It’s a relief that the two reservists—a graphic designer and a plastics factory foreman—are both urbane and French-speaking. They divide the shopping areas for the next two days, and Sharon returns to Rachelle’s apartment. In the holiday spirit, to demonstrate normalcy, twenty Israeli seamen will receive passes and will congregate in a café. Sharon would have liked to join the hilarity, but she’d rather not bump into “Jorgen” and his partner while they are in town. A mere flick of the eyes might tip off an alert outsider that they know each other.
She’s marinating chicken breasts for dinner and Rachelle is simmering the lemon-butter sauce when the phone rings. Sharon wipes her hands on her apron and picks up.
The operator announces, “Officer Lucas Niquet for Mademoiselle Bloomenthal.”
“One of my colleagues knows the women,” he says after she accepts the call.
“What?”
“My wife told me about your conversation. They live in La Guerche-sur-l’Aubois, and he’ll visit them in the morning.”
“My God.” Sharon drops into a chair. Her mouth is dry. Claudette Pelletier is alive. Danny’s non-Jewish mother is real. “Would you be able to pass her Daniel’s photos?”
If only she could witness the moment that Claudette Pelletier holds Danny’s photos. Sharon has never felt the emotion of doing a mitzvah, a good deed, as deeply as she does now. She would have done it a hundred times, even against Danny’s objections, just to bring happiness to the heart of a mother who searched for years for her lost baby.
What Claudette Pelletier will not know is that her Israeli naval officer son is right now in France but is as unaware of her
and as unreachable as if he were across the sea.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Cherbourg, France
Late December 1969
Christmas lights sparkle in windows, and a giant pine tree is placed in the plaza. Behind their steamy glass, the cafés serve vin chaud, warm red wine spiked with cognac, cinnamon, and orange. At home, Rachelle welcomes Sharon with chocolat chaud à l’ancienne, a mug of rich, dark, and thick hot chocolate.
The holiday cheer does little to quell Sharon’s sense of foreboding. Images of the Dakar’s fate almost two years before return in full force. Ten days after its launch, Saar Twelve is out for testing every day. So many things can go wrong, and with the designated remaining shipyard crew in a festive mood, Sharon doubts that every problem is remedied. If spare parts are needed from Germany or Italy, they’ll take weeks to arrive.
After dropping off her full van for the last time before everything closes for the holiday, Sharon lingers in the plaza to listen to a children’s choir singing Christmas carols. The sweet voices bring her a moment of reprieve from worrying about Operation Noa, except that the nagging question of Claudette Pelletier remains. It’s been two days since Officer Niquet’s colleague checked the women’s home and found it empty. They were still making the rounds among the Noël markets, he surmised. Christmas Eve is tomorrow, and Officer Niquet is certain that they will return by then.
Sharon steps into a perfumery to buy Rachelle her favorite scent, Je Reviens. The shop owner raises her eyebrows. “What’s with you Israelis? You’ve emptied my shelves. If only you’d told me you were leaving, I would have ordered a larger supply.”
Leaving? The word hit Sharon. The seamen living in the open have been instructed not to close their bank accounts. Those who have formed friendships with locals were told to accept invitations for future dates. Most important, they have been warned not to engage in shopping sprees. Apparently, they succumbed to the temptation of buying perfume for the women in their lives and, Sharon guesses, cartons of cigarettes for themselves—while also filling orders for their hidden colleagues. The town has been put on alert.
With deliberate nonchalance, Sharon says to the perfume seller, “The Norwegians won’t be taking possession of the boats for at least another month. Please order for me two bottles of Je Reviens. No rush.” She, at least, will be around to retrieve her order.
As she approaches Rachelle’s apartment building, she sees her friend hurrying toward her.
“Thank God you’re here!” Rachelle is breathless as she pulls Sharon into the vestibule. “I’ve just heard very disturbing news. The editor ordered us not to publish it, but your team should be aware of it.”
“What is it?”
“The RG commander has sent a confidential memo to his superiors in Paris reporting unusual activity on the boats. He suspects that the sale to Norway is fictitious and that instead of sailing next month, the boats will be leaving as early as next week—going to Israel, not Norway.”
A shiver travels down Sharon’s spine. Operation Noa has been exposed. The elaborate ploy has failed. And the ramifications? Beyond her imagination.
Her voice trembling, she asks, “What’s RG?”
“The intelligence arm of the police.”
“Did you see the memo?”
“A carbon copy of it. The original was mailed at noon.”
“Do you know anyone in the post office?”
“My old schoolmate is the assistant manager. Why?”
“Run over and see whether you can intercept that memo. Call me at the office.”
Rachelle jumps into her car, and Sharon takes the steps two at a time, unlocks the apartment door with shaking fingers, and lunges at the phone. Luckily, the operator puts the call through, and when Kadmon picks up, Sharon breathes into the mouthpiece code words that an Israeli educated in Passover culture would understand. “The maiden Noa is naked.”
By the time she reaches the office in a taxi, the top brass is there, including Moka Limon, who must have stayed in town.
Rachelle calls a few minutes later. “He’ll delay it—” she begins, and Sharon cuts her off. “Say no more over the phone. Thanks.”
“If La Presse de la Manche got a copy of the memo, other newspapers may have one too,” Yaniv says. “We’ve run out of time.”
“Any journalist who sniffs out the Oslo address of Starboat will find that it’s only a mailbox,” Kadmon adds.
Only a mailbox? Sharon assumed that the subterfuge had a tighter foundation—at least the address was someone’s office, with typewriters clicking. A company with a functioning front. Why such a flimsy, amateurish game plan that can easily be exposed?
Smoke hangs below the ceiling as the men puff on their cigarettes, grind out the finished ones, and light others. The air is as thick as the tension in the small room.
“It’s twenty-four hours to Christmas Eve.” Limon scans the team, locking eyes with each man. “If the memo is delayed until tomorrow, we’ll be in luck—if there’s no one at the other end to move it up through the channels. However, one astute clerk who has the ear of a cousin high up in government will kill us.” He takes a deep breath. “There’s no choice. The five boats must escape tomorrow night, when the town is busy having Christmas Eve dinner.”
“All five?” Kadmon asks. “The fresh paint in Saar Twelve smells so strong that our hidden guys must sleep in the other boats.”
