The Book of Lost Names(95)

The gendarme looked up, his eyes vacant as he gave her a cursory glance. “Madame?”

Eva took a deep breath, gathering her courage, and then slumped further into her chest. “I am here to see Yelena Moreau,” she said, keeping her voice low and wobbling, like a sad woman beaten down by life.

“And what is your business with Madame Moreau?” the gendarme asked, interest finally sparking in his eyes as he looked up. “Not that that is her real name anyhow, the dirty Jew.” He peered at Eva with narrowed eyes, but she kept her chin tucked and her hat pulled low as she fought to keep the anger from flashing across her face. When he leaned in to try to see her better, she unleashed a violent, hacking cough, not bothering to cover her mouth. He shrank back, sneering in disgust.

“I’ve been sent by the church,” she wheezed, and then before the gendarme could ask which church, or why, she coughed again, long and hard, spewing as much spittle as she could in his general direction. He looked repulsed, and as he scooted his chair even farther away from her, she knew she had assessed him correctly; he would be far more interested in avoiding an apparent case of tuberculosis than he would be in carrying out the mandates of the Germans.

“Yes, well, it’s too late,” he said, returning to his paperwork.

“Too late?” Eva managed to keep her tone even.

“That’s what I said.”

“She’s been moved, then?” But why would they have sent her mother east if they had planned to use her as bait?

“Moved?” The gendarme looked almost amused as he snorted. “No, madame, she’s been executed. Just this morning.” He held up the index finger and thumb of his right hand and mimicked the firing of a handgun.

The world went still. Eva wobbled on her feet, the breath knocked out of her. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry as dust. This time, when she doubled over coughing, it wasn’t playacting, it was pure grief. “No,” she said, gathering herself. “No, no. That’s impossible. She did nothing wrong.”

The man’s expression wavered between suspicion and indifference for a second before settling once again on the former. “I hear she had a daughter who was helping the underground. Wouldn’t give her up.” He leaned forward slightly and tried to see Eva’s face, but she ducked her head to hide her tears. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? About the daughter?”

“Of course not.” Eva managed to keep her tone indignant, though her voice shook. “You’re certain you don’t have her confused with someone else?” Perhaps her whole world wasn’t dissolving into ash as he stared at her, oblivious.

“Saw it with my own eyes.” The man leaned back in his chair again, looking satisfied, and in that moment, Eva had never hated another human being more. Dead. It felt impossible.

“I see.”

The man wasn’t done. Like an animal sensing fresh blood, he was suddenly animated, interested. “You know the worst part of it?”

“I can’t imagine.” Eva could taste bile in her throat, bitter, surging. She needed to vomit, and for a split second, she imagined unloading the contents of her stomach onto the gendarme’s spotless uniform. But she couldn’t risk turning his revulsion into anger.

“She was still defending the daughter as she died!” He guffawed, like he was sharing a joke with a friend rather than breaking the heart of an enemy. “The German who gave the order asked if she had any last words, and she said some nonsense about how she was proud to be the mother of someone so brave.” The man shook his head and snorted. “Old fool. It’s all the daughter’s fault.”

“Yes, it is. There’s not a doubt in my mind.” Eva tucked her chin as much as she could now, trying to hide the tears streaming down her face as her heart splintered. She would never forgive herself. “And the woman arrested with her? Madame Barbier?”

The gendarme shrugged. “Dead, too. What do you expect? She was helping the underground. She should have known better.”

“I see.” Eva could hear her voice turning hoarse with grief, but the gendarme didn’t seem to notice. “Well, I must be returning to the church. I’ll say a prayer for Madame Moreau and Madame Barbier, but there are other parishioners who need our help, too.”

“Of course,” the man said. “But perhaps you should talk to your church about not supporting traitors, yes?”

“I feel certain, monsieur,” Eva replied, her voice shaking, “that traitors will get what they deserve when they come face-to-face with God.”

The man nodded in satisfaction, and Eva added one last hacking, spitting cough to ensure that he didn’t follow her. She threw up in the skeletal bushes just outside the prison, expelling everything in her stomach, her tears melting the ice as they fell.



* * *



There was nothing left for Eva to lose.

The Germans had taken her father and now her mother, and Eva knew she had only herself to blame. She was proud to be the mother of someone so brave, the gendarme had said, but Eva wasn’t brave. She was terrified; she had been all along. She’d been fooling herself to think that she could swallow her fear and make a difference. The only change she had brought about was the loss of the woman who had given her life. Hadn’t Tatu?’s last words to her been about taking care of her mother? Instead, Eva had thrown her to the wolves.