“Eva,” Rémy said, holding her gaze. “You’re still you. You’ve just found the strength inside yourself that was there from the start.” He hesitated and then moved closer, so near that she could feel the heat of him. “I think you’re extraordinary.” He leaned in, and for a second, all she could think about was the kiss they’d shared on the train and how perfect it had felt, though it had only been for show. Then, abruptly, he pulled back and coughed. “I, um, need to get some air.”
He was out the door before she could still her racing heart, and when he returned a half hour later, they worked in silence at opposite ends of the table.
That night, her mother stared at her while they ate beef offal stew with potatoes at the boardinghouse table. Madame Barbier had gone out, leaving them alone for the first time in weeks.
“I understand that you’ve been going to services at the church,” Mamusia said, finally breaking the silence between them. “The Catholic church.”
Eva looked up, guilt flooding through her. “Well, yes. It was Père Clément’s idea.” She’d been attending mass each Sunday for the past two months, to help her to blend in. Madame Barbier had proclaimed to anyone who would listen that her Russian cousin was here to grieve a lost husband, and that the cousin’s daughter had taken a job cleaning the church each day for a pittance. People would begin to wonder if they didn’t see her worshipping.
“He’s trying to convert you, Eva, and you’re blindly following along.”
Eva shook her head. “Mamusia, that isn’t what’s happening. It’s merely part of my cover. If the townspeople have any reason to think I’m Jewish, it could bring trouble to both of us.”
Her mother snorted. “That priest has you brainwashed, then, just the way you are brainwashing those young children you claim to be helping.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You give them Christian names, don’t you, and send them on to Christian households, where they’ll be told to forget who they are? And then you fall to your knees in front of a cross each Sunday and pray. I don’t even know who you’re becoming, Eva. Certainly you’re not who I raised you to be.”
Eva opened and closed her mouth. “Mamusia, it isn’t like that.”
“Isn’t it? You don’t even join me in saying the Shema anymore.”
“I—I don’t often make it home in time.” The truth was, when Eva was young, her parents had taught her that saying the prayer before she went to sleep would protect her from the demons that came in the dark. But her father had murmured it each night of his life, and on a still July night, the demons had come anyhow.
“You’re making excuses, Eva. You’re a Jew, just like I am. Just like your father is. And by tossing that aside, by going to church, you show me clearly that you are forgetting who you are.”
Tears prickled Eva’s eyes, and she didn’t answer right away. She wanted to protest, but what if her mother was right? She had never been observant like her parents were, but still, was she erasing herself the way she was erasing the children’s names she sometimes cried over before Rémy arrived each morning? “I will never forget, Mamusia,” she whispered.
But what if she already had?
* * *
By December, Aurignon was under a blanket of snow, food was scarce, and Mamusia had withdrawn even more into herself. Hanukkah had begun on the third of December, but Mamusia had refused Madame Barbier’s generous offer of precious candles, saying stiffly that she would not celebrate this year without her husband. “It is a holiday of praise and thanksgiving,” she said on the first night, as she and Eva lay in the darkness, beneath a mound of blankets to ward off the frigid chill. “And what do we have to be thankful for? Besides, the menorah is meant to be placed in the window to show the world that we’re not ashamed. And yet here we are, hiding from all that makes us who we are. No, Eva, we will not light candles here in the dark to celebrate a miracle, not this year.”
The growing bitterness in her mother frightened Eva, for it felt like the woman she had once known was disappearing. While Eva blossomed, Mamusia seemed to be hardening into stone. “Well, I for one am thankful that you and I are alive and healthy,” Eva said. “I’m thankful we have each other.”
“But I don’t have you, do I?” Mamusia said after a long silence. “All your thoughts are with that Catholic boy lately.”
Eva coughed. “Who?”
“You know exactly who I’m talking about. That Rémy. The one who makes you blush each time you say his name. The one you mention over dinner so frequently that I’m beginning to wonder if he’s the real reason you hole up in that church all day long.”
The words stung, not least of all because Eva had been trying to ignore her feelings. She was embarrassed to realize she had been bringing Rémy up so often. “Mamusia, he’s merely someone I work with.”
“You think I don’t see it, Eva? The way you walk around like you’re in possession of a precious secret? You think I don’t know what a crush looks like? You should be ashamed. Your father is in prison, and you’re acting like a lovesick little girl.”
“Mamusia, there’s nothing between Rémy and me.” But the truth was, the more time they spent together, the more she felt for him. He was good and kind and decent, and he was risking his life every day for people like her. How could that be wrong? She had never been in love before, but she wondered if this is what it felt like at the beginning—a desire to soak up as much of the other person as you could, even if it meant throwing logic to the wind. Perhaps her mother was right, after all. “I—I’m sorry,” she added weakly. “Mamusia?”
There was no reply. Her mother turned her back, rolling away from Eva, who stared at the ceiling, trying not to cry, until exhaustion finally overtook her.
The morning after Hanukkah ended, it was snowing when Eva arrived at the church, ducking inside and crossing herself in the entrance as she always did, just in case anyone was watching. It had become her routine to kneel in one of the pews for a minute or two before proceeding to the library, to ensure that there was no one else around. Sometimes there would be another person there, fingering rosary beads or staring at the cross on bended knee, and Eva would pretend to pray, too, until they were gone. Lately, though, Eva had found it a perfect place to talk silently to God. Was it a betrayal for a Jew to find God in a Catholic church? She wondered if somewhere out there, her father was still speaking to him, too, from behind a barbed wire fence in a desolate land.
Today the church was empty, and as Eva knelt to pray, she found herself thinking of her mother’s words the night before. All your thoughts are with that Catholic boy lately. Was Mamusia right? Had Eva gradually abandoned her mother as the pull of Rémy grew stronger?
“Please, God, help me to do the right thing,” Eva whispered before standing and heading for the library. As she made her way toward the altar, Père Clément emerged and nodded to her, his expression grave. She nodded back, a bad feeling forming in the pit of her stomach as he limped behind her into the small hidden room.
“We have a problem,” he said as soon as he had pulled the door behind them.
“Is it Rémy?” she asked immediately. “Is he all right?”
“Rémy? Oh yes, he’s fine, as far as I know. No, Eva, it’s about some of the papers.”
Eva felt the breath go out of her. “The papers?”
“Do you remember forging papers for a man named Jacques Lacroix? You kept his name, at his request, but you changed his birthdate and occupation?”
“Yes, of course.” Eva had just completed documents for the man the week before. He was nearly twenty-four, but she and Rémy had decided to age him down to seventeen to avoid any risk of his being called to compulsory service, for in his clean-shaven photograph, he appeared as if he could pass. She hadn’t been told what his role in the underground was, but Rémy knew him, and she’d had the sense he was someone important, someone vital to protect. Her throat constricted. “Père Clément, what did I do wrong?”
Eva swallowed hard. “Oh no. Monsieur Lacroix…”
“He’s fine. Someone at the jail accepted a bribe, and Lacroix has long since disappeared. But, Eva, the authorities are beginning to understand that there is someone in the area forging documents, and forging them well. That puts you in danger, but it also puts the members of our network in peril.” Père Clément paused. “One of the higher-ups in the underground in this area—a man they call Gérard Faucon—apparently has a way to help, but first, he needs to know he can trust you.”
“Of course he can. Can’t you vouch for me?”
“I already have, but he hardly knows me. He comes from Paris, and he’s trying to implement some things that worked there. He would like to meet you in person, this morning.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Yes, certainly. Is Rémy coming, too?”
“No, he’s—” Père Clément stopped abruptly, cutting off whatever he had been about to say. “No.”
A thread of worry wove through Eva again. “But he’s all right?”
“I promise. Shall we go? I think the documents for today can wait until the afternoon.”
Eva glanced around, her eyes landing on Epitres et Evangiles, her Book of Lost Names, which sat on a shelf, sandwiched between other religious texts so that it blended right in. The more names she added to its pages, the more reluctant she felt to leave it behind, but it was safer here than anywhere else. “Yes,” she said, turning her attention back to the priest. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Père Clément led Eva through a winding maze of snow-caked alleys to a schoolhouse she’d never seen before, where a handful of children sat inside, bundled in sweaters and faded coats as they watched a teacher write something on a chalkboard. “Remember,” Père Clément murmured as they walked around to the back of the building, snow crunching beneath their feet, “Faucon knows you only as Eva Moreau. No good comes from knowing each other’s real identities.”
There was a faded red door on the far side of the schoolhouse, and Père Clément knocked twice, paused, and knocked once more, then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a key. Without looking at Eva, he unlocked the door and went inside, gesturing for her to follow.
They entered what seemed to be a large, abandoned classroom at the back of the school. It was dark, but the dirty windows let a bit of light in, and as Eva’s eyes adjusted, she could see desks and chairs empty, askew. It was as if the children who had once studied here had all fled in a hurry, leaving a broken trail as they left. It gave Eva a bad feeling, but not as bad as the one that swept over her when Père Clément said gently that he was planning to depart before Faucon arrived. “He wants to meet you alone,” he said, glancing toward the door.
“But why?”
“I think that some of the things he wants to discuss are best kept between the fewest number of people.” Père Clément’s voice was suddenly stiff, and Eva realized that for some reason, Faucon was shutting the priest out.
“I’m sorry.” It seemed like the wrong thing to say, but it made him smile slightly.
“My dear, you have nothing to apologize for.”
“Are you sure this man can be trusted?”
“Absolutely.” Père Clément didn’t hesitate. “He has proven himself very skilled and useful. And don’t worry, Eva, I won’t go far. I’ll be right outside if you need me. All right?”
She nodded, taking some comfort in the words, but as Père Clément slipped back out into the bright, icy morning, closing her once again into the darkness, she felt uneasy. The minutes ticked by, and she began to wonder whether she should leave. And why wasn’t Rémy here? He was as involved in the forgeries as she was.
She was still thinking about him, her misgivings mounting, when the door opened and a man entered in a flash of frigid sunshine, the collar of a wool overcoat turned up, a cap low over his eyes. When he pulled the door closed behind him, the shadows wrapped themselves around him as he moved into the room. “Bonjour,” he said, his deep voice muffled by his scarf.
“Bonjour.” There was something familiar about him, something that unsettled her and made her feel as if she was somehow failing to connect the dots.
But then he unwrapped his scarf, and as he took off his hat and grinned at her, her jaw fell. “Joseph Pelletier?” she breathed.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my petit rat de bibliothèque. How is this possible?” As he took a step forward and pulled her into a tight embrace, her mind raced. She never imagined she would cross paths again with the suave Sorbonne student, and certainly not here, not in this new life where she had become someone the old Eva would hardly have recognized.
“You’re Gérard Faucon?”
“Indeed. And you’re Eva Moreau, the master forger?”
Eva nodded, though his words made her feel like a fool. “What on earth are you doing here, Joseph?”
“Well, fighting the damned Germans, of course,” he said cheerfully, finally pulling away and putting a frigid hand on her cheek. He stared at her, tilting her head slightly, as if making sure it was really her. “But who could have guessed that the talented young forger I’ve been hearing so much about was you all along?”
Chapter Seventeen
It took a full two minutes before the shock of seeing Joseph wore off enough for Eva to do more than stare in disbelief.
He looked more handsome than ever, his face chiseled by hunger, his shoulders broader, a single curl tumbling rakishly onto his forehead in a way that made her itch to reach out and brush it away. She shook her head at herself. They were both fighting for France, and she was letting herself succumb to the feelings of a silly child. “But… how are you here?”
“I could ask the same of you, Eva. How did you become involved? I have to say, I would not have expected this.”
She hardly knew where to begin, so she started with the moment that everything changed. “They took my father.”
“I heard. I’m very sorry.”
She shrugged, trying to pretend that it was all right, that she had come to terms with it, but to her horror, she began to cry. Joseph pulled her close again, murmuring into her hair as she tried to get ahold of herself. Finally, mortified, she pulled away. “I—I don’t know what came over me. I haven’t cried about him in months. It’s just that seeing you…”
“Seeing you brings the past rushing back for me, too, Eva.” His voice was even deeper than she remembered, almost as if time had hardened him into something different. Was he thinking the same of her?
“How did you end up here?” she asked.
“Of course, I’m not supposed to tell you—network protocol and all that—but you’re Eva Traube, for God’s sake.” He chuckled as if he still couldn’t believe it. “You see, Eva, I was working for a similar network in Paris. Remember when I told you about the plans for the roundup in July and suggested you warn your parents?” The question was mild, but Eva felt the blame in it. He had given her the information necessary to save her father, but she had squandered it. She looked away.
“I tried, Joseph, but they didn’t believe me.”
“There were many people who didn’t think it could possibly happen,” he said immediately. “But now we know. In any case, it turned out I was quite good at staying one step ahead of the enemy.” He flashed her another smile, and she was reminded that for all his charm, modesty had never been Joseph’s strong suit. “When there was the need to expand a network in this part of France, one that could work with the underground in Paris, I was asked to come.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since the end of August.” He paused. “And your mother, Eva? Was she taken, too, along with your father?”
Eva felt a stab of pain. “No, thank goodness. She’s here with me.”
He looked surprised. “Well, then, you were lucky. She is well?”
Eva thought for a moment about pouring out the story of her mother’s increasing bitterness, and the way it felt like she blamed Eva for her father’s arrest. But Joseph hadn’t come to hear her woes, and she knew that her problems paled in comparison to the things he likely carried on his shoulders if he was active in the underground. “I suppose she’s as well as can be expected.”
“You must give her my regards.”
“She would love to see you. You should come to dinner tonight.” Eva felt like a fool the moment the invitation had been extended. It wasn’t as if she could offer him a gourmet meal. Even with her small salary from Père Clément and plenty of false ration cards at her disposal, it was nearly impossible to obtain anything decent in the middle of winter. Last night, for example, Madame Barbier had served a pot of vetch, which she’d been boiling all day. The hard grains were typically used only as animal feed, and as Eva had tried to choke down a few spoonfuls, she understood why: they tasted like dirty socks. Besides, even if Joseph happened to be a fan of stewed socks, certainly he had better things to do than come to dinner with Eva and Mamusia, more important people to spend his time with.
So she was surprised when Joseph smiled after only a brief hesitation. “You know what? I would love to. I will bring the materials with me.”
“Materials?”
“The things I wanted to discuss with the forger, Eva Moreau. I still can’t believe it’s you.” He patted her on the head, the way one might with a small child. “Give me your address, and I will be there.”
“We’re in Madame Barbier’s boardinghouse. Do you know it?”
“I do. And remember, Eva, you can’t tell anyone my real identity.” He shook his head and reached out once more to touch her cheek, his hand lingering there, still ice-cold. “Who would have guessed, little Eva Traube fighting the Germans? Wonders never cease.”
The Book of Lost Names Page 15
