“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I am le Père Clément,” he said. “I’m the pastor of the église Saint-Alban, just at the top of the hill.”

“A priest?” she asked in disbelief. “Why is a Catholic priest following me around town?”

“I apologize, truly. I thought I was being more subtle.” He looked embarrassed. “That was, er, my first time doing that.”

“Doing what?”

He scratched the back of his head. “It’s just that, you see, Madame Barbier told me about your papers.”

Her whole body tensed again. “What about them? They’re perfectly in order.”

“Yes, actually, that’s what she said, too.” He hesitated. “She also said that your mother’s documents identify her as a Russian émigrée. And that she certainly isn’t Russian.”

“Of course she is,” Eva protested immediately, her face growing hot.

Père Clément looked uncomfortable. “You see, Madame Barbier was born in Russia. She actually was a white émigrée after the revolution. She was nearly positive that your mother is Polish, and is therefore traveling on false papers.”

“Of course, you’re wrong.” Eva couldn’t meet his eye. “So what? Are you going to report us?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

“I was just hoping you might tell me where you got your documents, though I think perhaps I’ve answered my own question.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your hands,” he said, his voice softer now.

Eva looked down and realized with a jolt of horror that her fingertips were gray with smudged ink. “It’s not what you think.”

He took a step back. “If you want to be left alone, mademoiselle, I will honor that, but you see, I have friends with ink-stained fingers, too. Madame Barbier was very impressed with your papers, and I—well, I think perhaps you and I could assist each other.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can find me in the church anytime today. I can provide you with better tools than you can find at the bookstore.”

“But I—”

“The Germans don’t just look for identification documents, you know. You’ll need more than some drawing skills if you hope to safely move on.” When she didn’t answer, he smiled slightly. “I can help you. Please, consider it.” He nodded and turned quickly. She watched as he strode down the hallway and disappeared around the corner. A moment later, she could hear the front door of the boardinghouse open and close, and only then did she release the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She had to move her mother immediately. Whether Père Clément had meant what he’d said or not, the fact remained that their cover had been blown—and it had been Eva’s fault.

Chapter Seven

“Wake up!” Eva nudged her mother, and as Mamusia blinked sleepily awake, Eva prodded her again, nearly shoving her onto the floor. “Come on, Mamusia. We’ve been found out. There’s no time to waste.”

“What do you mean?” Mamusia was instantly alert, scrambling for the skirt and blouse she’d worn yesterday, which lay neatly draped over the back of the chair near the window. “What’s happened?”

“Madame Barbier knows our papers are false. A man came to the door this morning asking about them.”

“What?” Her mother’s face was white as she buttoned her shirt with trembling fingers and shimmied her skirt over her full hips. “Was he police?” She began to grab things from around the room, throwing them into the suitcase.

“No.” Eva hesitated. “He was a priest.”

Her mother stopped what she was doing. “A priest?”

“That’s what he said.”

“But—why did he come? Does he work with the authorities?”

“I don’t think so.” Eva was still mulling over whether he was friend or foe. Certainly the fact that he’d left after issuing his invitation was a good sign, wasn’t it? “Maybe I’m wrong, but I think he was saying he works with other forgers. I—I believe he might have been asking me if I could come work with him.” The moment the words were out of Eva’s mouth, she wondered if she had completely misunderstood the conversation. A priest leading a band of document forgers? It sounded too far-fetched to be real.

“What did he say?”

“He told me he could provide me with some help. I don’t know exactly what he meant.”

Her mother was staring at her with wide eyes. “Eva, he might be able to give you what you need to help locate your father and secure his release.”

“It might also be a trap.”

“Set by a priest?”

“There’s no rule that all priests must be decent human beings.”

“I don’t know much about Catholicism, but I’m fairly certain that’s part of the job description.”

Eva shrugged. Her mother was right about one thing, though. The priest could hold the key to getting her father out of detention. And the clock was surely ticking. As long as she moved her mother, perhaps it was worth the risk of heading to the church to see if the man’s offer had been genuine. “Very well,” she said at last. “I’ll go see him—but not until I take you somewhere safe.”

“Where will I go?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t stay here. Not until we figure out whether Madame Barbier is on our side or not.” Eva considered it for a moment, an idea forming. “I believe I’ll take you to a bookshop I know.” It was the only thing she could think of. The woman there had been kind, and Eva refused to believe that a person who had made a life from books could have evil in her heart.

* * *

After bringing her mother to the bookshop and telling the older woman there an unconvincing story about how Mamusia simply longed to spend some time browsing, Eva hurried toward the church, reassured that the woman had seemed to understand that Mamusia needed a place to lie low for a little while. You can thank me by staying safe, the woman had told her yesterday. Eva could only pray that those wishes of protection extended to her mother, too.

The town was coming alive in the midmorning warmth, though it was still the quietest place Eva had ever seen. She could count on her hands the number of people she passed as she hurried along: the butcher on the rue Pascal outside in his splattered apron, washing his front windows; a half-dozen women queued in front of the boulangerie on the rue de Levant, ration cards in hand, some gossiping with heads bent, others craning their necks to see what might still be available inside. Eva exchanged pleasant bonjours with a heavyset, middle-aged fleuriste arranging a small array of bright pink peonies in a bucket outside a corner shop as she passed, but otherwise, nervous and on guard, she kept to herself.

The église Saint-Alban was only two blocks up the hill from the bookstore, so Eva reached it before she could fully gather her thoughts—or talk herself out of what she was about to do. She hesitated in front of the main door, putting her palm on the iron handle, but she didn’t go in, not yet. Come, Eva, she told herself. You have to take a chance. You need something to convince the authorities to let Tatu? go.

Summoning her courage, she pulled open the door and entered. Inside, the church was dimly lit and small, with a dozen long, narrow wooden pews marching toward an altar. On the raised platform was a lectern; behind it sat a small golden urn. On the back wall hovered a golden statue of Jesus, his face twisted in agony and looking toward heaven, his body nailed to a wooden cross. Candles flickered atop small pillars on the altar. There was no sign of Père Clément.

Eva shivered and slid into one of the wooden benches. She had never been in a church before, so she wasn’t sure what to do. As the moments ticked by, and Père Clément still hadn’t appeared, she began to feel nervous about her mother. What if this had all been some sort of a trap? What if Père Clément had followed her to the bookstore and led the police there as soon as Eva had departed? Then again, why would he do such a thing when he could have brought the authorities to her door that morning?