The Book of Lost Names(5)

She could hear her father moving through the apartment, his footsteps slow and steady. “Tatu?!” she called out as she grabbed her robe and jammed her feet into the worn leather boots she had placed beside her bed for the past year in case she needed to flee. What else would she need if the Germans had come for them? Should she pack a bag? Would there be time? Why hadn’t she listened to Joseph?

“Tatu?, please!” she cried as her father’s footsteps stopped. She wanted to tell him to wait, to stop time, to freeze for one last moment in the before, but she couldn’t find the words, so instead, she lurched out of her bedroom into the parlor. She arrived just in time to see him open the door.

She clutched her robe around her, waiting for the barked order from the Germans who were surely on the other side of the threshold. But instead, she heard a female voice, and could see her father’s face soften slightly as he stepped back. A second later, Madame Fontain, their neighbor from the end of the hall, followed him into the apartment, her face pinched.

“Tatu??” Eva asked, and he turned. “It’s not the Germans?”

“No, s?oneczko.” The lines on his face hadn’t fully relaxed, and Eva knew he’d been as afraid as she’d been. “Madame Fontain’s mother has fallen ill. She was wondering if you or your mother would come sit with her daughters while she takes her to Docteur Patenaude’s apartment.”

“Simone and Colette are still sleeping, so they shouldn’t be any trouble,” Madame Fontain said, not making eye contact. “They’re only two and four.”

“Yes, I know how old they are,” Eva said stiffly. Just the day before, Eva had happened upon the girls in the courtyard. She had bent to say hello, and the older one, Colette, had begun to cheerfully chatter about butterflies and apples, when suddenly, Madame Fontain had appeared out of nowhere and hastily pulled both girls away. As they’d disappeared around the corner, Eva had overheard her scolding them about the danger of socializing with a Jew.

“I tried other apartments but no one else would answer the door. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”

“Of course we will watch your daughters.” Eva’s mother had emerged from her bedroom, her nightgown already replaced by a simple cotton dress and cardigan. “That’s what neighbors do. Eva will come with me. Won’t you, dear?”

“Yes, Mamusia, of course.” The girls’ father was gone to the front, possibly dead, and they had no one else.

“Eva, get dressed, quickly.” Eva’s mother turned back to Madame Fontain. “Go. Don’t worry. Your girls will be fine.”

“Thank you,” Madame Fontain said, but still, she wouldn’t meet their gazes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She pressed a key into Mamusia’s hand and was gone before they could say another word.

Eva quickly threw on the dress she had worn yesterday and smoothed her hair before rejoining her parents in the parlor. “You do know Madame Fontain’s feelings about Jews, don’t you?” Eva couldn’t resist asking.

“Half of Paris feels the same,” her mother said wearily. “But if we shrink from them, if we lose our goodness, we let them erase us. We cannot do that, Eva. We cannot.”

“I know.” She sighed and kissed her father goodbye. “Go back to bed, Tatu?. Mamusia and I will be fine.”

“Good girl,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Look out for your mother.” He kissed Mamusia gently, and as they stepped out into the hall, he closed the door. It latched with a gentle click behind them.

Two hours later, with Colette and Simone still asleep in their beds and Mamusia snoring lightly beside her on the sofa in Madame Fontain’s apartment, Eva had just dozed off when a banging in the hall startled her awake. The faint light of early dawn was filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. Perhaps Madame Fontain and her mother had returned.

Eva rose from the sofa, careful not to disturb Mamusia. She crept to the door and put her eye to the peephole, expecting to see Madame Fontain fumbling with her keys. What she saw instead made her gasp and draw back in horror. Trembling, she forced herself to look again.

In the hall, three French policemen stood in front of Eva’s own apartment a few doors down. The same banging sound that had awoken her came again; it was a uniformed officer pounding on her door. No, Tatu?, Eva screamed silently. Don’t answer!

But the door to the apartment swung open, and her father stepped out, dressed in his best suit, his yellow star affixed perfectly to the left side. One of the policemen, the one holding a neat sheaf of papers, said something to him, but Eva couldn’t quite make it out. Biting her lip so hard she could taste blood, she pressed her ear to the door.

“Where is your wife?” Eva could hear a deep voice asking. Another officer shoved his way inside the apartment, pushing Tatu? aside.

“My wife?” Tatu? sounded strangely calm.

“Faiga Traube, age forty-eight, born 1894 in Kraków, Poland.” The man’s voice was taut with impatience.

“Yes, of course. Well, she’s out caring for the children of a sick friend.”

“Where? What is the address?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Well, when will she be back?”

“I’m not certain of that, either.”