“In heaven, maybe. They were killed in our War of Independence.” Sharon adds, “Like my friend, I knew nothing about my mother.”

“But now you know that his may not be dead?”

Yes, Claudette Pelletier might be alive, but she is Christian, and Danny was born out of wedlock. Sharon is at a loss as to how to reveal it to him. She had not set out to shatter Danny’s identity.

She’s furious at herself. She’s not the courageous Judith Katz’s daughter; she’s a busybody who sticks her nose into other people’s affairs and wreaks havoc on their lives. She downs the last of her cognac and closes her eyes. She won’t tell Danny any of it, she decides, and she locks her pinkies in a promise to herself. Enough.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Cherbourg, France

Mid-December 1969

It is late when she enters Rachelle’s apartment after the Valençay excursion. Her friend’s bedroom door is closed. The lava lamp in the living room casts kaleidoscopic colors and shapes on the walls and ceiling, an apt ending for this extraordinary day.

The light on the Electronic Secretary, the answering machine that La Presse de la Manche installed for Rachelle, is blinking. Among the many recorded messages for Rachelle, there is one for Sharon: Kadmon dictating a list of food items she should gather up tomorrow. She checks the pouch with cash that she keeps separate from her own. There’s enough for an early Sunday-market run.

There’s also a message from Danny. “Hi, kiddo. I’m glad that you took a day off. You deserve more for the fantastic job you do. On behalf of everyone, thank you.”

She replays the message, loving his voice, basking in his praise—except that he’s reverted to kiddo. Gone is the sweetheart he’d adopted over the months of her absence. She’s only his very efficient employee. She reminds herself of her promise to herself to share none of her findings with Danny.

Or should she stick to that decision? How disrespectful it is to hold such crucial information from a man of integrity! Sharon opens the Monopoly game and grabs one of the dice. Even number, she’ll tell him. Odd, she’ll take the information to her grave.

The die falls on four.

Danny answers the operator’s call as quickly as if he sleeps with the phone at his side. “Danny here,” he says, an officer at the ready.

“It’s me. Sorry to call so late. We must talk.”

“Something happened?”

“Yes, but it’s not about the boats. It’s personal.”

“Are you all right? Anyone sick?”

“Not that. It’s—it’s about you. Danny—”

“Sharon. Please,” he says, cutting her off. “Can we save it for ‘after the war’?”

“About the tattoo—”

“Sharon, sweetheart. Stop right now! I’m trying to catch three hours of sleep before we fire up the engines.”

“Oh.” The word sweetheart disarms her. “I didn’t think you had to be up for that too,” she says meekly. The engines. Over the past two nights, the extreme cold has posed a risk to the boats’ engines, the Israeli navy informed the French. They must be restarted at night to prevent irreversible damage. However, each time an engine is fired up, it sounds like a cannon shot. And each boat has four engines. Five boats means twenty huge blasts and exhaust filling the air with acrid smoke. Last winter, only one boat at a time was kept at the vast French naval port northwest of town, and the detonations occurred at a considerable distance. Now that the Saars are moored in the center of town, the enormous nightly explosions wake up the entire populace. Babies scream in terror, and war-traumatized men vault out of their beds and hunt for cover. Teachers complain about students falling asleep in class, and incensed mothers flood the mayor’s office. The mayor is already at his wits’ end. Christmas is coming, and there is no solution in sight.

But Sharon knows that the engines are designed to withstand variations in temperature. All this blasting is a ruse meant to make such nighttime detonations routine. Operation Noa must be about to launch, and the unnecessary explosions ensure that no one will pay attention when the boats are actually about to slip away.

“Can we please find five minutes to talk?” she asks.

“Wait until after you know what.” He adds, “You’re doing a superb job. We—I—couldn’t have managed without you.”

“Thanks, but—” Valençay. Claudette Pelletier.

“Good night, Sharon.” Suddenly, the soft way he utters her name sounds sweet, as though he’s said it in his head many times.

She will accept his refusal. She will not call Evelyne in Châtillon-sur-Indre. She will take her discovery to the grave.

Sharon set her alarm for five o’clock to hit the Sunday shopping early. Outside, a storm is raging. There will be no outdoor stalls, but farmers will appreciate her trekking up to their barns. Sharon listens to the howling wind, stealing a few extra moments of warmth under the covers in her flannel pajamas and wool socks. In the past, when a storm advanced straight inland, it flattened villages. She imagines that along the shore, the legendary squall tosses fishing craft like a French chef sautéing vegetables. To avoid the worst of the weather, Sharon mentally charts a route inland, along farms nestled on the south side of hills, a modicum of protection from the wind’s fury.

She pulls the covers over her head and breathes in the heat of her own body. It’s the kind of day when she and Alon would have stayed in bed. It surprises her that when her body shudders with a moan, Danny takes Alon’s place under the covers. He uttered her name in his beautiful voice: Sweetheart.

Was there more in that term of endearment than mere friendship? If pressed to make an intelligence assessment of the facts, she would conclude that it was only her imagination. Or maybe not? Danny is probably already out to sea with his crew after barely a few hours of sleep.

The thought of the seamen’s bravery inspires Sharon to push herself out of bed to heed her own call of duty.

Seven hours later, she returns home, soaking wet, shivering, and exhausted. Her boots are covered with mud, and her fingers are numb with cold. Rachelle is out for her three-hour Sunday lunch at her parents’ home. The apartment is dark because the metal shutters are closed against the storm. They rattle with every gust of wind. Sharon turns on the lights, hangs up her coat, removes her waterlogged clothes, and warms her hands over the radiator. She plugs in the electric kettle.

Next to the phone, the Electronic Secretary is blinking. Sharon ignores the messages meant for Rachelle but stops at one for her from Father Hugo.

“There was water in the basement. We didn’t see that until we pulled up some boxes. It will be a while before we sort out which documents can be salvaged. So sorry for not being more helpful. Joyeux Noël.”

How Sharon wishes she had Danny’s father’s name to search through the Holocaust archives. If a branch of Danny’s Jewish family is still alive, it might offset the distressing fact that Claudette Pelletier is not Jewish.

Thankfully, Danny knows none of this. Decisions are better made in daylight. Danny’s Jewish identity is imbued with his Zionist vision. He has dedicated his life to the security of Israel, the very survival of the Jews to whom he belongs. Who is she to sabotage his zeal?

If Danny were younger—just entering the naval academy—could he have lost his security clearance?

She presses the play button again and almost misses the robotic time stamp announcing a message from six o’clock in the morning, after she left.

“Hi, Sharon.” Danny’s voice fills the room. “Sorry I couldn’t talk last night. I’m heading out for a rough day. I know what you want to discuss, and I apologize that I can’t allow us to express our feelings yet.” As he pauses, wonder mixed with heat spreads through Sharon. He goes on, “Let’s just get through this tough time together, each doing our part. Okay?”

“Danny,” she whispers, letting herself waken to feelings she’s tried to suppress for so long. Pictures of him flit through her head—the twinkle in his green eyes when he likes her witty comments; his water-dripping body emerging from the sea; his warm voice when he commands, so self-assured that it conveys authority without harshness. That voice has now revealed what she never dared believe. A year and a half ago, she was awkward and inexperienced, scared of venturing out of the familiar. He saw who she was beneath the crust of her youth.

“Yes,” she whispers, her hand over her heart. “Oh, yes.” A window opens wide into a sunny day on the beach. This time it is she who runs into his arms, and they fall into the water with a splash, their bodies intertwined.

The fantasy is halted by the thought of what she’s churned up—and the consequences to him. She must force herself to unknow what is already lodged in her brain.

Rain pelts the metal shutters; it sounds as if clubs were hitting them. Anxiety about Danny and his men at sea gnaws at Sharon. The Saar was designed for the mild Mediterranean, not this ferocious Atlantic Ocean storm. She has seen the sky-high waves hitting the giant boulders enclosing the harbor. What hubris makes men challenge the English Channel time and again?

No more indulging in her emotions. She’s exhausted. It’s only two o’clock in the afternoon. Sharon sips her tea, stretches out on the couch, and pulls the duvet over her head.

The phone rings. Cobwebs of sleep make her want to refuse the call from Châtillon-sur-Indre, but she hears Evelyne say, “Joyeux Noël.”

“To you and your family too.”

“Have you found out anything more about Daniel’s family?”