“Joseph Pelletier?” Mamusia’s eyes lit up when Eva arrived home early that day to tell her they would be having an unexpected dinner guest that evening—but that they couldn’t utter his real name in front of Madame Barbier. It was the happiest Eva had seen her mother look in months. “Why, it’s a miracle! Do you know what he likes to eat, moje serduszko? We’ll make him something special.”

“Mamusia, I’m quite sure he understands the rations just like we do and would be grateful for anything we give him.”

“But it’s Joseph Pelletier! He was the handsomest boy in school, and from a good family, too. I’m sure I can impose upon Madame Barbier and her farmer friend to help us.”

Eva bit her lip before she could reply.

When Joseph arrived just after dark, he had changed into a charcoal wool sweater and pressed black slacks, which made him look as if he’d wandered in from an upscale Parisian café. Mamusia fluttered around him, gushing about how handsome he looked, how wonderful it was to see him, what an honor it was to have him to dinner. Madame Barbier—who had managed to procure a precious chicken and some potatoes for the occasion—seemed overly impressed, too. She was involved enough with the underground to know the name Gérard Faucon—and to realize he was someone important in the Resistance.

“Jo—Gérard,” Mamusia breathed, leaning forward hungrily as Madame Barbier uncorked a bottle of wine for them and then reluctantly disappeared to leave them in peace. “Isn’t it extraordinary that you and Eva have reunited here so far from home?”

“Mamusia,” Eva warned under her breath.

Joseph smiled, first at Mamusia and then at Eva, his gaze lingering on her. “Well, Eva herself is quite extraordinary.”

Mamusia reddened and fanned herself dramatically, as if she herself had been the object of Joseph’s compliment. “Oh, you’re very kind, Joseph. She’s quite a catch, don’t you think?”

“Mamusia, please!”

Joseph smiled at Eva again, his eyes meeting hers. “Yes, I’m certain she is.”

“Perhaps we could change the subject,” Eva said through gritted teeth.

“Very well.” Her mother sighed and plunged into a story about a party she had attended at the invitation of Joseph’s parents in the summer of 1937, at their grand apartment on the rue du Renard, and how she had told her husband that it was simply the height of glamour and class. But at the mention of Tatu?, her smile faltered a bit, and she trailed off and looked toward the door as if she half expected him to enter at any moment.

“I’m very sorry to hear about your husband’s deportation,” Joseph said gravely, reaching to touch Mamusia’s hand.

“Thank you, Joseph,” Mamusia said with a sniffle. “I look forward to being reunited with him when the war ends. It’s just that I miss him very much right now.”

Eva swallowed hard and stared at her plate. Mamusia seemed increasingly unable to process the possibility that there might not be a joyous reunion with Tatu? in the making. “Mamusia,” she said softly, but Joseph reached for Eva’s hand under the table, squeezed it gently, and didn’t let go.

“Madame Traube, I would be happy to inquire after him, if that would be helpful,” Joseph said, and Eva watched as her mother’s head jerked up.

“Inquire after my Leo?” Mamusia asked, her voice high and breathy. “You could do that?”

Joseph shrugged, as if it was nothing to obtain information from a Nazi labor camp, as if there were a correspondence secretary simply awaiting his letter in the land of death and despair. “I have many contacts,” he said. “I’d be happy to see if anyone can find out where your husband is now. I’m sure he’s thinking of you all the time, Madame Traube.”

“Joseph, I don’t think—” Eva began.

“Oh, Joseph,” Mamusia cut her off, her eyes twinkling with tears as she beamed at him. “I always knew you were a wonderful boy. I’ve always told Eva that, haven’t I, dear? You should wind up with a nice Jewish boy like Joseph, I’ve always said.”

Eva covered her eyes with her right hand, mortified, but Joseph didn’t laugh, nor did he let go of her left hand. He only squeezed tighter, and then his thumb began to stroke her palm, a motion of comfort, intimacy.

“Well, Madame Traube, I’d be very lucky to find a woman like Eva, too. You and your husband have raised a fine daughter.”

Mamusia fanned herself again and tittered like a teenager before excusing herself to go see about the main course in the kitchen. As soon as she was out of earshot, Eva groaned. “I’m so sorry about my mother. She seems to think this is a date.”

“And would that really be so bad?” Joseph asked, waiting until she looked up at him in surprise. “You have to admit, Eva, we would make a good pair.”

Eva pulled her hand away from him and looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “Joseph, I—”

“Oh, don’t look so worried, Eva,” Joseph said with a laugh. “My work doesn’t leave much time for romance. I was only pointing out how very lovely you are, and how different you seem to have become since I saw you last.” He waited until Eva met his gaze again. “Is that so wrong to say?”

“Thank you.” She felt like the shy schoolgirl she had once been, and desperate to change the subject, she asked, “Do you, by any chance, know how dangerous it is for members of the underground to escort Jewish children across the Swiss border?”

Joseph burst out laughing. “I thought we were having a moment, Eva, and you’re asking me about the safety of our couriers? You’re not very good at this.”

She could feel her blush deepening. “I’m just worried about someone.”

His smiled faded. “Ah. Your partner in forgery. Rémy, is it?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“He’ll be fine, Eva. He can take care of himself.”

She searched his eyes. “You don’t like him. Why?”

“It’s just that at a time like this, I find it more comforting to be surrounded by people who are more predictable, people like you.”

Eva wondered if it was only in her own head that the comment had sounded like a slight. Was Joseph here because he assumed she was the same old Eva, the docile English student who never spoke up, the inexperienced, sheltered girl who was too nervous to flirt? “I don’t know. I think there’s a certain value to being able to change when it’s necessary. Otherwise, we’d never grow.”

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “Eva, you’re absolutely right. What I meant to say was that I admire your character, your stability. It’s nice to know that I’ll always know where I stand with you.” He gave her another charming grin.

“So you think Rémy will be all right?” she persisted.

“Well, he’s traveling on papers that the two of you made together, so I would imagine there’s every reason to assume he’ll be just fine. Which brings me, Eva, to the subject I wanted to discuss with you.” He craned his neck to look down the hall, and satisfied that her mother was apparently trying to leave them alone for a bit, he turned back to Eva. “You see, the identity documents you’ve been making are fine. And you’ve been doing brilliantly with the stamps. But your supporting papers have been failing inspections lately.”

Eva’s eyes widened. Had there been more issues than just the one with the résistant named Lacroix? “Joseph, I’m very sorry. Was someone apprehended because of our work?”

“It doesn’t matter. The problem is that the actual paper the documents are printed on needs to be more convincing.”

Eva could feel herself blushing. “We—we’ve tried to make better paper, but it’s not our specialty.” She had always known, though, that it was a weak spot for them. Different documents were printed on entirely different types of paper—some closely woven, some fine, some textured, and some untextured—and she’d thought she and Rémy had done a decent job of sourcing the correct varieties. Rémy had even tinkered with making his own paper from wood pulp and water, but there hadn’t been time to get it right, not with all the documents that needed to be made. There were only two of them, and never enough hours in the day.

“It’s not your fault; it’s the network’s, for not providing you with the things you need. But that’s about to change.” Joseph stood and walked to the rack in the hall where his overcoat hung. He withdrew a packet as thick as a dictionary, and Eva wondered, as he returned to the dining room, how he had managed to conceal it so well. “Here,” he said, handing it to her.

“What is it?”

He glanced once more down the hall. Her mother and Madame Barbier were still nowhere to be seen. “Open it. Quickly.”

Eva unwound the string around the package and pulled back the brown butcher paper. Inside was a large stack of assorted papers, some thick, some as thin as blotting sheets, everything from blank ration cards to blank demobilization orders. She flipped through them and then looked back to Joseph in awe. “This is different from anything we’ve been able to get here. How…?”