“Are you coming?”

“No way.”

Uzi wondered whether Arthur had run away from this orphanage and if that was why he knew its location, halfway to Châteauroux. “Wait here, then.”

Inside the building, he followed the odor of sour cabbage and frying potatoes to the cafeteria. Past empty rows of wooden tables and benches, he found the kitchen, where a stooped man, white hair sticking out from under his beret, stood on a stool stirring a huge cauldron.

“Bonjour,” Uzi called out three times. He stepped into the man’s line of sight.

The man raised rheumy eyes and harrumphed, then pointed with his wooden spoon to a side door.

A short back corridor led to a couple of closed doors. When no one answered Uzi’s knock on the first, he pressed the handle and found himself in a tomb of documents. Papers and folders were piled on the desk a meter high, and more were heaped on the floor. A bookshelf overflowed with so many documents and binders that they spilled out and formed a hill of papers. The lone chair was buried under more files. Papers dropped through its open side arms.

Confounded, Uzi started scanning the top of the mess for the name Daniel. If the boy had been brought here this past week, his dossier might still be visible. The state might even have the names of his biological parents.

He found no document that started with the name Daniel.

He halted his frantic rooting through the files. The important question was where the boy himself was. Had he been sent to another institution? Uzi had only two hours before he had to make his way back to Châteauroux and get the children ready for the trip the next morning.

He turned and strode down the longer corridor lined with classrooms. He heard the scraping of furniture, and through a small window set in a door, he saw a middle-aged woman writing on a blackboard.

“Parent,” Uzi said. He searched his backpack for his signed letter.

The woman harrumphed something and continued to write.

From outside came shouts of boys. Mayhem seemed to have broken out. Uzi rushed outside to see, hoping that the commotion would attract someone in charge.

As he had suspected, a group of teenage boys were scuffling. Five of them kicked two who struggled on the ground. Excited girls formed a circle, watching. Uzi noticed Arthur still standing outside the gate, ready to bolt.

Uzi was about to break into the fighting mess of bodies when a burly man in his thirties wearing a brown jacket and tie showed up. He pushed through the circle, yanked the attackers away, and pulled the boys up from the ground. They were obviously in pain; one was doubled over. To Uzi’s surprise, the man grabbed each by the ear and dragged them inside, as if they were the aggressors.

Uzi had begun to follow them when Arthur, still by the gate, called him. “What is it?” Uzi asked, irritated. He had to talk to the teacher before the man disappeared somewhere in the building.

“The little children’s area is in the back,” Arthur said.

Uzi’s suspicion that Arthur knew the place was confirmed. “Why don’t you go check while I talk to that teacher?”

In one of the classrooms, he saw the two boys who had been beaten sitting on chairs, weeping. Uzi was horrified to see their arms had been tied behind them. He untied the boys and stroked each one’s head. Just then, he saw Arthur in the window, gesturing for him to come out.

Uzi had barely stepped out the door when a little boy ran toward him. “Daniel!”

The boy threw himself at him, hugging his legs. He raised his head, and the glee in the smile on his dirty, tear-streaked face broke Uzi’s heart. This boy will never again cry with no one to comfort him. He lifted him and pressed him to his chest. “How are you, young man?” Uzi asked in Hebrew.

Daniel clasped Uzi’s neck and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. Uzi wrapped his free arm around Arthur’s shoulders and pulled him close on his other side. “Thank you, Arthur. You did a great mitzvah.”

Uzi imagined how this must look, this small family unit he’d just created. This was the moment that would forever mark the turning point in his life. He envisioned his own parents adopting Arthur. You’ll be my brother, Uzi wanted to tell the teen.

He led the boys to the drinking trough, where he washed Daniel’s face and hands and patted them dry with the lining of his own jacket. My son, he thought. My son, Daniel.

He looked at the brick building. He still needed permission to remove Daniel from here, and he had to get his file. Then he thought of the office buried in papers and the teacher’s educational methods. He had seen enough. There was no time to spare.

“Let’s go,” he said to Arthur and took Daniel’s hand. Never would he let go of that little trusting hand.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Uzi Yarden

Loire Valley, France

October 1946

In the Châteauroux station, Uzi, an agent named Abraham, and sixteen children waited for the train to Marseille. Abraham was an Algerian Jew in his late fifties who had been recruited because he spoke French. His face was drawn with fatigue, and he barked contradicting orders at the children, poking them with a thick finger.

“We have a long wait—an hour or two if we’re lucky, half a day if we’re not,” Uzi said to him. “Do you want the children sitting on the ground or standing in a straight line for as long as it takes?”

“I’m too old for this.” Abraham wiped his brow with a large stained handkerchief.

Uzi gathered a group of the oldest children, Arthur, Rivka, and two others. “The train ride is your first exercise in leadership training. Ready?” His eyes locked with each of the four. “Leadership means persuasion without using physical force. It means teaching the young ones to take responsibility for themselves. Show them what to do when they can’t manage; don’t do everything for them.”

“How, exactly?” Arthur asked.

“We have twelve kids besides the four of you. You four will be my right hands. Each of you is in charge of three younger ones; be like a big brother or sister to them.” He gestured across the train platform, filled with passengers and packages. “You’ll watch them and play quiet games. Do not let them run around. Absolutely no hide-and-seek. If one kid gets lost, we will all miss our train. When the train arrives, hold hands and rush in with your group. Make sure no one is missing. The train will be crowded. Find a spot where all of you can sit together, even if it’s on the floor. Comfort the younger ones if they are scared, play with them, take them to the lavatory.”

“Wipe their asses?” Arthur asked.

Uzi laughed. “They may be scared of the hole over the speeding tracks.” He scanned the faces turned to him, bewilderment written on their brows. “It’s your first assignment, but you are not on your own. I’m here as your big brother. My job is to help you manage.” He smiled. “Let’s start. Each of you select three kids you already know.”

Uzi sensed someone watching him. He turned his head to see a tall, emaciated young woman peeking from behind a steel column. She stepped out. Her back was straight, proud, despite the flour-sack dress she wore under a frayed wool shawl. Her dark hair was uncombed but gathered up at the back. What struck Uzi were the intensity and curiosity in her brown eyes.

He turned fully toward her. “Shalom,” he said, perplexed.

Her eyes didn’t leave his face.

“What’s your name?” he asked in Yiddish.

“J-J-Judith Katz.” It sounded as if she were uttering it for the first time in years. “Yehudit,” she added to confirm her Jewishness.

“I’m Uzi. Uzi Yarden.”

“May I come with you?” She gestured in the direction of the children. “I can help with them.”

Uzi reached into a bag of food tied to his backpack and took out one of the wax-paper-wrapped sandwiches. “First, eat.”

“Toda raba,” she said, thanking him in Hebrew, and accepted the sandwich. She took a small bite. Then another. He was impressed by how she controlled her hunger, not devouring the sandwich. Judging by her thinness, she had had little nourishment in recent months. “I’ve been eating lots of apples and berries,” she volunteered as if reading his thoughts. “Once I stole a salami, but I couldn’t eat it because it wasn’t kosher.”

He liked her forthrightness. He handed her his water canteen and she drank a little, took another bite of the sandwich, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Where are you from? How come you’re at this train station?” he asked.

“I’m from Lyon. I’ve been riding trains.”