Mignon Willis

“pain loses its power when we share it.”
― Kristin Harmel, The Book of Lost Names

“Where? Where did he go?” “East.” Eva took a deep breath. “To a work camp called Auschwitz. In Poland.” “But that’s impossible. He was taken less than a week ago. And we live in France, Eva. This doesn’t happen in France.” “I’m afraid it does.” Eva could see the crush of people penned up at Drancy each time she closed her eyes. “But we left Poland. We—we are French.” “We are Jews.”
― Kristin Harmel, The Book of Lost Names

“All she'd wanted was the life she deserved. It didn't occur to her that she had gotten it.”
― Liv Constantine, The Last Mrs. Parrish

“Awhorehouse? Really?” Eva asked thirty minutes later as they stood on a seedy side street in Pigalle, looking up at a stone building with opening hours listed on the left windowpane in both German and French. “You want me to stay here?” “First of all, it’s called a brothel, not a whorehouse.” Rémy grinned at her, obviously enjoying her discomfort. “A brothel, a bordello, a cathouse, does it matter?” “Well, considering the fine folks here will be putting us up for the night, I would suggest being polite.”
― Kristin Harmel, The Book of Lost Names