The Book of Lost Names(46)

Eva opened her mouth to ask why, but she realized that she knew the answer to her own question. She’d only known Rémy for a short time, and already he had come to her rescue and proven himself an ally. He was brash, but she also sensed that once he had decided you were on his side, he would be fiercely loyal.

“As you said, Rémy is one of the good ones,” Père Clément said. “And I think, Eva, that you are one of the good ones, too. There’s danger in being principled in the midst of a war, but I believe that it’s more dangerous not to be.”

“What do you mean?”

He seemed to be searching for the words. “I mean that I would rather die knowing I tried to do the right thing than live knowing I had turned my back. Do you understand?”

A shiver ran through Eva. Though he hadn’t explicitly said it, she had the feeling he was asking whether she felt the same. But did she? Was this a cause worth laying her life down for? And even if it was, would she regret her choices if she found herself on the wrong end of a Nazi rifle one day? Was it a mistake to ally herself with this near-stranger, or was it where her life had always been leading? After all, what were the odds that she had landed right in the path of an escape network that needed a skilled forger?

And so she took a deep breath and glanced at the faded leather-bound book that lay before them, the one that would hold secrets and perhaps one day restore lives. “I do,” she said at last. “I do, and I think that perhaps I am exactly where I am meant to be.”





Chapter Fifteen




May 2005

Iam exactly where I am meant to be. I had spoken those words to Père Clément more than six decades ago, and they haunt me still, drifting back in my native tongue whenever I believe, even for a moment, that I can lay the past to rest.

Sixty-three years ago, in the midst of a war, I made a choice to stay in Aurignon, a choice that would forever change my life. And now, here I am again, sitting at a gate in the Orlando International Airport, waiting for my world to alter irrevocably once more. Life turns on the decisions we make, the single moments that transform everything.

It’s not too late for me to change my mind this time. I could turn around, go home. I could let the past go, let the ghosts sleep, call Ben, tell him I won’t be going to Berlin. That would be the simple thing to do, and goodness knows, I’ve picked the easy way out more often than not in the years since I left France.

When I chose a future with Louis, boarding a boat to America, working hard to lose my French accent, trying my best to assimilate, I thought it would be relatively simple to leave the past behind. After all, hadn’t I become a master of changing identities by then? Furthermore, Aurignon was an ocean away, and I could count the time since Rémy had died first in months, then in years, then in decades. It was all supposed to get easier, to eventually disappear behind me.

But it didn’t. It never has. And now the time has come to reclaim at least some of what I lost.

As I wipe sudden tears away, my eyes alight on a little boy, perhaps three or four years old, who is lying on the floor, scribbling in a coloring book at the feet of a woman three seats away from me. His hair is curly and chestnut brown, just like Ben’s was when he was a little boy, and when he glances up at me and smiles, my heart skips, because for a second, the years are erased, and I see my son just as he looked all those years ago. I must stare for too long, though, for the little boy’s eyes widen in confusion, then in quick succession, he frowns and bursts into tears.

His mother looks up from her magazine. “Jay, sweetie, what is it?”

“That lady.” He points at me. “She was looking at me funny.”

I look at the mother in horror. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, he’s just upset because I wouldn’t buy him candy for the flight,” the mother says quickly. “Jay, honey, be polite.” She smiles an apology, and I can see that she’s exhausted. I remember feeling like that with Ben in his first few years, too, wondering whether I’d ever feel like myself again. But here we are, decades later, and I still have no idea what that’s supposed to feel like. Who am I, anyhow? The student? The forger? The dutiful wife with no past? The tired old librarian who should see the writing on the wall and retire? Maybe I’m none of those people, or perhaps I’m all of them.

I shake off the unanswerable questions and force a smile. “He reminds me of my son.” When the woman’s forehead creases, I clarify, “Well, my Ben is fifty-two now, but a long time ago, he looked very much like your little boy.”

“Ah.” The woman nods and ruffles her son’s hair. He has already returned his attention to his coloring, trading a red crayon for a turquoise one to color a cow that reminds me of one of the characters in Click, Clack, Moo, a picture book I’ve been recommending to library patrons for the past five years. There’s something almost miraculous about seeing a child’s eyes light up when you hand him a book that intrigues him. I’ve always thought that it’s those children—the ones who realize that books are magic—who will have the brightest lives.

“Does he like books?” I ask abruptly. “Your son?” I find myself hoping fervently that he does.

The woman looks at me again, but her expression is more guarded now. “I read to him most nights,” she says slowly. She adds, “He’s too young to read himself,” as if I might not realize that a preschooler likely isn’t yet flying solo through chapter books.