Just before Sharon falls asleep, in that state between wakefulness and dreams, something occurs to her: If the brewing scheme is against France’s explicit embargo but is carried out without the Israeli government’s authorization, the latter can’t be held responsible. The only head to roll would be Limon’s. But if some mishap brings the ploy to light before Operation Noa is launched, would the team—herself included—be viewed as coconspirators in an insurgency?
She bolts upright, throwing off her covers. If she were still serving in the IDF, she’d be court-martialed along with the others in classified proceedings. Now, as the only civilian on the team, she would be on her own in an open criminal court. As outrageous as it seems, she and Limon would take the public brunt of this insurrection.
There is no one to consult. No Israeli attorney around. The simplest solution would be to extricate herself from this potential mess and leave. But how can she? There’s no one here who will get into the van early tomorrow morning for a shopping expedition. Overriding all else, she is committed with every fiber of her body to doing whatever has to be done for Israel’s defense.
“It’s the best I can do for you, Alon,” she whispers.
This year, Hanukkah falls in the first week of December. Unlike last year, only Sharon, Naomi, Pazit, and a handful of Israeli seamen join the tiny local Jewish community to celebrate the first night of candle-lighting. They sing with the Jewish families that gather at the church. This year, the words of “Rock of Ages” hold a deeper meaning for Sharon. The bloody victory of the Six-Day War took place only eighteen months ago. Who knows what’s to come? She belts out the second stanza in full voice:
Furiously they assailed us,
But Thine arm availed us
And Thy word broke their sword,
When our own strength failed us.
And Thy word broke their sword,
When our own strength failed us.
She sings it again every evening when she visits the four boats—each night a different one—where the hiding seamen light menorahs brought over by recent arrivals. She delivered decorations made by the children to hang in the crammed crew messes and purchased yeast for the fried punchkes. Anything to give the men a sense of home. She watches their bright-eyed faces aglow around the menorah, the icon of Judaism. Secular or Traditionalist, every Israeli reveres this symbol of freedom and national identity.
When Sharon climbs onto and off a boat after dark, she does so with the help of the team’s security. They squeeze her visit between the CMN night watcher’s and the patrolling police cruiser, then drive her home. There, lounging on the huge beanbags, Sharon helps Rachelle with her Hebrew lessons. She’s inspired to tackle her own old high-school math textbook. Soon she’ll be ready for Danny’s calculus textbook—if an engineer were available to tutor her.
Some nights she takes out her flute and practices before retiring to bed. Deep breaths, pure sounds, and measured phrases are a reprieve from the tensions of the day.
Rachelle doesn’t usually ask questions, but tonight, when Sharon puts away her music, she says, “I smell something in the air.”
“You smell Pompidou’s foul odor of anti-Semitism.”
Unlike the past, though, the Jews will no longer be its victims.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Cherbourg and Loire Valley, France
Mid-December 1969
In mid-December, three days before Saar Twelve is to slip into the water at high tide, France’s first nuclear submarine will be launched to great fanfare. Sharon’s trepidation grows at the sight of flags going up in the adjacent shipyard. Dignitaries in black limousines stream into town, and journalists prowl about. At ceremony time, she rushes home to watch the French minister of defense’s speech on TV. When asked by a reporter in front of the cameras about the fate of the Israeli boats docked in the center canal, he replies that the problem “is about to be resolved.”
How? What’s brewing on the French side? Sharon leaves Rachelle’s apartment and walks the streets. She scrutinizes the cafés and passersby, trying to memorize the faces of out-of-towners. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for beyond anything that strikes her as being suspicious. The men who compose the Israeli security team are trained to deal with a physical confrontation, but they don’t speak French and might miss cultural nuances that could indicate danger.
Three days later, her teeth chattering against the December wind, she scans the crowd again when Saar Twelve is launched and is relieved that the journalists have left town. Unlike last year’s launch, though, French navy officials are glaringly absent despite their personal friendships with Kadmon, Yaniv, and Danny. The official Israeli crew in uniform stands at attention, a solid wall of determination. They salute the flag of Israel waving from the mast here, in the port where Jews escaped annihilation. Sharon is a civilian, but she can’t help saluting the flag too. Pride in her homeland swells in her, even more than it did at the only launch she witnessed before, that of Saar Seven. Her country is so far away, yet, at this moment, it is inside her.
And she imagines Alon at the launch of the Dakar two years ago in Southampton, just across the English Channel. He stood tall, one of the men in the proud line. He’s also with her now.
Amiot delivers an impassioned speech and ends it with the traditional boat christening: smashing a champagne bottle against the Saar’s prow.
The big moment arrives. A tugboat pulls the boat forward on its tracks and it slides into the harbor with a deafening splash. Freezing water sprays three stories high to the cheers of hundreds of CMN workers and onlookers. There is no public party afterward as in previous launches, and the officers’ celebratory dinner at the Café Parisien is hurried, since Amiot and Yaniv are leaving and the others must get back to work. Not the townspeople, though. Over a thousand CMN tradesmen are now out of work.
Tonight’s Friday dinner is Naomi and Elazar’s last one before they depart. If Danny shows up, Sharon will ask him to take a walk with her. She wishes it were a romantic stroll on a spring night, but that is not to be. She’ll spill her information whether Danny wishes to hear it or not. It’s his story to follow because she’ll never get to Valençay.
Arriving back late from her day of shopping, she immediately notices Danny’s absence but is pleasantly surprised to spot Amiot among the dozen people at the table. He’s been in Paris negotiating, pleading, and pulling strings among politicians and industry leaders in his attempts to break the political gridlock.
“Mademoiselle,” he says, and rises to pull a chair out for her.
“Thanks.” She blushes at his European manners. Amiot’s good nature notwithstanding—he hasn’t turned his ire against the Israeli government that is withholding payment—her wariness of his motives remains unchanged. It is further stoked by Rachelle’s uncompromising view of Nazi collaborators. “Sure, it was noble of him to save Chanel Perfumes for his Jewish friends and prevent Coco Chanel from stealing their share,” Rachelle argued, “but the scent of Chanel Number Five rising to the high heavens didn’t stop Nazi bombs from falling from airplanes that Amiot built and killing hundreds of thousands.”
Amiot’s apparently genuine goodwill toward Israel may be only his economic interest, Sharon thinks, perhaps tempered by remorse. “I’m glad that you’ve been able to escape gai Paris for a visit to cold Cherbourg,” she says to him.
“Quite a mess, hey?” he says. It’s unclear whether he is referring to the weather or the political predicament. He pours red wine into her glass. “Have you given any thought to architecture school in France?”
She lets out a nervous laugh. “It’s an idea.” An impractical one.
“Here’s another idea for you. Tomorrow I’ll be taking my granddaughter Christine to Orléans. She’s working on her high-school paper and needs to visit the Cathédrale Sainte-Croix. It’s Saturday, so I presume you’ll be off?”
Sharon smiles and glances at Kadmon; he’s engaged in a deep conversation. Saturdays are lucrative market days, and she hasn’t taken a day off yet.
Amiot goes on. “Christine will be thrilled if you join us; she was quite taken with you when you met.”
Sharon recalls that last year, the four-year age gap between her and Christine felt like four cultural light-years. “Where is Orléans?” she asks.
“In the Loire Valley.” Amiot doesn’t seem to hear the ping of Sharon’s heart. “Just looking down from the plane at all those castles is a fascinating lesson in architecture.”
