“What?” the man took a step back, his lapels still covering the lower half of his face. “No, of course not. Excuse me, mademoiselle. Good day.” He hurried on, limping away from her, and she watched him, wondering if he would glance back. He didn’t, and when he vanished around a bend in the road, she let herself relax a bit. Perhaps she’d been wrong.
Still, the encounter had unsettled her, so she walked more quickly as she scanned the shop windows. The feeling of peace was gone, and now Aurignon seemed as sinister as anywhere else.
It took her another fifteen minutes before she found a small bookstore and papeterie that had a display case of ink pens near the window. She ducked in, hoping that they also stocked art pens. Inside, she closed her eyes for a second and breathed in deeply, the familiar scents of paper, leather, and binding glue transporting her back to her beloved Sorbonne library in Paris. Would she ever walk once more among its books, bask in its silence, revel in being surrounded by so many words and so much knowledge? Would Paris one day be hers again?
“Mademoiselle? May I help you?” The old woman behind the counter was peering at her with a blend of concern and suspicion when Eva opened her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Eva could feel heat rising to her cheeks. “I—I was just thinking how much I love being surrounded by books.” The words had sounded strange, and Eva’s blush deepened.
But the woman didn’t look put off. In fact, she smiled, her doubt melting away. “Ah. I should have known. You’re one of us.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re someone who finds herself in the pages,” the woman clarified, gesturing to the shelves all around. They were stacked high and haphazardly, reminding Eva of the layout of the town itself, chaotic but beautiful yet the same. “Someone who sees her reflection in the words.”
“Oh, well, I suppose I am,” Eva said, and suddenly she felt peaceful. She wanted to stay here all day, but there was work to be done.
“Can I help you find something?” the woman asked, following Eva’s gaze as it roamed over the shelves. “If you’re in need of some guidance, I know every book in this place.”
“I—I wish I could buy one,” Eva said. “But I only have a bit of money, and I need to purchase some pens.”
“Pens?”
Eva nodded and explained what she needed, and though the woman looked disappointed that Eva didn’t want to discuss books, she went into the back of the store and returned with three art pens in black, red, and blue. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Oh yes.” Eva reached for them, but the woman withdrew, her expression more guarded now.
“What do you need them for? You’re an artist?”
“Er, yes.”
“And here I had you pegged as a book lover.”
“I was. I mean I am.” Eva inhaled the familiar scents again and sighed. “I—I worked for a time at a library in Paris.”
“In Paris?”
Immediately, Eva realized she had made a mistake. Why was she telling the real details of her personal life to a stranger? “Well, I just—” Eva began as the woman turned to shuffle through one of the shelves behind her.
“You must miss it. My son lived there, too, before he was killed. Paris was a magical place indeed, until the Germans arrived.”
“Yes. It was,” Eva said softly. “And I’m sorry about your son.”
“Thank you. He was a good man.” The woman turned and held out a book before Eva could ask anything more, and after a moment’s hesitation, Eva took it and looked at the cover. It was Guy de Maupassant’s Bel Ami. “This one takes place in Paris,” the woman said.
“Yes, I’ve read it,” Eva said, puzzled. “It’s about a man who seduces practically everyone in the city.”
The woman laughed. “Indeed. When it comes to books, the saucier, the better, don’t you think?” Her eyes twinkled. “In any case, I thought perhaps you might be missing your home.”
“There’s not much to miss about Paris these days.” Again, Eva worried she’d said too much.
The woman nodded. “I imagine that must be the case, but this tells of a Paris long before the Germans got their hands on it, dear. Please, take it. Consider it a gift with the purchase of your pens.”
“But—” Eva was thrown by the kindness of this stranger. “Why?”
“Because books bring us to another time and place,” the woman said as she handed over Eva’s pens and accepted the francs Eva gave her. “And you look as if you need that.”
Eva smiled. “I don’t know how to thank you, madame.”
“You can thank me by staying safe, dear.”
As Eva walked out of the store and headed back to the boardinghouse, she scanned the streets for any sign of the limping man with the trench coat, and wondered how the woman in the bookstore had known that Eva needed all the wishes of safety she could get.
* * *
Eva spent the rest of the day and evening working on her father’s false papers and practicing her hand at drawing stamps on the pages of a newspaper she’d found sitting in the parlor of the boardinghouse. She would burn it in the morning. When Madame Barbier knocked on the door and announced brusquely that it was dinnertime in case Eva and her mother wanted some, Eva and her mother took a brief break to silently inhale some potato soup served in the dining room. Eva fell asleep at the desk in her small room sometime after midnight, still holding the blue pen in her hand.
Something jolted Eva out of her slumber just after dawn, and she lifted her head from the desktop with a start, blinking into the dim room, which was just beginning to come alive with traces of sunlight. In the bed behind her, her mother slept soundly. On the desk where she’d been working lay the newspaper filled with false stamps, now damp with Eva’s drool.
Just as she was wondering what had woken her up, there was a soft knock on the door, and Eva froze. Who could possibly be outside their room so early in the morning? Had Madame Barbier come to collect payment already?
She quickly shoved the newspaper into a desk drawer and hid the pens and her father’s documents under the mattress. Her mother didn’t stir. Eva knew she had to answer the door, for if it was Madame Barbier, she would be suspicious if no one responded. And who else could it be? After all, if the authorities were here, they wouldn’t knock politely; they’d surely hammer at the door and break it down if it wasn’t answered immediately. Reassured that there likely wasn’t imminent danger lurking on the other side, Eva opened the door a crack and peered out into the dark hall.
It took a half second for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and another for her to realize to her horror that it wasn’t Madame Barbier there at all. It was the man who’d been following her around town, the tall, thin man with the trench coat and limp.
Eva gasped, stifled a scream, and tried to slam the door on him, but he wedged his foot into the opening at lightning speed. “Please, Mademoiselle Fontain,” he said quickly. “I mean no harm.”
Eva shoved the door in vain. Her heart hammered. He had called her Mademoiselle Fontain, which meant that Madame Barbier had betrayed her, for who else could have given him her false name?
“What do you want?” she demanded. He began to speak, but she cut him off. “If you take a step closer, I’ll scream.”
She was suddenly acutely conscious that her mother, who could sleep through anything, was still in the room behind her.
“Mademoiselle, please. There’s no need for that, I promise. I’m a friend.”
“Friends don’t tail me through town and show up unannounced before dawn,” Eva shot back.
“Actually, I waited until after dawn, you’ll notice.” There was laughter in his eyes, and Eva was struck by the fact that he looked kind, which was unexpected. Without his lapels pulled up to cover his face, she could see the rest of his features—a clean-shaven chin, a wide mouth, a childlike dimple on the right side. He looked younger than he had yesterday, not as menacing. A gold cross sparkled at his neck, just above the coll
ar of his shirt.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am le Père Clément,” he said. “I’m the pastor of the Église Saint-Alban, just at the top of the hill.”
“A priest?” she asked in disbelief. “Why is a Catholic priest following me around town?”
“I apologize, truly. I thought I was being more subtle.” He looked embarrassed. “That was, er, my first time doing that.”
“Doing what?”
He scratched the back of his head. “It’s just that, you see, Madame Barbier told me about your papers.”
Her whole body tensed again. “What about them? They’re perfectly in order.”
“Yes, actually, that’s what she said, too.” He hesitated. “She also said that your mother’s documents identify her as a Russian émigrée. And that she certainly isn’t Russian.”
“Of course she is,” Eva protested immediately, her face growing hot.
Père Clément looked uncomfortable. “You see, Madame Barbier was born in Russia. She actually was a white émigrée after the revolution. She was nearly positive that your mother is Polish, and is therefore traveling on false papers.”
“Of course, you’re wrong.” Eva couldn’t meet his eye. “So what? Are you going to report us?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“I was just hoping you might tell me where you got your documents, though I think perhaps I’ve answered my own question.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your hands,” he said, his voice softer now.
Eva looked down and realized with a jolt of horror that her fingertips were gray with smudged ink. “It’s not what you think.”
He took a step back. “If you want to be left alone, mademoiselle, I will honor that, but you see, I have friends with ink-stained fingers, too. Madame Barbier was very impressed with your papers, and I—well, I think perhaps you and I could assist each other.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You can find me in the church anytime today. I can provide you with better tools than you can find at the bookstore.”
“But I—”
“The Germans don’t just look for identification documents, you know. You’ll need more than some drawing skills if you hope to safely move on.” When she didn’t answer, he smiled slightly. “I can help you. Please, consider it.” He nodded and turned quickly. She watched as he strode down the hallway and disappeared around the corner. A moment later, she could hear the front door of the boardinghouse open and close, and only then did she release the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She had to move her mother immediately. Whether Père Clément had meant what he’d said or not, the fact remained that their cover had been blown—and it had been Eva’s fault.
Chapter Seven
“Wake up!” Eva nudged her mother, and as Mamusia blinked sleepily awake, Eva prodded her again, nearly shoving her onto the floor. “Come on, Mamusia. We’ve been found out. There’s no time to waste.”
“What do you mean?” Mamusia was instantly alert, scrambling for the skirt and blouse she’d worn yesterday, which lay neatly draped over the back of the chair near the window. “What’s happened?”
“Madame Barbier knows our papers are false. A man came to the door this morning asking about them.”
“What?” Her mother’s face was white as she buttoned her shirt with trembling fingers and shimmied her skirt over her full hips. “Was he police?” She began to grab things from around the room, throwing them into the suitcase.
“No.” Eva hesitated. “He was a priest.”
Her mother stopped what she was doing. “A priest?”
“That’s what he said.”
“But—why did he come? Does he work with the authorities?”
“I don’t think so.” Eva was still mulling over whether he was friend or foe. Certainly the fact that he’d left after issuing his invitation was a good sign, wasn’t it? “Maybe I’m wrong, but I think he was saying he works with other forgers. I—I believe he might have been asking me if I could come work with him.” The moment the words were out of Eva’s mouth, she wondered if she had completely misunderstood the conversation. A priest leading a band of document forgers? It sounded too far-fetched to be real.
“What did he say?”
“He told me he could provide me with some help. I don’t know exactly what he meant.”
Her mother was staring at her with wide eyes. “Eva, he might be able to give you what you need to help locate your father and secure his release.”
“It might also be a trap.”
“Set by a priest?”
“There’s no rule that all priests must be decent human beings.”
“I don’t know much about Catholicism, but I’m fairly certain that’s part of the job description.”
Eva shrugged. Her mother was right about one thing, though. The priest could hold the key to getting her father out of detention. And the clock was surely ticking. As long as she moved her mother, perhaps it was worth the risk of heading to the church to see if the man’s offer had been genuine. “Very well,” she said at last. “I’ll go see him—but not until I take you somewhere safe.”
“Where will I go?”
“I don’t know, but you can’t stay here. Not until we figure out whether Madame Barbier is on our side or not.” Eva considered it for a moment, an idea forming. “I believe I’ll take you to a bookshop I know.” It was the only thing she could think of. The woman there had been kind, and Eva refused to believe that a person who had made a life from books could have evil in her heart.
* * *
After bringing her mother to the bookshop and telling the older woman there an unconvincing story about how Mamusia simply longed to spend some time browsing, Eva hurried toward the church, reassured that the woman had seemed to understand that Mamusia needed a place to lie low for a little while. You can thank me by staying safe, the woman had told her yesterday. Eva could only pray that those wishes of protection extended to her mother, too.
The town was coming alive in the midmorning warmth, though it was still the quietest place Eva had ever seen. She could count on her hands the number of people she passed as she hurried along: the butcher on the rue Pascal outside in his splattered apron, washing his front windows; a half-dozen women queued in front of the boulangerie on the rue de Levant, ration cards in hand, some gossiping with heads bent, others craning their necks to see what might still be available inside. Eva exchanged pleasant bonjours with a heavyset, middle-aged fleuriste arranging a small array of bright pink peonies in a bucket outside a corner shop as she passed, but otherwise, nervous and on guard, she kept to herself.
The Église Saint-Alban was only two blocks up the hill from the bookstore, so Eva reached it before she could fully gather her thoughts—or talk herself out of what she was about to do. She hesitated in front of the main door, putting her palm on the iron handle, but she didn’t go in, not yet. Come, Eva, she told herself. You have to take a chance. You need something to convince the authorities to let Tatuś go.
Summoning her courage, she pulled open the door and entered. Inside, the church was dimly lit and small, with a dozen long, narrow wooden pews marching toward an altar. On the raised platform was a lectern; behind it sat a small golden urn. On the back wall hovered a golden statue of Jesus, his face twisted in agony and looking toward heaven, his body nailed to a wooden cross. Candles flickered atop small pillars on the altar. There was no sign of Père Clément.
Eva shivered and slid into one of the wooden benches. She had never been in a church before, so she wasn’t sure what to do. As the moments ticked by, and Père Clément still hadn’t appeared, she began to feel nervous about her mother. What if this had all been some sort of a trap? What if Père Clément had followed her to the bookstore and led the police there as soon as Eva had departed? Then again, why would he do such a thing when he could have brought the authori
ties to her door that morning?
The front door of the church cracked open, and Eva turned, expecting to see Père Clément limping toward her down the aisle. Instead, it was a young couple around her age, the man’s hat pulled low, and the woman, whose head was cloaked in a thin scarf, looking particularly skittish. Her eyes darted from side to side, and after glancing at Eva, she hurriedly crossed herself. The young man tugged her arm and led her toward a door in the back of the church marked with a small sign reading Confessionnal. They both disappeared inside.
Eva turned back around to look at the cross again, but something was bothering her. Didn’t Catholics usually enter a confessional booth alone? It had seemed that way in books. And there was another thing. She could have sworn that when the young woman made the sign of the cross, she’d done it incorrectly. She’d once seen Jean Gabin cross himself in one of his films—she couldn’t remember if it was La Grande Illusion, La Bête Humaine, or Le Quai des Brumes—and she was certain that he’d touched his head, his chest, his left shoulder, and then his right. However, the nervous-looking woman had started with her head before moving to her right shoulder, her chest, and then her left shoulder, a diamond rather than a cross.
Eva pretended to pray as she waited for the couple to emerge from the confessional. If the two of them weren’t Catholics, what exactly were they doing? As the seconds ticked by, Eva looked up at the statue of Jesus, which had been sculpted in painstaking detail. He looked like a real man, his expression full of compassion and pain, and she thought about the way he’d been persecuted. She hadn’t spent much time considering the life of Jesus, but even though she didn’t believe that he was the Messiah, she certainly believed he’d been a good person whose life had been taken unjustly. It seemed murdering people who differed from the masses was a tale as old as time.
Just then, the squeak of hinges cut through the silence, and Eva snuck a look back to see the couple hurrying away. The man carried a handful of papers, which he stuffed down the front of his shirt just before opening the door. The sunlight poured in and quickly disappeared again, along with the couple. Eva frowned and turned back around to Jesus. “I bet you know what’s happening around here,” she muttered to him, her voice low. “You see everything, don’t you?”
The Book of Lost Names Page 6