The Book of Lost Names(58)

“And have you become a Catholic while working in the church?”

She gave him a sharp look. “Of course not!”

He smiled. “That’s your mother’s concern, isn’t it? That you’ll spontaneously become one of us?”

Eva hesitated. “Yes. She—she talks about Catholicism as if it were one of the worst fates that could befall a person. I’m sorry,” she added hastily.

Père Clément shook his head. “Eva, she’s merely frightened. And I don’t blame her. You’ve found a way to help, to do some good, but think of how powerless she must feel, especially with your father gone. You can’t fault her for worrying that she’s losing you, too. And if it would help ease her mind, you could try to pray with her more often. Maybe you’ll draw some comfort from that, too. But above all, remember to listen to what’s in your own heart. You shouldn’t be swayed by her words—or mine. Only you know what your relationship is with God, and you should never let anyone take that from you.”

Eva felt a sense of peace as a comfortable silence settled between them. “Thank you, Père Clément.”

“You can come to me anytime, Eva. And you can always come to God, too. The path of life is darkest when we choose to walk it alone.” A moment later, Père Clément took a sharp right onto a small side street, the rue Nicolas Tury, pulling Eva along with him. He stopped abruptly outside a narrow, three-story stone house with a single slim balcony jutting over the street. He knocked once on the chipped black front door, paused, and then knocked again, three times in quick succession. There was a long pause before the door was opened by someone Eva recognized from church but had never spoken to, a matronly woman with narrowed eyes and silver hair spun into a bun, who broke into a wide smile as soon as she recognized the priest.

“Père Clément!” She stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks, then her eyes darted to Eva and narrowed again. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Madame Travere, I’d like to introduce you to Mademoiselle Moreau,” Père Clément said, gesturing formally to Eva. “Mademoiselle Moreau, Madame Travere.”

Madame Travere nodded at Eva, but she still looked suspicious. “And what brings Mademoiselle Moreau here today?” she asked, returning her gaze to Père Clément.

“She’s one of us,” Père Clément said. “And I’d like for her to meet the children.”

Madame Travere went completely still for a second. “Père Clément, with all due respect, we like to limit their interactions with strangers.” When she turned to Eva, her smile was cold. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Madame Travere,” Père Clément said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the false documents and travel passes we’ve been using to move the children.”

“I’m not sure what you’re—”

“Mademoiselle Moreau is the one making them,” Père Clément said, interrupting Madame Travere’s protests.

Some of the iciness faded from the woman’s expression as she evaluated Eva again. “You don’t say.”

“It’s difficult for her, I think, to be stuck in the church all day with no contact with anyone she’s saving. It would help to be reminded of exactly what she’s risking so much for.”

The older woman opened and closed her mouth, and though her expression was still suspicious, she finally stepped aside, gesturing for Eva and the priest to enter. Eva murmured a merci, and Madame Travere nodded slightly.

They followed the older woman up two flights of stairs to the top floor, where a large parlor sat empty. Eva looked around in confusion. Certainly, there were no children around. But then, her lips pursed, Madame Travere picked up a broom and rapped sharply on the ceiling three times in quick succession. She paused, rapped twice more, paused again, and then struck the ceiling a final time.

“What is she doing?” Eva whispered to Père Clément, who merely smiled at her.

A few seconds later, a hidden trapdoor in the ceiling opened, and from the blackness above, a folding ladder descended. As Eva watched in awe, a boy of about ten climbed down, followed by another boy a bit younger, a girl of around thirteen, and another girl with lopsided pigtails who couldn’t have been more than seven.

“They’d just finished school for the day when you knocked,” Madame Travere said. “It took longer than usual to hustle them into the attic.”

Eva just looked at her.

“They often hide when someone arrives at the door,” Père Clément explained. “Just in case.”

“And… they go to school?”

“Well, yes, of course,” Madame Travere snapped. “You didn’t think that was just a holiday for them, did you? Surely you don’t expect me to let them simply sit around and play. Their brains would turn to soup.”

“What Madame Travere is trying to say,” Père Clément interjected with a smile, “is that we strive to keep life as normal for them as possible while they’re here. And that means making sure they continue their studies. She tutors them here.”

“The war will end someday,” Madame Travere said, “and if they don’t have an education, where will they be?”