The wailing continued, an earsplitting, heartbreaking squall.

“You must. Give her time.” Madame Barbier was already moving toward Mamusia, already wrapping strong arms around her. Mamusia’s body was limp as she let herself be molded into Madame Barbier’s ample chest. Still, the shrieking went on. “You did all you could, dear,” Madame Barbier said over the din. “Now, get some rest. Go. I will give your mother something to help her relax.”

Finally, Eva backed away from the room. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but she settled onto the couch and closed her eyes anyhow, letting the ghosts of Drancy torture her in the dark.

* * *

Eva awoke sometime early the next morning to the scent of real coffee, and as she cracked her eyes open, she thought for a moment she must be dreaming. She hadn’t smelled anything like that since before the Occupation; coffee beans were just one of the many things that had disappeared from everyday life. She couldn’t remember falling asleep the night before, but she felt a bit restored as she unfolded herself from the sofa and let her nose lead her into the kitchen, where Madame Barbier was humming to herself while she poured coffee into white china cups.

“Good morning,” Madame Barbier said without turning. “I’m afraid there’s no milk, but I have a bit of sugar if you take it.”

“But… where in the world did you get coffee?”

“I’ve had some saved in the cellar for a while now, for a special occasion.” Finally, she turned to face Eva, offering a cup of steaming black liquid. Eva inhaled deeply. “I thought you and your mother could use a lift this morning.”

“Thank you.” The words felt inadequate, and Eva stood there, awkwardly holding her cup.

“Drink, child,” Madame Barbier said. “Drink, before it gets cold.” She raised her own cup in a sort of toast and met Eva’s gaze over the rims as they both sipped.

“I’m sorry,” Eva said as she lowered her cup, the warmth flowing into her chest, the caffeine already coursing through her veins. “For last night.”

“Oh, dear, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“But I didn’t know how to help her.”

“No one could have. Not in that state.”

“But you—”

“I gave her a pill. Sometimes a person just needs to sleep. I had some left from when my husband died.”

Eva could see the pity in the older woman’s eyes, and it seeped into her along with the caffeine as Madame Barbier patted her on the shoulder and handed her a second cup. “Here. Bring this to your mother. She should be awake by now.”

Sure enough, Mamusia was sitting up in bed when Eva entered. Her hair was wild, the circles under her eyes half-moons of deep purple grief. “Mamusia?” Eva asked tentatively.

“Eva.” Mamusia’s tone was flat, but her eyes were alive again. She looked like herself.

“Madame Barbier made some coffee.” Eva took a few steps closer and handed her mother one of the cups. Mamusia took it, inhaled deeply, and then set it on the bedside table. Eva inched closer to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. She reached out to touch her mother’s arm and was wounded when Mamusia flinched. “I—I’m sorry, Mamusia. I wish I could have done more.”

“You did what you could. I shouldn’t have blamed you.” Mamusia looked toward the window. “I just can’t imagine him so far away. In such a terrible place.” Her voice caught and she wiped away a tear. “What will we do?”

“We will survive,” Eva said. “And we will be waiting when he comes back.”

Mamusia sighed. “Your optimism. It’s so much like your father’s. But look where that got him.”

“Mamusia—”

“No, moje serduszko, I don’t want to hear your hopeful words now. There’s nothing you can say to make this better.”

Eva looked down. Her coffee was growing cold. Her stomach was a churning pit of guilt, regret, and acid. “I know.”

“They are erasing us, and we are helping them.” Mamusia’s voice was still flat, too flat. “He opened the door to them, didn’t he? Your father went without a fight. And look at us. We don’t even have your father’s name anymore. He’s been gone for less than a week, and already we’re denying him?”

“But, Mamusia, I—”

“What happens when they come for us, too? When they take us east? Who will remember us? Who will care? Thanks to you, not even our names will remain.”

Eva could only shake her head. Was her mother right? Would they disappear like dust, swept from the earth? How could she stop it?

But then Rémy’s voice played in her head. Come to the church tomorrow We will figure something out. Could the two of them really do anything to help? It would mean staying here in Aurignon instead of trying to cross into Switzerland.

On the other hand, how could she simply do nothing? Wasn’t that what the people of France were doing? Wasn’t that what the whole world was doing while the Jews of Europe circled the drain?

“Mamusia,” she said softly, and her mother’s eyes finally landed on hers. “I—I have to go.”

“Go?” Mamusia blinked at her. “Go where?”

She stood. “To help save us.”

“I’m not staying here, Eva. And neither are you. We’re leaving as soon as we can.” Mamusia frowned at her, but she didn’t try to stop her. “So go to those Catholics, but at the end of today, say goodbye. You’re a fool to think you can make any difference.”

Eva tried not to wonder, as she walked out of the boardinghouse, whether her mother knew something she didn’t. Maybe it was too late to save anyone. Maybe there was nothing Eva could do. But how could she forgive herself if she didn’t try?

* * *

The small library behind the church’s altar was warm when Eva entered, and the first thing that hit her was the overpowering scent—a milky, salty, sharp odor that made her take a step back. Rémy was sitting at the table in the middle of the room, hunched over several papers spread out before him.

“What’s that awful smell?” Eva asked, putting a hand over her mouth.

He turned to face her. There was ink streaked across his right cheek, and she had to fight the strange urge to step closer and wipe it away.

“Well, hello to you, too.” He reached for a cloth beside him, wiped his hands, and stood up. “And it’s lactic acid.”

“Lactic acid?”

He ignored the question. “Are you all right, Eva? How did your mother take the news?”

She took a deep breath to steady herself, which only made the smell worse. She coughed, covering her mouth.

“Eh, you get used to it. But tell me, what happened with your mother?”

“She was inconsolable. She told me I was making a mistake in coming here this morning.”

“And what do you think?”

“I—I don’t know what to think.”

“But you’re here.”

Eva nodded. “I’m here. For now.” She inhaled again and wrinkled her nose. “Now are you going to explain why you’re playing with lactic acid in a library?”

He smiled. “After my mother died, I had to move out of Paris for a little while, to my uncle’s farm in Brittany. I apprenticed once a week at the dairy down the street. The farmers who sold us their cream sometimes became greedy and tried to water down their product. You know what the chemist at the dairy did to check the fat content?”

“Er, no.” Eva couldn’t imagine what butter and fat content had to do with anything.

“We took a small amount of each farmer’s cream and dissolved methylene blue ink in it. Then we calculated how long it took for the color to disappear. You see, the lactic acid in the cream erases methylene blue.”

“Okay.” Eva felt completely lost now.

“Most of the real documents that come from the prefectures are signed and stamped using Waterman’s blue ink. Waterman’s is composed of methylene blue, which is typically impossible to erase. I imagine that’s why they use it.”

Finally, Eva understood. Her eyes widened as she glanced at the table behind him, which she now realized was lined with identity documents that looked as if they’d been sponged with water. “So you’re using lactic acid to erase the ink? On real documents?”

“We’ve been doing it for months. Pretty smart, yes?”

“It’s brilliant, Rémy. Surely this must take a long time, though.”

“We haven’t always had access to blank documents. Finally, we have a sympathetic official at the local prefecture, and he’s able to funnel us some supplies. But for some people, it’s still easier to simply modify their original papers.”

Eva’s eyes drifted to the table again. “And is this what you want me to help you with?”

“No. I mean, beyond figuring out the chemistry, nearly anyone could do the erasing. I suppose Père Clément was hoping you’d help me a bit with the reconstructing of the documents that have already dried. Since you apparently have a talent.” He gestured toward the edge of the table, where a dozen or so distressed-looking documents were stacked. “Those need new names and details.”

“I can do that.”

“Good. I could use the help. We are behind by hundreds of documents.”

“Hundreds?”