Eva released her mother’s arms and took a step back. “Do you really believe that? You don’t think Tatu? would be proud that I’m trying to do the right thing?”

“He would have wanted you to be the person he raised you to be.” Mamusia turned her back and waved her hand dismissively. “So go, Eva. Run off to Switzerland with your papist friends and leave me here. Let’s be honest, shall we? You’ve already disappeared.”

Eva stared at her mother’s turned back in dismay. She longed to stay, to make her mother see her point now, but there wasn’t time. They would see each other in Switzerland again in less than a week, and she would explain everything, over and over if she had to. In fact, since her role in the underground would be done then, she would have nothing but time on her hands to make her mother see the truth. “Mamusia,” she said softly.

It took a whole minute for Mamusia to turn, and when she did, some of the anger on her face had been replaced with sadness. As the two women stared at each other, Eva understood that while she had sought solace by finding a purpose, her mother had found comfort by wrapping herself in indignation. It was her armor, her new identity.

“I love you, Mamusia.” Eva took a step forward and hugged her mother, who was stiff and unmoving at first, but who finally sighed and wrapped her arms around Eva, too. “Joseph will take care of you. I’ll see you in Switzerland in a few days, and then it will just be me and you.”

“Is that a promise?”

“You have my word, Mamusia.”

Mamusia pulled away. “Then be safe, moje serduszko.” She hesitated and added, “I love you, too.”

And then Eva had no choice but to turn and leave her mother behind. As she walked out of the boardinghouse after a brief exchange of hugs and good-luck wishes with Madame Barbier, she felt the tears streaming down her face, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away.

Chapter Twenty-Six

It took Eva an hour to put together a new set of papers for Lucie Besson, false wife of a man she had never met. As she waited for the ink to dry, she got down on her knees and prayed for her mother, for Père Clément, and for Geneviève. She added a prayer for her father, too, though it seemed likely that his fate was already written. And finally, she asked God for the strength and courage to lead the children across the mountain to safety.

When she stopped by Père Clément’s office to receive her instructions and to say goodbye, he pulled her immediately into a tight hug. She was reminded of the way her father used to embrace her after the war had started, to remind her that as long as they had each other, she would be safe. While it was reassuring to hear the pounding of the priest’s heart, and to know he’d be praying fervently for her, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. No man on earth could promise you more time, better luck, safer passage. Only God could do that.

“Here,” she said as she pulled away. She held out the key to the secret library, the one she had kept on a string around her neck, just to the right of her heart, since he had first given it to her. It hurt her to part with it, but she wouldn’t need it anymore.

Père Clément shook his head and gently lifted the key from her hand. He slipped the string back around her neck and smiled. “Keep it, Eva, as a reminder that you’re welcome here as soon as the war ends. There will always be a home for you in Aurignon.”

She bowed her head, blinking back tears. “Thank you, mon Père.”

“Now, you’re to take the bus to Clermont-Ferrand, and from there, the three o’clock train to Lyon, via Vichy. You’ll meet your husband, André Besson, and children—your sons, Georges, Maurice, and Didier, and your daughter, Jacqueline—at the Lyon train station for the remainder of the journey. The children will be traveling with false documents that should pass basic inspection, but they’ll need better ones, so when you meet them, you will give them the documents you’ve made already and your husband will go outside to destroy the ones the children have arrived with. There’s a train that leaves Lyon for Annecy at midnight. The children will be able to sleep on the train, and your husband will explain the rest to you. You’ll cross into Switzerland near Geneva.”

“How will I know the man I’m supposed to meet?”

“Just wait outside the side entrance, to the left of the main door, and you will see him approach with the children.”

Eva nodded, her heart thudding. There was so much that could go wrong. “Mon Père, I’m frightened.”

“I am, too, but the greatest deeds in life require us to rise above our fear. Think of Moses; when God called to him from the burning bush and told him that he must save his people from slavery, he was frightened, too. He questioned God, just as you might be doing now. ‘Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?’ he asked. But God promised to be with him, and so he went, for it was his destiny. God will be with you, too, Eva, whatever happens. Just have faith.”

“Thank you.” There was a sudden lump in her throat. “Truly. Thank you for everything.”

“Eva, it has been a gift knowing you.” As he looked down at her, there were tears in his eyes, and this, from the stoic priest, touched Eva more than anything else. “You are brave and strong and courageous, and I know you will go on to live a long, happy life.”

She smiled at him. “I wish I believed you, Père Clément. And I wish the same for you.”

“Until we meet again, Eva.”

“Until we meet again.”

Père Clément pressed train tickets into her hand and a palm to her cheek before turning back to the Bible lying open on his desk. As she turned to go, she heard him clear his throat a few times, and she knew that just as she was, he was trying not to let emotion overtake him. There was still work to be done, and the success of their mission depended upon everyone acting as if their worlds weren’t being blown apart.

* * *

Eva’s train pulled into Lyon just past six thirty, and as she stepped onto the platform, carrying the small hand valise she had hastily packed, a feeling of dread swept over her. She was farther east now than she’d ever been. It was closer to freedom, certainly, but it was also closer to Germany. Was she fleeing to the embrace of safety? Or walking straight into danger? Either way, it was too late to turn back. There were children relying on her.

By six fifty, she was standing just to the left of the main entrance, waiting for the children and the man she would escape to Switzerland with. As she tried to appear nonchalant and unworried, she fretted about the meeting. Would anyone be convinced that she was married to this man she’d never met? That she was the mother to children she had never seen? She recited their names in her head over and over. My husband, André. My children, Georges, Maurice, Didier, and Jacqueline. She could almost imagine the children, since she had created their identity documents herself: The little girl, born in 1939, was really named Eliane. The boys were Joel, Raoul, and Daniel, born in 1935, 1936, and 1940. Their false papers were tucked safely into the lining of her coat, halfway up the sleeve in a sewn-in, hidden pocket. What of the man, though? Who was he? She knew nothing of him but his false name.

Seven o’clock came and went, and by seven fifteen, Eva was feeling conspicuous—and worried. Where were they? Had a German official been unconvinced by their temporary papers? Night had fallen thick and dark on Lyon, and as she peered out at the blackness, she wondered what she was supposed to do if they didn’t arrive. If she returned here the following day she would look suspicious. And surely she shouldn’t proceed to Annecy without them.

It was nearly seven thirty when she saw a dark-haired boy emerge from the station, then another; they appeared to be the right ages for the children traveling as seven-year-old Maurice and eight-year-old Georges. A few seconds later, a boy of about three appeared behind them; if she was right about who they were, he must be Didier. She started forward, hoping that her smile looked motherly rather than relieved, but she stopped short as she saw the final child—the girl traveling as four-year-old Jacqueline—emerge, clutching the hand of a man.

The man’s face was turned away as he surveyed the small crowd outside the station, but Eva recognized him instantly. The curve of his shoulders, the tapering of his waist, even his confident gait were nearly as familiar to her as her own. She stopped breathing for a few seconds, and as he turned and looked at her, his eyes widened, and time seemed to slow. It was Rémy, alive and healthy and here. And all at once, Eva believed in miracles once again.

His eyes never left hers as he approached, and though she knew she was supposed to be bending to casually greet the children with hugs and kisses, she couldn’t look away.