The Book of Lost Names(34)

Eva closed her mouth and turned to look out the window at the teeming crowd of people, miserable and sweating in the beating July sun. Was her father among them, being treated like livestock? She didn’t realize that tears were running down her cheeks until Rémy hissed at her, “Pull yourself together. You’re just the secretary.” But when she looked up at him, there was no annoyance in his eyes, only pity. He quickly wiped away her tears with his thumb.

The officer returned then, carrying a leather-bound book, his expression unreadable as he slammed the door behind him. He didn’t make eye contact as he flipped through the pages, finally stopping midway through and placing his finger on the page. “Leo Traube,” he said, finally looking up.

“Yes, that’s right,” Eva said too eagerly, and Rémy gave her a gentle nudge in the ribs.

“Well, I’m afraid that the mix-up is not my problem any longer,” the man said, turning the book around on his desk so it faced Eva and Rémy. He jabbed a meaty finger at line thirty-five, where the name Leo Traube was neatly scrawled, alongside his age, fifty-two, and the address on the rue Elzévir where Eva had lived all her life. “He’s been relocated.”

“Relocated?” Eva said.

The man’s eyes were empty as he nodded and moved his finger. Eva leaned in. Clearly written beside the date of her father’s arrest—16 July 1942—was another notation: Convoi 7, 19 Juil.

Eva looked up, dazed, and found the officer looking right at her. “That’s two days ago. July nineteenth. What does it mean?”

“That he was on convoy number seven departing from Drancy,” the officer said, his voice flat. Rémy had inched closer, the back of his hand brushing against Eva’s, but her whole body was cold, too cold to be comforted by anything.

“And what is the convoy’s destination?” Eva whispered.

“Auschwitz.”

Eva just stared at him, the world spinning around her. She could hear Rémy saying something beside her, his tone calm, but the buzzing in her ears drowned out his words. “Auschwitz?” she asked in a whisper. She had heard of it, had heard rumors that Germans were sending Jews there and working them to death, but she hadn’t believed it. Now, in an instant, she did.

The officer glanced at her. “It’s a work camp west of Kraków. If your employee’s parents emigrated from Poland, he should feel right at home there, yes?” The man finally smiled.

“Thank you for your time,” Rémy said, already pulling Eva toward the door. Her feet felt as if they were made of lead. “Come,” Rémy said to Eva in a low voice as the officer moved to open the door for them. “Not here.” And then his arm was around Eva, and he was dragging her toward the exit, through the horrific cacophony of distress and decay and death that was all around them, past the agony and hopelessness of the people still trapped behind barbed wire.

It wasn’t until they were safely back in Brun’s truck, bumping down shredded roads toward Paris, that Eva finally began to cry, softly at first, escalating to a wail that sounded inhuman, even to her own ears.

“Shut her up, would you?” Brun asked.

“No,” Rémy said, pulling her against him, offering his shoulder as comfort. “No, I won’t.”

When she could finally speak again, past the grief that had closed her throat, she whispered, “What will we do? How will we get him out of Auschwitz?”

Rémy’s lips brushed her forehead. “I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

Eva closed her eyes. “So now what?”

“Now,” Rémy murmured, “we pray.”

As they made their way back toward Paris, horror set in, and along with it, determination. It might have been too late to save her father, but she had just seen up close what was happening to thousands of other Jews. If there was something she could do to help, she didn’t have a choice.





Chapter Twelve




“What will happen to him?”

They were the first words Eva had spoken in more than two hours, the first she could muster, and she knew she had to say them aloud, though she didn’t want to hear the answer. They were on a train headed south out of Paris, and Eva had been so drunk on her own misery that she’d barely noticed when a German soldier spent a tense minute examining her false identity card and travel permit as they boarded.

“It’s impossible to guess,” Rémy said, not looking at her.

“Try.” She knew her voice sounded icy, but her coldness wasn’t directed at him. It was just that her insides were frozen.

Rémy sighed. The train was nearly empty, but his eyes were constantly roving, looking for eavesdroppers or approaching soldiers. “The age they had down for him is correct? Fifty-two?”

“Yes.”

“And he is healthy?”

“He’s fit for his age.”

“Then God willing, he should be selected for work detail.”

“God willing?”

Rémy cleared his throat. “I have heard that the alternative is worse.”

Eva studied her hands. Her eyes were red and raw, but she was all out of tears. “Thank you,” she said after a moment.

“For what? I—I failed you.”