She lets out a nervous laugh. “You have my life mapped out for me?”
“If it were up to me, you’d be back in Cherbourg.”
“How are things going there?” She can’t inquire here about his meeting with the prime minister, but his response gives her a glimpse into it.
“We’re dealing with a major French reaction.” He looks at his watch. “That’s why I have time only to say hello to my parents today and watch the Galilee sunrise tomorrow before heading down to the airport to catch a flight back.”
She swallows. Chutzpah, she reminds herself. “Will you find time—whenever you’re not overburdened—to check on your family roots in France?”
His head snaps back. “Sharon, not that again.”
“But why not? I’d kill to have information about my mother, and I’ve found—”
He cuts her off. “I’m Holocausted out. All the stories turn out the same: deportations, camps, incinerators. I’m committed to making sure it doesn’t happen again.” In a more tempered tone, he adds, “That is my life’s mission.”
“But—”
“We’re under threat of imminent attack by Arab seacraft equipped with Soviet missiles. If they get close enough, they’ll wipe out Tel Aviv and Haifa. I’m concentrating on how to respond.” He leans over the table, motions to her to do the same, and whispers, “We are on the verge of a crucial, game-changing solution.”
She likes his coffee-laced warm breath on her cheek. “What kind?” she whispers back.
“Even more exciting than the Saars.” He straightens, gulps the last of his coffee, and wraps his untouched cake in paper napkins. “Got to run.”
“There’s so much I want to tell you—” she begins, but he interrupts.
“Write me a letter, okay? I’d love to stay in touch.”
She can walk him the few blocks to the bus. Perhaps she’ll blurt out the names even if he doesn’t want to hear. But before she puts on her coat, he throws her two more air kisses and rushes out the door. Through the glass, she sees him break into a trot. She grabs her satchel and steps out in a daze. He made an effort to see her but left an echo of unease, of an unfulfilled promise.
What if she hadn’t withdrawn her hand? Was he trying to tell her something, to create an intimate moment, thinking that almost a year had passed and she was ready for him? Sharon banishes the ridiculous fantasy. Yet his hand did cover hers. Would he have given her a hug before leaving or kissed her if she had not erected the wall of her mourning?
The drizzle has stopped, and the clouds are dispersed by the sun’s rays like startled pigeons. Sharon walks home to Savta. How long will it be before she loses the last person who loves her?
She mulls over Danny’s confidential security hint. She learned in her intelligence unit a year ago that tests in the desert for some mysterious defense system had failed; code-named Gabriel, it ended up exploding. The scientists weren’t optimistic then. They needed years, not months, and a vast budget despite an uncertain return.
Israel’s enemies know its weakness. The next war can’t be far off. Its threat casts a dark shadow on Sharon’s mood, even if this January day promises to be bright after all.
She crosses the small park where nannies are arriving with prams and strollers. She recalls the many hours when Savta watched her play in the sandbox or stood with arms outstretched when Sharon swung from the jungle gym, ready to catch her if she fell. Soon there will be no one to watch out for her, no one to catch her as Savta did after Alon’s death. Sharon wants to cry.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Uzi Yarden
Loire Valley, France
October 1946
A chain-link fence enclosed the front yard of a red-brick, one-story schoolhouse. About a hundred children of all ages played and fought. Uzi stood outside the closed gate, Arthur at his side.
“Do you see him?” Uzi asked.
“No.”
There was no bell to ring for entrance. No supervising adult was in sight.
“Let’s find someone in authority,” Uzi said, and released the latch on the gate.
Arthur didn’t move.
“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.
