The Book of Lost Names(106)

“Do you know what else this very wise person told me?” he asks. “She said that we’re defined by who we are in our hearts, who we choose to be on this earth. And I believe, Mrs. Abrams, that you chose to be a hero, even if you don’t see it that way.” He holds out the book and says, “It’s yours if you want it, ma’am, after the requisite paperwork, of course, but if you don’t mind, I’d love to keep it for a few days to make a list of the names. Maybe I can help with the ones you couldn’t remember all those years ago. Wouldn’t that be a gift, to be able to reunite some lost children with their pasts? In fact, why don’t you stay and help me?”

I look at the book and then back at Kühn. “My son is probably worrying about me. I—I left without telling him.”

“So call him. Explain that you have some unfinished business to attend to.”

“But… he knows nothing of the person I used to be.”

“Then isn’t it time you tell him? Maybe the first identity to recover should be your own.”

I stare at the book. It holds the most important message I ever sent, though I sent it too late. And isn’t that the story of my life when it comes to the people I love? I was too late when I tried to rescue my father from Drancy. Too late when I returned to Aurignon for my mother. I don’t want to be too late with my son, too.

I look up at Kühn. “Might I borrow your phone?”

He beams at me. “I thought you’d never ask, Mrs. Abrams. Just hit two for an outside line, then zero-zero-one to call America.”

I pick up the receiver, punch in the numbers, and then dial my son’s cell phone number. I listen to it ring once, twice, and then he answers.

“Ben?” I begin.

“Mom? Where are you? I’ve been so worried.”

“There’s no need to worry about me.” I exchange smiles with Kühn once more and then close my eyes, trying to see Rémy’s face in my mind. “Ben, sweetheart, it’s time I tell you who I really am.”





Chapter Thirty-Two




Night has fallen by the time Kühn and I make it through the first six dozen coded names in the book. After getting off the phone with an incredulous Ben, I had offered to stay, for after all, I erased these names years ago; it’s only fair that I be the one to help restore them.

“Do you have a place to stay, Mrs. Abrams?” Kühn asks, leaning back in his chair. “I think we should have a bit of a rest and start fresh tomorrow. There’s a hotel just down the street that sometimes hosts the library’s guests; I can make a call to arrange a room for you, if you’d like.”

I want to keep going, but these names have already waited more than sixty years, and I suppose they can wait another day. Frankly, I’m exhausted. “That sounds lovely, Herr Kühn. Thank you.”

As he picks up the phone to call the hotel, I flip to page 308, the last page on which I drew a star. This page belongs to the girl we called Jacqueline, the little one Rémy and I helped across the Swiss border on that cold winter night so long ago, the night we made love, the night he offered me forever, the night I said no. Her real name was Eliane Meisel. I wonder what happened to her, whether her parents lived, whether she found her way home.

I’ve just closed my eyes, trying to see her sweet little face in my mind through the fog of time, when suddenly, Kühn and I are interrupted by a voice in the doorway. “Entschuldigung,” says a woman’s voice, and my eyes snap open. A middle-aged security guard hovers there uncertainly.

“Guten Abend, Mila.” Kühn sets the phone down and turns to the guard. “Wie kann ich dir behilflich sein?”

She glances at me and then rattles off a few sentences in rapid German to Kühn, nodding once to the Book of Lost Names. I try to decipher what she’s saying, but I can’t follow it. Kühn replies to her quickly, then stands and turns to me as she leaves.

“What is it?” I ask.

“That was our night security guard, Mila. She says that there’s a man outside the library saying the book is his, that he just flew in from the States and can’t wait another minute to see it.”

“My book?” I pick it up and clutch it to my chest defensively. “Well, that’s impossible.”

“We’ve had a few of these, I’m afraid,” Kühn says, shaking his head. “Collectors, trying to claim books for their collections. It figures that this one would come at night, when he thinks he can strong-arm us.”

“Should we call the police?”

Kühn smiles. “Mila is tougher than she looks, and so am I. For that matter, I suspect you are, too. I think we will be just fine. Let me go get rid of him. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“I’ll come with you. If there’s someone trying to steal my book, I want to look him in the eye.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Let’s lock the book away, shall we?”

I wait while he secures it inside his desk drawer, and as I follow him out into the darkened main room of the library, I realize I already miss it, miss the warmth of it in my hands. It still feels like a part of me, even all these years later.

Mila is standing by the front door. “He’s just out there,” she says as we walk up beside her. “Come on.”