She said something in French, smiling widely.

There was a movement to his side. Arthur must have reconsidered the favor.

“Please ask her to have a document stamped,” Uzi said in Yiddish.

Arthur asked her, listened to what she said, and reported, “She says that the mayor is not here.”

“When will he be back?”

“Next week, she says.”

“Can she sign instead?”

“She says you know what to do if you want her to sign.”

“Sure I do.” Uzi smiled at the woman, then stepped around her to her desk.

She called out something behind him. He quickly scanned the wheel of hanging stamps to the right of the typewriter, similar to the one in the kibbutz secretariat. He slipped the signed paper out of his pocket with his left hand, grabbed the largest stamp, hit the ink pad, and stamped his paper.

Behind him, the woman yelled.

“Please tell her that I am really sorry. I can’t wait for next week,” Uzi told Arthur over his shoulder. He lifted the second-largest stamp and brought it down hard. Hopefully one of them was the correct one.

She lunged, trying to grab the paper. He raised it above his head and started to retreat to the door; he wouldn’t attempt a martial-arts move that would have left a male opponent flat on the floor. “Pardon,” Uzi told her. “Pardon.”

From behind her, Arthur grabbed her dress. She stopped, pivoted, and swatted at him.

“Let her go. Now!” Uzi ordered. “We do not attack women.” He folded the letter, tucked it in one pocket, and peeled a bill off the wad of cash in his other pocket. He placed his hand on his heart to indicate his gratitude. “Arthur, please tell her that I am really sorry.”

Her face set in anger, the woman yanked the bill from his outstretched hand and, puffing with indignation, walked back to her desk.

At the door, Uzi stopped. “I’m not done here. Arthur, would you please ask her where there’s an orphanage around here? A state orphanage.”

“I’m not going to any orphanage!”

At her desk, the woman was reapplying her lipstick. The money seemed to have placated her.

“Please. It’s not for you. I’m looking for a little boy.”

“Daniel?” Arthur said.

“Yes. Do you know where he is?”

“And what if I do?”

“Please take me there.”

“Not unless I go to Palestine with you. If you don’t take me, I’ll run there myself.”

Uzi looked at the eager, determined face, the scrunched-up features hardened by so many blows. He wasn’t here to start a tug-of-war between Jewish organizations, yet how could he allow this child to be a victim of bureaucracy?

He wrapped his arms around the boy’s thin shoulders and brought Arthur close to his chest. A moment later he felt the wetness of tears soaking his shirt and knew that this was the first hug this boy had received in years.

Chapter Forty-Six

Sharon

Tel Aviv, Israel

January 1969

On Allenby Street, shoppers carry heavy food baskets from the nearby produce market, and pedestrians stroll leisurely before sunset. The sun sets early this time of year, but today, at least, the weather has been unseasonably mild, and Sharon took Savta to her favorite fabric store. They concluded the successful trip with fabric for a new suit for Sharon, a Simplicity paper pattern, beautiful buttons, and soft material for the lining. Now they are celebrating in a café with milkshakes and airy chocolate cakes under mounds of whipped cream.

Sharon tucks several liroth under her saucer and picks up their packages. “Enough excitement for you for one day,” she tells Savta and pulls her to her feet. She helps her button up her coat. “We’ll start the sewing tomorrow.”

Savta scans the crowd. “It reminds me of my evenings in Paris. Did I tell you about my time there?”

“Plenty, except that you keep the juicy details to yourself.”

“I was young once, you know.” A smile bunches up Savta’s slack cheeks. “Paris was at her best. The avant-garde era. Like La Bohème without the starvation.”

Just last week they attended that opera. “I’m dying to hear what you did.” Sharon raises her arm to hail a taxi. She wishes she had known the young Esther as a friend, a woman who was her own person, not just a wife and mother.

She forgets about it when the two of them slide into a taxi, where the radio is blaring, and the driver greets them with enthusiasm. “Another one is home!”

“Another what?” asks Savta.

“A Saar. Saar Seven is here!”

What? Excitement and pride course through Sharon, and Savta whispers in her ear, “Is that related to what you did in Cherbourg?”

Sharon blinks her eyes in an affirmative response, a wide grin on her face.

They hurry up the stairs to the apartment, and Sharon vaults to the TV. She wastes precious minutes readjusting the rabbit-ear antennas before the grainy screen finally comes into focus.

There is only one Hebrew station, a government one, and in the evening, after its daylong school programming, the channel broadcasts a documentary, an experts’ roundtable, or an artistic performance. Right now, the black-and-white picture that Sharon is staring at is of Danny standing in front of a battery of journalists. Behind him, she recognizes the side of a Saar. On the deck above are seamen whose faces she can’t make out. Danny.

“That’s your commander!” Savta exclaims when she catches up with her.

“Yes, Danny Yarden.” Even his name sounds sensuous to Sharon’s ears. It’s been only a month since she left, and here he is, in her living room. She recalls his friendly goodbye hug. She wishes she hadn’t held back the desire to tighten her arms around him in a message he would have understood.

Even before hearing the details of Saar Seven’s arrival, Sharon knows that, in the same maneuver that was used to snatch Saar Six from under the nose of the French, Danny captained Saar Seven to Israel. But this time, no one is praised for it; Danny is questioned by a journalist from a leading newspaper about this second act of defiance. “Why strain Israel’s relationship with France any further, especially before the French election that might bring to power a more accommodating partner?”

“We’ve acted legally. Our contract with the French government is not under dispute.”

The film clip loops and restarts with the boat’s arrival in the Kishon port a couple of hours earlier. Then it’s back to Danny responding to a barrage of reporters’ questions. He is unfazed and completely at ease despite the microphones shoved into his face.

“That’s a mensch,” Savta says, meaning a man of honor and integrity.