The Book of Lost Names

by Kristin Harmel

  Each night, all the supplies—with the exceptions of the typewriter and sewing machine—were tucked away into false-bottomed drawers or between books on the shelves, making the room look innocuous, even if it constantly smelled of chemicals.

  Joseph dropped by the church on Thursday morning with a new batch of blanks that had arrived from the north by courier. Père Clément let him into the small library, startling Eva, who was accustomed to seeing only Rémy and the priest in the private space. As the priest excused himself, leaving the two of them alone, Eva couldn’t help but feel that in a way he had violated her trust. But it wasn’t reasonable to expect Père Clément to keep their secret room hidden from someone the Resistance network trusted so deeply, was it?

  “You’re doing extraordinary work here, Eva,” Joseph said, gazing around in awe at all the machines, inks, and chemicals before sitting down beside her and putting his hand gently on her back. It felt intimate, and Eva found herself moving away from him. It wasn’t that she minded his touch. Goodness knows there had been a time not so long ago that she had daydreamed about what it would feel like. No, it was that he was sitting in a chair that belonged to someone else.

  “Thanks, but it’s been quite difficult this week all by myself. Have you had any word from Rémy?”

  “No, but we would have heard by now if something had gone wrong. These things take time. He’ll be back.” He stood and kissed her on both cheeks. “Give my best to your mother.” He left, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Eva was bent over the table, filling in blank ration cards, when the door opened again twenty minutes later. She turned, expecting it to be Joseph returning with something he’d forgotten to deliver earlier, but when Rémy entered instead, she leapt to her feet and threw herself into his arms.

  “Oh, Rémy, you’re all right!” she cried, and he hesitated before crushing her to his chest and burying his face in her hair. He didn’t say a word, but she could feel his heart racing, and that was enough. He was alive, he was here, and he was in her arms. He was holding on to her as tightly as she clung to him, and that had to mean something.

  When he finally pulled away, Eva stared at him, taking in the fresh scratches on his face, the gash on his neck, the yellowing bruise just beneath his left eye. “You’re hurt.”

  He touched the bruise, as if surprised to realize it was there. “It’s nothing.”

  “And the children?”

  He smiled slightly. “There were four of them, all from Poland. The ones we created documents for last week.”

  “Arlette, Jeanine, Jean-Pierre, and Roland.” She preferred to remember their real names rather than the false ones she had given them. They’d ranged in age from two to seven—far too young to be running for their lives.

  He nodded. “Pages one hundred seven to one hundred ten in our book. They’re safe and sound in Geneva.”

  “Oh, thank God. And you? Rémy, who did this to you?”

  “I’m back, Eva, and I’m fine. The rest doesn’t matter.” His eyes slid away. “I was worried about you.”

  “But you were the one in danger.”

  “And yet you were the only thing on my mind.” He coughed and turned away, and she was glad he couldn’t see her flaming cheeks. “So,” he said without looking at her, “how was your dinner with Faucon?”

  The sharp edge to his voice replaced the warmth that had been there just seconds earlier, and the abrupt change shook her. “It was fine, Rémy. He’ll be working with us more now, bringing us supplies.”

  Rémy’s eyebrows shot up. “Supplies?”

  Eva gestured to the table. “Much better paper than we’ve been able to get on our own. We need him.”

  Rémy looked down at the documents on the table. His jaw tightened. “Right. Faucon saves the day.”

  “Rémy—”

  “I’m sorry.” He blinked at her a few times and then sighed, his shoulders sagging. “It’s—it’s been a long few days. The destruction outside the larger cities…” He paused and shook his head. “Eva, I can’t help but feel like I’m still not doing enough.”

  A chill ran through her. “But certainly you are. The work we’re doing here is invaluable. And now that you’re back, we can do so much more with these blank documents…”

  “Eva, in a perfect world, there’d be nothing I’d like more than to stay here with you. But being out there, traveling with those children… There’s so much more to accomplish. And I can’t do it here.”

  Her stomach twisted. She understood what he was saying, what it would mean, but he had to see that he was wrong. “I need you, Rémy,” she said. “I mean—there’s so much work to be done.” Too late, she gestured to the papers on the table in front of her, but she knew he’d heard the real meaning of her words. He looked away, and when he looked back, there was so much pain in his eyes that it hurt her to see.

  “I want to build you a better France, Eva,” he said softly. “One where you have a home. I can’t do that if I stay here.”

  “Promise me you’ll wait before you make any decisions.” She held her breath.

  He held her gaze for a long time. “I promise.”

  * * *

  That evening, over a meal of watery beef broth with thin noodles, Mamusia stared at Eva with narrowed eyes while Eva made small talk with Madame Barbier and tried not to worry about Rémy and the decisions he was making without her. After they’d cleared the table and Madame Barbier had gone upstairs, Eva stood elbow to elbow with her mother at the sink, drying dishes while Mamusia washed.

  “You’re throwing away a God-given opportunity, moje serduszko,” Mamusia said suddenly, breaking the uneasy silence between them.

  “What opportunity?”

  “Joseph Pelletier, of course.”

  “Mamusia…”

  “It’s plain to see the young man has feelings for you. He said it himself: you’re a catch. Are you so immersed in your little forgery operation that you don’t see it? He’s perfect for you, Eva. And surely it is fate that brought him here.”

  “Actually, I believe it was the Resistance,” Eva muttered.

  “Make all the jokes you want, but you can’t run from God’s will. He has delivered Joseph to your doorstep. What more do you need to see? Can you imagine how happy your father would be if he returned from Poland to find you happily married to a young Jewish man whose parents we knew?”

  “I think Tatuś would be happy enough just to return and find us alive.”

  “Can’t you for once listen to me, Eva? I know you think I don’t know what I’m talking about, that I’m just an old fool. But tradition means something. Sticking together in hard times means something. Our faith means something, though you seem bent on abandoning it.”

  Eva threw down her dish towel and blinked back tears. “I’m not abandoning my faith, Mamusia!”

  “You act as if you think I’m blind, Eva, but I see it, the way you still talk about that Catholic boy. I warned you, and you didn’t listen.”

  The words, delivered coldly and with shame, felt like a slap across the face. Eva could feel her cheeks flaming, her blood surging with guilt and confusion. “Mamusia, you don’t even know him. Rémy is a good man.”

  “There are lots of good men, Eva, but you want to waste your time with a papist? You think you’re better than where you’ve come from, but you can’t run from who you are.”

  “I’m not trying to!”

  “Oh, Eva, you’ve been running since we got here.”

  As Eva turned to look at her, she was suddenly startled to see how thin her mother had gotten. How had she not noticed before now? Her shoulder blades were like birds’ wings, her collarbone a sharp point beneath the neckline of her blouse. Eva felt a surge of concern, even through her anger and hurt.

  “Mamusia, I’m not running. I’m just… I’m feeling things I didn’t expect. But nothing has happened.”

  Mamusia’s face reddened. “So you admit it, then? You love him?”

  �
�I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, just remember this. Your father and I left Poland when we were young in search of a better life—for ourselves and for the child we hoped to have one day. You, Eva, were that child, born into freedom because of the sacrifices we made. If you throw that away, you are betraying us in a way you can never take back.”

  “Mamusia—”

  But her mother was already heading for the door. “I’m disappointed in you, Eva, more disappointed than I’ve ever been.”

  Eva stood rooted to the spot and stared after her for a long time after she’d gone, her mind swirling, as she wondered why it felt as if everyone she loved seemed hell-bent on breaking her heart.

  * * *

  Eva was working alone the next afternoon when Père Clément appeared in the doorway of the small library. “How’s the work coming?” he asked.

  “The new papers are helping.” Eva gestured with a sigh to the thick stack of documents she’d already made it through. “I—I wouldn’t be able to do this without Rémy, you know.”

  “I’d like him to stay, too,” Père Clément said. “But the underground may need him elsewhere. He has proven himself to be a smart courier, and he could be useful to them in other ways, too.”

  “He’s useful here. I can’t do this alone.”

  Père Clément sighed. “They would likely send someone in his place to do the work with you.”

  Eva blinked at him in disbelief. How could he think that anyone could fill Rémy’s shoes? “Père Clément—” she began.

  “The work you’re doing here is so very important, Eva. You know that, don’t you?”

  She hung her head. “Yes, but I—”

  “Eva,” he interrupted, “can you spare an hour or so? I’d like to show you something.”

  She hesitated and nodded. Without another word, he led her out of the tiny library into the church, and then out the door into the afternoon sunshine.

  In silence, they walked through the center of town. Icicles hung from eaves, sparkling in the clear light, and pristine snow caked the clay roofs. Père Clément nodded politely at a pair of Nazi soldiers leaning against the side of a building, and Eva averted her eyes. There had been more of them lately, their uniforms stiff, their gazes menacing. They stuck out in the small town, where newcomers—even those without German uniforms—were something to be stared at.

  “Can I ask you something?” Eva said as they made their way away from the square down the quiet rue Girault.

  “Anything, Eva.”

  “Do you think I’m…” She trailed off, then took a deep breath. “Do you think I’m betraying my religion? My parents?”

  He looked at her in surprise, and they both paused in their conversation to wave to Monsieur Deniaud, who was standing outside his butcher shop, deep in conversation with a uniformed gendarme Eva had seen around town. Monsieur Deniaud looked distracted as he waved back, and the gendarme didn’t acknowledge them.

  “Eva, of course I don’t think that,” Père Clément said as they ducked down a dark, narrow alleyway between two stone apartment buildings. “Why do you ask?”

  Eva was embarrassed to feel tears in her eyes. “My mother,” was all she managed to say.

  “Oh, Eva.” Père Clément’s eyes were sad as he looked down at her again. A mangy cat whose ribs stood in sharp relief against his patchy fur slunk out from a shadowy doorway, darting behind a snow-caked bicycle propped against a wall, and Eva felt a surge of sadness for the animal. He’d starve out here, or freeze, if someone didn’t catch him first.

  “Maybe she’s right,” Eva murmured. “I don’t pray like she does, and I know I should. The traditions have always meant more to my parents than they do to me, and I think I should be ashamed of that, especially now. Especially as the Germans try to erase us.”

  Père Clément sighed. “Eva, there’s something to be said for following the rules of a religion to a T. Goodness knows that rules like that are a big part of a priest’s life. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned since the start of the war, it’s that as long as we believe, we take our faith with us, whatever we do, wherever we go, if our motives are pure.” They turned onto the rue Flandin, a small residential street with a view of the snowy hillsides. “I think what matters most is what’s in your heart. Do you still believe in God?”

  “Of course I do.” The question caught her off guard, because even in the midst of such darkness, even when she was wondering whether he was listening, she had never doubted him.

  “And have you become a Catholic while working in the church?”

  She gave him a sharp look. “Of course not!”

  He smiled. “That’s your mother’s concern, isn’t it? That you’ll spontaneously become one of us?”

  Eva hesitated. “Yes. She—she talks about Catholicism as if it were one of the worst fates that could befall a person. I’m sorry,” she added hastily.

  Père Clément shook his head. “Eva, she’s merely frightened. And I don’t blame her. You’ve found a way to help, to do some good, but think of how powerless she must feel, especially with your father gone. You can’t fault her for worrying that she’s losing you, too. And if it would help ease her mind, you could try to pray with her more often. Maybe you’ll draw some comfort from that, too. But above all, remember to listen to what’s in your own heart. You shouldn’t be swayed by her words—or mine. Only you know what your relationship is with God, and you should never let anyone take that from you.”

  Eva felt a sense of peace as a comfortable silence settled between them. “Thank you, Père Clément.”

  “You can come to me anytime, Eva. And you can always come to God, too. The path of life is darkest when we choose to walk it alone.” A moment later, Père Clément took a sharp right onto a small side street, the rue Nicolas Tury, pulling Eva along with him. He stopped abruptly outside a narrow, three-story stone house with a single slim balcony jutting over the street. He knocked once on the chipped black front door, paused, and then knocked again, three times in quick succession. There was a long pause before the door was opened by someone Eva recognized from church but had never spoken to, a matronly woman with narrowed eyes and silver hair spun into a bun, who broke into a wide smile as soon as she recognized the priest.

  “Père Clément!” She stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks, then her eyes darted to Eva and narrowed again. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Madame Travere, I’d like to introduce you to Mademoiselle Moreau,” Père Clément said, gesturing formally to Eva. “Mademoiselle Moreau, Madame Travere.”

  Madame Travere nodded at Eva, but she still looked suspicious. “And what brings Mademoiselle Moreau here today?” she asked, returning her gaze to Père Clément.

  “She’s one of us,” Père Clément said. “And I’d like for her to meet the children.”

  Madame Travere went completely still for a second. “Père Clément, with all due respect, we like to limit their interactions with strangers.” When she turned to Eva, her smile was cold. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Madame Travere,” Père Clément said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the false documents and travel passes we’ve been using to move the children.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “Mademoiselle Moreau is the one making them,” Père Clément said, interrupting Madame Travere’s protests.

  Some of the iciness faded from the woman’s expression as she evaluated Eva again. “You don’t say.”

  “It’s difficult for her, I think, to be stuck in the church all day with no contact with anyone she’s saving. It would help to be reminded of exactly what she’s risking so much for.”

  The older woman opened and closed her mouth, and though her expression was still suspicious, she finally stepped aside, gesturing for Eva and the priest to enter. Eva murmured a merci, and Madame Travere nodded slightly.

  They followed the older woman up two flights of stairs to the top floor,
where a large parlor sat empty. Eva looked around in confusion. Certainly, there were no children around. But then, her lips pursed, Madame Travere picked up a broom and rapped sharply on the ceiling three times in quick succession. She paused, rapped twice more, paused again, and then struck the ceiling a final time.

  “What is she doing?” Eva whispered to Père Clément, who merely smiled at her.

  A few seconds later, a hidden trapdoor in the ceiling opened, and from the blackness above, a folding ladder descended. As Eva watched in awe, a boy of about ten climbed down, followed by another boy a bit younger, a girl of around thirteen, and another girl with lopsided pigtails who couldn’t have been more than seven.

  “They’d just finished school for the day when you knocked,” Madame Travere said. “It took longer than usual to hustle them into the attic.”

  Eva just looked at her.

  “They often hide when someone arrives at the door,” Père Clément explained. “Just in case.”

  “And… they go to school?”

  “Well, yes, of course,” Madame Travere snapped. “You didn’t think that was just a holiday for them, did you? Surely you don’t expect me to let them simply sit around and play. Their brains would turn to soup.”

  “What Madame Travere is trying to say,” Père Clément interjected with a smile, “is that we strive to keep life as normal for them as possible while they’re here. And that means making sure they continue their studies. She tutors them here.”

  “The war will end someday,” Madame Travere said, “and if they don’t have an education, where will they be?”

  The children had all glanced at Eva with mild interest when they descended from the ceiling, but they were all absorbed in their own activities now and were paying her no mind. The two boys were playing chess in the corner; the teenager was scribbling furiously in a notebook, and the younger girl had curled up in the corner of the sofa to read a book. Eva’s gaze rested on her. “They’re all Jewish refugees?”