The Book of Lost Names(83)
Eva nodded, her heart thudding. There was so much that could go wrong. “Mon Père, I’m frightened.”
“I am, too, but the greatest deeds in life require us to rise above our fear. Think of Moses; when God called to him from the burning bush and told him that he must save his people from slavery, he was frightened, too. He questioned God, just as you might be doing now. ‘Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?’ he asked. But God promised to be with him, and so he went, for it was his destiny. God will be with you, too, Eva, whatever happens. Just have faith.”
“Thank you.” There was a sudden lump in her throat. “Truly. Thank you for everything.”
“Eva, it has been a gift knowing you.” As he looked down at her, there were tears in his eyes, and this, from the stoic priest, touched Eva more than anything else. “You are brave and strong and courageous, and I know you will go on to live a long, happy life.”
She smiled at him. “I wish I believed you, Père Clément. And I wish the same for you.”
“Until we meet again, Eva.”
“Until we meet again.”
Père Clément pressed train tickets into her hand and a palm to her cheek before turning back to the Bible lying open on his desk. As she turned to go, she heard him clear his throat a few times, and she knew that just as she was, he was trying not to let emotion overtake him. There was still work to be done, and the success of their mission depended upon everyone acting as if their worlds weren’t being blown apart.
* * *
Eva’s train pulled into Lyon just past six thirty, and as she stepped onto the platform, carrying the small hand valise she had hastily packed, a feeling of dread swept over her. She was farther east now than she’d ever been. It was closer to freedom, certainly, but it was also closer to Germany. Was she fleeing to the embrace of safety? Or walking straight into danger? Either way, it was too late to turn back. There were children relying on her.
By six fifty, she was standing just to the left of the main entrance, waiting for the children and the man she would escape to Switzerland with. As she tried to appear nonchalant and unworried, she fretted about the meeting. Would anyone be convinced that she was married to this man she’d never met? That she was the mother to children she had never seen? She recited their names in her head over and over. My husband, André. My children, Georges, Maurice, Didier, and Jacqueline. She could almost imagine the children, since she had created their identity documents herself: The little girl, born in 1939, was really named Eliane. The boys were Joel, Raoul, and Daniel, born in 1935, 1936, and 1940. Their false papers were tucked safely into the lining of her coat, halfway up the sleeve in a sewn-in, hidden pocket. What of the man, though? Who was he? She knew nothing of him but his false name.
Seven o’clock came and went, and by seven fifteen, Eva was feeling conspicuous—and worried. Where were they? Had a German official been unconvinced by their temporary papers? Night had fallen thick and dark on Lyon, and as she peered out at the blackness, she wondered what she was supposed to do if they didn’t arrive. If she returned here the following day she would look suspicious. And surely she shouldn’t proceed to Annecy without them.
It was nearly seven thirty when she saw a dark-haired boy emerge from the station, then another; they appeared to be the right ages for the children traveling as seven-year-old Maurice and eight-year-old Georges. A few seconds later, a boy of about three appeared behind them; if she was right about who they were, he must be Didier. She started forward, hoping that her smile looked motherly rather than relieved, but she stopped short as she saw the final child—the girl traveling as four-year-old Jacqueline—emerge, clutching the hand of a man.
The man’s face was turned away as he surveyed the small crowd outside the station, but Eva recognized him instantly. The curve of his shoulders, the tapering of his waist, even his confident gait were nearly as familiar to her as her own. She stopped breathing for a few seconds, and as he turned and looked at her, his eyes widened, and time seemed to slow. It was Rémy, alive and healthy and here. And all at once, Eva believed in miracles once again.
His eyes never left hers as he approached, and though she knew she was supposed to be bending to casually greet the children with hugs and kisses, she couldn’t look away.
“It’s you,” he said softly when finally he was at her side.
“It’s you,” she breathed, and then his lips were on hers, and he was kissing her in a way that made her forget the world around them for a few precious seconds. It was just the two of them until suddenly, a gasp from the little girl holding Rémy’s hand jolted them out of the moment.
“What is it, Jacqueline?” Rémy asked, and the second his lips were no longer on Eva’s, he was already too far away. “Are you all right, dear? Your maman and I are right here.”
As he bent to the little girl, Eva’s heart lurched, for it was a fleeting glimpse of a future she hadn’t dared imagine, a future in which she and Rémy were Maman and Papa to a little girl like Jacqueline, or a little boy like Didier. Just as quickly, she reminded herself of her own mother’s words that morning: You’d rather be a part of this false family you’ve let yourself believe in. She swallowed her guilt and followed the little girl’s eyes to the uniformed German soldier who had just stepped out of the station for a smoke.