When the bombardment was over—Was it an hour? Or two? Or was it only twenty minutes?—I clung to the sides of buildings all the way to the Library. At the front desk, staff gathered around me. I looked at Bitsi, who said, “Oh, dear!”; at the Directress, who now had a delicate line between her brows; at Margaret, who gripped her pearls; and at Boris, who said, “She’s going to faint!”
Miss Reeder sat me down. Boris poured a teacup of whisky to calm my nerves.
“You’re safe,” he told me, “for now.”
“German troops will never make it past the Maginot Line,” Margaret said.
“We’ve done our share of wishful thinking,” Miss Reeder said, “now plans must be made.”
“Are you saying we should leave?” Bitsi said. “I don’t know where my mother and I could go.”
The siren still screeched in my ears, and I couldn’t take in what they were saying. I only knew I had to return to the hospital: my soldiers needed me. I rose from the chair.
“You should sit tight,” Bitsi said.
No. I needed to get back to the wounded.
The hospital had sustained no damage, but inside, everyone was shaken. Reading material in trembling hand, I made my way through the ward, weaving between the beds, between the worried faces. At dinnertime, no one had much of an appetite. The nurses and I proffered bowls of soup and persuaded the soldiers to eat.
At home, Maman fussed. “You get home later each evening. Paul’s here, and the roast’s been ready for an hour.”
“Did Rémy write?”
“Not yet,” Papa said.
“A hell of a day,” Paul said as we picked at our plates. Needing the reassurance of his touch, I moved my leg so it rested between his.
“Good news in Dunkirk. ‘An obstinate battle continues…’ ” Papa read from the war communiqué. “ ‘Magnificent resistance of the allied troops.’ ”
“I pray the war will end, and that he’ll soon be home,” Maman said, one hand on her aching temple, the other on the back of Rémy’s chair.
* * *
WHEN I ARRIVED at the Library the next morning, Miss Reeder was alone at a reading-room table, poring over the paper. Impeccable in her blue jersey dress, mascara dusting her lashes, lipstick just so, she didn’t let her fears stop her from coming to work.
Perhaps feeling my gaze, she glanced up. In her expression, I saw so much—concern, curiosity, courage, affection. “Was anyone in your family hurt during the bombing?” she asked.
“No.”
“Good.” She held up telegrams. “I’m afraid that mine is begging me to go home.”
I didn’t blame them. Sometimes, even I wanted to leave. “How can you stay?”
Gently, she cupped my cheek. “Because I believe in the power of books—we do important work, by making sure knowledge is available, and by creating community. And because I have faith.”
“In God?”
“In young women like you and Bitsi and Margaret—I know you’ll set the world right.”
Habitués gathered around to read the news. Le Figaro congratulated Parisians on their sangfroid. It stated that 1,084 bombs were launched, killing 45 civilians, injuring 155. A photo showed a bombarded building, rooms open to the world like a dollhouse.
“Every battle’s either a ‘magnificent struggle’ or a ‘valiant fight,’ ” M. de Nerciat said.
“Each day, more news articles are blacked out,” Professor Cohen said. “What are the censors hiding?”
Mr. Pryce-Jones asked if he could speak with me in private. His milky blue eyes clouded with concern. “If I had a brother, I’d want to know.”
In the cloakroom, among broken umbrellas and wibbly chairs, the retired diplomat confided that the communiqués weren’t telling the real story.
“But… the newspapers say we’re winning.”
No, he said. According to his source at the embassy, tens of thousands of French and British soldiers had been captured. At Dunkirk, the Germans surrounded the Allied troops, who had their backs against the Channel. Braving attacks from the enemy, English ships sailed over to pick up their soldiers. Soon there would be almost no British military presence left on the continent.
I sank onto a chair, unable to reconcile the gulf between what we’d read and what he was telling me. The British were withdrawing mere weeks after the real combat had begun. What would happen to the French troops? What would happen to Rémy?
“I’m sorry, ma grande.”
“You were right to tell me. Why couldn’t they save our soldiers?”
“According to my sources, they helped as many as they could. Remember, we’re talking about fishing boats and dinghies as well as naval vessels trying to evacuate three hundred thousand men.”
The Maginot Line would keep us safe, France had the best army—nothing but lies. Oh, Rémy, where are you? If something happened to him, I assumed I’d know, but I didn’t feel anything.
* * *
A FEW DAYS LATER, on my way home, I turned onto the leafy boulevard, expecting to weave around mademoiselles delighting in the window displays of Kislav gloves (silk or cotton, leather or lace) and Nina Ricci ensembles (trimmed with squirrel tails, bien sûr). Instead, the sidewalks and cobblestones were crowded with thousands of people, so many that I couldn’t see across to the other side of the street. All wore dazed, haggard expressions. I couldn’t imagine what these people had gone through, the horrors of war they’d run from.
Some families rode wagons pulled by oxen, mattresses piled behind them. Others trudged along on foot, lugging bundles or pushing prams crammed with plates. There were country folk in work boots, city dwellers in wing tips and pumps. A granny in a sweat-stained dress cradled a cast-iron skillet, her husband held a burlap sack. Even children carried something—a Bible, a bag with clothing spilling out, a birdcage. Many walked in small groups, but others were alone. A soldier with a soiled bandage wrapped around his arm nearly bumped into me. Plodding along, a girl my age held an infant out in front of her, as if she didn’t quite know how to carry him. Perhaps her husband had been enlisted, and she’d been left alone with the baby. She shook him gently, as if she wanted him to wake up. His cheeks were a sickly green, his limbs frozen in time. Unable to face the truth, I turned away.
Beside me, a farmer beseeched his bull to move. A mother murmured to a toddler. But mostly people were silent, as if they had no words for what they’d seen. In their haunted faces, I saw that life would never be the same. I stood on the street, staying with them out of respect, as one would a funeral procession, before stumbling home.
At dinner, Papa said he and his staff had taken trays of coffee to the sudden refugees. Most were from the northeast of France. Many had never left their villages. “They were fleeing German soldiers. The men I spoke to—simple farmers and tradesmen—received no help or instruction. Their mayor was the first to leave.”
“What’s the world coming to?” Maman said. “Those poor people. Where will they end up?”
Kneading her hand, he said, “The South, which is where you and Odile shall go. I must do my duty here, but I want you to go where it’s safe.”
What he said made sense. I expected Maman to acquiesce, but she reeled back as if he’d slapped her with a demand for a divorce.
“Non!”
“Now, Hortense—”
She snatched her hand from his. “This is where Rémy will return. I won’t leave.”
Point final.
* * *
WE PARISIANS WERE a blasé breed. We walked quickly but never rushed. We didn’t bat an eye at seeing lovers in the park. We were elegant even when taking out the trash, eloquent when insulting someone. But at the beginning of June, with the news that German tanks were just days from the city, we Parisians forgot ourselves. There was so much to say—finish packing, lock the door, hurry up—that we stuttered. Some ran to the station to ensure that loved ones were put on trains to safety. Others joined the forlorn procession of wagons and wheel
barrows, cars and bicycles as cobblers, butchers, and glove makers boarded up their windows and left. Each apartment shuttered, each closed door was proof that something terrible was going to happen.
The British embassy advised their staff to quit Paris, so Lawrence and Margaret planned to drive to Brittany with their daughter. “Until things blow over again,” Margaret said, insisting they’d only be gone a few weeks. Recalling the frightened faces of the French who’d become refugees in their own country overnight, I wasn’t so sure.
Though the city was a ghost town, my habitués still haunted the periodical section. Huddled around the table, we scoured the newspapers. Would Paris be bombarded again? Could the Germans get this far? Even the generals didn’t know. Maybe that was the most frightening—we didn’t know what would happen.
“Will you go to England?” Professor Cohen asked Mr. Pryce-Jones.
His head reared back. “Certainly not! Without Paris, I don’t know where I’d be.”
M. de Nerciat asked about Rémy, but I merely shook my head, afraid I’d cry if I opened my mouth.
“Politicians have fled.” Mr. Pryce-Jones kindly changed the subject.
“So have the diplomats.”
The Englishman harrumphed, and Monsieur added, “Present company excluded.”
“Paris without politicians is like a whorehouse without filles de joie,” said Mr. Pryce-Jones.
“Are you comparing Paris to a house of ill repute?” I asked.
“Worse!” Monsieur said. “He’s comparing politicians to prostitutes.”
“If the shoe fits,” I said, and the men laughed.
“Bill Bullitt’s still here,” said Mr. Pryce-Jones, pointing to the photo in Le Figaro. “Said no American ambassador had ever fled—not during the French Revolution, not when the Boches came in 1914—and damned if he’d be the first.”
“A poster said Paris would be an open city,” I said. “What does that mean?”
“Paris won’t defend herself, and the enemy won’t attack. It’s a way to ensure the safety of the inhabitants.”
“So no more bombs?” I asked cautiously. War communiqués weren’t always to be believed, but I had utter faith in Mr. Pryce-Jones.
“Bombs, no,” he replied. “Germans, yes.”
Margaret ran into the Library. Pale as her pearls, she scanned the room and rushed over to me. “I had to ask one last time,” she said. “Are you certain you don’t want to come?”
“If Rémy returns…”
“I understand.” She clasped my hands. “What if we never see each other again?”
It was a question with no answer. I could only tell her, “You’re my dearest friend.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I love the Library, but I love you more.”
A car horn blared.
“It’s Lawrence. Christina must be fussing,” she said shakily. “I’d better go. Bon courage.”
I love the Library, but I love you more. It was exactly how I felt. We were just like Janie and Pheoby in my favorite book. We could tell each other anything.
Watching my best friend leave turned me into a leaky teapot. Not wanting my habitués to see me lose control, I blinked rapidly as I hurried to the card catalog. Flicking through the cards, I let my tears soak into the stock paper, all angst carefully concealed in the O drawer.
“Margaret’s doing the smart thing.” Professor Cohen draped her shawl over my shoulders.
“Are you leaving, too?”
She smiled wryly. “Ma grande, no one’s ever accused me of doing the smart thing.”
* * *
A LIBRARY IS A sanctuary of facts, but now rumors made their way into the periodical room, where Professor Cohen and Mme. Simon chatted at the table. “I heard that from now on in schools, they’ll only teach German,” Madame told me as I tidied a pile of magazines. “We won’t be allowed on the sidewalks, just Germans. Are you listening to me, girl?” She poked my chest. “They’ll rape anything with legs. Especially pretty ones like you.” Fear churned in my stomach as I tried to ignore her. “Cover yourself in mustard so they won’t want to have their way with you.”
“Enough!” Professor Cohen said.
* * *
THE DIRECTRESS HAD arranged for vehicles to take colleagues to Angoulême, where they would assist staff at the American clinic. I wanted to see them off, but Papa ordered me to stay home.
“I need to say goodbye!”
“Absolutely not.”
“If I don’t go, Miss Reeder will be alone.” I remembered how a sobbing subscriber had collapsed into her arms. The Directress was staying, and it wasn’t even her country at war.
“I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about you.”
“Miss Reeder says—”
“Miss Reeder says! What about what I say?”
“What about the Library?” I asked.
“What about the Library?” he said, exasperated. “Do you not understand the danger?”
The following morning, we awoke to blasts from loudspeakers. “Protests and hostile acts against German troops are punishable by death!”
CHAPTER 19
Miss Reeder
PARIS, JUNE 16, 1940
WAS THIS REALLY Paris? Miss Reeder did not think so. The avenues were deserted, market stalls empty. Even the sparrows had fled. She walked briskly toward the bus stop, past the flower shop, where she spied spidery carcasses of hydrangeas, then past a boarded-up bakery. She longed for the ordinary, magical smell of croissants. Usually, she rode the number 28 to the Library, but public transportation had ceased. Continuing on foot, briefcase and gas mask in tow, she cringed at the sight of a trio of German soldiers on patrol. Worried about where else she might find such men, Miss Reeder moved faster, one thing on her mind: the Library.
She crossed the Seine. There was not another soul on the vast Concorde Square, not a single car motoring down the Champs-Élysées, France’s grandest traffic hazard. In the liveliest city in the world, she could hear a hairpin drop. The stillness was strange. She’d never felt so alone. Nonetheless, seeing the embassy reassured her, and she was tempted to stop in to inform Ambassador Bullitt that the Library remained open—after all, he was the honorary president. But she knew that before the French government had taken to the road, the prime minister had asked the American ambassador to deal with the arriving German generals and to maintain order. The heaving swastika atop the opulent Crillon Hotel, directly across the street from the embassy, indicated that the ambassador had work to do.
The Directress entered the Library courtyard as the caretaker opened the shutters. She was just in time to see the sleepy eyes of her world awaken.
“I’ll be in my office. No visitors until nine, please,” she told the caretaker as usual before preparing a carafe of coffee. At her desk, she reread the telegrams, hoping they’d changed overnight, like everything else. “Fund solicitation has been withheld,” the third vice president of the board had written from New York. “Uncertainty might arise in the minds of our friends as to whether the Library could continue.” Another wrote: “We assume that the Library closed. I doubt it can have any existence in the immediate future.”
“I haven’t left my post!” she wanted to shout. “We’re here.” She needed to convince them that the ALP must remain open. “Libraries are lungs,” she scrawled, her pen barely able to keep up with her ideas. “Books the fresh air breathed in to keep the heart beating, to keep the brain imagining, to keep hope alive. Subscribers depend on us for news, for community. Soldiers need books, need to know their friends at the Library care. Our work is too important to stop now.” She reread the lines: too true, too sentimental. She composed herself, she composed more letters, this one to Mr. Milam of the American Library Association, that one to the board in New York: “We are giving the students what they need, the public, the books they want, and the soldiers, what we can. It is after all, something, to continue to hold on, to hope for a wider contribution to humanity.”<
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She poured herself some coffee.
“Any left?” asked Bill Bullitt, sticking his bald head into her office.
“Ambassador.”
“Directress,” he said. “You know why I’m here.”
“To advise me to return to the States,” she said flatly.
“President Roosevelt ordered me to leave Paris, and I’m still here. I won’t advise you to do something I refused to do myself.”
“Where is our common sense?” she said with a little smile.
“We must have left it in the States.”
She watched as he served himself a cup of coffee.
He sat down. “Take refuge at Le Bristol, where the other Americans are staying.”
“I can’t afford it.”
He took a sip. “Let me worry about that.”
“I’ll be fine at home.”
“Does your building have a basement shelter to protect against poisonous gas?”
She gestured to the gas mask slumped in front of the bookcase.
“Transportation’ll be disrupted for a time,” he said. “Le Bristol is just four blocks away.”
It would be convenient to be closer.
The stalemate brought silence.
“Can you tell me anything?” she finally said.
The confident tone he’d struck slipped away. “We’ve had a hell of a time dealing with the Germans. Promise you’ll be careful. And that you’ll move to the hotel.”
“I’ll go tonight.” She handed him the correspondence to be sent by diplomatic pouch.
“I won’t keep you.” He saw himself out.
A small part of her wished she’d listened when her parents had begged her to board a ship. She carried a photo of them in her purse. Each time she bought a baguette or fished around for her handkerchief, Mom’s and Dad’s eyes implored her to come home. She wished she could make them understand that Paris was home. She’d made her life’s work, her life here.
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