“I heard, not saw.” The man waved his hand. His speech was slurred. “Gone the way of all the Jews.”
“Spell it out,” Solange called to him. “What are you saying?”
“The Boche got him and his Jew-loving family.”
“But how, exactly?” Solange pressed.
The man mimed raising a rifle and shooting. “Boom, boom.”
Shot? The Nazis shot a baby? Claudette’s heart broke into a million pieces all over again. She crumpled into herself, trying to control the scream that threatened to tear out of her.
Still standing, Solange squeezed Claudette’s shoulder and went on. “Where was it?”
Claudette saw the man waving his arm in the direction of the outside world. Then he gulped the rest of his beer and dropped his head on the table.
“What’s his answer?” Solange asked the man on her other side.
“Nothing. He’s a known drunkard and a liar,” he replied.
But Claudette knew that this wasn’t a lie. The drunkard had identified the star tattoo—and not just any star, but the six-pointed Star of David. He’d implied that Benjamin’s adoptive family was not Jewish but had sheltered a Jew.
Benjamin, the innocent soul, was dead. He had been killed because she had marked him for the Boche. Her little cherub didn’t even have the comfort of sitting at Jesus’s feet.
Claudette’s wail filled the tavern. She fell sobbing into Solange’s arms.
Chapter Forty-Two
Uzi Yarden
Loire Valley, France
Late September 1946
Uzi felt more at ease when he arrived at his new base in Argenton-sur-Creuse even though this was a bustling town, unlike the tiny enclave of Châtillon-sur-Indre. He walked on a stone bridge over a wide river bisecting the town and stopped to lean on the railing, felted with green moss. Charming two- and three-story houses constructed of various colorful materials lined both sides of the river, and majestic weeping willow trees drooped into the water. To the east, a bridge over massive, arched rock foundations had been gutted in its center. Twisted metal rods of a railway testified to Nazi air bombing.
No need to search for a room here. Father Patrick, a Catholic priest, was to host him in the church with its carved medieval façade.
“I thought Catholics baptize our children and won’t give them back,” Uzi had said to Hilda when she had handed him this address.
“Some of them do that, and the drama of legal cases draws media attention, especially since the Catholics battling for custody get the blessing of the archbishop. Is there a more blatant form of anti-Semitism?” she replied. “Luckily, many more Catholics were our allies during the occupation. They saved Jews with faked baptism papers.”
Stepping outside the church compound the first morning, Uzi heard the shrill buzz of a knife sharpener. The man and his heavy stone wheel were stationed on the street corner, where a line of customers had formed. He pumped the pedal to sharpen scissors, axes, and scythes.
Uzi guessed that this craftsman traversed the area. He waited until the early rush of customers had subsided, then approached with his folding pocketknife. When the man finished filing it, Uzi showed him the flash card that said Enfant juif?
The man raised his protective glasses, revealing lids almost devoid of lashes, and examined Uzi. Nodding, he pointed to where they stood, then he pointed to the clock tower and signaled with his fingers the number eighteen. That was six o’clock here. Uzi gave the man a thumbs-up, excited about the prospect of finding another Jewish child who had eluded Hilda’s and OSE’s sights.
The sky was bright blue, but the temperature had dropped. Uzi entered a used-clothing store and, for the first time in his life, bought a piece of clothing for himself. The long wool jacket was worn at the elbows and cuffs but had no bad odor.
He still had a whole day of work.
The mother superior of a nearby convent allowed him entrance into the enclosed courtyard, then led him through a long, high-ceilinged, moldy corridor. At the desk in her office, she consulted Hilda’s letter about the ten-year-old Eloise. Her face was a stern mask.
“She’s in a good Christian home,” she finally said in English.
“I’d like to check it myself.”
She rose and left the room. Uzi waited for almost an hour, wondering whether she was secreting the girl somewhere. Finally, she returned. “I’ve prayed for guidance,” she said. The grimness didn’t leave her face as she wrote down an address on a piece of paper.
Back in town, Uzi looked through the barred fence of a school at girls in blue-and-white uniforms and braided hair running around during recess. As in the kibbutz, they jumped rope and played hopscotch. A half a dozen clustered together, their heads close, probably exchanging secrets. He didn’t know which was Eloise—formerly Leah. According to Hilda, the girl’s Jewish parents had been deported in 1942. That first winter, her brother, a decade older, had kept her with him in a forest camp of Résistance fighters. When an action against the Boche failed and some of his comrades were captured, he was certain that under torture they’d reveal the location of the camp. He brought Leah to the convent and left to join another cell, never to be heard from again.
Uzi waited until an hour after the end of the school day to visit the home where the mother superior had placed her. It was a stone house with a garden wall whose climbing bougainvillea was now devoid of flowers. Through the iron gate, he glimpsed a garden with beds of late-blooming vegetables and herbs.
The gate was unlocked, but Uzi pulled on the bell’s string. A woman came out of the house.
“Bonjour,” Uzi said. “Je suis de Palestine.” He presented Hilda’s letter.
The woman read it, flinched, and pointed to the bench. “Attendez,” she said, then walked to the field behind the house. Uzi heard her calling someone.
Several minutes passed. The white lace curtains on the window shifted, and a girl looked out at him. He recognized her from the schoolyard. She let the curtain drop.
Finally, a broad-shouldered man in work clothes entered the yard from the field. Bits of grass and leaves were stuck to his boots. Uzi rose and extended his hand. The man took it in a hearty shake, then began to speak.
“Je ne parle pas français,” Uzi said.
With a solicitous gesture, the man directed him into the house. The table had been set with a vase of fresh flowers on a lacy tablecloth, coffee mugs, plates, and even a cake. Uzi took in the pleasant room—upholstered couches and a rug in front of the fireplace. Above the mantel hung a framed picture of Jesus with a golden halo.
The couple sat on one side of the table, Eloise between them, her face drained of color. The man kissed her head and took her hand. The woman wrapped her arm around her. Then she let go of the girl to pour Uzi coffee and cut a slice of cake for him. Its ingredients, Uzi thought, must have cost them a few ration coupons.
