“They’re made in free Algeria and parachuted in.”

“Parachuted?” Eva had heard rumors of weapons being dropped by the Allies, but blank papers? “By whom?”

Joseph just smiled. “The less you know, the better. But those should last you for a while. Now, go put them somewhere safe for the night. I’ll have a few people looking out for you on your way to the church tomorrow, but you should be perfectly fine as long as you conceal the package beneath your coat. The Germans know there’s a forgery bureau going on beneath their noses, but they’re not looking for a girl. And certainly not one as pretty as you.”

She could feel herself blushing. “Thank you. I’ll just go hide them in my room.” She stood.

“Good.” Joseph patted his belly. “Now, I’m starving. Where do you suppose your mother is with that food?”

* * *

Joseph left an hour later—full of chicken, wine, and ersatz coffee with a touch of real cream—and on the way out, he reassured Eva’s mother that he would see what he could find out about Tatu?.

“So you truly believe, as I do, that he is alive and well?” Mamusia asked, clasping his hand.

“I do, Madame Traube.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “We have every reason to be optimistic.”

Eva pulled on an overcoat to walk Joseph outside. It was snowing, and the streets outside were dark, empty, and windswept. “Do you really think you might be able to get word about my father?”

Joseph didn’t answer right away. “Certainly you are aware he must be dead, Eva.”

She choked back a sob. Of course, she knew it was likely, but to hear the words delivered so matter-of-factly felt like a slap in the face. The pity in Joseph’s eyes only made it worse. “Then why did you tell my mother that you believed he was alive?”

“I just wanted to give her some comfort. And I think I did.” He pulled up the collar of his overcoat as a gust of snowflakes swept past them.

“False hope isn’t comfort, Joseph,” Eva protested.

Joseph stepped closer and stroked her cheek gently, his thumb rough and cold. “I disagree,” he said softly. “We’re all pretending to be something we’re not, aren’t we?” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the lips, lingering there for a few seconds. As he pulled away, his eyes bore into hers. “In times like these, I think, there’s no other way to live with ourselves.”

Chapter Eighteen

For the next four days, Eva worked feverishly, turning out library cards, trade union cards, ration cards, demobilization certificates—all sorts of papers she hadn’t been able to accurately reproduce before she’d received the papers from free Algeria. Identity cards had been easy enough because the blank documents were readily available at many stores, and baptismal and birth certificates were relatively basic once one had gotten the hang of the various stamps and seals, as well as the differences in documents between different regions. But the others were much harder, and had therefore apparently become the kinds of supporting documents the Germans were examining closely if they had reason to be suspicious.

Rémy still hadn’t returned, but he and Eva had spent the past several months transforming the small church library into a workshop, complete with a guillotine-like cutter for cleanly trimming paper, an Underwood typewriter, two staplers, a dozen bottles of chemicals, correcting fluid for erasing ration cards, and a collection of meticulously blended inks that Rémy had mixed to replicate the most frequent types found on official documents. There were common rubber stamps Eva had carefully engraved, along with a dozen blank copy rollers for less prevalent document stamps that would need to be reproduced quickly, and a simple, hand-cranked device Rémy had fashioned that used dust and old pencil lead to make documents appear older. There was even an old Singer sewing machine, donated by a parishioner long ago, that Eva had realized last month could be used to cut out revenue stamps if only she replaced the narrow needle with a larger one.

Each night, all the supplies—with the exceptions of the typewriter and sewing machine—were tucked away into false-bottomed drawers or between books on the shelves, making the room look innocuous, even if it constantly smelled of chemicals.

Joseph dropped by the church on Thursday morning with a new batch of blanks that had arrived from the north by courier. Père Clément let him into the small library, startling Eva, who was accustomed to seeing only Rémy and the priest in the private space. As the priest excused himself, leaving the two of them alone, Eva couldn’t help but feel that in a way he had violated her trust. But it wasn’t reasonable to expect Père Clément to keep their secret room hidden from someone the Resistance network trusted so deeply, was it?

“You’re doing extraordinary work here, Eva,” Joseph said, gazing around in awe at all the machines, inks, and chemicals before sitting down beside her and putting his hand gently on her back. It felt intimate, and Eva found herself moving away from him. It wasn’t that she minded his touch. Goodness knows there had been a time not so long ago that she had daydreamed about what it would feel like. No, it was that he was sitting in a chair that belonged to someone else.

“Thanks, but it’s been quite difficult this week all by myself. Have you had any word from Rémy?”

“No, but we would have heard by now if something had gone wrong. These things take time. He’ll be back.” He stood and kissed her on both cheeks. “Give my best to your mother.” He left, pulling the door closed behind him.

Eva was bent over the table, filling in blank ration cards, when the door opened again twenty minutes later. She turned, expecting it to be Joseph returning with something he’d forgotten to deliver earlier, but when Rémy entered instead, she leapt to her feet and threw herself into his arms.

“Oh, Rémy, you’re all right!” she cried, and he hesitated before crushing her to his chest and burying his face in her hair. He didn’t say a word, but she could feel his heart racing, and that was enough. He was alive, he was here, and he was in her arms. He was holding on to her as tightly as she clung to him, and that had to mean something.

When he finally pulled away, Eva stared at him, taking in the fresh scratches on his face, the gash on his neck, the yellowing bruise just beneath his left eye. “You’re hurt.”

He touched the bruise, as if surprised to realize it was there. “It’s nothing.”

“And the children?”

He smiled slightly. “There were four of them, all from Poland. The ones we created documents for last week.”

“Arlette, Jeanine, Jean-Pierre, and Roland.” She preferred to remember their real names rather than the false ones she had given them. They’d ranged in age from two to seven—far too young to be running for their lives.

He nodded. “Pages one hundred seven to one hundred ten in our book. They’re safe and sound in Geneva.”

“Oh, thank God. And you? Rémy, who did this to you?”

“I’m back, Eva, and I’m fine. The rest doesn’t matter.” His eyes slid away. “I was worried about you.”

“But you were the one in danger.”

“And yet you were the only thing on my mind.” He coughed and turned away, and she was glad he couldn’t see her flaming cheeks. “So,” he said without looking at her, “how was your dinner with Faucon?”

The sharp edge to his voice replaced the warmth that had been there just seconds earlier, and the abrupt change shook her. “It was fine, Rémy. He’ll be working with us more now, bringing us supplies.”

Rémy’s eyebrows shot up. “Supplies?”

Eva gestured to the table. “Much better paper than we’ve been able to get on our own. We need him.”

Rémy looked down at the documents on the table. His jaw tightened. “Right. Faucon saves the day.”

“Rémy—”

“I’m sorry.” He blinked at her a few times and then sighed, his shoulders sagging. “It’s—it’s been a long few days. The destruction outside the larger cities…” He paused and shook his head. “Eva, I can’t help but feel like I’m still not doing enough.”

A chill ran through her. “But certainly you are. The work we’re doing here is invaluable. And now that you’re back, we can do so much more with these blank documents…”

“Eva, in a perfect world, there’d be nothing I’d like more than to stay here with you. But being out there, traveling with those children… There’s so much more to accomplish. And I can’t do it here.”

Her stomach twisted. She understood what he was saying, what it would mean, but he had to see that he was wrong. “I need you, Rémy,” she said. “I mean—there’s so much work to be done.” Too late, she gestured to the papers on the table in front of her, but she knew he’d heard the real meaning of her words. He looked away, and when he looked back, there was so much pain in his eyes that it hurt her to see.