Whatever Carlos had done to obtain the tickets, he returned quickly. He handed Claudette the tickets and informed her that she would have to change trains in Toulouse and Limoges. It was unclear when or if there would be a train to Tours; the Maquis had bombed this main Loire Valley depot in November 1942 when the Nazis were about to cross the demarcation line. The Nazis had repaired only the tracks they needed to transport their troops southward, he explained.
“I wish you’d wait for the fall, when order will be restored to this mad world,” the duchess said.
“More months away from my baby?” She let Carlos help her out of the car.
While he unstrapped her valise, Claudette stood by the open door and bent to kiss the duchess’s gloved hand. “Thank you, madame, for your immense kindness and patronage.” Mist clouded her vision as she inhaled for the last time the duchess’s lavender scent and memorized the beautiful hazel eyes, the delicate nose, and the chiseled red lips of the noblewoman who had let her talent and creativity soar.
“God be with you and your child.”
Claudette sniffled. “Please keep me in your prayers.” Having the duchess pray to Jesus and Mary wouldn’t be a betrayal of the Jewish God.
Carlos elbowed his way through the crowded terminal, guiding Claudette. Disheveled people were stretched out on benches, families were huddled on the floor among their belongings, and long lines led to the ticket windows. Beggars hounded people crossing the vast pavilion with its vaulted, decorated ceiling that had been built for glory, not for this horde of humanity with their rancid stink of sweat and piss. Carlos supported Claudette’s arm with one hand and carried her valise in the other as they reached a gaping opening leading to train platforms.
“Be sure to tip the conductor so he’ll help you with your luggage,” Carlos said. “And get porters to carry it across platforms.”
Claudette clutched her heavy satchel containing food for three days—tostadas wrapped in wax paper with cheese and salami and two apples—and hobbled along the length of the waiting train, bewilderment filling her. The valise that Carlos was hefting was heavy with folded fabrics; the duchess had suggested that Claudette invest in them because none were manufactured in France and she could sell them at profit. Without Carlos, Claudette wouldn’t have known which platform was hers or what car to climb into. How would she manage two or three train changes?
This was for Benjamin, she told herself as Carlos pulled her up the steep metal steps into the car. He found her a window seat next to an old couple and hoisted her valise onto the shelf.
He touched the brim of his hat and departed. Her last protector was gone. Claudette clutched her wool shawl and two romance novels. She had no family, no friends. She was alone in the world. She had forsaken Christ and Mary. She couldn’t imagine what she would find on her arrival at Valençay.
If only she knew where Solange lived with her husband. Had she passed the war safely? By now she must have a couple of children. How wonderful it would be to have their children grow up and play together.
The Pyrenees were behind her. The Spanish border police hadn’t asked for Claudette’s ID; they had been happy to ease the pressure of too many European refugees in Spain. Claudette’s body ached after a day and a night of bouncing in place. The roaring of the wheels underneath her rattled her bones and joints. The trips to the lavatory were treacherous; she had to balance over an opening above the speeding tracks, a hole eager to catch her foot. Afterward, she pushed her way down the cramped aisle, holding on to the backs of seats. There was no place to fall—the car was crammed with people and packages.
The only point of interest in the voyage was the passing landscape. On her flight south with the duchess, the driver had been trying to outrun the Nazis’ southward advance, and Claudette had sat low in her seat. Now, heading back to her baby, she imagined Benjamin nestled on her lap as she narrated the sights: gorges dropping from the jutting cliffs, bridges and tunnels that must delight a little boy, and small fishing enclaves by riverbanks. How could she have explained the destruction the train was speeding by, the burned farmhouses, crumbled fortress walls, and bombed bridges?
As the train advanced north, the undulating green terrain became familiar. Claudette would have breathed easier except that she was about to reach Toulouse, where she would disembark, and get shoved into a sea of people in another huge terminal.
The conductor, whom she had tipped, came over. “I’ll find a porter to help you locate your platform—if a train is scheduled. If not, well, you’ll wait.”
“How long?”
“Until the tracks are fixed or a route around it is available. It’s a mess.”
“Can you help me get my valise?”
“Which one is yours?”
She and the old couple rose while the train was still moving so Claudette could point it out. The conductor supported her arm while she looked up on the shelf at packages, boxes, and suitcases. None seemed to be hers.
“It must be stuck behind something.” He rooted through the luggage and boxes, then searched to the right and left of her row.
Panic rose in her.
The train whistled. The syncopated chugging decelerated. The pounding of Claudette’s heart accelerated. The train stopped.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be back.” The conductor rushed off to his duties.
She was left standing in the aisle, cold sweat erupting along her spine. A young man in a worn army jacket rose and checked the valises across the aisle and others lined up along the seats.
New passengers came aboard and tried to grab her empty seat. “Sorry to tell you this,” the young man finally said, “but someone must have taken it.”
Stolen. Her coat, her clothes, her collection of threads and patching yarns, Mémère’s coat, her romance novels, the cloth she had planned to trade, and the two sweaters she had knit for Benjamin. All her worldly belongings were gone. How could she have been so stupid, so careless, as to let this happen? She recalled the refugees that had raided Mémère’s yard—and the squatters. She should have known not to trust desperate people.
Whimpering, Claudette collected her satchel and wool shawl and let the man lower her onto the platform. A clock showed that it was ten thirty in the morning. The sky was clear blue, indifferent.
In the midst of people rushing in all directions, she leaned against the nearest column and the dam of tears burst. Her pent-up fear of this journey, this pilfering, the familiar tide of loss, indignities, and loneliness washed over her. Crying, she collapsed onto the ground, her cloth bag clutched against her chest.
No one stopped. No soft voice asked whether she needed help. In the aftermath of ruin, traumas, and chaos, what was a lone seamstress crying over the theft of her suitcase? She was mortified at herself, a human lump on the ground, like a beggar for whom she had never stopped to offer a charitable hand.
More trains passed in both directions. Her despair might make her miss her train home. Claudette scanned her surroundings and the platforms. The next train to Tours would be here, maybe now, maybe in five hours. She rooted through her satchel and took inventory of what she had left. The thief hadn’t stolen her precious scissors and the thimble she had received from Isaac Baume. She had two handkerchiefs and a change of underthings, a hairbrush and strings to tie her braids. The last of her crochet needles was tucked into a roll of fine silk she had been crocheting into a lace collar she hoped to sell. Half a stale tostada was left.
The banknotes hidden in her brace still had some value, she hoped.
Most important, she had Benjamin waiting and Raphaël returning. She wiped her face and grabbed the column to pull herself
up. No thief could steal the love in her heart.
Chapter Thirty-One
Uzi Yarden
Loire Valley, France
September 1946
