The front door of the church cracked open, and Eva turned, expecting to see Père Clément limping toward her down the aisle. Instead, it was a young couple around her age, the man’s hat pulled low, and the woman, whose head was cloaked in a thin scarf, looking particularly skittish. Her eyes darted from side to side, and after glancing at Eva, she hurriedly crossed herself. The young man tugged her arm and led her toward a door in the back of the church marked with a small sign reading Confessionnal. They both disappeared inside.

Eva turned back around to look at the cross again, but something was bothering her. Didn’t Catholics usually enter a confessional booth alone? It had seemed that way in books. And there was another thing. She could have sworn that when the young woman made the sign of the cross, she’d done it incorrectly. She’d once seen Jean Gabin cross himself in one of his films—she couldn’t remember if it was La Grande Illusion, La Bête Humaine, or Le Quai des Brumes—and she was certain that he’d touched his head, his chest, his left shoulder, and then his right. However, the nervous-looking woman had started with her head before moving to her right shoulder, her chest, and then her left shoulder, a diamond rather than a cross.

Eva pretended to pray as she waited for the couple to emerge from the confessional. If the two of them weren’t Catholics, what exactly were they doing? As the seconds ticked by, Eva looked up at the statue of Jesus, which had been sculpted in painstaking detail. He looked like a real man, his expression full of compassion and pain, and she thought about the way he’d been persecuted. She hadn’t spent much time considering the life of Jesus, but even though she didn’t believe that he was the Messiah, she certainly believed he’d been a good person whose life had been taken unjustly. It seemed murdering people who differed from the masses was a tale as old as time.

Just then, the squeak of hinges cut through the silence, and Eva snuck a look back to see the couple hurrying away. The man carried a handful of papers, which he stuffed down the front of his shirt just before opening the door. The sunlight poured in and quickly disappeared again, along with the couple. Eva frowned and turned back around to Jesus. “I bet you know what’s happening around here,” she muttered to him, her voice low. “You see everything, don’t you?”

“He does, actually. Or so I like to believe.”

Eva gasped and turned to her left, where Père Clément calmly sat two meters or so away from her on the bench.

“Where did you come from?” Eva’s heart was racing furiously.

“Oh, I joined you while you were watching my guests depart. You must always be aware of your surroundings. That will be one of our first lessons.”

“Lessons?”

“Though I suspect you’ll have some things to teach us, too,” he continued. “And in answer to your question, I do like to believe that the Lord is watching over us. It makes me feel a bit more secure in the midst of all this chaos and uncertainty. I hope you’ll find some comfort in that, too.” Without another word, he stood and began to walk away. Eva stared after him. Was he leaving? Was that it? But then he turned and smiled at her. “Well, my dear? Are you coming?”

“Coming where?”

“You’ll see.” He didn’t wait for an answer as he limped away. Eva hesitated for only a second before following. He unlocked a door to the right of the altar and entered without looking back. After giving the statue of Jesus one more nervous look, she went in after him.

“Welcome to our library,” he said, closing the door behind her as she gaped at the space before her.

The place was like something out of a dream, a room lined with books, a meter-high stained glass mural running the length of the back wall above the shelves, casting colorful rays of light on countless leather-bound volumes crowded together and stacked on every surface. A wooden table stood in the center of the room flanked by two wooden chairs.

Enthralled, Eva reached for the shelf to her right, pulling a book out at random. It was bound in brown leather that had worn away at the corners, and the spine was etched with fading gold flowers and swirls along with the words Epitres et Evangiles. She ran her fingers over the cover with reverence. It had to be two hundred years old.

“That one, I think, was published in 1732,” Père Clément said, reading her mind. She looked up, still holding the book, and he smiled at her and then gestured around the room. “Most of our volumes predate the French Revolution. This church has been here a very long time, and our library is one of our most treasured spaces. This is my favorite place in the world, in fact, a place I come to when I need to find solace. I thought you might enjoy it, too.”

“It’s magnificent,” she murmured, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to be wary. Books, wherever they were in the world, always felt like home to her. “You can come here anytime you like?” she asked. She set the book down on the table reluctantly, fingers itching to explore the other volumes on the shelves.

Père Clément chuckled. “I suppose I can.”

She looked at him, and he smiled. His expression was open, relaxed, and she wondered if he was as enraptured with this place as she was. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I thought we might be able to help each other.”

She could feel her guard going back up. “Help each other?”

His smile was gone now, and though the kindness remained in his eyes, she could see uncertainty there, too. He seemed to be considering his words carefully. “Do you have your papers with you? I would like to see them.”

“What for?” Eva took a step back toward the closed door. Could it be that this glorious library was some sort of trap after all? A brief glimpse of perfection before the snare closed forever?

“Please, as I said before, mademoiselle, I mean you no harm.” He scratched the back of his neck and seemed to be searching for the words. “Very well, I’ll come right out and say it. We are in need of someone who is skilled at, er, artistic endeavors.”

“Artistic endeavors?”

“Artistic endeavors that would fool even the most vigilant officer of the law. Artistic endeavors that would allow people who have done nothing wrong to move toward a life of freedom.”

“I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Ah. Well, you see, my friends and I have amassed some supplies, but it seems the demand for our services has grown more quickly than our ability to adequately meet it. Madame Barbier is an associate of mine and suggested that your talents might be useful.”

She took a deep breath. It felt as if she were about to jump off a cliff; there would be no going back. “Are you talking about forging documents?”

He went still and held her gaze. “Yes. Yes, I am, mademoiselle. Please, I’ll ask again: May I take a look at your papers?”

She hesitated before pulling them from her pocket and handing them over wordlessly. As the priest studied them, his forehead creasing, she wondered if she’d made a mistake in trusting him.

Finally, he looked up. “These are quite good. Mademoiselle Fontain, is it?”

“Well, of course. That’s what the identity card says.”

“Indeed it does.” He smiled at her. “Well, Mademoiselle Fontain, I’m very impressed. And now, I must admit, I’m even more desperate to ask for your assistance.”

What if she could help others escape the way she and her mother had? But she couldn’t even consider that yet, not with her father still in danger. She cleared her throat. “Well, you see, I would, but I’m otherwise occupied at the moment. My father has been falsely imprisoned.” She looked him in the eye. “In Paris. There was a raid a few days ago. They arrested many Jews.”

“Yes, it’s an absolute tragedy. Somewhere around thirteen thousand.”

So Joseph’s dire prediction hadn’t been so outlandish. “How do you know that?”

“As I said, I have friends. Most of the arrested are being held now in Drancy, northeast of Paris, in a large prison camp. You say your father was among them? I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Yes.” Eva still wasn’t entirely sure whether to trust the priest. This was the first she’d heard of the prison camp. “I would like to clear up the error, but I don’t have the correct papers.”

“Ah, I see. Well, Mademoiselle Fontain, I might be able to help you with that.”

“Yes?” Eva held her breath.

“Of course, if you went to Drancy with a letter from the Argentine consul explaining that your father is Argentine, the authorities would have to release him,” Père Clément said casually. “The Germans have an agreement with the Argentine government, you see. They avoid imprisoning their citizens, even the Jews.”

Eva opened and closed her mouth. It had never even occurred to her that she’d need papers like that. But of course it wouldn’t be enough simply to show up at the gates of a prison and present identity documents, no matter how well forged they were. “And you have friends in the Argentine embassy?” she asked carefully.

“No.” Père Clément held her gaze. “But I know what their documents look like. And I have many materials at my disposal. I would like to help you, mademoiselle. I’ll need your help in return, though. We have other papers that need to be worked on, too.”