The Book of Lost Names(22)
“Indeed it does.” He smiled at her. “Well, Mademoiselle Fontain, I’m very impressed. And now, I must admit, I’m even more desperate to ask for your assistance.”
What if she could help others escape the way she and her mother had? But she couldn’t even consider that yet, not with her father still in danger. She cleared her throat. “Well, you see, I would, but I’m otherwise occupied at the moment. My father has been falsely imprisoned.” She looked him in the eye. “In Paris. There was a raid a few days ago. They arrested many Jews.”
“Yes, it’s an absolute tragedy. Somewhere around thirteen thousand.”
So Joseph’s dire prediction hadn’t been so outlandish. “How do you know that?”
“As I said, I have friends. Most of the arrested are being held now in Drancy, northeast of Paris, in a large prison camp. You say your father was among them? I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Yes.” Eva still wasn’t entirely sure whether to trust the priest. This was the first she’d heard of the prison camp. “I would like to clear up the error, but I don’t have the correct papers.”
“Ah, I see. Well, Mademoiselle Fontain, I might be able to help you with that.”
“Yes?” Eva held her breath.
“Of course, if you went to Drancy with a letter from the Argentine consul explaining that your father is Argentine, the authorities would have to release him,” Père Clément said casually. “The Germans have an agreement with the Argentine government, you see. They avoid imprisoning their citizens, even the Jews.”
Eva opened and closed her mouth. It had never even occurred to her that she’d need papers like that. But of course it wouldn’t be enough simply to show up at the gates of a prison and present identity documents, no matter how well forged they were. “And you have friends in the Argentine embassy?” she asked carefully.
“No.” Père Clément held her gaze. “But I know what their documents look like. And I have many materials at my disposal. I would like to help you, mademoiselle. I’ll need your help in return, though. We have other papers that need to be worked on, too.”
“I see.”
“Why don’t you think it over?” He led her toward the door, and as he opened it, leading her back into the church, she felt adrift. For a moment, she could have imagined herself in the stacks of the library in Paris, with no greater worry than completing her English degree, but now the real world was intruding once more. “If you are interested, come to the church tonight after nightfall—but you must come alone. And I swear on my life, Mademoiselle Fontain, you and your mother can trust Madame Barbier.”
“Even though she betrayed us to you?”
Père Clément walked her toward the carved front entrance and reached for the wrought iron handle. “Was it a betrayal, though? Or was she trying to save you both?”
With that question hanging in the air, he pushed the door open. The sunlight poured in, blinding Eva for a moment, and by the time she turned back around to bid the priest farewell, he had disappeared back into the depths of the church, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts.
Chapter Eight
May 2005
Ben shows up at my door thirty-five minutes after I call with the news that I’ll be departing for Berlin in less than nine hours and would appreciate a ride to the airport.
“Mom, are you insane?” he asks without preamble when I open the door to find him standing on my doorstep, sweat beading on his forehead in the Florida heat. “You’re just hopping on a plane to Germany and I’m supposed to act like that’s normal?”
“I don’t care how you act,” I reply with a shrug. “I only care that you drive me to the airport. You’re quite early, though, dear.”
“Mom, you’re being ridiculous.” He steps inside and I shut the door behind him, bracing for an argument. The older he gets—well, the older I get—the more he believes he knows what’s best for me. Our latest battle of wills, which is still ongoing, is the one in which he attempts to convince me to move into an assisted-living facility for my own good. But why should I? I’m in full control of my mental faculties; my vision and hearing are nearly as good as they were half a lifetime ago; I walk to work and am perfectly capable of driving myself to the store and to doctors’ appointments. Sure, I had to give up mowing the lawn three year ago when I suffered an embarrassing episode of heatstroke, but there’s a nice landscape man who takes care of things now and only charges me sixty dollars a month.
“I don’t see what the problem is,” I tell him, turning my back as I head toward my bedroom, where my suitcase lies open on the bed. “I need to pack, dear.”
My room is lined with books, most of them stacked in precarious piles on the bowing bookshelves Louis assembled years ago. They are filled with other people’s stories, and I’ve spent my life disappearing into them. Sometimes, when the nights are dark and silent and I’m alone, I wonder if I would have survived without the escape their pages offered me from reality. Then again, perhaps they just gave me an excuse to duck out of my own life.
“Mom,” Ben says, following me into the bedroom. “Help me to understand what you’re doing. Why Germany? Why now? You’ve never mentioned Germany before!” He sounds frantic, but also annoyed with me, perturbed that I have disrupted his day.