“Mamusia, there’s nothing between Rémy and me.” But the truth was, the more time they spent together, the more she felt for him. He was good and kind and decent, and he was risking his life every day for people like her. How could that be wrong? She had never been in love before, but she wondered if this is what it felt like at the beginning—a desire to soak up as much of the other person as you could, even if it meant throwing logic to the wind. Perhaps her mother was right, after all. “I—I’m sorry,” she added weakly. “Mamusia?”

There was no reply. Her mother turned her back, rolling away from Eva, who stared at the ceiling, trying not to cry, until exhaustion finally overtook her.

The morning after Hanukkah ended, it was snowing when Eva arrived at the church, ducking inside and crossing herself in the entrance as she always did, just in case anyone was watching. It had become her routine to kneel in one of the pews for a minute or two before proceeding to the library, to ensure that there was no one else around. Sometimes there would be another person there, fingering rosary beads or staring at the cross on bended knee, and Eva would pretend to pray, too, until they were gone. Lately, though, Eva had found it a perfect place to talk silently to God. Was it a betrayal for a Jew to find God in a Catholic church? She wondered if somewhere out there, her father was still speaking to him, too, from behind a barbed wire fence in a desolate land.

Today the church was empty, and as Eva knelt to pray, she found herself thinking of her mother’s words the night before. All your thoughts are with that Catholic boy lately. Was Mamusia right? Had Eva gradually abandoned her mother as the pull of Rémy grew stronger?

“Please, God, help me to do the right thing,” Eva whispered before standing and heading for the library. As she made her way toward the altar, Père Clément emerged and nodded to her, his expression grave. She nodded back, a bad feeling forming in the pit of her stomach as he limped behind her into the small hidden room.

“We have a problem,” he said as soon as he had pulled the door behind them.

“Is it Rémy?” she asked immediately. “Is he all right?”

“Rémy? Oh yes, he’s fine, as far as I know. No, Eva, it’s about some of the papers.”

Eva felt the breath go out of her. “The papers?”

“Do you remember forging papers for a man named Jacques Lacroix? You kept his name, at his request, but you changed his birthdate and occupation?”

“Yes, of course.” Eva had just completed documents for the man the week before. He was nearly twenty-four, but she and Rémy had decided to age him down to seventeen to avoid any risk of his being called to compulsory service, for in his clean-shaven photograph, he appeared as if he could pass. She hadn’t been told what his role in the underground was, but Rémy knew him, and she’d had the sense he was someone important, someone vital to protect. Her throat constricted. “Père Clément, what did I do wrong?”

“It wasn’t you,” he said immediately. “Your documents would pass any spot check, but the blanks you’re using—the ones we don’t get from the prefecture—well, apparently the Germans have some new methods for spotting identification cards and travel permits made from the wrong kind of paper.”

Eva swallowed hard. “Oh no. Monsieur Lacroix…”

“He’s fine. Someone at the jail accepted a bribe, and Lacroix has long since disappeared. But, Eva, the authorities are beginning to understand that there is someone in the area forging documents, and forging them well. That puts you in danger, but it also puts the members of our network in peril.” Père Clément paused. “One of the higher-ups in the underground in this area—a man they call Gérard Faucon—apparently has a way to help, but first, he needs to know he can trust you.”

“Of course he can. Can’t you vouch for me?”

“I already have, but he hardly knows me. He comes from Paris, and he’s trying to implement some things that worked there. He would like to meet you in person, this morning.” He looked at her expectantly.

“Yes, certainly. Is Rémy coming, too?”

“No, he’s—” Père Clément stopped abruptly, cutting off whatever he had been about to say. “No.”

A thread of worry wove through Eva again. “But he’s all right?”

“I promise. Shall we go? I think the documents for today can wait until the afternoon.”

Eva glanced around, her eyes landing on Epitres et Evangiles, her Book of Lost Names, which sat on a shelf, sandwiched between other religious texts so that it blended right in. The more names she added to its pages, the more reluctant she felt to leave it behind, but it was safer here than anywhere else. “Yes,” she said, turning her attention back to the priest. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Père Clément led Eva through a winding maze of snow-caked alleys to a schoolhouse she’d never seen before, where a handful of children sat inside, bundled in sweaters and faded coats as they watched a teacher write something on a chalkboard. “Remember,” Père Clément murmured as they walked around to the back of the building, snow crunching beneath their feet, “Faucon knows you only as Eva Moreau. No good comes from knowing each other’s real identities.”

There was a faded red door on the far side of the schoolhouse, and Père Clément knocked twice, paused, and knocked once more, then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a key. Without looking at Eva, he unlocked the door and went inside, gesturing for her to follow.

They entered what seemed to be a large, abandoned classroom at the back of the school. It was dark, but the dirty windows let a bit of light in, and as Eva’s eyes adjusted, she could see desks and chairs empty, askew. It was as if the children who had once studied here had all fled in a hurry, leaving a broken trail as they left. It gave Eva a bad feeling, but not as bad as the one that swept over her when Père Clément said gently that he was planning to depart before Faucon arrived. “He wants to meet you alone,” he said, glancing toward the door.

“But why?”

“I think that some of the things he wants to discuss are best kept between the fewest number of people.” Père Clément’s voice was suddenly stiff, and Eva realized that for some reason, Faucon was shutting the priest out.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed like the wrong thing to say, but it made him smile slightly.

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

“Are you sure this man can be trusted?”

“Absolutely.” Père Clément didn’t hesitate. “He has proven himself very skilled and useful. And don’t worry, Eva, I won’t go far. I’ll be right outside if you need me. All right?”

She nodded, taking some comfort in the words, but as Père Clément slipped back out into the bright, icy morning, closing her once again into the darkness, she felt uneasy. The minutes ticked by, and she began to wonder whether she should leave. And why wasn’t Rémy here? He was as involved in the forgeries as she was.

She was still thinking about him, her misgivings mounting, when the door opened and a man entered in a flash of frigid sunshine, the collar of a wool overcoat turned up, a cap low over his eyes. When he pulled the door closed behind him, the shadows wrapped themselves around him as he moved into the room. “Bonjour,” he said, his deep voice muffled by his scarf.

“Bonjour.” There was something familiar about him, something that unsettled her and made her feel as if she was somehow failing to connect the dots.

But then he unwrapped his scarf, and as he took off his hat and grinned at her, her jaw fell. “Joseph Pelletier?” she breathed.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my petit rat de bibliothèque. How is this possible?” As he took a step forward and pulled her into a tight embrace, her mind raced. She never imagined she would cross paths again with the suave Sorbonne student, and certainly not here, not in this new life where she had become someone the old Eva would hardly have recognized.

“You’re Gérard Faucon?”

“Indeed. And you’re Eva Moreau, the master forger?”

Eva nodded, though his words made her feel like a fool. “What on earth are you doing here, Joseph?”

“Well, fighting the damned Germans, of course,” he said cheerfully, finally pulling away and putting a frigid hand on her cheek. He stared at her, tilting her head slightly, as if making sure it was really her. “But who could have guessed that the talented young forger I’ve been hearing so much about was you all along?”

Chapter Seventeen

It took a full two minutes before the shock of seeing Joseph wore off enough for Eva to do more than stare in disbelief.

He looked more handsome than ever, his face chiseled by hunger, his shoulders broader, a single curl tumbling rakishly onto his forehead in a way that made her itch to reach out and brush it away. She shook her head at herself. They were both fighting for France, and she was letting herself succumb to the feelings of a silly child. “But… how are you here?”

“I could ask the same of you, Eva. How did you become involved? I have to say, I would not have expected this.”

She hardly knew where to begin, so she started with the moment that everything changed. “They took my father.”