“Auschwitz.”

Eva just stared at him, the world spinning around her. She could hear Rémy saying something beside her, his tone calm, but the buzzing in her ears drowned out his words. “Auschwitz?” she asked in a whisper. She had heard of it, had heard rumors that Germans were sending Jews there and working them to death, but she hadn’t believed it. Now, in an instant, she did.

The officer glanced at her. “It’s a work camp west of Kraków. If your employee’s parents emigrated from Poland, he should feel right at home there, yes?” The man finally smiled.

“Thank you for your time,” Rémy said, already pulling Eva toward the door. Her feet felt as if they were made of lead. “Come,” Rémy said to Eva in a low voice as the officer moved to open the door for them. “Not here.” And then his arm was around Eva, and he was dragging her toward the exit, through the horrific cacophony of distress and decay and death that was all around them, past the agony and hopelessness of the people still trapped behind barbed wire.

It wasn’t until they were safely back in Brun’s truck, bumping down shredded roads toward Paris, that Eva finally began to cry, softly at first, escalating to a wail that sounded inhuman, even to her own ears.

“Shut her up, would you?” Brun asked.

“No,” Rémy said, pulling her against him, offering his shoulder as comfort. “No, I won’t.”

When she could finally speak again, past the grief that had closed her throat, she whispered, “What will we do? How will we get him out of Auschwitz?”

Rémy’s lips brushed her forehead. “I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

Eva closed her eyes. “So now what?”

“Now,” Rémy murmured, “we pray.”

As they made their way back toward Paris, horror set in, and along with it, determination. It might have been too late to save her father, but she had just seen up close what was happening to thousands of other Jews. If there was something she could do to help, she didn’t have a choice.

Chapter Twelve

“What will happen to him?”

They were the first words Eva had spoken in more than two hours, the first she could muster, and she knew she had to say them aloud, though she didn’t want to hear the answer. They were on a train headed south out of Paris, and Eva had been so drunk on her own misery that she’d barely noticed when a German soldier spent a tense minute examining her false identity card and travel permit as they boarded.

“It’s impossible to guess,” Rémy said, not looking at her.

“Try.” She knew her voice sounded icy, but her coldness wasn’t directed at him. It was just that her insides were frozen.

Rémy sighed. The train was nearly empty, but his eyes were constantly roving, looking for eavesdroppers or approaching soldiers. “The age they had down for him is correct? Fifty-two?”

“Yes.”

“And he is healthy?”

“He’s fit for his age.”

“Then God willing, he should be selected for work detail.”

“God willing?”

Rémy cleared his throat. “I have heard that the alternative is worse.”

Eva studied her hands. Her eyes were red and raw, but she was all out of tears. “Thank you,” she said after a moment.

“For what? I—I failed you.”

She shook her head. “You are being honest with me. I appreciate that. And you didn’t fail me, Rémy. I couldn’t have done this on my own.”

Rémy began to reply, one corner of his mouth quirking slightly into a grin, but then he seemed to reconsider. Instead, he looked out the window for a moment before saying, “You know, I have a father, too.” He hesitated. “He died at the front two years ago.”

“I’m sorry, Rémy.”

He nodded.

“And your mother?” she asked when he didn’t say anything.

“She died when I was a boy. So it’s just me now.”

Eva placed her hand on his for a few seconds before pulling it away.

“At least,” Rémy said, turning to look at her, “you still have your mother.”

“My mother.” Eva closed her eyes. “My God. How in the world will I tell her the news?”

Tatu? was Mamusia’s world, and Eva wondered if the revelation would break her.

“Try to get some rest,” Rémy murmured after a while. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

Eva was too exhausted to protest, and so she nodded and placed her head on Rémy’s shoulder. Finally, she slept, dreaming of her father on a train headed east to an unknowable fate.

* * *

They passed through the checkpoint near Moulins easily, waved through by a soldier who took a perfunctory look at their documents and pointed to the other side with a yawn, and the remainder of the trip to Clermont-Ferrand was uneventful. It was long past sunset when she and Rémy got off the bus in Aurignon and approached the old stone boardinghouse. “Come to the church tomorrow. We will figure something out,” Rémy said, reaching for her hand and squeezing.

“What do you mean?”

“A way to help. A way to fight the Germans. A way to protect others like your father.” Before she could reply, Rémy added, “And your mother? She will be all right. You will, too.” He gave her hand one last squeeze.

Eva nodded, mute. When Rémy let her go and walked away, she watched him disappear around the corner, and then, taking a deep breath, she turned and went into the boardinghouse.

Madame Barbier was in the parlor, and she looked up when Eva entered. Her brows were raised, her eyes wide as she looked questioningly at Eva. Eva shook her head slightly, and the other woman’s face fell. “I’m very sorry, dear.”

When Eva let herself into the room a moment later, her mother was already standing, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Her eyes flicked first to Eva and then to the empty space behind her. Eva watched as a shadow crossed her face. “Your father…?” Mamusia asked.

“He—he wasn’t there anymore. I’m so sorry.”

The words hung in the silence. Neither of them moved. Mamusia continued to stare behind Eva, as if Tatu? would walk in at any moment, surprising them both.

“Mamusia? Did you hear me?”

When Mamusia’s eyes finally moved back to Eva’s face, she looked dazed. “Where? Where did he go?”

“East.” Eva took a deep breath. “To a work camp called Auschwitz. In Poland.”

“But that’s impossible. He was taken less than a week ago. And we live in France, Eva. This doesn’t happen in France.”

“I’m afraid it does.” Eva could see the crush of people penned up at Drancy each time she closed her eyes.

“But we left Poland. We—we are French.”

“We are Jews.” Eva’s voice was so soft she could hardly hear herself.

Her mother turned away and moved to the window. The blackout shade was drawn for the night, but Mamusia pulled it aside and stared out at the long shadows painting the streets of Aurignon. In minutes, the town would be black, invisible, and the light spilling from their room would be too conspicuous. Eva wanted to pull her mother back from the glass, draw the shade tight, but she couldn’t move.

“Which way is east?” Mamusia asked in a whisper, and Eva followed her gaze outside. They were facing away from the disappearing sun, and the sky ahead of them had already turned to thick molasses.

“That way,” Eva said with a nod, looking past the stout spire of the église Saint-Alban, which they could just see over the building across the street.

“He won’t come back,” Mamusia said as she watched the light vanish. “He will die there.”

“No.” Eva thought of Rémy’s words, and she wondered if he’d been lying. Were fifty-two-year-old men really selected for work duty, or was that left to the younger, stronger generation? Had Rémy merely been telling her what she wanted to hear? “No,” she said again, no longer believing herself. “Tatu? is strong. He will return.”

Mamusia shook her head, and when she finally turned from the window, her face was drained of all color, and her lips were set in a line so thin they had almost disappeared. “You promised you would bring him back to me.”

An arrow of sharp guilt stabbed Eva in the heart. “I tried.”

“You were too late.”

Eva hung her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“You failed him.” There was only silence for a few seconds, and then a low, dolorous wail shattered the stillness. It was the sound of a desperate, wounded animal, but it was coming from her mother, whose face was contorted into a mask of pain.

“Mamusia!” Eva said, reaching for her, but her mother’s hands went up like claws, and she snarled as she backed away from her daughter. The wail grew louder and louder until Eva was covering her ears, and Mamusia was on her knees, her eyes closed, keening now, her voice a primal song of grief that cut through Eva like a knife. “Mamusia!” Eva tried again, but her mother was in her own world.

Eva didn’t hear her come in, but suddenly, Madame Barbier was there, her strong hands on Eva’s shoulders. “Get up. Go sleep in the parlor,” she said, her voice calm, firm. “I will take care of your mother.”

“But I can’t leave her!”