The Book of Lost Names(89)

“We cut it long ago,” he explained in a whisper. “It’s a miracle they haven’t noticed yet.” And then, to the children, he added, “Go. Be safe and free.”

The oldest boy, Georges, was the first to wriggle across the border. As Didier started to cross, Eva watched in awe as Georges helped him beneath the wire, picked him up, and began to run. The third boy, Maurice, crossed, too, and then waited until Jacqueline had squirmed through. “I’ve got her,” he whispered to Eva and Rémy. “Thank you for everything.” And then the two of them were off, two tiny figures in a black night, running toward the faraway lights of a Swiss village.

“It’s time for you to go, too,” Rémy said, squeezing Eva’s hand tightly. “Quickly, before the children attract German attention on our side of the border.”

Eva turned to him. A moment earlier, she had been ready to follow the children, despite the feeling of crushing loss that had begun to sweep through her. Now she knew as clearly as she knew her own heart that she wouldn’t be going to Switzerland tonight. “I cannot.”

“Eva, you must.” Rémy’s face was just inches from hers, his eyes dark and urgent in the deep night. “This is your chance.”

“I know.” And then, slowly, softly, she kissed him, and when he didn’t pull away, she knew he understood. She couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t let her, even if they both knew it was the right thing for her to go.

“Are you certain?” Rémy asked when Eva finally pulled away, breathless.

“Yes.”

“Then we must move now. I stay in a safe house on the edge of town before returning to the woods around Aurignon.”

“You don’t go back to the priest’s house?”

“It’s too dangerous. Come on.” He grabbed her hand, and after one last look into Switzerland, where she prayed the children would find their way to safety, she followed, back into the darkness of France.



* * *



The safe house was a tiny stone cottage on the edge of the town, a brisk, fifteen-minute walk from the place where the sliced barbed wire had provided a chance at life. As they hurried along in silence, Rémy clasping her hand tightly, Eva allowed the weight of that to settle upon her. Tonight had shown her the future that all her forgery work had made possible.

Rémy used a key to open the door to the safe house, which was dark and cold inside. The moment he had closed the door, thrusting them into blackness, he pulled her toward him. Without another second’s hesitation, his lips were on hers, and his hands were on her face, and then tangled in her hair, and then making their way down the curves of her body. “You shouldn’t have stayed,” he said between hungry kisses. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“But—”

“I’m so glad you did, Eva,” Rémy said, his lips barely leaving hers as he pulled her back. “I love you.”

It was the first time he had said those words to her, and it broke her heart wide open. “I love you, too,” she murmured.

His hands were cold as he cupped her face, then ran both thumbs gently down to the hollow beneath her neck. She shivered as his lips found hers again.

“You’re freezing,” he said, pulling away. “Let me build a fire.”

“I don’t want to let you go,” she protested.

“But I want to look into your eyes, Eva. Let me make us some light. I promise, I’m not going anywhere. There should be some food in the kitchen. Père Bouyssonie usually arranges for something.”

Eva didn’t want to leave Rémy’s side, but he was right; it was frigid, and she could barely see him in the dark. She took her boots off and headed for the kitchen in search of something to eat while Rémy rearranged logs in the stone fireplace. On the counter beside a one-burner stove sat a bottle of red wine, a hunk of bread, and a large wedge of cheese, along with a handwritten note. God is with you, it said, and gazing at the relatively large feast before her, she understood that Père Bouyssonie had known, even before she did, that she would likely return with Rémy tonight. The note, she hoped, was his blessing.

She returned to the main room and found Rémy prodding a burgeoning fire, his coat slung over the back of a chair. He turned and smiled as she held up the bottle of wine in one hand, the bread and cheese in the other. “Père Bouyssonie is looking out for us, I see,” he said.

“You don’t think he’d frown upon us spending the night together?” Eva asked. The man was, after all, a priest.

“I think he understands what love looks like,” Rémy answered. He put down the iron stoker and crossed to her, taking the wine and the food and setting them down on the small wooden table in the corner. Then, as the fire began to crackle and warm the room, he slipped her coat from her shoulders and gently tugged her dress over her head, leaving her standing before him in her underclothes. He pulled back to stare at her for a second, his eyes shimmering, before he pressed his lips to hers again. This time, his kiss was full of need, and she responded, tugging at his belt, unbuttoning his shirt.

They made love quickly, urgently, the sharp pain of her first time erased immediately in a flood of sensation—the feel of Rémy’s skin against hers, the scent of wood smoke in the air, the heat of their breath in the cold. Then, bundled in blankets and huddled by the fire, they drank the bottle of wine and ravenously attacked the food before making love once more. This time, Rémy’s kisses were slower, deeper, and they took their time exploring each other’s bodies. When it was over, she lay sweaty and smiling against his bare chest, and he kissed the top of her head. “You must go tomorrow, Eva,” he murmured. “You must cross into Switzerland. I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you.”