As the train neared the Spanish border, Lucie read to Josie from a French storybook. Thank goodness Paul had packed it. Lucie had brought an English storybook from Green Leaf Books, but in public Colette Foucault only spoke French.
The train curved around green hills plunging down to the impossibly blue Mediterranean.
The past two weeks in Marseille had been trying, flipping between French Colette in town and American Lucille at the Spanish and Portuguese consulates, keeping papers and stories straight.
Back and forth Lucie had gone with weary Josie in tow, proving to the Portuguese that she had the means and ability to leave Portugal and proving to the Spanish that she had permission to enter Portugal. Flooded with refugees, both neutral nations refused to take more.
The train slowed. Above them, butter-colored homes clung to the hills.
The town of Cerbère on the Spanish border. Lucie’s moment of truth.
Stamped in their American passports, Lucie and Josie had forged French exit visas and legitimate Spanish and Portuguese transit visas. To travel in France, she needed to be Colette Foucault. But to enter Spain, she needed to be Lucille Girard. So for one critical moment, she needed to present her true papers to French officials.
Surely Wattenberg and the police would think she’d hide in Paris, maybe the countryside. But what if they’d sent an alert to the border?
“Maman?” Josie sat on her knees with her nose pressed to the window. “Can we sing our song?”
“Only in our hotel room.” Lucie had set the Aubrey address in Massachusetts to music so Josie could memorize it. Lucie had to make sure Josie got there, even if they were separated, even if Josie lost her passport.
Lucie’s chest crumpled. She missed Paul so much, worried about him. Such a long and perilous route. How long would it take him to reach Lisbon?
The train pulled into the station. Lucie gathered the luggage and took Josie by the hand.
All the passengers filed off the train to go through French customs. Then they’d board another train, since French and Spanish trains ran on different gauge rails. The train would pass through a tunnel to Port Bou, where Spanish officials would examine their papers.
The Spanish officials didn’t worry Lucie. Only the French officials.
“My hand hurts,” Josie said with a whine.
Lucie glanced down at the tiny hand and relaxed her grip. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Now stay close, remember?”
“I ’member.” Indeed, she’d stuck to Lucie’s side every moment. Which Lucie loved.
The line flowed into the station, loud with conversations in French and Spanish.
Voices rose from the front of the line, a woman wept, and whispers swept among the passengers. Someone didn’t have correct papers.
Soon an elderly couple shuffled past Lucie, the husband’s arm around his sobbing wife.
“Jews,” a woman muttered with disgust rather than compassion.
Lucie gripped her papers. If only she could help. But what could an elderly couple do with passports for a twenty-seven-year-old woman and a four-year-old girl?
Josie pulled on Lucie’s hand. “I’m hungry.”
“Good. Soon you’ll have your first Spanish food.” To distract her, Lucie chattered in a cheery voice about what little she knew of Spanish cuisine.
At last a French customs official asked for their papers. Lucie offered both passports and a prayer. Paul had lost his wife and had been separated from his daughter. How could he bear it if Lucie lost Josie? And what would happen to this sweet child?
The official studied their passports with hooded eyes. “Your names?”
Lucie drew a deep breath and selected the proper identity. “Lucille Girard and my daughter, Josephine Aubrey.”
Small dark eyes snapped up. “You have different surnames?”
Lucie had prepared for this, and she lowered her head. “I am ... not married. She bears her father’s name.” Every word true.
The official snorted. “Shameful. Open your luggage.”
