The Paris Library

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  We sipped the sweet wine.

  “Why haven’t you told your parents?”

  “The minute I do, Papa will pick the wedding date and name the grandchildren. Maman has sewn so much that my trousseau takes up an entire room—you could drown in doilies. Mostly, though, I want to wait for Rémy. It’s my decision, not my father’s.”

  “I empathize, my dear. I do. But my mother used to tell me, ‘Accept people for who they are, not for who you want them to be.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your father’s old, he won’t change. And dogs don’t have kittens, so you’re as stubborn as he. The only thing you can change is the way you see him.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  “Talk to him,” she said. “Tell him how you feel about Paul, and that you want Rémy at your side.”

  “Papa just wants to marry me off.”

  “He misses your brother, too. Surely he’ll understand.”

  I pouted. “You don’t know my father.”

  “When you’re older…”

  I bade her farewell, bristling as I stomped down the steps. When you’re older! What’s wrong with you? Barreling down rue Blanche, I noticed a brunette in an elegant blue jacket, a yellow star on her lapel. I froze, hurt pride suddenly the farthest thing from my mind.

  Jewish people could no longer teach, enter parks, or even cross the Champs-Élysées. They couldn’t use phone booths. They had to sit in the last car of the metro. Continuing in my direction, the brunette raised her chin, but her mouth quivered. I’d heard about the yellow stars, but this was the first one I’d seen. I didn’t know how to react. Should I smile kindly to let the woman know that not everyone agreed with this bizarre identification? Should I stare straight ahead as usual, to let her know that nothing had changed? By not looking at the woman, I would prove that I viewed her just like any other. As we crossed paths, I averted my eyes.

  Jewish people were not just banned, they now wore targets. And I’d complained to Professor Cohen about my insignificant problems.

  * * *

  ALL MORNING, MARGARET and I repaired worn books. We could no longer order new ones, so each was precious. Tired and hungry, I pasted the glue over the binding, back and forth, back and forth, slowly, then slower still, like a record player winding down. She’d stopped working a while ago. The right corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. I called her name but she didn’t answer.

  “Margaret?” I nudged her knee.

  “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

  “Occupational hazard,” I said.

  She laughed. The light in her eyes spoke of love. Had she and her husband made up?

  “Is Lawrence home?”

  She gaped at me, aghast. “Heavens, no! What made you think that?”

  “You seem happy.” She was always beautiful, but her expression had changed these past weeks, become brighter. It was as if the morning fog had given way to the afternoon sun, the change so gradual that I hadn’t seen it until now.

  Haltingly, almost as if she were surprised, she said, “I suppose I am.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “I’m rereading The Priory, aloud this time.”

  “Aloud?”

  “To someone who couldn’t otherwise.”

  Before I could find out more, our attention was taken by the sound of soldiers’ boots. The Bibliotheksschutz and two lackeys had come to call. Subscribers stiffened. Parisians were used to Soldaten in the street, but not in our Library. It had been several months since Dr. Fuchs’s last visit, and much had changed: Miss Reeder had left, and Germany was now at war with America. Was that why he was here?

  Straightening his gold-rimmed glasses, Dr. Fuchs asked to see the directress, so I escorted the men to Clara de Chambrun’s office. Bitsi trailed cautiously.

  Used to officers in full Nazi regalia, the Countess remained blasé when he was announced. The same could not be said of the Bibliotheksschutz. His eyes bulged at the sight of a stranger at Miss Reeder’s desk. He glanced around the office, then scowled at me as if I’d sequestered the Directress inside the massive safe.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “Please meet the Countess Clara de Chambrun, who directs the Library,” I said.

  “Where is Miss Reeder?” He sounded worried.

  “She’s gone home,” the Countess replied.

  “I guaranteed that she would be under my protection here. Why did she leave?”

  “Doubtless, she considered an order to return more imperative than your guarantee.”

  Joining Bitsi in the corridor, I asked, “Why is he mad?”

  “The Directress went away without saying goodbye. He’s not mad, he’s hurt.”

  Ah. I couldn’t help but like him for loving Miss Reeder.

  He interrogated the Countess about her qualifications, the value of the collection, and the Library’s insurance policy. Satisfied, he laid out the rules, from no raises for staff to no selling off books. “I gave my word that this Library should be maintained,” he said. “Should the military authority interfere in any way, you’ll find my number here and in Berlin in Miss Reeder’s drawer. Call in case of trouble.”

  KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST

  30 November 1942

  Dear Odile,

  Sorry I haven’t written—no paper to be had. Many of us have ailments. My wound still gives me trouble. The guards aren’t trying to kill us, but they’re not trying to keep us alive, either. One said they don’t have medicine for themselves.

  My bunkmate Marcel is at it again. After the cow-milking fiasco, he drove the old frau’s tractor into a ditch. He’s as banged up as the tractor—when it tipped over, his arm was crushed underneath. The Kommandant offered to replace him, but the frau didn’t want any more French help.

  Another fellow works for a young widow who has the body of Mae West and the face of an (Aryan) angel. They’ve grown close, and when he talks about staying here after the war, we feel sorry for him.

  She slipped him a radio in thanks for bringing in the harvest. Some of the Germans are as virulent as Hitler, but others are anti-Nazi and listen to the BBC. It’s been hard to be cut off from you, from the entire world. We’re thrilled to have daily news though we don’t always have daily bread.

  I live for your letters and the hope of seeing you. I’m fortunate to have a caring family. Many never hear from home. If you’re able to send Marcel Danez a packet of sweets, I know he’d be pleased.

  Love,

  Rémy

  * * *

  IN THE CHILDREN’S room, Bitsi bit her lip when she read the letter. Rémy meant well, but how could we send food to a stranger when there wasn’t enough for family?

  “Bonjour, les filles,” Margaret said as she entered. “Odile, why aren’t you at the reference desk? Subscribers are queuing.”

  “We’ve had some news.” I translated the letter.

  Her brow furrowed. “Each month, you’ll be able to send a proper package, I promise.”

  The following day, she brought in a small crate of dry sausage, cigarettes, and chocolate. “How?” I asked in wonder.

  “Don’t you worry about that.”

  Remembering the gilded portraits on her wall, I imagined Margaret selling off ancestors one by one, in order to feed Rémy. She was the dearest of friends.

  20 December 1942

  Dear Rémy,

  We hope the package we sent got through. Does the cardigan fit? Do you recognize the colors? The yarn is from sweaters Maman saved from when we were children. Sorry the sleeves weren’t the same length. In my case, practice doesn’t make perfect.

  Last night, Paul and I went to the Countess’s production of Hamlet at the Odéon Theatre. It felt wonderful to do something ordinary like we did before the war. Bitsi and I are going to pick holly in the woods so we can decorate the bundles of books we deliver. Lately, there’ve been fewer requests, which is odd.

  Bitsi misse
s you terribly. We all do. We want you home.

  Love,

  Odile

  KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST

  1 February 1943

  Dear Odile,

  Thanks for the delicious food! Even more wonderful was seeing Marcel’s face when he received the package. Please don’t deprive yourselves for us. I never should have asked.

  Everything’s fine here. Except that Marcel almost got killed. In the common room, a few prisoners were huddled around the radio, listening to the BBC, the sound no more than a sigh, when the guards charged in. The rest of us hightailed it out of there, but poor Marcel was so engrossed he didn’t notice. The guards shattered the radio and lined up all one hundred of us in the courtyard—no coats on, of course—promising to go easy if we confessed. None of us admitted anything. The Kommandant forced Marcel to his knees and held a pistol to his head. “Tell me who was with you, or I’ll kill you.” Do you know what that jackass replied? “Then I’ll die alone.”

  Love,

  Rémy

  Paris

  1 June 1943

  Herr Kommandant:

  I have written to the French police with no results. Now I turn to you.

  The American Library has caricatures of Hitler in their collection, and anyone can see them. That’s not all. As I mentioned to the police, librarians smuggle books to Jewish subscribers, including banned books that no one should be reading.

  Librarian Bitsi Joubert says vile things about German soldiers. She has one billeted in her apartment, and God only knows how she abuses him. Volunteer Margaret Saint James buys food from the black market. To look at her plump cheeks, you wouldn’t know many people are practically starving. Subscriber Geoffrey de Nerciat donates money to Résistants and lodges them in his grand apartment.

  In the back room of the Library, subscriber Robert Pryce-Jones listens to the BBC, though it’s strictly forbidden. And that is not the only annoying noise one hears. The creaking of footsteps echoes from the attic—locked at all times—and I wonder what or who the librarians are hiding.

  Pay a visit and see for yourself.

  Signed,

  One who knows

  CHAPTER 30

  Odile

  WHEN THE POST arrived, I set the fashion magazines on the shelves. Mode du Jour reminded readers that “Intelligence and taste aren’t rationed,” and that while shoes get worn-out, hats never do. I missed Time and Life. I turned to commiserate with the man beside me, one I’d never seen before. Once I would have taken in his pinched lips and green tweed suit and assumed he was an uptight professor. Now, I’d say a mole. I swallowed. Paranoia. Nazi propaganda had got to me. Surely he was harmless, though he did tuck an old journal into his jacket.

  I scowled. “Periodicals stay here.”

  He put it back on the shelf and stalked out.

  “Brava!” Boris applauded. “You’re as intimidating as Madame Mimoun at the National Library, a real dragon.”

  I curtsied. “I try.”

  When Bitsi arrived at work, she merely nodded in greeting. These days, she was so quiet that it frightened me. Wanting to keep an eye on her, I insisted that I needed help delivering books to Professor Cohen. We climbed the escargot stairs to the second floor, where the professor lifted the hefty biographies from our arms.

  “I’ve finished my novel.” She gestured to the pile of paper on the table.

  “Congratulations!” I said.

  I was surprised to see that the jaunty spark in her eye was extinguished, and disappointment had taken up residence.

  She sighed. “The editor won’t publish it.”

  I was sure of the reason, and I knew she was, too. No French publisher could publish a work by a Jewish author.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I am, too,” she said. “In any case, I never could have finished it without you. Not only for the books you brought for my research, but your company and kindness. You became my window to Paris. Books and ideas are like blood; they need to circulate, and they keep us alive. You’ve reminded me that there’s good in the world.”

  I should have been thrilled at such praise. Instead, a cold dread settled into my bones. “It sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

  “I’m saying we don’t know what will happen.” She presented me with the manuscript. “Please keep it safe.”

  Honored by her trust, I kissed her on each cheek. “Are you sure you don’t want to send it to a colleague?”

  “This is the only copy. The novel will be safer with you.”

  “What’s it called?” Bitsi asked.

  “La Bibliothèque Américaine.” The American Library.

  “Then it’s definitely a drama!” Bitsi replied.

  “Wait until you meet the characters. What a cast of originals!” The professor winked. “You’ll certainly recognize a few.”

  Light, 535; manuscripts, 091; libraries, 027.

  By the time she saw us out, she seemed to be in better spirits. In the stairwell, Bitsi and I heard the spry tap-a-tat-tat of the typewriter. I hoped that the professor was working on the sequel.

  On the way back to work, Bitsi said, “It’s a big responsibility.”

  I stuffed the pages in my satchel. “We’ll put it in the safe.”

  Turning onto our street, we passed three giggly filles de joie in fishnet stockings. Yellow hair disheveled, the plump trio sashayed past in a haze of pungent perfume.

  “Sluts!” Bitsi swatted at the smell. “Some people don’t know there’s a war on,” she continued loudly as we entered the Library. “Yesterday morning, I saw a gaggle of harlots staggering home. They reeked of alcohol. There’s such a thing as showing good taste!”

  In the back room, I set the manuscript on the table and sat Bitsi down. “The wrong people get the right things,” she said, her voice raw. “I’m hungry. I can’t think. Seasons go by, but I don’t miss the days. Christmas, New Year, I’m glad they’re gone. Now it’s Easter, and the only thing that will rise again are prices. I miss Rémy. If it weren’t for him, I might—”

  “Let’s write to him.” Her despair frightened me. Rémy would help—thinking about him always made us feel better. I pulled a pencil from my purse. “You use small letters, I’ll use capitals.”

  dear REMY, greetings FROM the LIBRARY where WE are MISSING you. ODILE suggested THIS crazy BRILLIANT idea.

  “The letter resembles a ransom note,” she said. “Who knows if he’ll receive it?”

  “At least we’ll confound the censors.”

  Bitsi half smiled. It was enough.

  “Do you think Professor Cohen would mind if we take a peek at her novel?” she asked.

  Torn between respecting the professor’s privacy and comforting Bitsi, I turned over the title page and read aloud, “ ‘The Afterlife is filled with the heavenly scent of musty books. Its walls are lined with tall bookshelves full of forgotten tomes. In this cozy mezzanine between worlds, there are no windows nor clocks, though an occasional echo of children’s laughter or whiff of a chocolate croissant wafts in from the ground floor.’ ”

  “It’s my favorite section of the Library,” she said.

  “Mine too.”

  I was about to read the next line when we heard a woman shout, “I’m sick of waiting! Give me my books, or else!”

  “Oh dear. Another scuffle.”

  Rushing to the circulation desk, where a half-dozen subscribers waited to check out books, Bitsi and I found that even Clara de Chambrun had emerged from her office. “What on earth is going on?” she demanded.

  “Mrs. Smythe is tired of waiting,” Boris told the Countess. To the subscriber, he said, “Please be patient and go back to your place in the queue.”

  “I’ll inform the police,” she snarled.

  “That we’re inefficient?” He raised a brow. “You could turn in the entire country.”

  People in line chuckled at his observation.

  “I’ll denounce you for catering to Jews.”

&n
bsp; “That’s it!” The Countess seized Mrs. Smythe by the arm and led her to the door. “Never come back again.”

  The subscriber began to sob. “I cannot get along without the books I find here.”

  * * *

  AT THE CIRCULATION desk, well before the Library opened to the public, while Boris and I tucked cards back into the pockets of returned books, I let my thoughts drift to Paul. At noon, we’d meet at the apartment, the one place where disappointment never walked through the door. We’d laze in the rosy boudoir, where his sketches of Brittany hung on the wall. I loved each one: a wheat field bordered by poppies, mounds of golden hay, the old swayback horse.

  An insistent rapping brought me back. I saw Dr. Fuchs peering through the window. Why had he come so early, and alone? We invited him in, but he wouldn’t budge from the step.

  “Be careful,” he whispered. “The Gestapo is laying traps. Don’t let banned works fall into their hands. They’ll use any pretext to arrest you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I can’t be seen here.”

  “What kind of traps?” I asked, but he’d already rushed away.

  “I’ve heard the Gestapo is taking control of Paris,” Boris said as he lit a cigarette, “and that they’re even more dangerous.”

  More dangerous than the Nazis who’d defeated the French army? More dangerous than the Soldaten who patrolled day and night?

  We worked the rest of the morning in a troubled silence.

  When I exited the Library at lunchtime, I was surprised to find Paul in the courtyard. “Weren’t we meeting at the apartment?” I asked. These days I muddled everything.

  “My buddy and his girl went yesterday. There was new furniture mixed with the old stuff, but he didn’t think anything of it. They were, uh, kissing when they heard someone come in. They hid for a while, then snuck out through the servants’ stairs. He went back later, but the lock had been changed.”

  Our nest had vanished, the place we could hold each other; the place we could say anything, or nothing at all; the place we could forget the war.