“Drawing each piece from all angles is critical before manufacturing it so no surprises pop up.” Amiot tilts his head. “Any plans to use these skills in a future career?”
Maybe it’s the wine in the middle of the day that releases her tongue. “I’m about to start studying advanced math for a higher-level test. Then I might apply to architecture school.”
“Here in France?”
She can’t even imagine how much a French university would cost. “The only place to study it in Israel is the Technion in Haifa.”
“Oh, yes, your only port city. Unfortunately, my visit there was too short.”
She takes another sip of the wine. How many former Nazi collaborators has her country welcomed? Since the early 1950s, when Holocaust survivors in Israel were offered remuneration from Germany for their suffering and losses, the question of a relationship with the former Nazi state was hotly debated in Israeli society—in living rooms and high-school classrooms, in the media and the Knesset. The arguments against accepting this blood money were offset by the urgent need for cash, crucial for the economy of the nascent country that had absorbed millions of newcomers.
“I’m sure that when all twelve Saars are finished,” she says, avoiding the sensitive word delivered, “the military band will welcome you on your next visit.”
He smiles. “How did you learn French so well? Your fellow Israelis are quite at a loss when it comes to our beautiful language.”
“I went to a French high school in Tel Aviv,” she replies, then adds the one thing she knows about Judith: “My mother had a great ear for languages.”
“Had?”
“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?
