At just past seven, there was a knock on their door, and when Eva cautiously answered, she found Madame Barbier standing there.

“I have dinner for you in the dining room,” the older woman announced.

“You must know we don’t have ration cards,” Eva replied.

“In Aurignon, we look out for each other.”

Eva took a deep breath. “Is that what you were doing when you told Père Clément about us?”

Madame Barbier looked away. “I was saving your life, mademoiselle, and that of your mother. Your papers were good, but you hadn’t thought the whole thing through. You still haven’t.” She turned away before Eva could say another word.

When Eva and her mother sat down alone in the dining room a few minutes later, there was a veritable feast waiting for them. In the middle of a table set for three sat a roasted chicken on a bed of spring onions, and beside it a bowl of shimmering, crisp roasted potatoes, a bottle of red wine, and a carafe of water. Eva and her mother exchanged uncertain looks. It seemed too good to be true; Eva hadn’t seen such a spread since before the war. Glancing around, Mamusia hastily whispered the Jewish blessing for bread, the hamotzi, followed by the blessing for wine, just as Madame Barbier strode into the room.

“I hope you won’t mind if I join you,” Madame Barbier said, settling into a chair before waiting for a reply. “There’s a farmer on the edge of town whom I’ve done a favor for. In exchange, he provides me with some food on occasion. But I cannot eat all of this alone.”

“Why are you helping us?” Eva asked as Madame Barbier sliced the chicken. Steam rose from the bird and Eva closed her eyes for a second, sighing in delight at the smell.

“Because you have been through a great deal.” Madame Barbier placed a thick piece of chicken breast on Mamusia’s plate and a crisp leg on Eva’s. “And because I hope you will decide to stay in Aurignon for some time. The room here is yours as long as you want it. I’m told that Père Clément will be able to offer you a small salary, which will be more than enough to cover your lodging.”

“Thank you,” Mamusia said, smoothing a napkin over her lap, “but we won’t be here for very long.”

“I see.” Madame Barbier didn’t look at either of them as she heaped potatoes and greens onto their plates and her own. She poured a small glass of wine for each of them. “I was under the impression that your daughter had spoken with Père Clément.”

Eva felt torn as Madame Barbier murmured a short prayer under her breath, crossed herself, and then cut into her own chicken leg. “We haven’t made any decisions yet.”

Mamusia gave her a sharp look. “Certainly, we have. You’ll retrieve your father, and then we’ll depart.”

Madame Barbier turned to Eva, her eyes bright. “You feel this way, too? You would abandon us so soon after we help you?”

Eva’s appetite was suddenly gone. “I—I don’t know.”

“But your father…” Mamusia said, her voice rising an octave.

Across the table, Madame Barbier cleared her throat. “Père Clément is a good man, madame. You can trust him. He’s doing good work.”

Mamusia glared at Madame Barbier. “I’m sure he is, but he has nothing to do with us.”

“Au contraire. I believe he has everything to do with you if you hope to see your husband again,” Madame Barbier replied evenly.

Mamusia snorted and pushed her chair back from the table. For a second, Eva was certain that her mother was about to storm off in righteous anger, but she seemed to reconsider, perhaps lured by the full plate of food in front of her. Instead, she scooted her chair back in, muttering angrily to herself, as Madame Barbier cut her own chicken, a pleasantly blank expression on her face.

“So, er, you live here alone?” Eva asked when the silence had grown uncomfortable.

“Yes, dear,” the older woman replied. “My husband and I managed the boardinghouse together during happier times. Aurignon used to be a somewhat popular holiday destination for people who lived in Lyon, Dijon, even Paris, people who wanted to escape to the countryside during the summer. Then my husband died in ’thirty-nine, and war came.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your husband,” Mamusia said, finally looking up.

“And I’m sorry to hear about yours, but at least you still have hope. And you still have your daughter.” Madame Barbier nodded at Eva. “My son went to fight for France just after his father passed. He did not return.”

“I’m quite sorry to hear that, too,” Mamusia said, glancing at Eva, who added murmured condolences.

Madame Barbier accepted the words with a brisk nod. “Well, as you can imagine, I don’t have much fondness for the Germans, even if Pétain wishes to lick their bootstraps, the old fool. My France is the one my husband fought for in the Great War, and the one my son gave his life for.” Suddenly, her eyes were on Eva, and they were on fire. “It is the France I hope you will choose to fight for, too, mademoiselle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m finished.” She stood abruptly, pushing her chair back from the table and whisking her plate away, but not before Eva saw a tear glide down her cheek.

“We don’t owe them anything,” Mamusia muttered a moment later, breaking the silence Madame Barbier had left in her wake.

Eva sighed. “Of course we do. I would never have thought to forge documents from the Argentine embassy. And even if the idea had somehow occurred to me, I never would have known how to do it.”

“So the priest gave you a bit of information. And Madame Barbier prepared us some food. So what?”

“It’s the best we’ve eaten in two years, Mamusia.”

Mamusia looked away. “That still doesn’t mean you have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“What if I want to help?”

“You don’t even know what the priest is involved in.”

“I know he’s involved in helping people. Maybe that’s something I should be doing, too.”

Mamusia’s jaw tightened. “What you should be doing, moje serduszko, my heart, is looking out for your family. Don’t forget, France has turned its back on us. On you.” She returned to her meal with a grunt, and as Eva watched her eat, her stomach swam with uncertainty.

France may have turned her back. But did that mean that Eva could do the same when lives hung in the balance?

* * *

After helping her mother clear the table and scrub the dishes in an empty kitchen, Eva washed up and left in the fading twilight to meet Père Clément.

The heavy front door to the church was unlocked, but inside, the cavernous space was dark and silent, lit by only a few candles burned down to nearly nothing. Above the altar, the statue of Jesus seemed to watch Eva, and she wasn’t sure whether to feel peaceful or nervous. What had she expected, that Père Clément would be waiting here cheerfully to roll out the red carpet? She hesitated only a moment before heading for the door to the right of the pulpit, the one that led to the small library. It was unlocked.

Père Clément wasn’t there, either, but the empty room had seemingly been prepared for her. Curtains were drawn over the stained glass windows, making the space feel cavelike, and three lanterns burned around the room, one on the table in the center. Eva made her way carefully inside, pulling the door closed behind her, and her eyes widened when she realized what was sitting in the middle of the workspace. There was what appeared to be an official form from the Argentine consulate, and beside it, several pieces of thick blank paper, and art pens in red, blue, black, and violet. An old typewriter, the kind her father would have immediately bent to examine with glee, waited for her just to the left of the lamp. The leather-bound book, the one with the gold-etched spine that Père Clément had said was printed in 1732, sat on the corner of the table where she’d left it that morning.

“Père Clément?” she called out cautiously, but only silence greeted her. After a few seconds, she sat down carefully in one of the two chairs facing the table and picked up the authentic letter from the Argentine consulate. The format was relatively basic, and the stamps looked easy enough to forge. She waited for another minute before grabbing one of the blank pieces of paper and feeding it into the typewriter. She would craft the letter first, modeling it on the real document, and then she’d worry about the letterhead and stamps.