“I wish we were at the apartment,” I whispered, “in our rosy boudoir.”
“I love being alone with you, too, only…”
“Only what?”
His Adam’s apple bobbled nervously. “We shouldn’t be sneaking around, it’s not right. I’m not sure how much longer I can—”
“Papa won’t find out.”
“Why do you make everything about your father?”
“I don’t!”
“Let’s not fight,” he said.
Caressing his face, I took in the changes that war had wrought: dusky shadows gathered under his eyes; lines formed bitter parentheses around his mouth. So much had changed. I wanted some things to stay the same—my work at the Library, our afternoon trysts.
“You’re the person getting me through the war,” he said, “through my work duties. I want us to be together.”
“Yes, my love. When Rémy’s released.”
I slid to my knees. Paul started to say something, maybe I love you, maybe I don’t want to wait, but I kissed him and his words were lost beneath my tongue. He drew me to his chest. My hands slipped under his jacket, his sweater, his shirt, to the heat of his skin. In the background, friends sang “Silent Night,” but Paul and I remained entwined, eyes closed to everything but our passion.
* * *
MY FAMILY CONTINUED to count the days of Rémy’s captivity as 1941 turned into 1942. January 12: Dear Rémy, You’re the only one I can tell: Paul proposed! We’ll have the wedding when you come home. February 20: Dear Odile, Don’t wait for me. Be happy now. March 19: Dear Rémy, Margaret and I have no more stockings, so we pat our legs with beige powder. Bitsi thinks we’re crazy. April 5: Dear Odile, Bitsi’s right! Thanks for the package. How did you know that I wanted to read Maupassant?
Everyone had to register for something—housewives for rations, foreign and Jewish people with the police. Though Mr. Pryce-Jones signed in weekly at the commissariat, Margaret hadn’t gone once. Scrawled on the sides of buildings, I saw Vs—for Victory over the Nazis, but I also saw “Down with Jews.” Marshal Pétain, the World War I hero who’d been appointed chief of state, transformed the French motto “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” to “Work, Family, Fatherland.” It felt as if Parisians’ state of mind was “Tense, Angry, Resentful.”
Paul and I strolled under the leafy shade of the Champs-Élysées, past cafés filled with Nazis and their gaudy girlfriends. Soldaten had deutsche marks to buy beer and trinkets like bracelets and blush. The men were away from the Eastern Front and wanted to forget the war in the company of lovely, lonely Parisiennes.
I didn’t blame the girls. At eighteen, who didn’t long to dance? At thirty, mothers needed help with the bills. Their husbands had been killed in battle or were stuck in Stalags. The women went on with their lives the best they could. Still, next to them, I felt like a frump. I pinched my cheeks, hoping to bring out a little color, and reminded myself, It’s chic to be shabby.
“I can only dream of offering you a piece of jewelry.” Paul scowled at the couples. “Not being able to give you the sweet somethings you deserve—it’s damn humiliating!”
“How I feel about you has nothing to do with trinkets.”
“Those sluts get everything while we go without. They’re whores, sucking off—”
“There’s no need to be crude!”
“They should be ashamed, plastering themselves over the damn Krauts, sucking up to the enemy. I’d like to teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”
He stepped toward the Soldaten and their girls. His jaw was clenched. His fist clenched. He didn’t look like himself. For the first time, he frightened me.
“Don’t pick a fight. It’s not worth it.” I grabbed his arm and held on tight.
* * *
SOLDATEN WERE BECOMING impossible to avoid. They loafed at our favorite cafés, they set up more and more checkpoints on our streets. It was difficult to know where they’d turn up. On my way to Montmartre to deliver scientific works to Dr. Sanger, I passed through a metal barricade that had not been there just the day before. One of the soldiers grabbed my satchel and dumped the contents onto the ground. I winced as the heavy tomes hit the pavement and fell open. He picked one up and leafed through the pages. Perhaps he was looking for top-secret codes or a knife hidden in the binding; perhaps he was just bored. Glancing at the title, he smirked. “Mademoiselle is reading treatises on physics?”
It had been a long time since my physics class at lycée. If he asked a question, I was in trouble. I could say the works were for a neighbor, or I could ask a question of my own.
“Are you saying women should stick to books on embroidery?”
He handed over my satchel and told me to pick up my books.
When I returned to the Library, I tried to warn Margaret, but she refused to acknowledge the danger she was in, even as we filled crates intended for internment camps where foreigners like our Miss Wedd and the Left Bank bookseller Miss Beach were imprisoned.
“Have you registered with the police yet?” I asked for the tenth time.
“I feel French, that should be enough,” Margaret said, gently laying Christmas Pudding over Pigeon Pie.
“Perhaps you should join Lawrence in the Free Zone.”
“His mistress wouldn’t appreciate it.”
Mistress? No, it couldn’t be. I revisited our conversations, searching for clues I’d missed. She’d said he was with a “friend,” and I’d taken the word at face value. Margaret had never spoken of receiving letters from her husband, never mentioned missing him. I felt a fool, blathering about Paul while she suffered in silence. I could read books but couldn’t read people.
I knew that a mistress could bring about a divorce and worried that Margaret might move to London, or worse, disappear like Aunt Caro. I must have appeared distraught, because Margaret placed her hand over mine. “Diplomatic ties between France and England were cut,” she said. “He stayed for her. Lawrence and I live separate lives. It’s not what I wanted—especially for Christina, who never sees her father—but I’ve accepted it.”
“He’s an idiot. He must be if he doesn’t see how lovely and brave you are.”
Margaret smiled tremulously. “No one’s ever seen me the way you do.”
My hand tightened around hers. “Do you think he’ll want a divorce?”
“Couples like us don’t divorce, we ‘muddle through.’ ”
“So you’ll stay?”
“I’ll never leave the Library.”
“Promise?”
“The easiest one I’ve ever made.”
“I’m thrilled you’re staying, but don’t want you to get in trouble. What if you get arrested like Miss Wedd? Please think about signing at the commissariat. It’s the law.”
“Not all laws are meant to be obeyed.” She untangled her fingers from mine and set the lid firmly onto the crate of books. Case closed.
CHAPTER 28
Margaret
IN THE SILVER evening light, Margaret ascended the steps of the metro station, wondering which book she would read to her daughter at bedtime. Bella the Goat or Homer the Cat? Too late, she spied a new checkpoint. She retreated slowly.
A soldier demanded, “Vos papiers.” He spoke French with a harsh German accent.
She held out her papers.
He assessed them, then glared at her. “Anglaise?”
English? The enemy.
He took hold of her arm. His knuckles brushed against her breast, and she shrank back, maneuvering her bosom away from his touch.
Margaret was the only foreigner they found. Prodding her along, they moved down the pavement. She’d never been so scared. She knew the men could shove her into an abandoned courtyard and have their way with her, and her life would change forever.
Six blocks later, they entered a requisitioned police station. Inside, there were desks on one side of the room, and on the other, a holding cell where three gray-haired ladies slumped on a bench. The
ir smeared mascara and creased dresses told Margaret that they’d been imprisoned several days.
“My daughter…,” she said when the soldier shoved her into the cell. “May I please telephone?”
“This isn’t a country club,” he replied. “You aren’t our guest.”
The ladies made room on the bench, and Margaret perched primly on the edge. Normally, she would introduce herself as Mrs. Saint James, but it seemed silly to stand on formality in a cell.
“I’m Margaret. My crime is being English.”
“Ours too.”
“They caught us on the walk home from our book club.”
“We were quite a catch!”
“Those strapping soldiers must feel proud of stopping ladies from reading Proust.”
Eventually, the officers left for the day, leaving only a young soldier, who read at his desk.
“Entre nous, I think that guard is taken with our new friend.”
Margaret had noticed his gaze travel from his book to them. But in this dank police station, what else was there to look at?
“How long have you been here?” Margaret asked.
“A week. When there are enough of us, they’ll send us to an internment camp. No water, no food, just lice and bored soldiers.”
As the evening went on, and they prepared to spend the night again, the ladies became distressed. “What if they never let us go?”
Margaret drew The Priory from her purse. “I’m going to read a story.” The women settled in. “ ‘It was almost dark. Cars, weaving like shuttles on the high road between two towns fifteen miles apart, had their lights on. Every few moments, the gates of Saunby Priory were illuminated.’ It’s a grand old house. I promise, you’ll feel comfortable there.”
At the end of the chapter, one of the ladies yawned. The three of them crouched down and made their beds for the night, bodies on the cement floor, heads on their handbags. Margaret joined them.
“Take the bench, dearie.”
“You don’t have as much padding as us. Stay up there.”
She was moved by this simple kindness. “I’d rather be with you.”
Head resting on The Priory, Margaret fiddled with her morning pearls. The necklace had been her mother’s and wasn’t worth anything, not like the jewels Lawrence had expected her to flaunt at parties. But when Margaret wore the pearls, she knew she was encircled by her mother’s love, like a child, when she’d felt the whisper of Mum’s lips upon her brow.
Study hard so you won’t have to do factory work like me, her mother said, but Gran told Margaret that she could have any man she wanted, that her regal appearance made up for the fact she was from a class inferior. Gran compared catching a man to reeling in a fish: go where there are plenty about, use your best lure, and be still. Margaret and her friends lingered outside a fine restaurant, gliding demurely past the entrance. When she saw Lawrence, so dashing in his navy suit, she dropped her purse. He picked it up. Hook, line, and sinker.
At their wedding, she wore a silk dress by Jeanne Lanvin. Her mouth hurt from smiling. She hadn’t given any thought beyond the ceremony, and didn’t know anything about the wedding night. The shock of it was so intimate, so awkward, that she didn’t mind that they couldn’t go on a honeymoon. Lawrence was a young diplomat, and he and Margaret were invited to an important dinner, which would hopefully lead to peace talks.
At the Putney, cocktails were served. Hand on the small of Margaret’s back, Lawrence showed her off—“Voici ma femme!”—moving from the Italian ambassador to the German contingent. She was surprised that everyone spoke French; they were in England, after all. “It’s the language of diplomacy,” he explained. “You said you studied French.”
And that’s exactly how she phrased it when he’d asked. She’d been careful not to lie. The truth was that she’d failed four years of French. But during their courtship, he did most of the talking and managed to fill in all her blanks. She hadn’t thought it would matter.
Gulping down her cocktail, Margaret watched the other wives use witty phrases to coax begrudging smiles and even outright laughter from stiff diplomats.
At the dinner table, she was unable to communicate with the gruff Russian on her right, the timid Czech on her left. She hoped for a small show of support from Lawrence, but he regarded her like his mother had, with disdain. Mercifully, the women withdrew to a salon while the men puffed on their cigars. Margaret expected to discuss fashion, but the ladies spoke of the prevailing political situation. She couldn’t keep track—a duce in Italy, a chancellor in Germany, a president and a prime minister in France. It was confusing.
When the debacle was finally over, it wasn’t over. In front of the hotel, while she and Lawrence waited for the Jaguar to be brought round, a Frenchwoman in a sequined dress kissed him on the cheek (very close to his mouth), and said in perfect English, “You’ll have to buy little Margaret a newspaper subscription so she’ll have something to contribute.”
In the car, Margaret said, “It didn’t go so badly. I’ll get a tutor to brush up on my French.”
He didn’t reply. In the lamplight, she saw he wore the same expression as her mum, just home from the market, after she realized the plump raspberries she’d bought had mold inside. It was a look of disgust, but of disgust for oneself, for allowing oneself to be swindled.
“Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” Margaret pleaded.
He didn’t look at her. He never touched her again.
The following week, she invited friends to tea. They were thrilled for her—a posh house, a rich husband, a diamond ring. “You got everything you wanted!”
In the cell, one of the women moved closer, and her warmth lulled Margaret to sleep. As she drifted off, she realized it was true, she’d gotten everything she wanted. She wished she’d known to want more.
* * *
IN THE MIDDLE of the night, Margaret was roused from her sleep. Someone was poking her shoulder. The guard crouched over her. She reared back, away from him, but there was very little room to maneuver.
“I’m letting you go,” he whispered.
The door to the cell was open. She moved to wake the ladies.
“Not them, just you.”
“Why me?”
“You’re beautiful. You shouldn’t be here.”
He was like Lawrence. He saw what he wanted to. She lay back down.
“I’d let you all go if I could,” he said, “but I can’t explain an empty cell.”
She glared at him, angry he’d dangled the possibility of freedom in front of her, only to fling it away. “The war hasn’t taught you to lie?”
“I’ll get in trouble.”
“Your commander will shout and you’ll feel ill at ease. What’s the worst that will happen to us? Sent to a prison far from loved ones, with no food, no heat, no books.”
“I’ll let the four of you go—”
“Merci. Danke.”
“I’ll let you all go, if you read me the novel.”
“What?”
“We’ll meet once a day. On the steps of the Pantheon, or wherever you want.”
“That’s absurd.”
“One chapter per day.”
She wished she could see his expression, but he was facing away from the dim light. “Why?”
“I want to know what happens next.”
Paris
9 May 1942
Monsieur l’Inspecteur:
I am writing to inform you that at the American Library, the directress Clara de Chambrun née Longworth writes lies and excuses to keep both the head librarian and caretaker in Paris, rather than allowing them to be dispatched to work in the Fatherland.
Boris Netchaeff visits the homes of Jewish readers. Each evening, he carries away several batches of books. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were smuggling obscene books to people. He has no morals, and refuses to keep the library’s collection pure. He says he took French nationality, but I have my doubts.
Do your job
—rid Paris of these foreign degenerates.
Signed,
One who knows
CHAPTER 29
Odile
BREAKFAST WAS A few spoonfuls of oatmeal and an egg that Maman split three ways, careful to place the crumbled bits of yolk back on the white. Her cheeks, once plump plums, were now sunken prunes. Papa had lost so much weight that she’d taken in his trousers. His broom-shaped mustache could no longer hide the sad sweep of his mouth.
“You should be married instead of a spinster librarian,” he told me. “What’s wrong with you?”
I stared at Rémy’s chair. I missed his support.
“Paul is a wonderful young man,” Papa continued.
“Then why don’t you marry him?”
“Enough!” Maman said.
For once, my father shut up. I could almost hear Rémy say, That’s all it took? One word? If only we’d known!
At work, I barely made it past the threshold before Boris loaded me down with books. I didn’t mind. We all faced checkpoints, and I knew that he and the Countess delivered just as many. On the way to Professor Cohen’s, I tried to enjoy the lush June morning, but Papa’s criticism echoed, What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you?
I slumped on the professor’s settee. My gaze moved from the grandfather clock that burped the hour to the always empty vase to the clouds of concern in the professor’s eyes.
“Is everything all right?”
It wasn’t professional to vent, but she did ask. “Papa thinks I should get married.”
She leaned forward on her chair. “Are you and Paul engaged?”
“Yes!” It felt good to share my secret with her. “But only Rémy knows. And now you.”
The clouds lifted. “This calls for champagne. Alas, cherry wine will have to do.” At the sideboard, she took a bottle and emptied the last drops into two glasses.
“To you and your young man.”
The Paris Library Page 22