“It was slipped under our door yesterday,” her father said.
“Why didn’t you tell us? It sounds like a warning, just like what Joseph said.”
He shook his head slowly. “This isn’t the first one, Eva. The Germans rule with fear as much as they do with their weapons. If we cower every time a false notice goes around, they will have won, won’t they? They will have taken our sense of security, our sense of well-being. I won’t allow that.”
“At any rate, we haven’t done anything wrong,” Eva’s mother interjected. “We’re productive citizens.”
“I’m not so sure that will matter in the end.” Eva’s father leaned over and patted Eva’s hand, then touched his wife’s cheek. “But we will be all right for now. So let us eat before the soup grows cold.”
Eva had already lost her appetite, though, and as she pushed potatoes around in her bowl, her stomach twisted with a sense of foreboding that her father’s words couldn’t banish.
Later that night, after Mamusia had gone to sleep, Tatuś found Eva in the small library off the parlor, shelves piled high with all the books the two of them treasured so much. He had taught her to love reading, one of the greatest gifts a parent could give a child, and in doing so, he had opened the world to her. Most evenings, she and her father read here in companionable silence, but for now, Eva was too distracted. Instead, she sat on the couch, doodling in a notebook, a nervous habit that dated back to her childhood, when sketching the people and things around her had made her feel more at ease.
“Słoneczko,” he said softly.
She looked up, her pencil pausing over a detailed drawing of the modest chandelier overhead. “I thought you were in bed, Tatuś.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He came to sit beside her. “There’s something I need to tell you. If the Germans come for your mother and me, I want you to go see Monsieur Goujon immediately.”
Eva stared at him. “You said you didn’t believe Joseph.”
“I don’t. But terrible things are happening here all the time. I would be a fool to pretend they can’t happen to us. But you, słoneczko, you should be safe. You are French. If we are taken, you need to flee before things get worse.”
“Tatuś—”
“Get yourself to the free zone—and if possible, on to safety in Switzerland. Wait there for the war to end. We will come back for you.”
She felt suddenly numb with grief. The free zone? The border lay many kilometers south of Paris, slicing off the half of the country the Nazis had agreed to leave to the French. Switzerland felt worlds away. “Why can’t we all leave together? Now?”
“Because we would be too conspicuous, Eva. I just want you to be ready for the day you might have to go. You’ll need documents that don’t identify you as a Jew. Monsieur Goujon will help you.”
She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. “You’ve already spoken with him?”
“Yes, and I’ve paid him, Eva. Everything I had in savings. He gave me his word. He has access to everything needed to make you a set of false papers. It will be enough to get you out of Paris.”
She blinked back tears. “I won’t go without you, Tatuś.”
He reached for her hands. “You must, Eva! Promise me you will, if it comes to that.”
“But—”
“I need you to give me your word. I cannot survive if I don’t believe you are doing all you can to do the same.”
She looked into his eyes. “I promise. But, Tatuś, we still have time, don’t we? Time to find another plan that allows us to leave for the free zone together?”
“Of course, słoneczko. Of course.” But his gaze slipped away. By the time he looked back, the despair in his eyes was deep, dark, and Eva knew he didn’t believe his own words.
* * *
It was just past four in the morning two nights later when the first knock came. Eva had been sleeping fitfully, dreaming of fierce dragons encircling a castle, and as she lurched to the surface of consciousness, her chest seized with fear. Joseph was right. They’re here.
She could hear her father moving through the apartment, his footsteps slow and steady. “Tatuś!” she called out as she grabbed her robe and jammed her feet into the worn leather boots she had placed beside her bed for the past year in case she needed to flee. What else would she need if the Germans had come for them? Should she pack a bag? Would there be time? Why hadn’t she listened to Joseph?
“Tatuś, please!” she cried as her father’s footsteps stopped. She wanted to tell him to wait, to stop time, to freeze for one last moment in the before, but she couldn’t find the words, so instead, she lurched out of her bedroom into the parlor. She arrived just in time to see him open the door.
She clutched her robe around her, waiting for the barked order from the Germans who were surely on the other side of the threshold. But instead, she heard a female voice, and could see her father’s face soften slightly as he stepped back. A second later, Madame Fontain, their neighbor from the end of the hall, followed him into the apartment, her face pinched.
“Tatuś?” Eva asked, and he turned. “It’s not the Germans?”
“No, słoneczko.” The lines on his face hadn’t fully relaxed, and Eva knew he’d been as afraid as she’d been. “Madame Fontain’s mother has fallen ill. She was wondering if you or your mother would come sit with her daughters while she takes her to Docteur Patenaude’s apartment.”
“Simone and Colette are still sleeping, so they shouldn’t be any trouble,” Madame Fontain said, not making eye contact. “They’re only two and four.”
“Yes, I know how old they are,” Eva said stiffly. Just the day before, Eva had happened upon the girls in the courtyard. She had bent to say hello, and the older one, Colette, had begun to cheerfully chatter about butterflies and apples, when suddenly, Madame Fontain had appeared out of nowhere and hastily pulled both girls away. As they’d disappeared around the corner, Eva had overheard her scolding them about the danger of socializing with a Jew.
“I tried other apartments but no one else would answer the door. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”
“Of course we will watch your daughters.” Eva’s mother had emerged from her bedroom, her nightgown already replaced by a simple cotton dress and cardigan. “That’s what neighbors do. Eva will come with me. Won’t you, dear?”
“Yes, Mamusia, of course.” The girls’ father was gone to the front, possibly dead, and they had no one else.
“Eva, get dressed, quickly.” Eva’s mother turned back to Madame Fontain. “Go. Don’t worry. Your girls will be fine.”
“Thank you,” Madame Fontain said, but still, she wouldn’t meet their gazes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She pressed a key into Mamusia’s hand and was gone before they could say another word.
Eva quickly threw on the dress she had worn yesterday and smoothed her hair before rejoining her parents in the parlor. “You do know Madame Fontain’s feelings about Jews, don’t you?” Eva couldn’t resist asking.
“Half of Paris feels the same,” her mother said wearily. “But if we shrink from them, if we lose our goodness, we let them erase us. We cannot do that, Eva. We cannot.”
“I know.” She sighed and kissed her father goodbye. “Go back to bed, Tatuś. Mamusia and I will be fine.”
“Good girl,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Look out for your mother.” He kissed Mamusia gently, and as they stepped out into the hall, he closed the door. It latched with a gentle click behind them.
Two hours later, with Colette and Simone still asleep in their beds and Mamusia snoring lightly beside her on the sofa in Madame Fontain’s apartment, Eva had just dozed off when a banging in the hall startled her awake. The faint light of early dawn was filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. Perhaps Madame Fontain and her mother had returned.
Eva rose from the sofa, careful not to disturb Mamusia. She crept to the door and put her eye to the peephole, expecting to see Madame
Fontain fumbling with her keys. What she saw instead made her gasp and draw back in horror. Trembling, she forced herself to look again.
In the hall, three French policemen stood in front of Eva’s own apartment a few doors down. The same banging sound that had awoken her came again; it was a uniformed officer pounding on her door. No, Tatuś, Eva screamed silently. Don’t answer!
But the door to the apartment swung open, and her father stepped out, dressed in his best suit, his yellow star affixed perfectly to the left side. One of the policemen, the one holding a neat sheaf of papers, said something to him, but Eva couldn’t quite make it out. Biting her lip so hard she could taste blood, she pressed her ear to the door.
“Where is your wife?” Eva could hear a deep voice asking. Another officer shoved his way inside the apartment, pushing Tatuś aside.
“My wife?” Tatuś sounded strangely calm.
“Faiga Traube, age forty-eight, born 1894 in Kraków, Poland.” The man’s voice was taut with impatience.
“Yes, of course. Well, she’s out caring for the children of a sick friend.”
“Where? What is the address?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Well, when will she be back?”
“I’m not certain of that, either.”
Eva could hear the policemen mumbling to each other. The officer who’d gone into the apartment emerged and shook his head.
“And your daughter?” The first officer spoke again, his tone angrier. “Eva Traube? Age twenty-three?”
“She’s with her mother.” Her father’s tone was suddenly icy. “But she was born here in France. You have no need to bother her.”
“She is on our list.”
“Your list is wrong.”
“We are never wrong.”
“You think there is anything about this that is right?” her father retorted, his voice finally rising, and Eva heard a muffled thud and a sharp intake of breath. She dared look through the peephole again and saw her father clutching his nose. One of the policemen had struck him. Eva clenched her fists, her eyes prickling with tears, as she pressed her ear back against the door.
“Enough of your insolence. You will come with us now,” the man said. “Or if you prefer, we will be happy to shoot you right here. One less Jew for the trains, no matter to me.”
Eva stifled a gasp.
“Let me just pack a bag,” her father said.
“Oh, we’ll come back for your valuables, don’t worry.”
When Tatuś didn’t reply, Eva looked back through the peephole just in time to see her father pulling their door closed behind him. He glanced once over his shoulder, in the direction of the Fontains’ apartment. Did he know she was watching? That she had heard everything?
But it didn’t matter. Tatuś was gone before she could blink, and a minute later, the front door of the building closed with a loud thump of finality. Eva raced to the window, pushed the blackout curtains aside, and stared down at the street, which was clogged with dark police trucks and a swarm of uniforms leading men, women, and children—some of them looking bewildered, some angry, and some crying—away from their homes. Eva recognized the Bibrowskas—the mother, Ana, the father, Max, and the children, Henri and Aline, who were just toddlers—and the Krosbergs, the elderly couple across the way who always waved to her as she left for the university in the mornings.
Eva watched, her hand to her mouth to muffle her sobs, as her father was shoved toward a truck. A hand came from the back and pulled him in. Just before he disappeared, he glanced up toward the building, and Eva pressed her palm against the cool glass. He nodded, and Eva was sure he had seen her, sure he knew that her silent wave was a promise that she would look out for Mamusia until he returned.
“Eva?” Her mother’s voice sounded thick and groggy behind her in the darkened room. “What on earth are you doing?”
Eva watched the vehicles pull away before turning to her mother. “Tatuś is gone,” she whispered. “The police…” She couldn’t finish her sentence.
“What?” Her mother leaped from the couch and lurched toward the door. “Where? We have to go after him! Why didn’t you wake me, Eva?” Her words were choked as she clawed in vain at the locks. But her hands were shaking, and Eva was there to catch her when she collapsed to the floor, sobs racking her body. “Why, Eva? Why didn’t you stop them? What have you done?”
Eva felt a surge of guilt. “Mamusia,” she said gently as her mother wailed in her arms. “They were also here for you. And me.”
Mamusia sniffled. “That’s impossible. You are French.”
“I am a Jew. That is all they see.”
Just then, a sharp cry came from the girls’ bedroom. “Maman? Where are you, Maman?” It was the older daughter, Colette, her voice high and scared.
Mamusia looked up at Eva in anguish. “We have to go after your father,” she whispered. She grabbed Eva’s hands, her grip like a vise. “We have to save him.”
“Not yet,” Eva said firmly as Colette cried out for her mother again. “First, we must figure out how to save ourselves.”
Chapter Three
Dawn broke an hour later, and with it, silent chaos. The street below the Fontains’ window filled with people, but there was hardly a sound. Neighbors clustered together, whispering, none of them wearing the yellow star. The Jews of the Marais district had vanished last night.
“We must go look for your father,” Eva’s mother said, hugging herself as she rocked back and forth on the Fontains’ sofa.
The two little girls, still in their nightgowns, sat on the floor, staring at her with wide eyes. Eva finally took a deep breath, turned from the window, and crossed the room to kneel between them. She put one arm around Colette, the other around Simone. “We’re not going anywhere,” she said with forced cheer, squeezing the girls’ shoulders. “Not until Madame Fontain returns.”
“When is Maman coming back?” Colette whimpered. It was clear that she could read the fear in the room, though she couldn’t understand it.
“Soon, my dear.” Eva forced a smile. “There’s no need to worry.”
“Then why is Madame Traube so afraid?”
Eva glanced at her mother, who was pale as an unbaked baguette. “She’s not,” she said in a tone firm enough to get her mother’s attention. Mamusia looked up, her gaze unfocused, as Eva added, “She’s simply not feeling very well. Are you, Mamusia?” Her mother still didn’t respond.
Colette searched Eva’s eyes for a minute, and then her face relaxed. “Shall I get her something to help her to feel better?”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Colette. Why don’t you take Simone with you?”
Colette nodded solemnly before grabbing her sister’s hand and leading her toward their shared bedroom.
Eva turned to her mother as soon as the girls had disappeared. “You need to pull yourself together.”
“But your father…”
“Is gone,” Eva said firmly, though she couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice. Fear always found its way in through the cracks. “We will come up with a plan to secure his release. I promise. We can’t do anything if we’re arrested, too, though.”
“But—”
“Please. I just need to figure out how—”
“Madame Traube?” Colette’s voice interrupted their hushed conversation, and they turned to see the four-year-old standing in the doorway, wearing a paper crown and clutching a little metal tiara in her hand. She held the tiara up. “When I’m feeling blue, sometimes I like to play dress-up. If you want, you can be the princess and I can be the queen.”
“Dress-up?” Mamusia looked dazed.
“It’s a game where you pretend to be someone you’re not.” Colette frowned. “Don’t you know what dress-up is, Madame Traube?”
Mamusia didn’t answer, but Eva felt as if a lightbulb had gone on in her head. “Yes, of course,” she murmured, her heartbeat suddenly accelerating. She thought of her father’s
words about Monsieur Goujon. If her father’s boss had been paid to help her, surely he could do something for Mamusia, too. She and Mamusia would just have to become different people, on paper at least—a dress-up game with the highest stakes.
“Mademoiselle Traube? Do you want to play, too?”
Eva knelt beside the little girl. “No, Colette, but you’ve just given me a wonderful idea. Look out for Madame Traube, will you?” She turned her attention to her mother and added, “If Madame Fontain returns, Mamusia, you stay right here in her apartment, no matter what she says. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
“But where are you going?”
“To see someone who will help us.”
* * *
In her own apartment, Eva groped her way through the darkness, thankful for the bit of daylight filtering in through the shades, enough that she could see the outlines of their furniture. She knew the rooms well enough that she could probably find her way in pitch blackness under normal circumstances, but her head was spinning, and she didn’t trust herself. Nor did she trust that her neighbors wouldn’t betray her if they heard her moving around inside rooms that were meant to be empty.
Had one of them reported on her family? It made some sense that the names of her parents, both of whom had emigrated from Poland in their early twenties, would be among those to be taken away to labor camps; Joseph’s dire warning had been about foreign-born Jews. But who had added her name to the list? Someone who wanted her gone, too, so her family’s apartment would become available? The Traubes had lived here for more than twenty years, and there was no denying that theirs was one of the nicest units in the building, twice the size of most of the other apartments. Could jealousy and greed have turned a neighbor into a traitor?
Eva pushed the dark thought away. There wasn’t time to be consumed by anger. No, her only job now was to get her mother safely out of Paris. After the roundups, they couldn’t walk around with the yellow stars on their chests, of course, but simply discarding them would be even more dangerous. The second they ventured out, they would be at risk of encountering a French policeman or a German soldier, and if asked for their papers, they would be immediately arrested for the crime of leaving their stars at home. No, they had to become other people entirely, and the key to that lay in the typewriters that sat, silent and hulking, in their living room.
The Book of Lost Names Page 2