Eva was shaking now. “No. No, no, no. That’s impossible. I’ve known him for years. He would never…” She trailed off. “No,” she added in a whisper.
“He—he told me that when the Germans arrested him in December, they offered to pay him if he’d become an informer.”
“But he’s a Jew!”
She sputtered, blood gurgling. “You weren’t supposed to leave so early, he said. He promised you to them; he promised he would bring them the Jew who was behind all the forged documents in the region. He didn’t believe I didn’t know where you’d gone.”
Eva’s blood ran cold. “He did this to you because of me?”
“It’s not your fault.” Geneviève groped for Eva’s hand, her eyelids fluttering again. “It’s mine.” She took a trembling breath, and Eva could hear a rattle in her lungs. “I—I trusted the wrong person.”
“I trusted him, too.”
“You have to go. Before he comes back.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“For me, it’s over.” Geneviève’s voice was getting weaker. “Make him pay for what he’s done.”
“But…”
“Eva. Go.”
Eva wavered. She put a hand on Geneviève’s midsection and felt only blood, hot and pooling. Joseph had shot her and left her to die a slow, terrible death, all alone. But she wouldn’t be alone. Eva could do that for her, at least. “I won’t leave you, my friend. I’m here.”
Geneviève was too weak to argue. So while she fell in and out of consciousness, Eva held her hand and softly crooned “Au Clair de la Lune,” the lullaby Geneviève’s mother had comforted Geneviève with when she was just a little girl. “Ma chandelle est morte,” Eva sang, “Je n’ai plus de feu. Ouvre-moi ta porte pour l’amour de Dieu.” My candle is dead. I have no light left. Open your door for me, for the love of God.
As Geneviève slipped away, Eva sang the song again, turning the last words of the verse into a prayer. “Open your door for her, please, dear God.” And then Geneviève was gone, her suffering over. Eva stood, her hands coated in her friend’s blood, and headed for the ladder, one more innocent death on her conscience, one more reason to fight burning deep in her soul.
* * *
The only place Eva could think to go was back to the church. She was still reeling from the betrayal, which had knocked her sideways with confusion and guilt. How could Joseph have turned against them? Against her? Obviously, she had never really known him at all, the charmer with the dark good looks and a heart of stone. Fury churned within her—at Joseph and at herself. How had she been so blind, so quick to believe in him just because she’d known him in her previous life?
She had to warn Père Clément. But how would she stop Joseph if he was already here? He had a gun, and Eva had only… what? Her righteous anger? Her crippling grief? Still, it would have to be enough. She had failed her mother and Geneviève. She couldn’t fail the kindly priest, too.
She stopped only long enough to wash as much of Geneviève’s blood from her hands and face as she could, and then she grabbed Geneviève’s bicycle and set off toward town. She had to walk it through the snowdrifts until she reached the main road, which had been cleared. She climbed on and rode the rest of the way as the sun sunk toward the horizon and the wind froze her tears.
The church was dark and silent, though the front door was unlocked. This is God’s house, Père Clément had once told her. The doors will never be closed to a soul seeking God’s peace. It wasn’t peace Eva was seeking today, though.
She checked Père Clément’s office, the confessional, and the secret library, but the church was deserted. A quick check of his small apartment behind the church came up empty, too; the doors were closed and locked, the windows dark. Eva retreated back to the library, though she knew as long as she remained there, she was a sitting duck. Joseph knew about it—and about Père Clément’s key to the room—and sooner or later, he might come looking.
But there was something she had to do.
In silence, she lit a few lanterns and pulled the Book of Lost Names from its innocuous place on the shelf. It was the one thing Joseph wouldn’t be able to take from her; she thanked God she had shared the secret only with Père Clément and Rémy.
She stared at the book for a moment as she held it in her hands. The brown leather was even more worn than it had been when she first held it, the spine more creased, two slight faded spots on the back of the book now and one on the front from her own fingertips, from the number of times she had held it without fully removing the chemicals and ink from her fingers first. She was only the latest person to put her mark on it, though. How many Catholic worshippers had held this book in their hands over the past two centuries before it found its way to her? It had existed before the French Revolution, before Napoleon had been born, before Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had lost their heads in the name of liberty, before Eva’s parents had come to France believing that doing so would give them a life of freedom and opportunity. And here it was, in the hands of a proud Jew, in the back of a church where God had seen evil and treachery unfold.
Eva blinked back tears and opened the book to page two, Rémy’s page. She knew exactly what she wanted to tell him, what she should have said in that cottage on the edge of France just a few days earlier. On the first line, her hand trembling, she marked a tiny star over the é in étoit, then a dot over the p in prions. On the next page, she added another dot over the o in recevoir, and on page four, a dot over the u in leurs. She continued like that on Rémy’s pages—six, nine, fourteen, twenty-two, thirty-five, and so on—until she had said what she wanted to say: Épouse-moi. Je t’aime.
She closed the book after drawing a dot over the first m on page 611; there weren’t enough pages left for the final e, but it would be enough to piece together the message: Marry me. I love you. As she slid it back into place, she let her hand linger on its spine, just for a second. Would Rémy find it? Would he know she loved him? Or would the book mean nothing in the end?
Just then, there was a noise at the door, and she jerked her hand away from the bookshelf. It was too late, she realized, too late for everything. As Joseph moved into the room, clutching a handgun, Eva shrank back against the wall. She had nothing to defend herself with, nothing but books. She groped behind her, and closed her hand around the spine of a heavy Bible. He would shoot her, she knew, but she didn’t want to go without a fight.
“Joseph,” she murmured.
His face twisted as he moved into the space she had once shared with Rémy. “Eva, you’re even more foolish than I thought. You came back? To the one place you knew I could find you?”
She took a deep, trembling breath. “I had to.” Even if she died here today, which she almost certainly would, Rémy would know she had loved him.
“You know, I’ve never understood you, Eva Traube, even in Paris, with your wide eyes and your nose buried in books like the world outside the pages didn’t matter. You were always an odd bird, weren’t you? And you think I didn’t see the way you looked at me? Just like all the others. I could have had you if I wanted, anytime.”
She ignored him. “What have you done, Joseph? To Geneviève? To my mother?”
There were tears in his brilliant blue eyes, just for an instant, as he looked away. “I didn’t want to hurt them, Eva. It got away from me.”
“What did? How could you do any of this, you bastard?”
When he turned back, the tears were gone, replaced by a look of steely resolve that sent a chill down her spine. “I had no choice. The Germans knew I was part of the underground. They were going to execute me, so I offered them a deal.”
“It was your idea to work for the Germans?”
“You would have done the same to save yourself.”
“No, Joseph, I wouldn’t have. Not in a million years.”
He narrowed his eyes. “They wouldn’t have offered you the chance anyhow. You’re a Jew.”
“You are, too!”
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He shook his head, the traces of a smug smile playing across his lips. “My father was Catholic. My mother was only half Jewish. The Germans said I was lucky; one more drop of Jewish blood, and I would have been doomed.”
“You’re doomed anyhow, Joseph. You really think there’s a place for you in Germany if they win the war? They’ll never be able to see past your Jewish blood. And if France wins instead, well, they execute traitors.”
“You think I haven’t thought things through? The Germans have promised to pay me, enough so that I can disappear after the war and live my life.” His expression hardened. “Besides, there won’t be anyone left to tell them what I’ve done, Eva.”
She swallowed hard. “So you’re going to kill me, too, then. Just like you killed my mother.”
His face fell. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I cared about your mother, Eva, I did. She was always kind to me. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were there for Madame Barbier, and after they arrested your mother, too, they asked me if I knew her. I was going to deny it, but she begged me to help her. She even used my real name, the old fool! After that, I couldn’t deny that I knew who she was, especially because it was obvious by then that she was your mother. And she refused to tell the Germans what she knew, Eva. They might have sent her east rather than executing her if she’d told them where you’d gone. It’s her own fault.”
“None of this was her fault.” Eva choked back the lump in her throat. “And Geneviève?”
He flexed his jaw. “If things were different, maybe we would have had a chance. But I needed to know where you were. You’re my ticket to a new life, Eva. I gave them Gaudibert already. You’re the second half of the bargain. If I turn you over to the Germans, give them the Jew behind the largest forgery operation in the area, I get to live. You can see my dilemma, yes? Geneviève had information, and she refused to give it to me. I only meant to threaten her, Eva, but she was selfish. I told her that giving you up was the only thing that could save my life, and she wouldn’t do it.”
“So you shot her in the stomach and left her to die?”
“It truly is a shame that things had to end that way.”
“You’re a monster.”
He looked away. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. How could you? You Jews don’t have a future in France, but I do. Surely you see that.”
She could feel the fury inside of her surging hot and strong. She reminded herself to remain calm. “So what happens now, Joseph?”
“You tell me everything about what you’ve been doing here the past year. I know where you’re getting the papers, of course—and I’ve told the Germans all about the Algerian drops from the Allies—but how are your documents themselves so convincing? I’ve been trying to get the information from Gaudibert and Père Clément for months now, but they’re both too careful, too tight-lipped. Even under torture, Gaudibert wouldn’t give your secrets up! How are you and Rémy erasing information? How are you duplicating stamps so perfectly and so quickly, even when the Germans change their methods and their inks? What are the other networks you’re working with? Who are your contacts? The Germans need to know so that they can crack down on all the forgery bureaus like yours across France. If I bring that information to them, they’ll let me leave Aurignon, start a new life.”
“You’re a fool to believe they’ll keep that promise, Joseph. They’ll kill you.”
He shook his head. “You don’t know anything about it. So what’ll it be? Trust me, it will be easier if you give the information to me.”
“Why would I tell you a thing, you treacherous bastard?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll bring you to the Germans, and they’ll beat it out of you. They’ll torture you until you’re pleading for mercy, until you’re begging for a bullet to your brain. I’m an old friend, Eva. I would rather see you go in peace. Help me, and I’ll help you.”
“Like you helped Geneviève?”
Something flickered across Joseph’s face for an instant, something that looked almost like regret. Then as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. “I told you, she could have saved herself. I could have taken her with me. But she didn’t love me enough. She’s to blame.”
“She’s to blame?” Anger bubbled up within Eva, and before she could reconsider, she pulled the heavy Bible from the shelf behind her and flung it at him with all her might. He raised his hand to ward off the blow, but his surprise made him fire his weapon. The bullet tore through the air above Eva’s right shoulder, close enough that she could feel it pass. When Joseph straightened again, there was a small ribbon of blood above his right brow, and he was sneering. At least she had succeeded in wounding him, even if it was the last thing she’d do.
“Oh, Eva, you will regret that,” he growled.
She squared her shoulders and thought of her mother, of her father, of Rémy, of all that she had lost because of this war. “I have more regrets than you will ever know. But hurting you will never be one of them.”
He raised his gun again. “Tell me about the forgeries, Eva, or I’ll torture you myself. I’d relish the opportunity, you pathetic cow. You’ll give up your precious Rémy and everyone else.”
“I’d sooner die, Joseph.”
“Oh, you will die, Eva. It’s just a matter of how much it will hurt. If you don’t start talking, I’ll put a bullet here, in your leg. You’ll bleed to death slowly, and it will be excruciating. I’ll make sure of it.”
“You’ll pay for this, for everything you’ve done.” She spat at him.
His face darkened, fury burning in the eyes she had once thought were beautiful. “I don’t want to do this, Eva, but you’ve left me no choice. You have ten seconds to make up your mind—and I’m only giving you that time because of our long-standing friendship, you see—but if you’re still being this obstinate by the time I finish, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice but to pull the trigger. Understand? Ten, nine, eight…”
“Go to hell, Joseph.” As he counted down the seconds, she closed her eyes and began to pray—not to survive, for she knew there was no longer a chance of that.
“… seven, six, five…”
Instead, Eva prayed that she would have the strength and fortitude to breathe her last before she betrayed anyone. No one else could die because of her; she couldn’t bear it.
“… four, three, two…” As Joseph reached the end of his countdown, Eva braced herself for the horrific pain she knew would come, the agony that would be only the beginning.
When the shot went off, it sounded like an explosion. It reverberated in the room, and her ears rang with the force of it. It took her a split second to realize, though, that she felt nothing. Had he missed? Her eyes flew open, and her jaw fell.
There on the ground before her lay Joseph on his belly, his head twisted to the side, his eyes open and unseeing, his mouth agape, an oozing bullet wound in the back of his head.
Above him, smoke still drifting from the pistol in his hand, stood Erich, in full Nazi uniform, his eyes on Eva. “You must go, Eva,” he said. “Go now. They’re coming for you.”
She began to tremble as she stared at him in shock and disbelief. “How…?”
“Joseph betrayed me, too. My superiors know I was helping the underground. A friend told me, and I slipped away before they could arrest me. I came here to warn Père Clément. I couldn’t find him, but I heard Joseph’s voice, and then a moment ago, the gunshot.”
“You saved me.”
He smiled sadly. “At least I have done one thing I can feel good about when I meet my maker.”
“What do you mean, Erich? Come with me, quickly. We can run together.”
“It’s too late for me. Not for you. Go, Eva. Run for your life. Don’t worry, I’ll distract them for a few minutes, at least. It’s the only chance you’ll have.”
“Erich—”
“Before I came to Père Clément to confess, there were things I did, Eva, things that can never be fo
rgiven. I have come to terms with what eternity will hold for me. Knowing my last act was to save you, though, would give me some peace in the end. Please, let my life be worth at least that.”
Suddenly, she understood what he was saying. “Erich, no!” She reached for him, but he backed away, shaking his head.
There were voices outside the church then, raised voices, barking orders in German. “Live a good life, Eva,” Erich whispered, and then, without hesitation, he closed his eyes, put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.
Eva stifled a scream as he fell to the floor, but in an instant, she understood what she had to do. Erich had created chaos that would allow her to escape. And so just before the Nazis entered the church, she dashed out of the secret library and dove beneath a pew, holding her breath as a dozen black boots stormed past her toward the bodies of Erich and Joseph. She waited until they were all inside the little room, exclaiming to each other in disbelief, before wriggling out and making her way quickly and silently toward the back door of the church. She glanced at Jesus on the altar once more and said a quick prayer for Erich’s soul before hurrying out into the icy night.
And then, just as Erich had urged her to do, she moved into the darkness, running for her life.
Chapter Thirty
Sixteen months later June 1945
The light on the Boulevard Raspail in Paris was fading on a warm June afternoon as Eva made her way for what felt like the hundredth time to the Hôtel Lutetia, the soaring, snow-white art nouveau masterpiece in Saint-Germain-des-Prés that had once been a haven for writers and artists. The war had turned it into something different, a headquarters for the spies and torture specialists of the German Abwehr, but Paris had been freed ten months earlier, and in April, the grand hotel had taken on yet another new life as a repatriation center for refugees from the German concentration camps.
Eva had made it back to Paris from Switzerland in the fall of 1944, two months after the liberation of the city, and she had wandered the streets, hoping to meet someone she’d known in her previous life, someone who could tell her what had become of her father. But there was no one. Nothing. A family of French strangers was living in her old apartment, and none of her old neighbors had remained. She began going to the Mazarine Library each day to wait on its steps in hopes that Rémy would come for her, but as the days passed and the months grew colder, she began to admit to herself that he likely hadn’t survived the war. Almost no one had.
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