her lungs were about to burst.
She heard him step away, leaving every door open. Any dog might wander in from the gallery, sniffing her fear. Benjamin. My baby. She had to stay alive for him. Her teeth chattering from the cold, Claudette remained in the hiding spot. Had she missed the shot of the duchess’s execution? She prayed hard to be saved for Benjamin.
How many hours had passed? She relieved herself in a discarded bowl. More time passed. All was quiet in the tower and the vestibule. She crawled out, quietly closed the gallery door, and entered her chamber.
She pulled herself up and peered out the window. The full moon’s position indicated that it was about midnight. There was no sign of the duchess’s body lying in blood. The trucks were still parked like discarded shoes. Some soldiers stood nearby, smoking, dogs resting at their feet. A dog raised its head and looked straight at Claudette as if detecting her gaze. She lowered herself onto her bed and wrapped herself in Mémère’s down comforter.
A tapping on her door made her drift upward from a fretful sleep. She had been swimming at the bottom of a river of dead bodies while struggling to reach Benjamin, who floated above her, babbling his throaty gurgles. She sat upright, her heart pounding.
Another quiet knock on the door was followed by a mild press on the handle, too soft for a Nazi. Claudette opened the door a crack. In the darkness, she saw Mathéo.
“My maman says for you to come,” he whispered.
The duchess was alive! “Is she all right?” Alive!
“She says to bring your things and be as quiet as a mouse.”
Somewhere, a clock struck three. In the night air, Claudette shook from chill and dread.
The duchess’s chamber was unlit; the fireplace emitted a smell of dead ashes. Claudette made out the duchess’s silhouette by the open window and was so relieved to see her unharmed that she fell on her knees, clutching the duchess’s ankles. “Jesus heard my prayers.”
The duchess helped her up. “They are not arresting me because the Duke of Sagan is a German title. It saves me from prison or worse.” Her voice trembled. “The commander permits me to leave for Spain to stay with my de Castellane family. Spain is neutral, and my son will be safe there.”
