* * *
FROM THE ESCARGOT staircase, I could hear Professor Cohen’s key strokes. This time as always, her landing was imbued with the inky scent of typewriter ribbon. Despite feeling melancholy, I grinned when she answered the door—in a tuxedo jacket.
“What on earth?” I asked.
“I’m trying to get into the mind of my character, so I put on my husband’s tails.”
“Is it working?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s great fun.”
Behind her, the bookshelves were nearly half-filled. Bitsi, Margaret, Miss Reeder, Boris, and I had brought books from our own collections, as had the professor’s friends. The pile of paper next to the typewriter had also grown.
“What’s new?” she asked.
I sighed. “I’ve been promoted to reference librarian.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“The previous one returned to the States. This wasn’t how I wanted to work my way up. I’d rather stay in the periodical room forever and keep my colleagues.”
“People make plans, and God laughs,” she said. “A cup of tea? And a more suitable attire?”
We chatted on the divan, teacups balanced on our laps, she in her tails, I with a black bow tie around my neck. I touched the silk. It did make me feel better.
Visiting Professor Cohen each week was one of the great joys of my job, of my life. She even let me read her work in progress, some of which took place at the Library. The chapters were so witty, so insightful, so her. The professor had become my favorite writer, all categories combined.
Paris
12 May 1941
Monsieur l’Inspecteur:
Why aren’t you looking for undeclared Jews in hiding? Here is the address of Professor Cohen at 35 rue Blanche. She used to teach so-called literature at the Sorbonne. Now she invites students to her home for lectures so she can cavort with colleagues and students, mostly male—at her age!
When she ventures out, you see her coming a kilometer away in that swishy purple cape, a peacock feather askew in her hair. Ask the Jewess for her baptism certificate and passport, you’ll see her religion noted there. While good Frenchmen and women work, Madame le Professeur sits around and reads books.
My indications are exact, now it’s up to you.
Signed,
One who knows
CHAPTER 24
Odile
IN THE BARREN courtyard of our building, Maman winced as she ripped her beloved ferns from the window boxes. Beside her, Eugénie and I sowed carrot seeds in the soil. Helping Maman made me feel useful, and the sunshine felt heavenly.
“We could have planted vegetables last year.” She ran her fingers over the helpless ferns splayed over the cobbles. “But I liked having something beautiful.”
“Who knew the Occupation would continue?” Eugénie asked.
“What if it never ends?”
“We said that about the Great War. All good things come to an end, bad things, too.”
Maman read us a letter from country cousins, who promised to send provisions. When she finished, she said, “All my life, I’ve been embarrassed by my rural roots. When Papa’s bosses and their wives came for dinner, I always felt… not quite as fine as the Parisian ladies. Fatty mutton next to smoked salmon.”
“Oh, Hortense.” Eugénie took Maman’s dirt-caked hand.
“But now my roots may well save us.”
“In the form of carrots,” I joked.
“Why did you have to say mutton?” Eugénie lamented. “Now I’m starving.”
Chuckling, she and I carried the planters up the stairs and set them on the window ledges. Maman followed, her fist full of baby fronds that curled like question marks.
“I suppose we should see about dinner,” Eugénie said. “Why don’t you invite Paul over?”
“He’ll have to come for the company, not the meal,” Maman said as she set her ferns in a glass with a little water. “Rutabagas again.”
“Baked this time,” Eugénie said pertly.
After we ate, Maman pretended to tidy the secretary, and Paul and I sat on the divan. Since we couldn’t speak freely, I showed him a page of The Age of Innocence, our torsos nearly touching as we read. “When we’ve been apart, and I’m looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you’re so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between.”
Eugénie swept in and tugged Maman’s hand. “Oh, let them have some fun.”
“When they’re married, they can have all the ‘fun’ they want,” she replied.
“Where’s your father?” Paul said, bringing our communication back to the public domain.
“Still working. He comes home at night with files, but won’t tell us a thing. When I see the dark circles under his eyes…”
“You worry about everyone else, but I worry about you,” Paul said. He explained that he’d saved an entire year for a special surprise.
“What is it?”
“Tomorrow, we’re going to a cabaret.”
“A cabaret!” Maman gasped.
“They’ll be surrounded by dozens of people,” Eugénie soothed.
I threw my arms around Paul’s neck. Music! Champagne! No chaperone! We’d dance all night, since partygoers got around the curfew by staying at the cabaret all night, leaving only at sunrise.
“It won’t resolve our worries,” he said, “but we’ll be carefree for a few hours.”
The following evening, Maman tucked a dewy frond in my hair while Paul fidgeted in his corduroy suit. At the cabaret, he and I sipped bubbly as buxom danseuses in brassieres and bloomers shimmied onstage, offering an occasional glimpse of cleavage. I was more interested in the chicken breast on my plate. The knife and fork quivered in my grasp. It had been so long since I’d had any kind of meat. Picking it up, I bit into the moist flesh and slid my tongue along the bone. Not willing to waste a drop of sauce on my napkin, I licked my fingers. After dinner, surrounded by couples on the dance floor, Paul and I clung to each other.
At first light, revelers—sated and sleepy—filed out of the cabaret. Paul and I meandered through the empty streets, passing the mairie, where banns were posted. Mademoiselle Anne Jouslin of Paris will wed Monsieur Vincent de Saint-Ferjeux of Chollet.
“Odd to see people getting married,” I said, thinking of Rémy, so far away, of Bitsi, who spent her evenings alone.
“Life goes on.” Paul gazed at me.
I suspected that if it were up to him, we’d already be married. I tugged him along through the winding streets of Montmartre. As the sun rose, we settled on the steps of the Sacré-Coeur church. Cradled in his arms, I watched the orange and pink clouds blossom like flowers.
“From the beginning, I knew you were different from the others,” I said contentedly.
“How?”
“You defended Rémy, and me when I wanted to work.”
He drew me closer. “I’m glad that you’re independent. It’s a relief.”
“A relief?”
“I’ve taken care of my mother ever since my father took off.”
“But you were so young!”
“As a kid, I never knew what state she’d be in when I got home—drunk, weepy, half-naked with some man. Later, I had to drop out of school to get a job. Most of what I make, I send to her. Honestly, I see why my father left.”
“Oh, Paul.”
He pulled away. “We should go.”
“Let’s talk.”
“I don’t want your parents to worry.”
He remained aloof on the way home. I wanted to close the distance that had grown between us. On the darkened landing, I embraced him. I could feel his pounding heart, and reveled in the feel of his lips on mine, the taste of his champagne in my mouth. My hands roamed his body as he kissed my cheek, my neck, my décolletage. In thrall to this tender, wild magic we perform
ed together, I wanted him around me, inside me. It was time to write a new chapter in our relationship.
I loosened his tie. “Let’s.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, but his belt was already unbuckled.
I loved feeling him stir beneath my fingers, loved hearing his quiet groan, knowing I had the same effect on him that he had on me. I let my foot trace a trail along his calf, his knee. He grabbed my thigh and hauled my body to his. My tongue met his, stroke for stroke. He wrapped my legs around his waist. Blood pounded through my veins.
“Odile, is that you?” Maman’s voice was muffled behind the door.
Slowly Paul lowered me back to earth. Thrumming with desire, I teetered in my heels. He held me steady with one hand and tugged the hem of my dress down with the other. My body ached. I hadn’t wanted to stop. Passion had made me reckless, and I liked it.
The front door swung open. “Did you forget your key?” Maman asked.
“Find a way for us to be alone,” I whispered to Paul. I rubbed my swollen lips. The risk we’d taken…
* * *
AT THE LIBRARY, I hung up my jacket, tipsily humming a ballad the band had played. My belly was full, my body still sang. When Bitsi—cloaked in her coat of melancholy—entered, I sobered immediately.
Bitsi could see my distress. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I couldn’t bear to meet her gaze.
“Something.”
“With Rémy gone, it’s not fair that I go on with my life.”
“Who said life is fair?” she said gently.
“How can I let myself be happy when he’s miserable, when you’re miserable?”
“I hope you and Paul aren’t holding off on getting married.”
I looked at her. “He’s hinted at it…”
“Your happiness isn’t at Rémy’s expense. You and Paul belong together.”
“You really think so?”
“I do.”
When Bitsi turned to go to the children’s room, it seemed to me that her braided crown of hair had become a halo.
Before I could follow, Boris tendered a bundle of books to be delivered. On my way to Professor Cohen’s, I passed a flower girl on the street corner. I thought of how when the professor and I chatted, she sometimes cast a melancholy glance at her empty crystal vase. Hoping to cheer her, I bought a bouquet.
When I proffered the purple gladiolas, the professor beamed. She chose a pitcher from the sideboard and arranged the flowers.
I pointed to the vase. “Why didn’t you use that one?”
“I’ve never put anything in it.”
“Why not?”
“The first time my third husband invited me to his parents’, it was for an interminable Sunday lunch. I needed a break and stepped from the room.”
“I can understand that.”
“When I returned, his mother was criticizing me: ‘She’s cold. Too intellectual. So old she’s barren.’ Before he could reply, I told them I was leaving. The next day, he came by my office with that vase. When he said it reminded him of me, I replied, ‘Cold, hard, and empty?’ ”
“What did he reply?”
“That it was a work of beauty. Full of life, yet able to hold so much. Perfect all by itself.”
I could see why she’d married him.
“How are things at the Library?” she asked.
I heard the questions she did not ask. Do they know that Jews can no longer teach, and that I lost my job? Do they care?
“M. de Nerciat and Mr. Pryce-Jones will stop by this afternoon,” I said.
She perked up. “Together? They made up?”
Indeed. Last week, sick of the standoff, the Frenchman had asked Miss Reeder to mediate.
“The Directress is formidable,” Mr. Pryce-Jones had told me. “We were no match for her.”
“When she puts her foot down,” M. de Nerciat added, “the entire Library shakes.”
Once again, the reading room resonated with their debates:
“The US will enter the war!”
“Americans are isolationists. They’ll stay out of it.”
How I’d missed their bickering!
“I’m glad you made up,” I told M. de Nerciat, who stopped by my desk to say bonjour.
“Well, I had to put myself ‘in his shoes.’ ”
I smiled at the idiom, since we French would say “in his skin.”
“Was it hard to take the first step?” I asked.
“It would have been harder to lose a friend.”
* * *
IN THE REFERENCE room, a queue of subscribers formed, and I answered queries ranging from “How do I make hominy?” to “Will you tell the woman over there to quit talking so loudly?” When Paul approached, next in line, he had a question, too. “Can you get away for lunch?”
My gaze shifted to the children’s room. Paul and I could be together. Bitsi had said so, and her blessing meant more than any priest’s.
Near Parc Monceau, a posh neighborhood known for its embassies, Paul guided me into a majestic limestone building.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked as we ascended the marble staircase.
He grinned. “You’ll see.”
On the second floor, he unlocked the door to an apartment even grander than Margaret’s. Cinched velvet drapes set off tall windows. In the sunlight, the prisms of the chandelier sparkled.
“Who lives here?” I whispered in awe.
“Probably a wealthy businessman who fled to the Free Zone.”
“How’d you get the keys?”
“A buddy’s in the same situation as us. He meets his girl here.”
An apartment of romantic assignations!
Paul nuzzled my neck. “I love you,” he said. “I’d do anything for you, anything at all.”
I wanted this more than anything, but I was scared. Scared that this would change everything, scared there would be pain, scared making love would tie us together forever, scared that it wouldn’t.
“It’s my first time, too,” he said.
Looking into my eyes, he waited for my answer.
I caressed his cheek. “I want to.”
His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned my dress. How divine to bare my body. How divine to see his without worrying about Maman bursting in. He caressed my tired silk stockings. “Que tu es belle,” he said, and drew me onto the divan.
I brought my legs up, and he slid in slowly. At first it hurt, but gazing at Paul, I was glad it was him. When he moved inside me, my hips rose to meet his. For once, my mind stopped analyzing every little thing.
Afterward, nestled against his body, I wondered why books skip over this part. It had felt perfect, and more than that—right. Being with Paul felt dreamy and important and right.
When he stirred, I lifted my head and looked about. I wondered where the hallway would take us. Naked, I bounded over the sunbeams warming the parquet. Paul followed. The first door led to a den with a gilded desk. Rémy would have loved the collection of ornate fountain pens that we found inside the top drawer.
“Why didn’t they take their treasures?” I asked.
“When war broke out, people left in a panic.”
I didn’t want to remember those terrible days. I pulled Paul from the room, leaving all questions behind. The door on the left led to a pink boudoir, where we climbed onto the four-poster bed. We bounced tentatively, one foot to the next, before we began to jump. Up and down, we giggled like children. Paul stopped first, suddenly serious. I loved the way he regarded me, with such admiration in his eyes.
Breathless, I flopped onto the bed and dove under the duvet, knowing he’d follow me into the downy heaven. His legs entwined with mine, and he whispered, “We’re home” into the tangled cloud of my hair.
When we left the warmth of the bed, we skated along the slippery parquet, to the sitting room, where we donned the clothes left in an impatient heap. Paul showed me his pocket watch. “We should get back before that scold with
the oversized dentures complains about how long you’ve been gone.”
“Promise we can come back,” I said as we closed the door behind us.
He tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “Every day, if you like.”
We lingered in front of the Library. “I’d better go in,” I said shakily. My body felt as if it had been asleep and was now wide-awake. I noticed every blink, every breath, every heartbeat. I wondered if anyone would see a change in me.
CHAPTER 25
Odile
THE CIRCULATION DESK sat unattended. How odd. It wasn’t like Boris to abandon his post. I continued to the reading room, where my habitués sat motionless. No one spoke, no one read. I asked Madame Simon if she’d seen Boris. She shook her head, not even bothering to chastise me for returning from lunch five minutes late.
Something was dreadfully wrong. I rushed through the Library. The reference section was deserted, so was the children’s room. Miss Reeder’s office was locked. The Afterlife was empty. Finally, I found Bitsi in the cloakroom, huddled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest.
I knelt before her. “Is it Rémy?”
“No.” She stared at the parquet.
“Your brother?”
She met my gaze, her violet eyes drenched in sorrow. “Miss Reeder announced she’s leaving.”
It couldn’t be true.
“She and Boris went to procure her travel passes,” Bitsi added.
“Why is she going now, after all this time?” I asked.
“The trustees in New York sent a cable ordering her to leave France immediately. They think it’s only a matter of time before America enters the war, and they’re afraid she’ll be arrested as an enemy alien.”
I sank onto the floor next to Bitsi. I couldn’t imagine life without the Directress in the next room, where I could peek my head in and ask her advice. If it hadn’t been for her, Bitsi and I wouldn’t be friends. Miss Reeder offered me a chance to grow. She hadn’t lectured. She’d trusted me to learn my own lessons. What would I do without her?
The Paris Library Page 19