The Book of Lost Names

by Kristin Harmel

  Eva raised her eyebrows. Not only was Geneviève’s continued reverence for her old mentor a bit off-putting, but so, too, was the ease with which she shared his personal information. Of course, it had already been established that Eva was trustworthy, but they still weren’t supposed to be so carelessly trading identifying details. Suppose Eva was arrested and tortured for information; now she knew where one of the more prolific forgers—someone the Nazis would surely want to capture—had come from, and what his profession had been. “You should be more careful,” Eva said gently. “I shouldn’t know those things about Plunne, though he sounds wonderful.”

  Geneviève turned pink. “It’s not his real name, Eva, only his code name. In any case, I’m very sorry. I’m only making conversation.”

  “I know. I’m being too cautious.” Geneviève’s deep brown eyes were sparkling with tears, so Eva added, “And to answer your question, I was a student in English literature.”

  Geneviève wiped her eyes and smiled. She seemed to realize that the words had been a concession. The truth was, Eva had probably shared too much, but there were plenty of schools in Paris, which would make her much harder to track, even if someone had that information.

  “And you?” Eva asked after a moment. “I only know that you come from the Plateau.”

  “I—” Geneviève began, but they were interrupted by the door to the secret library cracking open behind them. They both scrambled instantly to hide the ration cards under the books scattered on the table; it was Eva’s reaction every time the door opened when she wasn’t expecting a visitor. She and Geneviève were fish in a barrel.

  But danger hadn’t arrived today. Instead, it was Joseph standing there. “I’m very sorry for startling you ladies,” he said, stepping all the way in and pulling the door closed behind him. “Père Clément gave me his key.”

  Geneviève looked quizzically at Eva as Joseph gave the dark-haired girl an appraising once-over. Eva realized they hadn’t yet met, though Geneviève had become a part of Eva’s day-to-day life. “Geneviève, this is… Gérard Faucon.” It was still strange to call him by the code name, which didn’t fit the Joseph she’d known in Paris. “And, um, Gérard, this is Geneviève Marchand, my new partner.”

  “Ah.” Joseph crossed the room, picked up Geneviève’s hand, and kissed it gently, gallantly. He smiled first at Eva, then at Geneviève, and Eva had to stop herself from rolling her eyes at Geneviève’s reaction. The other woman had turned red and was tittering nervously and fluttering her long lashes. “I had no idea Eva’s new partner was so beautiful,” Joseph added with a grin. “I would have come calling sooner.”

  Geneviève giggled. “It’s nice to meet you, Monsieur Faucon.”

  “And you, mademoiselle. Please, call me Gérard.”

  “Very well. Only if you call me Geneviève.”

  “It would be my honor. Now, Geneviève, I hope you’ll excuse me if I borrow Eva for a moment.”

  “Certainly.” Geneviève was still the color of a tomato.

  “Very well, I’ll return her in no time.”

  Joseph led Eva out of the library and gestured to a pew. “We won’t look suspicious if anyone comes in,” he said. “Just two lovers here to pray for peace.”

  His words rubbed her the wrong way; was there no other reason a man and a woman could be together in a church? But Joseph’s eyes were dark, his expression serious, and she knew something was wrong. “What is it, Joseph?”

  He waited until they were kneeling side by side, pretending to pray. “There were some arrests made in Annecy a few days ago. Your forgery partner, Rémy, was among those picked up.”

  Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. “What?”

  “He was escorting a group of children to Switzerland. His papers did not pass muster when he was questioned.”

  “Joseph, is he—?” She couldn’t say it.

  He looked blankly at her.

  “Dead?” She forced the word out. “Did they execute him?”

  “No, no. They’re questioning him now, along with the woman he was with.”

  The woman he was with. Certainly it was just another passeur, but the words made Eva’s stomach twist with jealousy. She wondered fleetingly if that had been Joseph’s intention. “And the children?” she managed to ask.

  “They’re fine. He was arrested on his way back across the border, after seeing them safely across.”

  “But—I thought he was working with explosives for the underground.”

  Joseph shrugged. “He was. He has experience crossing, though, and we needed someone who knew what he was doing. We just didn’t expect that it would be his papers that would trip him up.” He shrugged again, and Eva’s face burned with shame.

  “But how?” she asked. “How could the papers possibly not work?”

  “The Nazis are getting savvier, Eva.”

  “Well, of course. That’s why we’ve been using the Journal Officiel.” It had seemed foolproof; for months they’d been crafting unimpugnable identities.

  “Sadly, he was using the identity of someone a local gendarme knew. And thus, the gendarme knew the young man had been killed in a farm accident last year.”

  “Oh my God,” she murmured, the full weight of it crashing down on her.

  “Look, Eva, I know this is a setback.” Joseph put his arm around her shoulder. “But we must think of the future. I’ll speak with Père Clément, too, but the two of you and Geneviève should lie low for the next several days.”

  She blinked at him. “Why?”

  “In case Rémy gives you up.”

  Angry tears rushed to Eva’s eyes. “He would never do that.”

  “Eva, they’re undoubtedly torturing him. You never know what someone will do under that kind of duress.”

  She felt ill. “But I know him.”

  “Eva.” He waited until she looked at him. “It’s impossible to ever really know anyone. Can you even say you know yourself?”

  She held his gaze. “Of course.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “Can you really, though? After all, you’re not the same girl you were in Paris, are you? People change, Eva.” He stood. “I’m sure you’re right about Rémy, but better safe than sorry.”

  He left before she could protest further, and after he was gone, she felt like a traitor for not defending Rémy more strongly.

  She was still sitting in the pew a half hour later, her whole body numb, when Père Clément entered through the back of the church and sat beside her. “You spoke with Faucon?”

  She nodded, and when she turned to look at the priest, she was surprised to find tears falling from her eyes again. “Rémy would never betray us, Père Clément.”

  “I think you’re right, Eva—but Faucon is right, too. You and Geneviève should leave immediately and stay away for a few days, just in case.” His eyes were full of sympathy.

  “I can’t,” she said after a long pause, and he nodded, like he’d already known this. “I have to find a way to save him. If it was the papers we made together that got him into trouble, I owe it to him to get him out of it.”

  “Eva, none of this is your fault.”

  “I know.” And she did. But if there was a way to get Rémy out of Nazi hands, she would find it. “I’ll go talk to Geneviève and tell her to leave for a while. You, too, Father. You should be careful.”

  Père Clément shook his head. “This is my home, Eva.” He gestured to the silent Jesus on the cross and smiled. “I’m with him, no matter what happens.”

  Eva nodded. She understood this, too. When you loved someone, you didn’t abandon him. That meant more now than ever before.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Eva returned to the secret library, Geneviève was hunched over the table, working on a replacement identity for a young Resistance fighter.

  “Geneviève,” Eva said softly, and the other woman looked up with a smile that fell from her face as soon as she saw Eva’s grave expression.

  “Wh
at is it?”

  “You need to go now.”

  “Pardon?”

  “There’s—there’s a possibility we’ll be compromised. Faucon wants us to stay away for a few days, until we can be sure we’re safe.”

  Geneviève looked confused. “But there’s too much to do, and another batch of children due to leave early next week.”

  “I can do it myself. I don’t want you in danger.”

  “What has happened?” she asked, her tone softening as she studied Eva’s face.

  Eva hung her head. “Rémy, the man who was here before you—he was arrested.”

  Geneviève didn’t say anything, and Eva didn’t hear her get up, but all of a sudden, her arms were around Eva as she pulled her toward her in a tight hug. Startled, Eva stiffened before hugging back, then she pulled away and wiped her tears.

  “He means a lot to you,” Geneviève said.

  “Yes.” It was all Eva could manage.

  “How did he—?”

  As Eva briefly recounted the story about Rémy’s papers not matching up to official records, something in Geneviève’s expression shifted. “What is it?” Eva asked, stopping in midsentence. “Do you think they’ve already killed him?”

  “No, no, not that,” Geneviève said, and that’s when Eva noticed that the other woman’s eyes were sparkling with something that looked like hope. “You say his identity came from the Journal Officiel? And you two chose a French farmer a gendarme happened to know?”

  Eva nodded miserably.

  “But what if we come up with a way to explain why he had the young man’s identity? What if we make him a naturalized citizen from a country that is allied with Germany, and he could sheepishly explain that he was carrying false identity cards because he was afraid his French neighbors would reject him if they knew? At worst, he might have to serve a week or two in jail for presenting false papers, but they would discard him as an idiot, not execute him as a traitor—especially if he’s an ally of Germany. We would just need to find a record of someone naturalized many years ago, as a child, to explain Rémy’s lack of an accent.”

  Eva’s heart began to thud. “They would demand to know where he got the false papers.”

  “So he’ll give him the name of a forger in Paris who has already been executed. Laurent Boulanger, for instance. Or Marius Augustin.”

  Eva stared at her. “Do you think it could work?”

  “If we can find the right identity, one that matches up with everything and is entirely ironclad.” Geneviève was already moving toward the door. “Look, why don’t you leave it to me to find exactly the right name, and you can get started on the documents in the queue. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Why are you helping me, Geneviève?” Eva couldn’t resist asking. “It might be dangerous.”

  “I don’t run from danger, Eva, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Thank you,” Eva whispered, but Geneviève merely accepted the words with a shrug, and then she was gone, leaving Eva in the silence of an empty library that would never feel right until Rémy was home. But Geneviève was a new ally, too, and there was something to be said for finding people to trust in the dark.

  * * *

  Unable to close her eyes without thinking of the ways the Nazis might be torturing Rémy, Eva worked all afternoon and all night. By morning, when Geneviève appeared toting a cloth bag, Eva had finished all the identity papers and supporting documents for the next round of escaping children, and she had added them to the Book of Lost Names.

  “Have you been here all night?” Geneviève asked, setting the bag down on the table and looking around at the neat stacks.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Well done.” Geneviève pulled a few newspapers from the bag. “I hope you’ll have energy to work on one more set of papers. I found someone perfect for your Rémy—a young man, aged twenty-seven, who was naturalized twenty years ago after arriving from Austria, and who shows up again in a marriage record from August 1942, so you’ll have two things to produce that can be checked against official records. I pored over every issue of the Journal Officiel in Père Clément’s office that is dated after that, and there was no death notice, so I think we could reasonably assume he’s still alive. Here are the two journals in which he appears.”

  Eva took the gazettes, one of which was slightly yellowed, and shook her head in astonishment. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “There’s no need, Eva. We’re all in this together. Now, how can I help?”

  Quickly, but painstakingly, Eva set about creating false documents identifying Rémy as one Andras Konig, born the twelfth of May, 1915, who had emigrated to France from the first Austrian Republic with his parents and was naturalized in October 1922. He was a farmer, thus explaining why he hadn’t been called to obligatory service, and, in accordance with an issue of the Journal Officiel from August, she had him married in the Ain department to a French girl who’d been born Marie Travers in 1920. She still had several of Rémy’s photographs, tucked away with several photographs of her, in case they needed to make identity documents quickly, so it was easy to affix one to the new identity document and cover it with the requisite stamps. A ticket for bicycling without a light in Servas, and a library card from Bourg-en-Bresse made the cover complete.

  By the time Père Clément came to check on them at noon, Eva was nearly done. “How close are you to completing the documents?” he asked as he pulled the heavy door closed behind him.

  “I’m almost finished.”

  “Excellent. When you’re done, I’ll take them.”

  Eva’s smile fell. “Take them where?”

  “I plan to go fetch Rémy myself.”

  “Père Clément—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “I prayed about it all night, Eva. It’s the right thing. I’ll go as myself—a parish priest concerned about one of his congregants—and I’ll be able to persuade them that he’s simply ashamed of his Austrian past, and a bit simple, too. I’ll apologize for his terrible error in judgment in using false papers, and I’ll give them my word it will never happen again.”

  “If they’ve already made him confess…” Eva could barely get the words out.

  “I agree with what you said earlier, Eva, and I feel certain that hasn’t happened. Is there a risk? Yes. But I’ve spent the war so far safe inside this church while men like Rémy and Faucon are out there risking their lives each day. It’s time I do some of the same.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Eva said.

  He shook his head firmly. “That would only complicate things and make it all more dangerous. Besides, if something goes wrong, we can’t afford to lose you, too.”

  She didn’t like it, but she knew he was right. “I—I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I’m the one in your debt, Eva,” Père Clément said. He wrapped his hands around hers and squeezed once, comfortingly, before letting go.

  * * *

  Three days later, Eva was working in the library by herself when the door opened. “Rémy?” she cried, jumping to her feet.

  But it was only Père Clément, wearing a somber expression, and suddenly, Eva’s heart was in her throat. “Père Clément, is he…?”

  “He’s fine,” Père Clément said quickly. “Rémy did a wonderful job of playing along. In fact, by some miracle, he even knew a few words of Austro-Bavarian, apparently enough to fool the gendarmes. Thank God he wasn’t in German custody yet.”

  Relief swept over Eva, but it was still tempered by fear. She glanced behind Père Clément again. “Then where is he?”

  Père Clément crossed the room and took Eva’s hands. “He’s not coming back right now.”

  “But—”

  “He’s all right, Eva, but he’s needed farther to the north. I’m not sure why Gaudibert and Faucon had rearranged things so Rémy would be traveling so frequently across the border, but the underground needs him for his explosives expertise. He won�
�t be making any more trips as a courier, though, now that he’s on the authorities’ radar. He is, as they say, grillé.”

  “Did they… hurt him?”

  “They roughed him up a bit, but that was it. Apparently they thought he was just smuggling black market cigarettes for profit. No idea that he was working against them. Their misunderstanding likely saved his life.”

  Eva exhaled. “And he’s safe?”

  “For now. But what he’s doing is dangerous. If the Germans catch him sabotaging them, he’ll be executed immediately. Eva, you have to understand that the odds aren’t in his favor.”

  “They aren’t in mine, either. Yet I’m still here.”

  He gave her a small smile. “I suppose all we can do now is to pray for him—and to do our best here to support the work, as we always do.”

  “Père Clément?” Eva asked after a moment. “Did he ask about me?”

  “Of course he did.”

  “And?”

  Père Clément held her gaze. “He wanted to make sure you were all right, that you were safe.”

  “That was all? There was no message?”

  “I’m afraid not, Eva.”

  It wasn’t until Père Clément left that she allowed the tears to come. She tried to push them away, to tell herself that certainly today’s news had been good: Rémy was alive. He was mostly unharmed, and he wouldn’t be making any more border crossings.

  But he wouldn’t be coming back to her. And now she’d have no way of knowing whether he was safe. At least the false papers for Andras Konig would give him an extra layer of protection, but she knew they’d be worthless if he was caught doing something criminal—or if something went wrong and he blew himself up. Père Clément was right, all she could do was pray.

  And so she turned to the stack of Journal Officiel newspapers and began to flip through, looking for identities she could steal for others like Rémy who were standing on the front lines of a battle the Germans wouldn’t see coming.

  * * *

  In the next week, Eva went to the boardinghouse to sleep beside her mother only three times; the other nights, she spent holed up in the church, poring over the gazettes, forging papers, and sneaking in a few hours of sleep where she could find them. There were ration cards to be printed, identities to create, children to protect, Resistance fighters to hide. The work never seemed to let up, and to her credit, though she left before sundown, Geneviève worked as hard as Eva did during the day and brought a certain lightness to the somber library.