Claudette was devastated all over again. The duchess was alive but about to leave, to desert her. How could she manage here on her own? The Nazis would surely shoot her the way they had Marguerite’s sister.
And Benjamin? The consequences of his tattoo hit her as if she’d collided with one of the Nazis’ trucks. She had marked him as a Jew! What insane state of mind had caused her to make such a grave mistake? She had been crazed with longing for Raphaël, she knew, and too emotional to think straight. But the midwife hadn’t understood that all Claudette had agreed to was a tiny jewel-like star.
“You must be strong now,” the duchess said.
“I must reach my baby.” Claudette’s voice quaked. Where could she hide with him?
The duchess poured something from a decanter. In the moonlight, a crystal glass glistened as she handed it to Claudette.
The cognac burned Claudette’s throat. It failed to stop her shaking. “My baby needs me.” She would hug him and keep him safe—except she couldn’t even feed him. She could barely walk properly, let alone run with him to safety. She couldn’t protect her child.
“You are too talented to be left here,” the duchess said. “Come with me.”
“To Spain?”
“We don’t have much time. Monsieur Vincent is preparing my car.”
“But Benjamin.” Claudette’s eyes had adjusted, and in the darkness she registered a movement. She snapped her head to see Mathéo’s tutor, Jules Hallberg.
“No one can reach the village. Jules is coming with us. You should too.”
“I can’t leave Benjamin.” Claudette whimpered.
“You’re an invalide. I don’t want the Nazis to see you.”
“He’s only six weeks old.”
“Monsieur Vincent will take care of the arrangements with the nursemaid. I trust him.”
Claudette shook her head. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
“By offering you a chance to escape with me, I’m assuming a grave risk.” The duchess touched Claudette’s shoulder, then gestured to Jules to head to the window. “We’re in a rush. There’s a rope to take you both down.”
Escape through the window? The duchess was truly convinced that the Nazis shouldn’t glimpse this crippled woman. What if they saw her baby’s blue star? “My baby—”
“Save yourself now so you can raise him later.” The duchess tugged Claudette to the window. “That’s your only option.”
Claudette watched the tutor climb onto the window’s low sill. Madame Duchamp had said that motherhood took sacrifice, but Claudette had never imagined the kind of sacrifice she would be asked to make so soon.
“Stop whimpering or you’ll weaken your grip. Now move!” the duchess ordered in a tone she’d never used with Claudette before. Her hand pressed on Claudette’s back. “Go!”
In a daze, Claudette stepped forward and sat on the windowsill. In her head she heard Marguerite crying over her sister and saw the Nazi officer shoot the old woman.
“The war will be over, and you’ll get back to him. Alive.” The duchess held out the rope and forced it into Claudette’s hand. “Go now!”
Claudette looped the rope around her leg brace and, using all the strength in her arms, let herself slide down.
Hands caught her as she reached the ground on the château’s north side. A minute later, the duchess lowered down her bag.
No! She couldn’t leave. Claudette turned to look up the solid wall. No; scaling the stones buttressed against invading enemies was a feat for a young knight in a romance novel.
Monsieur Vincent ushered her to the waiting Peugeot. Several jerricans of petrol were strapped on the car’s roof along with suitcases. Whispering, he instructed Claudette to remove her brace, then helped her climb into the trunk of the car. She had barely arranged herself in the tight space when Jules Hallberg slid in. He rounded himself around her folded knees, his feet next to Claudette’s head.
“Once you’re on the open road, the two of you can move to the back seat. You’ve got your IDs.” Then Monsieur Vincent added, “God be with you.”
The smell of petrol and old shoes filled Claudette’s nostrils. “Benjamin!” she cried out in a low voice. “Please keep him safe from the Nazis.”
“Of course I will. I’ve known Léonie Doisneau since she was a child. I promise to pay for his keep.”
Claudette’s heart was breaking as he slammed down the trunk. The sound of heavy breathing from the young man curled against
her legs was mixed with the slapping of leather straps and the rattle of buckles. They were locked inside.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Uzi Yarden
Loire Valley, France
September 1946
Get the lay of the land. Hilda’s words echoed in Uzi’s head. Rather than returning the way he’d come, he walked away from the road. Behind the tavern building was a small ravine, its grassy banks rising toward scattered willow trees whose branches drooped into the water. One nearby shack was a toolshed, the next was for laundry. Past them was a large stone shed with a fenced enclosure, and Uzi smelled the distinct odor of cow manure and wet hay.
He purposely didn’t look back to see if he was being watched as he ambled, trying to appear aimless. He had to avoid confrontation.
And there, in the cowshed, propped on a one-legged stool, a prepubescent boy was singing a tune while milking a cow. Uzi had noticed these kinds of stools; a French farmer belted it to his backside and moved with it from one cow to the next, freeing his hands. Eight cows in two rows waited for their turns. Uzi couldn’t see if there was another person in the shed.
“Bonsoir,” he said, realizing too late that he should have said Bonjour. The boy’s singing stopped, but he continued to milk. Uzi picked up an empty pail, grabbed a stool leaning nearby, and settled next to the cow across the aisle.
The boy raised his eyes in surprise. Uzi smiled and began to milk. The boy asked a question. Uzi shrugged and released one hand to indicate that he didn’t understand. A second boy, identical to the first one, appeared. He was holding a long, thick wooden stick, its end whittled to a point, like a sword.
