The Book of Lost Names

by Kristin Harmel

  On the Thursday night after Père Clément returned with the news about Rémy, Eva finally allowed herself to leave early. She found her mother sitting at the window in the parlor, gazing out with a blank expression.

  “Mamusia, are you all right?” she asked, bending beside her.

  Her mother didn’t even turn to look at her. “I’m just wondering where your father is right now.”

  Eva squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. “Mamusia—” she began gently.

  “Do you know what we were doing thirty years ago today?” she interrupted.

  “No, Mamusia.”

  “We were getting married. He wore a borrowed suit, and I wore white, and I thought all my dreams had come true. We thought we would have such a wonderful life together. A long life. And now, look where we are. He’s somewhere to the east, probably worrying about me, and I’m here, all alone.”

  “Oh, Mamusia.” Eva had forgotten the date. “Happy anniversary. I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything. You’re wrong about being alone, though. I’m here.”

  “You are in your own world, Eva, and there’s no room for me in it.”

  Eva wanted to tell her that there was no room for anyone, but that wouldn’t be true; there had been a space for Rémy, and now that corner stood cold and dark. “Mamusia, I will always be here. I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel that way.”

  Mamusia sighed. “An apology won’t return your father to me.” She walked away, and a few seconds later, Eva heard the door to their room slam.

  Madame Barbier emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Everything all right?”

  “I—I can’t seem to do anything but let my mother down.”

  “Dear, your mother is just exhausted, tired of hoping, tired of waiting.” Madame Barbier crossed the room and put a hand on Eva’s shoulder. “We all are. This war, it has gone on too long. And all she can see is that the people who matter most—you and your father—have been taken from her.”

  “Taken? I’m right here.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way to her, though that’s not your fault.”

  “But she’s my family.”

  “And in the midst of a war like this, you realize that family is more than just blood. I’m your family now, and so is Père Clément. So are all the children you’ve helped save, and the men and women who can continue to fight for France because you’ve protected them.”

  “That doesn’t fix things with my mother.”

  “One day she will understand that you did what you were born to do.”

  Eva looked at her. “With my father gone, though…” She couldn’t complete the sentence.

  “Dear girl, don’t you see?” Madame Barbier gave her a small smile. “Without people like you, France will fall to the wolves. The only way to save your mother is to save France. And that is just what you are doing.”

  After Madame Barbier returned to the kitchen, Eva knocked on the locked door to the room she shared with her mother, but there was no answer.

  “Mamusia, please open up,” Eva called through the wood. “I love you. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

  “Go away.” Her mother’s reply was muffled but the words were unmistakable.

  “Mamusia…”

  “Please, Eva. I just—I want to be alone.”

  Eva considered staying, trying to wear her mother down with apologies for any hurt she was causing, but Madame Barbier was right. If France fell, she and her mother would eventually be deported, simply because of the Jewish blood that coursed through their veins. Eva had to stop that from happening, and the only way to do so was to get back to work.

  The streets were empty and no one bothered her as she made her way back to the church. Inside the main room, candles burned on the altar, and Eva bent to pray. It no longer mattered to her that the man with the kind, sad eyes hanging on the cross wasn’t supposed to mean anything to her. She knew now that they were all on the same side. She prayed for her mother and father; she prayed for Rémy; and she prayed for the strength to do the right thing, whatever that might be.

  By the time she slipped into the hidden library and lit the lantern a half hour later, she felt a peace she hadn’t felt in ages. Maybe it was Madame Barbier’s words about saving France, or perhaps God was listening to her prayers after all and steering her in the right direction. She sat down to work, and perhaps because a weight had been lifted, the ink flowed more steadily, and the work went quickly. By midnight, she had completed three new sets of papers for the newest children to arrive in Aurignon.

  It was too far past curfew to return to the boardinghouse now, and though Eva’s hands ached, her mind was still racing. She stood to stretch, and after pacing for a few minutes, she decided to head out into the church to say another prayer; it had calmed her earlier, and she knew she needed all the comfort she could get.

  She had just cracked open the door from the secret library when she heard voices in the church. Her heart thudding, she melted back into the shadows. Who could be here this late at night? It was too dangerous now, though, to pull the door to the library closed. She was fairly confident, as the conversation continued, that no one had heard her emerge, but she might not be so lucky if she tried to retreat. She stayed stock-still and tried to breathe as shallowly as possible.

  The voices—both male—were coming from across the church, and it took a minute for it to register that one of them belonged to Père Clément. She relaxed slightly; he had every right to be here, even if the timing was odd. The man with him could easily be another member of the Resistance or even a troubled parishioner who had come to seek God.

  Just as she was breathing more normally, though, the man spoke again, and she stifled a gasp. The man’s accent was unmistakably German. Heart thudding, she crept forward, careful not to make a sound. There must be a logical explanation.

  But when she finally peered over the edge of a pew near the library and saw Père Clément on the other side of the church, her blood ran cold. The person with him was a man around her age with gold, wavy hair and ruddy cheeks.

  And he was wearing a Nazi uniform.

  Eva put a hand over her mouth and retreated into the shadows. She couldn’t make a sound; if the men heard her, she’d be finished. Unless this meeting is innocent, she reminded herself. The German could have sought Père Clément out because he needed religious counsel Perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions.

  But as she strained to make out the conversation, her last shreds of optimism vanished.

  “They’ll be moving on the thirteenth,” the German was saying in a low voice, his words just barely distinguishable.

  “That’s sooner than planned.” Père Clément’s voice was clearer.

  “Yes. That’s why I’ve come. I need names.”

  “And then what?”

  “We’re expecting Schröder or Krause to make an appearance early in the week.”

  “So that’s it, then.”

  “For now. You have the list?”

  “Here it is.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  She heard rustling, and a few seconds later, footsteps. She scooted back a few more inches, trying to make herself invisible against the wall, but the sounds were retreating, moving toward the back of the church. She held her breath again until she’d heard the main door open and close. Père Clément must have exited with the German, for there were no returning footsteps. Heart pounding, Eva waited another two minutes before ducking back into the library and pulling the door quickly closed behind her. If Père Clément found her, she would act as if she’d been here all along.

  Her hands shook as she sat down at the small table. Was Père Clément betraying them? Was he trading information with a Nazi? She replayed the conversation in her head and again heard the friendly tone between the two and the priest’s easy familiarity with the German names the soldier had mentioned. And clearly, he had handed over some kind of list. But what could this mean? Was Père Clémen
t playing some sort of long game she didn’t understand? Or was she getting it all wrong?

  Just then, there was a noise at the library door, and she gasped. As the door cracked open, she threw her arms and head down on the table and pretended that she’d fallen asleep in the middle of her work. Though she was still trembling, she forced herself to take long, slow breaths. As she felt a presence over her, she even faked a light snore, hoping that it would mask the fact that her hands were still shaking uncontrollably.

  “Eva?” Père Clément spoke softly. “Eva, are you awake?”

  Eva squeezed her eyes closed and prayed he would go away. He lingered there for a few more seconds before sighing and muttering something unintelligible, then she could hear footsteps retreating and the library door opening. She cracked open an eye just in time to see Père Clément, still in his priestly robe, disappearing back into the church as quietly as he’d come. He pulled the door closed behind him, leaving her in total darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Eva didn’t dare stir or leave the library until dawn broke, and as she waited, exhaustion finally forced her into a strange half slumber filled with nightmares of monsters dressed as men.

  When she finally let herself out just past eight in the morning, there was no sign of Père Clément, but she didn’t breathe easily until she had returned to the boardinghouse. Her mother was still in her nightgown and robe, taking her morning ersatz coffee in the parlor, and she looked up wearily as soon as Eva entered. “Night after night, I worry sick about you,” she said by way of greeting. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

  Eva’s head pounded. “Mamusia, I can’t do this right now. I have to go find Joseph.”

  Her mother brightened immediately. “Joseph? How lovely. Why don’t you invite him to dinner again? He’s handsome, he’s young, he’s single…”

  “Please stop.”

  “Don’t dismiss me so easily, Eva. He’s a good man—a good family man. Do you know he’s been coming by to check on me once a week?”

  Eva stopped and stared at her. “He’s been doing what?”

  Mamusia’s chest puffed out with pride. “He says I remind him of his own mother. He stays and prays with me, Eva, which is more than you do. You could learn something from him, you know. He’d be a wonderful son-in-law.”

  “Mamusia, enough!”

  “It’s just that you should think of him, Eva. You should be with someone like us.”

  “Yes, well, isn’t that what the Nazis say, too, when they encourage their young people to band together against those who are different?” Eva knew she’d gone too far, but she couldn’t help it. Her mother lived in a world of black and white, and Eva knew that neither of those colors existed, not really; it was all a spectrum of gray.

  Mamusia’s eyes narrowed. “It’s easy to dismiss me. But Joseph is someone you can trust. How can you turn your back on that?”

  Eva sighed. “Please, Mamusia, you must stop trying to matchmake for me.”

  Her mother frowned, but she didn’t say another word when Eva emerged from the bedroom ten minutes later after having changed clothes and splashed some water on her face. She merely waved goodbye with a small, encouraging smile, clearly hoping that Eva would take her advice.

  Eva wasn’t sure where to find Joseph, though, and it wasn’t as if she could ask Père Clément. Nor could she go around town asking for Faucon. But, she realized, Madame Travere might have a way to reach him in case of emergency, and certainly she could be trusted. She’d been putting her life on the line for more than a year simply to save innocent children.

  She knocked on the door of the children’s home twenty minutes later, and the silver-haired caregiver appeared almost instantly, cracking the door only a sliver as she peered out suspiciously. “What is it?” she snapped.

  “It’s me, Eva Moreau.” Using her alias with people she trusted still felt disingenuous, even after all this time. Then again, if last night had shown her anything, it was that no one could be trusted at all.

  Madame Travere pursed her lips, considering, and then she opened the door more widely to allow Eva in. “This is quite unusual, Mademoiselle Moreau. I’ve had no notice that you were coming.”

  “I’m very sorry, madame. This is—an unusual situation. I need to reach Gérard Faucon, and I was wondering whether you might help me.”

  Madame Travere didn’t say anything as she led Eva up the two flights of stairs into the parlor, where five young children, who ranged in age from around three to about eight, were playing quietly. After the raids in February, in which the authorities had turned up nothing, Madame Travere and the others had waited only two weeks before beginning to take in children again. There was no other way; there weren’t enough places to put them, not enough people to entrust them to. A wave of sadness swept over Eva as she watched them.

  “Mademoiselle Moreau,” Madame Travere said, and as Eva turned to her, she realized the older woman had been watching her closely as she stared at the children. Her expression had softened a bit, and Eva had the strange sense she had passed some sort of test she hadn’t known she’d been taking. “I understand that there are quite a few young ladies in town who would like to get in touch with Faucon, but—”

  “What? No, that’s not what I—” Eva stopped and shook her head, embarrassed. “I need to speak to him urgently, and I don’t know how to find him.”

  Madame Travere stared at her for another unsettlingly long moment before accepting this with a nod. “Why haven’t you asked Père Clément?”

  Eva swallowed hard. Though the conversation she had overheard had seemed damning, what if it wasn’t? She didn’t want to be spreading doubt about the priest until she knew for sure. She owed him at least that. “I—I didn’t see Père Clément this morning, so I came to you instead. Please, it’s very important.”

  Madame Travere pursed her lips and seemed to be considering the request. “You’ve done a good job with the children’s papers,” she said at last. “You’ve risked a lot to help us. Why?”

  Eva was thrown by the abruptness of the question, but she considered it anyhow. “Because none of these children deserve what’s happening to them. Helping them makes me feel like I can bring some light to the world, even in the midst of all the darkness.”

  “I feel the same.” Madame Travere nodded slowly. “Very well, Mademoiselle Moreau. You can ask after Faucon at the farm on the northern edge of town, the one with the blue barn and the red roses. The owners are friends of the underground. I understand it’s where Faucon stays when he’s in the area. Just head north on the rue de Chibottes and you’ll eventually come upon it on the hillside. It’s where the résistants, the ones who want to go into the forests to help, have been gathering for months now.”

  Eva shook her head. Every day there was something new to learn about this town and the secrets swirling around it. “Thank you, Madame Travere.”

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle Moreau,” she replied, looking Eva in the eye. “And whatever this is about, please stay safe. We need you.”

  * * *

  It took Eva forty-five minutes to walk to the farm on a road that turned to dirt at the edge of town. No one passed her going in either direction, and as the rows of hillside crops finally came into view, Eva understood why this would make a good place to hide.

  The farm’s land was dotted with several buildings, including a large stone house, a blue barn lined with red rosebushes, and several smaller, agricultural-looking buildings. A few men were working quietly among the rows, and they looked up as she approached. She gave a pleasant wave and felt their eyes burning into her as she walked up and knocked on the door of the main house.

  It was answered by a woman around Eva’s age, with long, dark hair and big, brown eyes. Her tanned skin was flawless, her cheeks flushed. Her brow creased in confusion when she saw Eva standing there. “And who are you?” she asked immediately.

  “Um, I’m Eva Moreau,” Eva said halt
ingly, caught off guard by the brusque greeting. She was still panting a bit from her walk.

  The woman’s eyes were hard as she looked Eva up and down. “So? What are you doing here? We have no grain to sell to the public. No eggs, either. You’ll just have to wait in the queues like everyone else.”

  “I’m not here for grain or eggs, madame.” She took a deep breath. “I’m looking for Faucon.”

  The woman took a small step back, her expression growing even colder. “Falcons? I’m afraid we have no birds here this time of year. Perhaps your bird-watching would be more successful elsewhere.”

  “No, I’m—”

  “Thank you for stopping by.” And with that, the door was slammed in Eva’s face. She stood blinking at it before knocking again, but there was no answer.

  Finally, Eva turned and headed toward the fields, intending to ask the men who’d been working there if they knew where to find Faucon, but they were gone, too. It was as if the entire farm was suddenly deserted, a ghost town.

  Eva walked over to the barn and peeked inside, but it was dark and silent, a tractor and a few pieces of agricultural equipment standing guard over bales of hay. “Hello?” Eva called, but the only reply was her own echo.

  Defeated, she finally left and began to walk back toward town, her shoulders slumped. Now what? Perhaps she could leave word with Madame Travere that she needed to speak with Faucon. But how long would it take for the message to reach him? In the meantime, Eva would have to continue reporting to the church as if nothing was wrong, for to do otherwise would only raise suspicion.

  She was just passing Madame Travere’s house when a movement in the shadows across the street to the right caught her eye. Was there someone there? She squinted into the darkness, waiting for a person to emerge.