The Book of Lost Names(27)

Slowly, she shook her head.

“Marie Charpentier,” he said simply.

“Pardon?”

“Marie Charpentier. You really should be writing this down.” He waited patiently while, dazed, she picked up a pen and obediently jotted the name. “Middle name, Renée. Born the eleventh of February, 1921, in Paris. You’re a secretary. And you live in Paris, at number eighteen on the rue Visconti in the sixth arrondissement. Oh, and there’s a bus to Clermont-Ferrand that leaves the town square just past ten in the morning. Got it?”

She looked up at him. “But…”

“Good. You should be able to loosen the staples on your current photograph, and if you’re as good as Père Clément says, you should be able to work with the portion of the stamp that’s already printed there. Stamps are difficult, of course; there are so many in circulation, and I’ve only been able to engrave the most common ones, but I see you’ve made do. Impressive. In any case, we’ll get you some better documents when you return from Paris. And one more question, Mademoiselle Charpentier—I hope you don’t mind if I call you that. Have you much experience forging other documents?”

“I’ve—I’ve never done any of this before.”

He frowned. “Interesting. Well, do make sure to extinguish the lanterns on the way out, would you? You wouldn’t want to burn the church down.”

“I—” she began, but he was already heading for the door.

“Enjoy reading the epistles!” he said cheerfully, finally cracking a small smile.

Before she could reply, he was gone, shutting the door silently, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts. She stared after him and then looked back at her forged letter. It was indeed missing an accent mark, just as he’d said.





Chapter Ten




Eva didn’t sleep at all after leaving the church with her newly forged identity card identifying her as Marie Charpentier. Before dawn, while her mother slept peacefully, she carefully forged travel permits for her father and herself, so they would be able to journey to Aurignon after she freed him from Drancy. Though her stomach swam with doubt, she left to track down Père Clément before her mother awoke. But the church was empty and silent, and he was nowhere to be found. Nor was Madame Barbier around to confront. Though the dark-haired man had mentioned the ten o’clock bus, Eva had seen an eight o’clock route on the schedule posted in the town square, too. Eager to get to Paris as soon as possible, Eva left to catch it after awakening her mother and telling her what had happened in the church the night before.

“It still does not mean that you owe these people anything,” her mother muttered.

“Mamusia, if they help me save Tatu?, I owe them everything.”

Mamusia sighed. “Just bring him back safely, moje serduszko. I’m counting on you.”

Hours later in Clermont-Ferrand, her mother’s words were still running through her head as she presented her documents to a bored-looking French policeman and stepped aboard a train bound for Paris. Just bring him back safely… I’m counting on you. It felt as if the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders. As the train slowly chugged away, taking her north, deeper into a land saturated with Germans, Eva closed her eyes and placed her forehead against the cool window. “Please, God,” she murmured, “look after my mother.”

The first leg of the journey was uneventful, and Eva might have dozed off if not for the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Vineyards, windmills, and tiny villages raced past outside the glass, and Eva did her best to ignore the other passengers and the German soldiers who walked periodically up and down the aisles of the train.

They had just passed Saint-Germain-des-Fossés, north of Vichy, when a man cleared his throat loudly beside her seat. Eva ignored him, watching the winding water of a narrow stream as it ran past a small farm dotted with sheep, but when he said, “Fr?ulein? Your papers?” in an unmistakably German accent, she had no choice but to look up.

She found a light-haired man—a boy, really—in a German uniform scowling at her. He looked younger than she by several years, but he was standing ramrod straight, as if drawing himself up to his full height would make him appear more threatening. She wanted to tell him that the Nazi insignia on his chest made him frightening enough without help from exaggerated posture. But instead, she fought to keep her expression neutral as she handed over her false identity card and the travel permit she had fabricated just this morning.

The soldier examined them both, his eyes narrowed. When he looked back up at Eva, his expression was smug, hard. “Fr?ulein Charpentier,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain, “what is the destination of your travel today?”

“Paris.”

“For what purpose?”

Her heart thudded. Why had he picked her out to harass? Certainly her papers had passed muster earlier. She glanced quickly around the train carriage and found several people staring at her, some with sympathy, some with suspicion. She turned her attention back to the German. “Returning home.”

“And where are you coming from?” The soldier’s gaze had grown more suspicious.

“Aurignon.”

“What was your business there?”

“I was visiting an aunt.”