“This evening, Josh and I will bring provisions to Pastor Gaspard,” Robert told Hilda. “Anything else?”
“Whatever medications you can spare.”
Robert settled by the dining table on the chair that Uzi had left minutes earlier. The man didn’t sit so much as recline, his legs spread a meter apart. Uzi tried to absorb this American insouciance, the body that was so comfortable in any space it inhabited. Kibbutz life was casual, but Uzi was witnessing Jewish spirit unrestricted by reproach or intimidation. Robert was a Jew who had claimed his legitimate place in the world.
While Hilda heated water for more coffee, Uzi bade them goodbye. The sense of relief he felt was boosted by the kinship he’d found with this American Jew. The tiny yishuv wasn’t alone in its monumental task of saving Jewish orphans here, and his mission was not solely dependent on the ravaged, struggling Jewish-French community gathering up its shredded pieces. His Youth Aliyah network had the Robert Weintraubs of America as partners in salvaging what remained of Europe’s Diaspora.
Uzi was waiting at the southeast end of the road, hoping to catch a ride with a farmer to Châtillon-sur-Indre, when Robert’s open jeep pulled over.
“Hop right in,” he told Uzi. “I have a couple of hours before chow.”
Uzi was now familiar with the rutted road that the bus traveled for hours to get to Châtillon-sur-Indre. Robert flew over it, the jeep jerking from side to side over grooves, up and down into craters, each lurch and bounce threatening to throw out its driver and passenger.
Uzi remembered the note that the salami seller had given him. He signaled to Robert to stop. “Is this an address?”
Robert consulted his map—larger scale than Hilda’s. “It’s near your Châtillon-sur-Indre.” He started the jeep again and veered onto a dirt path; twenty minutes later, he stopped.
On one side of the road was a murky lake with waterfowl and fishing dinghies; on the other side was an open meadow with white cows grazing.
Robert pointed to a distant farmhouse, then drove toward it slowly. “A military jeep still scares them. I give them time to see it’s American.”
The smell of damp earth and manure was pleasantly familiar to Uzi, as was the clucking of chickens. A woman emerged from the house before he reached the door; Robert stayed in the jeep.
“Bonjour,” Uzi said. Then, failing to understand her response, he added, “Enfant juif?”
She led him right into the kitchen. A girl of about eleven was peeling potatoes.
Uzi crouched in front of her. She had large brown eyes. Her chestnut-colored hair was loosely gathered behind her neck, and unruly tendrils created a halo around her head. “Yiddish?” he asked.
The girl’s eyes widened in fear. She glanced at the woman, then shook her head from side to side. Uzi got it. She knew what Yiddish meant. Her parents had come from Eastern Europe.
“Hab nisht mura. Don’t be afraid,” he continued. “I’m from the Holy Land.”
The girl dropped the knife into the bowl. “Did my brother send you?” she asked excitedly.
Uzi had never seen such high hopes spark right in front of him. Unlike his experience with the twins, which still weighed on him, this girl presented a face for his mission. Her long eyelashes fringed eyes that looked at him with eagerness.
“Would you like to go there to find him?” he asked softly.
She rose and spoke to the woman. The woman smiled and hugged her.
“Take me to my brother,” the girl said to Uzi.
“I don’t know him, but in Eretz Israel, we’ll do everything to find him. What’s your name?”
“Charlotte.”
“What would your brother call you?”
She hesitated. “Sarah.”
The Frenchwoman seemed to have been waiting for the child to be reclaimed, yet two years after liberation, no one had shown up. She handed Uzi Sarah’s ID, where her name was listed as Charlotte Blanchet. She wrapped a piece of cake in a cloth, kissed the child’s head, and nudged her toward the door. She accepted Uzi’s offer of two thousand francs for her expenses and kissed his hand in gratitude.
Uzi’s heart was filled with pride as he led Sarah to Robert’s jeep. One little girl would never again have to hide who she was.
Robert let Uzi off in the plaza of Châtillon-sur-Indre. Leaning on the door of the jeep, Uzi spoke to Sarah in Yiddish and Robert in broken French, explaining that Robert would drive her to Hilda and Pastor Gaspard.
“Other children are being cared for there until I come get you all. In about ten days, all of us together will depart for the Holy Land,” Uzi told Sarah. He squeezed her hand. “We’ll have a long journey ahead. I’m really glad that you’ll be coming with me.”
“Go find more children before anti-Zionist organizations do,” Robert said to Uzi. “One day, when this is over, I’ll visit you in Ayelet HaShachar.”
“We’ll be honored to welcome you.”
“I heard the girls in Eretz Israel are beautiful.”
“Maybe you’ll find one to marry and settle there.” Uzi picked up his backpack. “Thanks, and shalom.”
“Here. For the kids you find.” Robert handed him a packet of chocolate. He broke off a piece of another and handed it to Sarah in the back seat while he continued to speak to Uzi in English. “Let Hilda know if you need anything else. Our unit is under orders from high above to help.”
“Thanks.” At some point between his searches, he hoped to return to the little boy with the star tattoo, give him a piece
of chocolate, and see the delight on that precious face.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sharon
Cherbourg, France
December 1968
