The Book of Lost Names

by Kristin Harmel

  And then, replacing his cap and wrapping his scarf around his neck once again, he was gone, disappearing out into the sunny morning.

  * * *

  On the short walk back to the church, Eva didn’t tell Père Clément that Joseph was a familiar face from the past; she told him only that the meeting had gone well and then gratefully accepted the comfortable silence that settled between them. He bade her goodbye at the door to the church, giving her a paternal kiss on the forehead, and Eva let herself into the small library with a million thoughts swirling through her head.

  “So? You met Faucon?” Rémy’s voice startled her enough that she let out a small shriek; he had been standing in the shadows near the back bookcase when she arrived, and she’d been in such a fog that she hadn’t noticed him. He stepped from the darkness with a frown. “I suppose he wanted to tell you everything we were doing wrong here?”

  “Actually, he was quite lovely.”

  “Not exactly the word I would use to describe him.”

  Eva blinked in surprise. “You’ve met him?”

  “Twice now. And if he spent as much time helping the underground as he did coiffing his hair in the mirror, perhaps we would have beaten the Germans already.”

  “Rémy, he’s not that bad.” She wanted to explain that she and the man he knew as Gérard Faucon had been in school together since they were small, that he knew her mother, that she’d known his parents, that she knew he was a decent fellow, if a bit egotistical. But that would be giving away information that wasn’t hers to share.

  “I suppose he’s all right. He just rubbed me the wrong way. So out with it, then. What did he want to criticize?”

  “I don’t know yet. He said he’ll explain tonight.”

  Rémy raised an eyebrow. “Tonight?”

  “Yes. He’s, er, coming to dinner.”

  Hurt flashed across Rémy’s face, and he turned away. “I see. A date, then?”

  “No, no, of course not.” But Eva couldn’t elaborate. She swallowed hard and changed the subject. “So you say you’ve met him a couple of times? Why?”

  Rémy’s gaze was sad as he turned back to her. “I’ve been looking for ways to get more involved with the effort, Eva. I thought he might be able to help me.”

  “But you’re already doing plenty. Look at all the children we’ve helped together.”

  “Don’t you ever wish you were doing more, though? I feel so powerless here sometimes, especially since the Germans moved in last month.” He sighed. “A few weeks ago, I asked for a meeting with Claude Gaudibert. You’ve heard of him?”

  Eva nodded. It was the alias used by the man who was in charge of the Resistance in their area; she had heard Père Clément and Madame Noirot mention him.

  “Well, he sent Faucon in his place, and apparently he wasn’t too impressed with me. He asked me many questions about the work we’re doing here, and he said he’d get back to me about other ways I could help. I didn’t hear from him again until earlier this week. He said Gaudibert wanted to know if I might be available for some other operations.”

  “What sort of operations?”

  Rémy’s eyes moved back to hers. “He needs more couriers to help escort children across the border to Switzerland. It seems there’s an immediate need, as one of the men who typically runs the route has been arrested.”

  “But, Rémy, that must be very dangerous. You’re not really considering it, are you?” Eva could feel tears in her eyes, and she knew Rémy saw them, because he finally softened, taking a step closer and touching her cheek.

  “I have to, Eva. I have to do more to help. It’s what I came here today to tell you. I’ve already told Père Clément.”

  “Told him what?”

  “That I leave tonight with my first group of children.”

  Her whole body felt suddenly cold. “To-tonight? But it’s the middle of winter. Surely a crossing would be perilous.”

  He shook his head. “I’m told we send the children across near Geneva, without going through the Alps, so the weather doesn’t pose a tremendous problem. In fact, it limits troop movement, which works in our favor.”

  “But, Rémy, what if something happens to you?”

  “I’ll be careful.” He took a step closer, his breath warm on her cheek, and for a second, she thought he might kiss her. He merely brushed his lips against her forehead, though, and then quickly stepped back, as if he’d been burned. “Anyhow, enjoy your dinner with Faucon.”

  “Rémy, I—”

  But he had already turned his back, and a few seconds later he was gone, the lock clicking behind him. Eva considered going after him, begging him to give the courier job to someone else, but why would he listen to her? He didn’t owe her a thing.

  How could Gaudibert so easily risk Rémy’s life? If he was captured, how could their network absorb the loss of such a skilled forger? She tried to push the thoughts from her mind, to turn to the dozens of papers she needed to forge that day, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to focus. Every time she blinked, she would see Rémy in her mind’s eye, cold and alone in a snowstorm, a Nazi rifle to his head.

  * * *

  “Joseph Pelletier?” Mamusia’s eyes lit up when Eva arrived home early that day to tell her they would be having an unexpected dinner guest that evening—but that they couldn’t utter his real name in front of Madame Barbier. It was the happiest Eva had seen her mother look in months. “Why, it’s a miracle! Do you know what he likes to eat, moje serduszko? We’ll make him something special.”

  “Mamusia, I’m quite sure he understands the rations just like we do and would be grateful for anything we give him.”

  “But it’s Joseph Pelletier! He was the handsomest boy in school, and from a good family, too. I’m sure I can impose upon Madame Barbier and her farmer friend to help us.”

  Eva bit her lip before she could reply.

  When Joseph arrived just after dark, he had changed into a charcoal wool sweater and pressed black slacks, which made him look as if he’d wandered in from an upscale Parisian café. Mamusia fluttered around him, gushing about how handsome he looked, how wonderful it was to see him, what an honor it was to have him to dinner. Madame Barbier—who had managed to procure a precious chicken and some potatoes for the occasion—seemed overly impressed, too. She was involved enough with the underground to know the name Gérard Faucon—and to realize he was someone important in the Resistance.

  “Jo—Gérard,” Mamusia breathed, leaning forward hungrily as Madame Barbier uncorked a bottle of wine for them and then reluctantly disappeared to leave them in peace. “Isn’t it extraordinary that you and Eva have reunited here so far from home?”

  “Mamusia,” Eva warned under her breath.

  Joseph smiled, first at Mamusia and then at Eva, his gaze lingering on her. “Well, Eva herself is quite extraordinary.”

  Mamusia reddened and fanned herself dramatically, as if she herself had been the object of Joseph’s compliment. “Oh, you’re very kind, Joseph. She’s quite a catch, don’t you think?”

  “Mamusia, please!”

  Joseph smiled at Eva again, his eyes meeting hers. “Yes, I’m certain she is.”

  “Perhaps we could change the subject,” Eva said through gritted teeth.

  “Very well.” Her mother sighed and plunged into a story about a party she had attended at the invitation of Joseph’s parents in the summer of 1937, at their grand apartment on the rue du Renard, and how she had told her husband that it was simply the height of glamour and class. But at the mention of Tatuś, her smile faltered a bit, and she trailed off and looked toward the door as if she half expected him to enter at any moment.

  “I’m very sorry to hear about your husband’s deportation,” Joseph said gravely, reaching to touch Mamusia’s hand.

  “Thank you, Joseph,” Mamusia said with a sniffle. “I look forward to being reunited with him when the war ends. It’s just that I miss him very much right now.”

  Eva swallow
ed hard and stared at her plate. Mamusia seemed increasingly unable to process the possibility that there might not be a joyous reunion with Tatuś in the making. “Mamusia,” she said softly, but Joseph reached for Eva’s hand under the table, squeezed it gently, and didn’t let go.

  “Madame Traube, I would be happy to inquire after him, if that would be helpful,” Joseph said, and Eva watched as her mother’s head jerked up.

  “Inquire after my Leo?” Mamusia asked, her voice high and breathy. “You could do that?”

  Joseph shrugged, as if it was nothing to obtain information from a Nazi labor camp, as if there were a correspondence secretary simply awaiting his letter in the land of death and despair. “I have many contacts,” he said. “I’d be happy to see if anyone can find out where your husband is now. I’m sure he’s thinking of you all the time, Madame Traube.”

  “Joseph, I don’t think—” Eva began.

  “Oh, Joseph,” Mamusia cut her off, her eyes twinkling with tears as she beamed at him. “I always knew you were a wonderful boy. I’ve always told Eva that, haven’t I, dear? You should wind up with a nice Jewish boy like Joseph, I’ve always said.”

  Eva covered her eyes with her right hand, mortified, but Joseph didn’t laugh, nor did he let go of her left hand. He only squeezed tighter, and then his thumb began to stroke her palm, a motion of comfort, intimacy.

  “Well, Madame Traube, I’d be very lucky to find a woman like Eva, too. You and your husband have raised a fine daughter.”

  Mamusia fanned herself again and tittered like a teenager before excusing herself to go see about the main course in the kitchen. As soon as she was out of earshot, Eva groaned. “I’m so sorry about my mother. She seems to think this is a date.”

  “And would that really be so bad?” Joseph asked, waiting until she looked up at him in surprise. “You have to admit, Eva, we would make a good pair.”

  Eva pulled her hand away from him and looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “Joseph, I—”

  “Oh, don’t look so worried, Eva,” Joseph said with a laugh. “My work doesn’t leave much time for romance. I was only pointing out how very lovely you are, and how different you seem to have become since I saw you last.” He waited until Eva met his gaze again. “Is that so wrong to say?”

  “Thank you.” She felt like the shy schoolgirl she had once been, and desperate to change the subject, she asked, “Do you, by any chance, know how dangerous it is for members of the underground to escort Jewish children across the Swiss border?”

  Joseph burst out laughing. “I thought we were having a moment, Eva, and you’re asking me about the safety of our couriers? You’re not very good at this.”

  She could feel her blush deepening. “I’m just worried about someone.”

  His smiled faded. “Ah. Your partner in forgery. Rémy, is it?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “He’ll be fine, Eva. He can take care of himself.”

  She searched his eyes. “You don’t like him. Why?”

  “It’s just that at a time like this, I find it more comforting to be surrounded by people who are more predictable, people like you.”

  Eva wondered if it was only in her own head that the comment had sounded like a slight. Was Joseph here because he assumed she was the same old Eva, the docile English student who never spoke up, the inexperienced, sheltered girl who was too nervous to flirt? “I don’t know. I think there’s a certain value to being able to change when it’s necessary. Otherwise, we’d never grow.”

  Joseph raised an eyebrow. “Eva, you’re absolutely right. What I meant to say was that I admire your character, your stability. It’s nice to know that I’ll always know where I stand with you.” He gave her another charming grin.

  “So you think Rémy will be all right?” she persisted.

  “Well, he’s traveling on papers that the two of you made together, so I would imagine there’s every reason to assume he’ll be just fine. Which brings me, Eva, to the subject I wanted to discuss with you.” He craned his neck to look down the hall, and satisfied that her mother was apparently trying to leave them alone for a bit, he turned back to Eva. “You see, the identity documents you’ve been making are fine. And you’ve been doing brilliantly with the stamps. But your supporting papers have been failing inspections lately.”

  Eva’s eyes widened. Had there been more issues than just the one with the résistant named Lacroix? “Joseph, I’m very sorry. Was someone apprehended because of our work?”

  “It doesn’t matter. The problem is that the actual paper the documents are printed on needs to be more convincing.”

  Eva could feel herself blushing. “We—we’ve tried to make better paper, but it’s not our specialty.” She had always known, though, that it was a weak spot for them. Different documents were printed on entirely different types of paper—some closely woven, some fine, some textured, and some untextured—and she’d thought she and Rémy had done a decent job of sourcing the correct varieties. Rémy had even tinkered with making his own paper from wood pulp and water, but there hadn’t been time to get it right, not with all the documents that needed to be made. There were only two of them, and never enough hours in the day.

  “It’s not your fault; it’s the network’s, for not providing you with the things you need. But that’s about to change.” Joseph stood and walked to the rack in the hall where his overcoat hung. He withdrew a packet as thick as a dictionary, and Eva wondered, as he returned to the dining room, how he had managed to conceal it so well. “Here,” he said, handing it to her.

  “What is it?”

  He glanced once more down the hall. Her mother and Madame Barbier were still nowhere to be seen. “Open it. Quickly.”

  Eva unwound the string around the package and pulled back the brown butcher paper. Inside was a large stack of assorted papers, some thick, some as thin as blotting sheets, everything from blank ration cards to blank demobilization orders. She flipped through them and then looked back to Joseph in awe. “This is different from anything we’ve been able to get here. How…?”

  “They’re made in free Algeria and parachuted in.”

  “Parachuted?” Eva had heard rumors of weapons being dropped by the Allies, but blank papers? “By whom?”

  Joseph just smiled. “The less you know, the better. But those should last you for a while. Now, go put them somewhere safe for the night. I’ll have a few people looking out for you on your way to the church tomorrow, but you should be perfectly fine as long as you conceal the package beneath your coat. The Germans know there’s a forgery bureau going on beneath their noses, but they’re not looking for a girl. And certainly not one as pretty as you.”

  She could feel herself blushing. “Thank you. I’ll just go hide them in my room.” She stood.

  “Good.” Joseph patted his belly. “Now, I’m starving. Where do you suppose your mother is with that food?”

  * * *

  Joseph left an hour later—full of chicken, wine, and ersatz coffee with a touch of real cream—and on the way out, he reassured Eva’s mother that he would see what he could find out about Tatuś.

  “So you truly believe, as I do, that he is alive and well?” Mamusia asked, clasping his hand.

  “I do, Madame Traube.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “We have every reason to be optimistic.”

  Eva pulled on an overcoat to walk Joseph outside. It was snowing, and the streets outside were dark, empty, and windswept. “Do you really think you might be able to get word about my father?”

  Joseph didn’t answer right away. “Certainly you are aware he must be dead, Eva.”

  She choked back a sob. Of course, she knew it was likely, but to hear the words delivered so matter-of-factly felt like a slap in the face. The pity in Joseph’s eyes only made it worse. “Then why did you tell my mother that you believed he was alive?”

  “I just wanted to give her some comfort. And I think I did.” He pulled up the collar of his overcoat as a
gust of snowflakes swept past them.

  “False hope isn’t comfort, Joseph,” Eva protested.

  Joseph stepped closer and stroked her cheek gently, his thumb rough and cold. “I disagree,” he said softly. “We’re all pretending to be something we’re not, aren’t we?” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips, lingering there for a few seconds. As he pulled away, his eyes bore into hers. “In times like these, I think, there’s no other way to live with ourselves.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the next four days, Eva worked feverishly, turning out library cards, trade union cards, ration cards, demobilization certificates—all sorts of papers she hadn’t been able to accurately reproduce before she’d received the papers from free Algeria. Identity cards had been easy enough because the blank documents were readily available at many stores, and baptismal and birth certificates were relatively basic once one had gotten the hang of the various stamps and seals, as well as the differences in documents between different regions. But the others were much harder, and had therefore apparently become the kinds of supporting documents the Germans were examining closely if they had reason to be suspicious.

  Rémy still hadn’t returned, but he and Eva had spent the past several months transforming the small church library into a workshop, complete with a guillotine-like cutter for cleanly trimming paper, an Underwood typewriter, two staplers, a dozen bottles of chemicals, correcting fluid for erasing ration cards, and a collection of meticulously blended inks that Rémy had mixed to replicate the most frequent types found on official documents. There were common rubber stamps Eva had carefully engraved, along with a dozen blank copy rollers for less prevalent document stamps that would need to be reproduced quickly, and a simple, hand-cranked device Rémy had fashioned that used dust and old pencil lead to make documents appear older. There was even an old Singer sewing machine, donated by a parishioner long ago, that Eva had realized last month could be used to cut out revenue stamps if only she replaced the narrow needle with a larger one.