“What do you mean?”

She threw a furtive glance around her, then whispered, “I was hoping to find relatives. Or anyone I know. They could be anywhere, right? So I’ve been taking whatever train comes along.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” She gestured again to the children, now in four clusters. “Please. I heard you talk to them. God sent me a sign to stop searching in France. It was my parents’ dream to go to Eretz Israel. Please let me come with you.”

“Yes, of course.” He wouldn’t ask her now about where she had spent the war years or how she had survived or about her lost family. Not yet. It was heart-wrenchingly clear that she was alone in the world.

She gave him a bright smile. Her teeth were straight; a dimple formed in one cheek, and her dark eyes shone with gratitude. She was beautiful.

She disappeared and returned minutes later with a bundle and a folded blanket. Uzi recalled Miriam talking about children living in train stations. Judith must have been sleeping in one of the broken train cars he’d glimpsed behind the station building. He imagined her rising with hope at the sound of every approaching train, then retreating in despair when no one she knew disembarked. How long did she scout a station before she gave up and caught the next train? She probably couldn’t ride far before the conductor ordered the ticketless passenger off the train.

So much courage was packed in this thin teenager’s heart! Gratitude flooded Uzi at the chance to save another child. If Judith weren’t the size of a grown woman, he would have hugged her to let her know that she was no longer alone. “You’ll have a home in Eretz Israel,” he said, “and a family of Jews waiting for you.” He stepped over to the station office to purchase another ticket.

When Uzi returned, Abraham was sleeping, his suitcase resting on the ground between his legs. Two girls were fighting over a doll. Judith was there, her back to him, mediating. A nine-year-old boy, Reuven, was lying by the edge of the platform, reaching down. Uzi saw the boy scoot forward until half his body hung down over the tracks.

In a few quick steps, Uzi closed the gap between the two of them. With a stick, the boy was trying to fish up a rag. Uzi’s first instinct was to pull him up and scold him for putting himself in danger, then he recalled the children with spoons. It would take time for these kids, who had absolutely no possessions, to stop seeing value in everything, even a worthless piece of cloth. Uzi stretched out next to Reuven and fished out the rag. Then he got up, helped the boy dust himself off, and, his hand on Reuven’s shoulder, guided him back to his cluster and the quasi-leader who should have been supervising him.

Keeping an eye on sixteen children through two train changes and in crowded cars and stations would be a challenge. Watching Judith talking to a boy, Uzi had a feeling that she would be an asset—she could take over the role of the ineffectual Abraham.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Uzi Yarden

Marseille, France

October 1946

Uzi was astonished to discover how well organized the displaced-persons camp in Marseille was despite the overcrowding. Hilda had told him that dozens of such camps had been set up since Nazi concentration camps had been liberated. The sheer volume of Jewish refugees streaming out of Poland, Italy, Austria, France, and Germany strained the best plans and intentions. The Americans built tent cities and provided food and supplies, but the Jews set up schools, health clinics, and a system of governance. Uzi was struck by the way family-like groups formed, offering both adults and children, even if temporarily, a semblance of normalcy.

His days were spent helping with the last preparations of the Hatikvah in a fishing port several kilometers east of Marseille, away from spying eyes. The ship had been refurbished by members of the Jewish Brigade—former battalions of Jews from Palestine who had fought within the British army against the Nazis. They had fitted the cargo hold with rows of shelves with mattresses for the hundreds of refugees who would be making the weeklong Mediterranean crossing.

Examining these narrow sleeping berths, Uzi recalled his voyage three weeks earlier. He had been seasick, and by the end, his body was empty of fluids, drained of its last energy. That freight ship had carried just a few passengers, and when the sea was calm, he could breathe fresh air on the deck. Sailing on the Hatikvah would be a nightmarish journey for the hundreds of malnourished, traumatized, and often sick people crammed together. All Uzi could do now was haul in canisters of fresh water, sacks of flour, and cans of cooking oil. Crates of late-season cauliflower, carrots, onions, apples, and potatoes were brought on board. Uzi encountered rutabaga for the first time, the feed for farm animals that French people ate during the war. Giant wheels of yellow cheese would provide the only protein during the journey. There would be no salami or sausage. Those could easily last the length of a journey, but they weren’t kosher and their presence would have contaminated the galley, utensils, and food for the many passengers who kept kosher. There was no source for the thousands of eggs needed for such a crowd. Milk for the children would be delivered at the last minute, since it could stay fresh for only a couple of days.

The preparations did not ease Uzi’s apprehension. Getting hundreds of people out of France would be the easy part. The hard part—the clandestine entry into Eretz Israel—was still ahead. In the camp, boys and girls Arthur’s age were being trained as Haganah dispatchers and deputy organizers, helping with nighttime drills. Arthur was flourishing in his temporary quasi-family circle and even enjoyed the few hours a day he sat in class. In front of Uzi’s eyes, the anxious boy had matured into a youth with a sense of purpose. His nervous tics had mostly disappeared.

“I’ve sent a telegram telling my parents to expect you,” Uzi told him when the two of them took a walk at dusk, Uzi’s arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “They will love you and I know you’ll like them.”

“Only if they don’t make me swallow that disgusting fish oil.”

Uzi laughed. In camp each day, the children had to gulp a tablespoon of fish oil before the midday meal. It was a foul-tasting but nutrient-filled supplement meant to help make up for their years of deprivation. “I hated it too. Sorry. You need it as long as you are growing.”

The greater surprise for Uzi was Judith. She seemed to be everywhere in camp, taking on assignments, delivering messages, organizing. Uzi couldn’t count the number of languages he’d heard her speak as she cajoled warring tent neighbors into peaceful coexistence, interpreted a camp coordinator’s request for an American officer. When he took Daniel to the nurses’ station to treat a cut, Judith was there, interpreting for the patient. Uzi had seen her sitting on the ground surrounded by children as she played the flute. On Friday night in the community hall, she accompanied the crowd’s sing-along on the piano. Her undernourished body was filling out, her hair was shiny and braided, and her new used clothes were clean and mended. She wore pants like the yishuv women who helped around the camp but unlike most European women, who wore skirts and dresses.

She seemed like everyone’s rock, but who supported her?

“May we take a walk after you’re done?” Uzi asked her while she played the piano one night.

She nodded with a smile while her fingers ran over the keys.

He returned after tucking Daniel into bed and found her surrounded by young men, all eager to engage her in conversation and offer her treats.

She extricated herself from their circle, and the two of them emerged into the cool night. They walked along the dirt path near the camp’s fence and chatted about the place and the large cast of characters that inhabited it.

“How do you feel about the upcoming departure?” Uzi finally asked, and added, “It’s natural to be apprehensive.”

“I’m not afraid. It’s a dream come true.” Her gaze shifted to the night sky, where constellations of stars twinkled. “But what if any member of my family is still alive? I may never reunite with them.”

“If you need to stay in France longer, just say so.”

She shook her head. “I’ve been training with my kids for the night disembarkation. I’m eager to make it happen for us all.”

“You are a natural-born leader. Israel needs you. I see you moving up fast in our ranks.”

“If you mean Haganah, that’s exactly what I want to do.”

He returned to the tent he shared with ten other Haganah organizers. Daniel was sleeping in Uzi’s cot, clutching the engine of his new train. Uzi waited until midnight, then woke him up and carried him outside.

Unlike when they played in the daytime, in the quiet of the night, Uzi trained Daniel to keep silent. “Sheket,” he said, silence, placing his finger on the boy’s lips.

The first time, thinking that this was another game, Daniel giggled, but he caught on fast. At the word sheket, he stopped his chattering. Silent, his eyes wide to penetrate the darkness, he hugged Uzi’s neck and the two of them made a round of the camp. The night sounds were different from the bustling of the day. Nightfowl returned. Insects trilled and buzzed. Groans of carnal pleasure seeped from the canvas tents of the lucky couples who had managed to secure a measure of privacy. Others sneaked behind the prefabricated administrative offices. Young people took passionately to life-affirming sexual activity. Mature adults who had lost their first families let loose the primal instinct to replace unbearable losses.

In the dark, Daniel learned to hold back his curiosity about the sudden cry of a night bird or a sexual climax and to greet passing guards with only a wave of his hand. When Uzi was satisfied with the exercise, he carried Daniel back to bed and the two of them fell asleep.

Two days before the ship was to sail, it was Daniel’s turn to receive his travel documents. Instead of dropping him off at the nursery school, where he would get a breakfast of milk and oatmeal porridge, Uzi handed Daniel a buttered bread roll and took him to the camp’s registration office.

“Arthur Durand has an official French ID, issued when his parents emigrated from Poland. I have a Palestinian passport,” Uzi told the secretary. He pointed at Daniel. “I need a travel passage for him. I’m adopting him.”

“Lucky boy. He’s really cute.” She gave Uzi a form and instructed him to have Daniel’s photo taken at the next tent.

Two dozen people were queued up at the makeshift passport office. When Uzi’s turn arrived, he stepped up to the desk of a bespectacled, cheerful man. Uzi withdrew the signed French letter along with the form he’d just filled out and pointed to the blank spaces. “I don’t have his date of birth or the names of his Jewish birth parents.”

The man consulted the letter. “The boy’s name is Benjamin-Pierre?”

Uzi was taken aback. He’d never tried to decipher the cursive letters beyond confirming that the drunkard had signed it. “He goes by the name Daniel.”

“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, you’re giving him a new last name.” The clerk peered over the desk at Daniel, then asked him something in French.

Daniel raised four fingers.

He asked another question in French and laughed at the boy’s answer. “He says that his birthday is Wednesday. In that case, let’s make today’s date, minus four years, his official birthday.” As he scribbled on the form Uzi had partially filled out, he mumbled, “Daniel Yarden, born October sixth, 1942.” Again he peered down at Daniel and said something in French.

Daniel grinned and turned to Uzi. “Abba,” he said. “Abba.”

The sudden uttering of the Hebrew word for “Dad” sent warmth through Uzi. “Does he know what it means?” he asked the clerk.

“I asked him if he was accepting you as his father, and this was his answer.”