“It’s impossible to guess,” Rémy said, not looking at her.
“Try.” She knew her voice sounded icy, but her coldness wasn’t directed at him. It was just that her insides were frozen.
Rémy sighed. The train was nearly empty, but his eyes were constantly roving, looking for eavesdroppers or approaching soldiers. “The age they had down for him is correct? Fifty-two?”
“Yes.”
“And he is healthy?”
“He’s fit for his age.”
“Then God willing, he should be selected for work detail.”
“God willing?”
Rémy cleared his throat. “I have heard that the alternative is worse.”
Eva studied her hands. Her eyes were red and raw, but she was all out of tears. “Thank you,” she said after a moment.
“For what? I—I failed you.”
She shook her head. “You are being honest with me. I appreciate that. And you didn’t fail me, Rémy. I couldn’t have done this on my own.”
Rémy began to reply, one corner of his mouth quirking slightly into a grin, but then he seemed to reconsider. Instead, he looked out the window for a moment before saying, “You know, I have a father, too.” He hesitated. “He died at the front two years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Rémy.”
He nodded.
“And your mother?” she asked when he didn’t say anything.
“She died when I was a boy. So it’s just me now.”
Eva placed her hand on his for a few seconds before pulling it away.
“At least,” Rémy said, turning to look at her, “you still have your mother.”
“My mother.” Eva closed her eyes. “My God. How in the world will I tell her the news?”
Tatuś was Mamusia’s world, and Eva wondered if the revelation would break her.
“Try to get some rest,” Rémy murmured after a while. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
Eva was too exhausted to protest, and so she nodded and placed her head on Rémy’s shoulder. Finally, she slept, dreaming of her father on a train headed east to an unknowable fate.
* * *
They passed through the checkpoint near Moulins easily, waved through by a soldier who took a perfunctory look at their documents and pointed to the other side with a yawn, and the remainder of the trip to Clermont-Ferrand was uneventful. It was long past sunset when she and Rémy got off the bus in Aurignon and approached the old stone boardinghouse. “Come to the church tomorrow. We will figure something out,” Rémy said, reaching for her hand and squeezing.
“What do you mean?”
“A way to help. A way to fight the Germans. A way to protect others like your father.” Before she could reply, Rémy added, “And your mother? She will be all right. You will, too.” He gave her hand one last squeeze.
Eva nodded, mute. When Rémy let her go and walked away, she watched him disappear around the corner, and then, taking a deep breath, she turned and went into the boardinghouse.
Madame Barbier was in the parlor, and she looked up when Eva entered. Her brows were raised, her eyes wide as she looked questioningly at Eva. Eva shook her head slightly, and the other woman’s face fell. “I’m very sorry, dear.”
When Eva let herself into the room a moment later, her mother was already standing, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Her eyes flicked first to Eva and then to the empty space behind her. Eva watched as a shadow crossed her face. “Your father…?” Mamusia asked.
“He—he wasn’t there anymore. I’m so sorry.”
The words hung in the silence. Neither of them moved. Mamusia continued to stare behind Eva, as if Tatuś would walk in at any moment, surprising them both.
“Mamusia? Did you hear me?”
When Mamusia’s eyes finally moved back to Eva’s face, she looked dazed. “Where? Where did he go?”
“East.” Eva took a deep breath. “To a work camp called Auschwitz. In Poland.”
“But that’s impossible. He was taken less than a week ago. And we live in France, Eva. This doesn’t happen in France.”
“I’m afraid it does.” Eva could see the crush of people penned up at Drancy each time she closed her eyes.
“But we left Poland. We—we are French.”
“We are Jews.” Eva’s voice was so soft she could hardly hear herself.
Her mother turned away and moved to the window. The blackout shade was drawn for the night, but Mamusia pulled it aside and stared out at the long shadows painting the streets of Aurignon. In minutes, the town would be black, invisible, and the light spilling from their room would be too conspicuous. Eva wanted to pull her mother back from the glass, draw the shade tight, but she couldn’t move.
“Which way is east?” Mamusia asked in a whisper, and Eva followed her gaze outside. They were facing away from the disappearing sun, and the sky ahead of them had already turned to thick molasses.
“That way,” Eva said with a nod, looking past the stout spire of the Église Saint-Alban, which they could just see over the building across the street.
“He won’t come back,” Mamusia said as she watched the light vanish. “He will die there.”
“No.” Eva thought of Rémy’s words, and she wondered if he’d been lying. Were fifty-two-year-old men really selected for work duty, or was that left to the younger, stronger generation? Had Rémy merely been telling her what she wanted to hear? “No,” she said again, no longer believing herself. “Tatuś is strong. He will return.”
Mamusia shook her head, and when she finally turned from the window, her face was drained of all color, and her lips were set in a line so thin they had almost disappeared. “You promised you would bring him back to me.”
An arrow of sharp guilt stabbed Eva in the heart. “I tried.”
“You were too late.”
Eva hung her head. “I’m so sorry.”
“You failed him.” There was only silence for a few seconds, and then a low, dolorous wail shattered the stillness. It was the sound of a desperate, wounded animal, but it was coming from her mother, whose face was contorted into a mask of pain.
“Mamusia!” Eva said, reaching for her, but her mother’s hands went up like claws, and she snarled as she backed away from her daughter. The wail grew louder and louder until Eva was covering her ears, and Mamusia was on her knees, her eyes closed, keening now, her voice a primal song of grief that cut through Eva like a knife. “Mamusia!” Eva tried again, but her mother was in her own world.
Eva didn’t hear her come in, but suddenly, Madame Barbier was there, her strong hands on Eva’s shoulders. “Get up. Go sleep in the parlor,” she said, her voice calm, firm. “I will take care of your mother.”
“But I can’t leave her!”
The wailing continued, an earsplitting, heartbreaking squall.
“You must. Give her time.” Madame Barbier was already moving toward Mamusia, already wrapping strong arms around her. Mamusia’s body was limp as she let herself be molded into Madame Barbier’s ample chest. Still, the shrieking went on. “You did all you could, dear,” Madame Barbier said over the din. “Now, get some rest. Go. I will give your mother something to help her relax.”
Finally, Eva backed away from the room. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but she settled onto the couch and closed her eyes anyhow, letting the ghosts of Drancy torture her in the dark.
* * *
Eva awoke sometime early the next morning to the scent of real coffee, and as she cracked her eyes open, she thought for a moment she must be dreaming. She hadn’t smelled anything like that since before the Occupation; coffee beans were just one of the many things that had disappeared from everyday life. She couldn’t remember falling asleep the night before, but she felt a bit restored as she unfolded herself from the sofa and let her nose lead her into the kitchen, where Madame Barbier was humming to herself while she poured coffee into white china cups.
“Good morning,” Madame Barbier said without turning. “I’
m afraid there’s no milk, but I have a bit of sugar if you take it.”
“But… where in the world did you get coffee?”
“I’ve had some saved in the cellar for a while now, for a special occasion.” Finally, she turned to face Eva, offering a cup of steaming black liquid. Eva inhaled deeply. “I thought you and your mother could use a lift this morning.”
“Thank you.” The words felt inadequate, and Eva stood there, awkwardly holding her cup.
“Drink, child,” Madame Barbier said. “Drink, before it gets cold.” She raised her own cup in a sort of toast and met Eva’s gaze over the rims as they both sipped.
“I’m sorry,” Eva said as she lowered her cup, the warmth flowing into her chest, the caffeine already coursing through her veins. “For last night.”
“Oh, dear, you have nothing to apologize for.”
“But I didn’t know how to help her.”
“No one could have. Not in that state.”
“But you—”
“I gave her a pill. Sometimes a person just needs to sleep. I had some left from when my husband died.”
Eva could see the pity in the older woman’s eyes, and it seeped into her along with the caffeine as Madame Barbier patted her on the shoulder and handed her a second cup. “Here. Bring this to your mother. She should be awake by now.”
Sure enough, Mamusia was sitting up in bed when Eva entered. Her hair was wild, the circles under her eyes half-moons of deep purple grief. “Mamusia?” Eva asked tentatively.
“Eva.” Mamusia’s tone was flat, but her eyes were alive again. She looked like herself.
“Madame Barbier made some coffee.” Eva took a few steps closer and handed her mother one of the cups. Mamusia took it, inhaled deeply, and then set it on the bedside table. Eva inched closer to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. She reached out to touch her mother’s arm and was wounded when Mamusia flinched. “I—I’m sorry, Mamusia. I wish I could have done more.”
“You did what you could. I shouldn’t have blamed you.” Mamusia looked toward the window. “I just can’t imagine him so far away. In such a terrible place.” Her voice caught and she wiped away a tear. “What will we do?”
“We will survive,” Eva said. “And we will be waiting when he comes back.”
Mamusia sighed. “Your optimism. It’s so much like your father’s. But look where that got him.”
“Mamusia—”
“No, moje serduszko, I don’t want to hear your hopeful words now. There’s nothing you can say to make this better.”
Eva looked down. Her coffee was growing cold. Her stomach was a churning pit of guilt, regret, and acid. “I know.”
“They are erasing us, and we are helping them.” Mamusia’s voice was still flat, too flat. “He opened the door to them, didn’t he? Your father went without a fight. And look at us. We don’t even have your father’s name anymore. He’s been gone for less than a week, and already we’re denying him?”
“But, Mamusia, I—”
“What happens when they come for us, too? When they take us east? Who will remember us? Who will care? Thanks to you, not even our names will remain.”
Eva could only shake her head. Was her mother right? Would they disappear like dust, swept from the earth? How could she stop it?
But then Rémy’s voice played in her head. Come to the church tomorrow We will figure something out. Could the two of them really do anything to help? It would mean staying here in Aurignon instead of trying to cross into Switzerland.
On the other hand, how could she simply do nothing? Wasn’t that what the people of France were doing? Wasn’t that what the whole world was doing while the Jews of Europe circled the drain?
“Mamusia,” she said softly, and her mother’s eyes finally landed on hers. “I—I have to go.”
“Go?” Mamusia blinked at her. “Go where?”
She stood. “To help save us.”
“I’m not staying here, Eva. And neither are you. We’re leaving as soon as we can.” Mamusia frowned at her, but she didn’t try to stop her. “So go to those Catholics, but at the end of today, say goodbye. You’re a fool to think you can make any difference.”
Eva tried not to wonder, as she walked out of the boardinghouse, whether her mother knew something she didn’t. Maybe it was too late to save anyone. Maybe there was nothing Eva could do. But how could she forgive herself if she didn’t try?
* * *
The small library behind the church’s altar was warm when Eva entered, and the first thing that hit her was the overpowering scent—a milky, salty, sharp odor that made her take a step back. Rémy was sitting at the table in the middle of the room, hunched over several papers spread out before him.
“What’s that awful smell?” Eva asked, putting a hand over her mouth.
He turned to face her. There was ink streaked across his right cheek, and she had to fight the strange urge to step closer and wipe it away.
“Well, hello to you, too.” He reached for a cloth beside him, wiped his hands, and stood up. “And it’s lactic acid.”
“Lactic acid?”
He ignored the question. “Are you all right, Eva? How did your mother take the news?”
She took a deep breath to steady herself, which only made the smell worse. She coughed, covering her mouth.
“Eh, you get used to it. But tell me, what happened with your mother?”
“She was inconsolable. She told me I was making a mistake in coming here this morning.”
“And what do you think?”
“I—I don’t know what to think.”
“But you’re here.”
Eva nodded. “I’m here. For now.” She inhaled again and wrinkled her nose. “Now are you going to explain why you’re playing with lactic acid in a library?”
He smiled. “After my mother died, I had to move out of Paris for a little while, to my uncle’s farm in Brittany. I apprenticed once a week at the dairy down the street. The farmers who sold us their cream sometimes became greedy and tried to water down their product. You know what the chemist at the dairy did to check the fat content?”
“Er, no.” Eva couldn’t imagine what butter and fat content had to do with anything.
“We took a small amount of each farmer’s cream and dissolved methylene blue ink in it. Then we calculated how long it took for the color to disappear. You see, the lactic acid in the cream erases methylene blue.”
“Okay.” Eva felt completely lost now.
“Most of the real documents that come from the prefectures are signed and stamped using Waterman’s blue ink. Waterman’s is composed of methylene blue, which is typically impossible to erase. I imagine that’s why they use it.”
Finally, Eva understood. Her eyes widened as she glanced at the table behind him, which she now realized was lined with identity documents that looked as if they’d been sponged with water. “So you’re using lactic acid to erase the ink? On real documents?”
“We’ve been doing it for months. Pretty smart, yes?”
“It’s brilliant, Rémy. Surely this must take a long time, though.”
“We haven’t always had access to blank documents. Finally, we have a sympathetic official at the local prefecture, and he’s able to funnel us some supplies. But for some people, it’s still easier to simply modify their original papers.”
Eva’s eyes drifted to the table again. “And is this what you want me to help you with?”
“No. I mean, beyond figuring out the chemistry, nearly anyone could do the erasing. I suppose Père Clément was hoping you’d help me a bit with the reconstructing of the documents that have already dried. Since you apparently have a talent.” He gestured toward the edge of the table, where a dozen or so distressed-looking documents were stacked. “Those need new names and details.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. I could use the help. We are behind by hundreds of documents.”
“Hundreds?”
He
frowned. “It’s only me here, Eva.”
“Perhaps I can come up with a way to get things done more quickly.” She had been thinking, since she painstakingly forged her family’s documents, that there must be a more efficient way to produce several documents at a time, since the stamps would need to be identical from paper to paper anyhow. She had an idea, but she would need to visit the bookstore again to see if it was feasible.
“Eva, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I’m making documents as quickly as can be done.”
“I’m not certain you are.”
He looked insulted. “And you know this from your vast experience in forgery? You said it yourself: you’re quite new at this. Eva, don’t get me wrong—I appreciate your artistic ability—but this isn’t some painting school. This is life and death.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you had some success under massive pressure, and now you think you know what you’re doing. But look at what nearly happened to you on the train to Paris. There are many intricacies you don’t understand yet.”
She glared at him. “Then teach me.”
His expression softened. He looked almost amused. “Teach you? Does that mean you plan to stay for a while?”
She wondered if she had somehow played right into his hands. “I don’t know yet.” She didn’t wait for a reply before heading out into the church to find the priest, Rémy following right behind her. She would tell Père Clément that she’d had a thought about how to speed up their process, but that she couldn’t stay forever to help. It was the best she could do, and it felt right. “In the meantime, there’s no time to waste, is there?”
Chapter Thirteen
Ten minutes later, Père Clément was watching Rémy and Eva bicker about who had the better ideas for forgery, a bemused expression on his face. Eva had found him in an empty confession booth, and he had lowered the privacy screen and asked her to bring Rémy in for a quick chat.
“Colette,” he said when Rémy finally took a breath after reminding them how revolutionary his own lactic acid idea had been. “You say you have an idea for how to produce documents more quickly?”
The Book of Lost Names Page 11