The professor had endured the grueling training of a prima ballerina and the almost impossible coursework at the Sorbonne. She’d taught there despite the odds and had outlived three husbands. If anyone could escape a prison, it was she. She couldn’t return to her apartment, but she could stay with friends in the countryside.… I needed to believe that she was safe, needed her to have a happy ending. I thought of a line from Good Morning, Midnight. “I want a long, calm book about people with large incomes—a book like a flat green meadow and the sheep feeding in it.… I read most of the time and I am happy.”
CHAPTER 37
Odile
AS I SAT at my desk, pen in hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about the crow letters. It was true that Parisians were aware of appearances, of how friends and strangers dressed. We admired a scarf worn the right way, the jaunty tilt of a hat, but now that appreciation transformed into criticism, even envy. Who does she think she is, flaunting that fur? Why does he have new shoes? What did Margaret do for that gold bracelet?
I wondered who would write such letters. I regarded the man in the moth-eaten suit. Did you write one? My gaze shifted to the woman in the blue beret. Or was it you? Everyone appeared normal. Or what had become normal—hungry and haggard.
Boris came to remind me that he had to leave early for a doctor’s appointment. “You seem distracted.”
“Just down,” I said.
Those letters. There had to be a way to save others from Professor Cohen’s fate. At the circulation desk, as Margaret and I stamped books for subscribers, I realized that if there were no crow letters, there would be no arrests.
I tugged at the collar of my blouse. How could it be so warm in November?
“You’re flushed,” she teased. “Thinking of Paul?”
I didn’t notice the light tone and shook my head.
“Where is he, by the way? He hasn’t stopped by in ages.”
“I have to go out,” I said, “just for an hour. Will you take care of things here?”
“But I’m only a volunteer.”
“Act as bossy as Boris. You’ll be fine.”
“But why must you leave? Are you feeling ill?”
“Yes,” I said distractedly. “I’m just sick.”
Speeding along the boulevard, I thought up explanations in case Papa’s secretary stood guard: “I was in the neighborhood.” In case he was working: “Maman wonders if you’ll be home for dinner.” I hoped no one would be there, that I could get in and out and back before anyone but Margaret knew I’d gone.
In front of the commissariat, I hesitated. I was afraid of getting caught. When Papa was angry, his torrential temper was frightening. Yet I was more afraid of the person I’d become if I didn’t act. I thought of those letters, more arriving each day, and marched in. Avoiding the men in uniform milling about, I kept to the perimeter of the wall.
Papa’s secretary was gone, and his door wasn’t locked. I contemplated the mounds of letters on the desk, the cabinet, the sill, before shoving a fistful into my satchel. Fastening the flap, I peeked out. Men swarmed up and down the corridor. Clutching my satchel, I crept down the hall.
“You there, stop!” a guard shouted.
I held my head high and kept going.
“Halt!”
I was about to bolt when greasy fingers grasped my nape.
“What’s the hurry?” the policeman asked, one hand on me, the other on the gun in his holster.
I’d fixated on Papa, and I hadn’t considered there’d be danger from anyone else. I was so frightened I couldn’t speak.
Men came out of their offices. Some looked stern, others apprehensive. A white-haired commander asked, “What’s this disturbance?”
“I found her sneaking about, sir.”
The commander frowned. “What do you think you’re doing, Mademoiselle?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
“Show me your ID,” the guard ordered.
My carte d’identité was in my satchel. If I opened it, they’d see the letters.
The guard grabbed my bag, and instinctively, as if he were a hooligan in the métro, I yanked it from his grasp.
Finally, I found my voice. “I’d hoped to see my papa, but he wasn’t in.” I pointed toward his office.
The commander’s expression eased. “You must be Odile. Your father’s right, you’re the loveliest girl in Paris. Sorry to have been gruff. We’ve doubled our security because of saboteurs.”
“Saboteurs?” I said weakly. Was that what I was? Saboteurs received life sentences. At the Library, we’d recently learned that a subscriber had been condemned to hard labor for printing tracts for the Resistance.
“No need to be frightened,” he said. “We’ll keep your father safe.”
I tried to say “thank you,” but my mouth just quivered.
“You’re a shy thing, aren’t you? Don’t worry your pretty little head. Run along home.”
Hugging my satchel, I hurried back to the Library.
“Well?” Margaret said, trailing me to the hearth. “What was so bloody important?”
I threw the letters into the fire and watched them burn. “Something came up.”
“Do you realize the risk you’ve run?”
Had she discovered what I’d done? “Wh-what do you mean?”
“Leaving the Library unattended is completely irresponsible! The Countess is exhausted—did you know she’s so hell-bent on protecting this place that she spends the night in her office? Bitsi’s practically a mute unless you’re here. Boris shouldn’t be working. We’re counting on you.”
* * *
FROM THE COURTYARD, Paul stared at me through the window, his face full of sorrow. I shook my head. He left. Every few days, he tried again. He followed me through the stacks, through the streets, through the gray winter rain. He was with me even when he wasn’t. I was angry he hadn’t told me about the professor right away. Angry at myself for being blind. Angry because despite everything, I missed him.
I followed the pebbled path through the morning mist and was nearly to the Library when he caught up with me. “Can you forgive me?” he asked.
“Professor Cohen was sent to Drancy, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“No one knows what’s become of her.”
Head bowed, he walked away. I felt my shoulders sag. Seeing him reminded me of how I’d gladly closed my eyes and frolicked in the homes of the departed.
* * *
AT LUNCHTIME EACH day, I hurried to the commissariat, past the belligerent guard, to Papa’s office, where I stuffed letters into my satchel. Back at the Library, I burned them. As weeks went by, I gained confidence. Instead of five, I grabbed a dozen. Hundreds remained, and more arrived each day. Though I longed to destroy them all, I knew that would only bring scrutiny.
Nonetheless, I feared getting caught. On the way back to work, I glanced behind me. At home, I developed a twitch. Before Sunday Mass, I tied my scarf in the foyer. Papa stopped to straighten his tie. Our eyes met in the mirror.
“Ça va?” he asked gently.
I nodded.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t…”
“Couldn’t what?” I said tersely.
He looked away.
When he went to get his suit jacket, Maman said, “You haven’t been yourself these last weeks. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re positively… shifty. Why doesn’t Paul come around any longer?”
“If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”
She felt my forehead. “You must be coming down with something. Or you’re…” She cast a horrified glance at my belly.
Flustered, I said, “It’s not what you think.”
“Stay home. Rest.”
After they left, I wrote in my journal. Dear Rémy, I’ve been selfish and blind. I’ve let the professor down, but I’m trying to make it right.
The doorbell rang, and I answered, assuming Maman’d forgot
ten her purse.
“I shouldn’t have come,” Paul said. “But they might find me at home.”
Blood had dribbled and dried, caking around his nostrils.
“What on earth?” I gestured for him to enter.
He didn’t budge. “I don’t want your parents to see me like this.”
“They’re at church. Now, what happened?” I asked as I sat him down.
“One of those Nazi bastards staggered down the street, dead drunk. I grabbed him from behind and started punching. I wanted to make him sorry he set foot here. He fought back, but I broke his nose for sure. Maybe cracked a few ribs. Then I ran for it. I don’t regret what I did, but these days, you never know who’s watching.”
“You’re safe now.” I wiped his face with my handkerchief. I’d missed touching him, missed his touch. I was glad he’d come, though I wished we could go back to that day at the Gare du Nord, to a time I only felt one thing for him—absolute love.
“Before, the biggest arrest I made was for disorderly conduct. When I—Well, I never thought they’d keep an old lady like her.”
“You couldn’t have known.” I remembered the books I should have delivered. “We all have regrets.”
“I love you,” he said. “Say you’ll forgive me.”
CHAPTER 38
Odile
IN THE COUNTESS’S office, I eyed the makeshift mattress where she slept each night in order to keep watch over the Library—she was seventy years old, yet ready to confront Nazi soldiers. A few books rested near her pillow. I leaned forward to see the titles, but Bitsi tugged at my sleeve, urging me toward the others who’d gathered at the desk. Meetings that had once teemed with staff had dwindled to the secretary, the caretaker, Bitsi, Boris, Margaret, me, and Clara de Chambrun.
“Mr. Pryce-Jones was arrested,” the Countess began, “and sent to an internment camp.”
No, not another friend lost, locked up for being an “enemy alien.”
“M. de Nerciat has been fighting for his release,” she continued.
“I’ve read distressing reports,” Boris said. “They’re not sending people to internment camps, but to death camps.”
“Propaganda,” she said dismissively. “Think of the rumors we’ve heard.”
“Was he denounced?” Bitsi asked.
“It’s likely,” Boris said.
This war was taking everyone I held dear. Everything—my country, my city, my friends—had been looted and betrayed, and I would put a stop to it the only way I knew how. I needed to destroy those letters. I no longer cared if I got in trouble. One thing was sure. Something would burn. I ran out of the Library, Boris and Bitsi shouting after me.
“Come back!”
“You’ve had a shock.”
At the commissariat, I sprinted to my father’s office, closing the door behind me. I grabbed a letter and tore it in two, then another, then another. The rustle of paper being ripped had never sounded so satisfying. Realizing Papa could enter at any moment, I stuffed a fistful of letters into my satchel, crumpling them into ugly wads.
The doorknob clicked, and the door swung open. I stepped away from the desk, fumbling as I fastened the flap.
“My dutiful daughter,” Papa said dryly. “Here to pay me a visit?”
I didn’t know how to act.
Offended? You suspect your own daughter?
Nonchalant? I’m here. Big deal.
Honest? Yes, I’m a thief.
“I’ve received letters asking why the police haven’t followed up on information from earlier ‘correspondence.’ It was puzzling, since we investigated each accusation. I couldn’t understand.” He looked pointedly at the letters I’d torn apart. “Now I do.”
My hand tightened on my satchel.
“You don’t have anything to say for yourself?” he said.
I shook my head.
“I could be arrested,” he said. “They sentence traitors to death.”
“But surely you won’t be blamed.”
“My God, how can you still be so naive?” He placed his palms on his desk and bowed his head, almost in defeat.
“But, Papa—”
“Anyone else I would arrest. Go home. And never come back.”
I left with just a handful of letters. The most important thing I could do, and I’d failed.
CHAPTER 39
Lily
FROID, MONTANA, AUGUST 1987
CORNERED IN THE closet, among the sweaters and secrets, I stared at Odile, still carrying her vanity case, elegant as always. The letters lay on the floor between us. Why aren’t you looking for undeclared Jews in hiding? My indications are exact, now it’s up to you.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Odile’s mouth opened, then closed and became a taut line. Her chin rose, and just as I looked at her differently, she looked at me differently. Guarded, and with great sorrow. When she didn’t say anything, I grabbed the letters and shoved them in her face. She didn’t move.
“Why do you have these?” I demanded.
“I didn’t burn them like the others.… I meant to.”
“I thought you were a heroine, that you hid Jews.”
She sighed. “Alas, no. Only letters.”
“From who?”
“From my father.”
“That’s crazy. Wasn’t he a cop?”
Her eyes were haunted, as if they’d seen a ghost. Silence filled the closet, the bedroom, our friendship. There was only the lonely caw of a lost seagull, the garbage truck plodding down the alley, the pounding of my pitiful heart.
“At the beginning of the war,” she said, “the police arrested Communists. During the Occupation, they rounded up Jews. People wrote to denounce neighbors. Some of the letters were sent to my father. I stole them so he couldn’t hunt down the innocent.”
“You didn’t write them?” Even as I asked the question, I knew that she hadn’t.
Odile stared at the letters trembling in my hand. “I don’t blame you for poking around my things because you’re bored or curious.” Her eyes grew cold until they were slits that regarded me like I was nothing. “But to believe I could write those words! What have I done to make you think I could be capable of such evil?”
She stared out the window, and I knew it was because she couldn’t bear to look at me. I had no right to dig in her closet, to rifle through her past. To bring up things she’d buried for a reason. The war, the role her father played, maybe even the reason she left France.
“To think I came home early because I missed you.” She sank onto the bed. She sat, not straight like in church, but with her back curled in sorrow.
“Go,” she told me. “And don’t come back.”
“No, please.” Shaking my head, I moved toward her. How could I have accused her of such a thing? I would make it up to her. I’d hoe her garden, mow her lawn, shovel all winter. I’d make her forget my foolish, impulsive question. “I’m sorry.”
Odile rose and left the room. I heard the front door open. She’d walked out.
In the living room, I closed the door, then put her books back, hoping I got them in the right order. Watching for her, I sat straight as Sunday on the couch. Barely daring to move, I waited for an hour, then two. She didn’t return.
* * *
HER TONE HAD sounded final. That’s what I said to Eleanor. I hoped she would yell, but she said, “Of course she’s angry. Now you see why Dad and I told you not to snoop.”
What I’d done was worse than snooping, but I was too ashamed to admit my real crime.
The next day, I knocked on Odile’s door, but she didn’t answer. That evening, I wrote a letter of apology and put it in her mailbox. When I left for school in the morning, I found it unopened on our doormat. At Mass, while some people prayed that we’d cream the Soviets before they creamed us, I got on my knees and begged for Odile’s forgiveness. After the service, she and Father Maloney chatted in the vestibule. She glowed as she spoke about Chicago. When I walked over, s
he excused herself and headed home instead of to the hall. The following week, I sat in her pew, childishly hoping that after the “Our Father,” when parishioners shook hands and said, “Peace be with you,” she’d at least look at me. But Odile stopped attending Mass.
At the hall, the ladies gathered behind the buffet, serving juice and doughnuts. Odile had missed a month of Sundays.
“Has anyone seen Mrs. Gustafson?” Mrs. Ivers murmured.
“I tried to check on her,” old Mrs. Murdoch replied. “I could hear her moving around, but she didn’t come to the door.”
“Like before.”
“I wish we’d been kinder back then.”
“So do I.”
“Something terrible must have happened. Even when her son died, she never missed Mass.”
* * *
ELEANOR DECIDED THE silent treatment had gone on long enough and marched over to Odile’s. “Lily knows she did wrong,” she pleaded my case on the porch. “She’s a young girl who made a mistake. A girl who loves and misses you.”
Odile let Eleanor say her piece, then gently closed the door.
In need of divine intervention, I carried Joe to church and lit all the candles I could find. “We pway,” he said.
I gave God two days. When he didn’t respond, I tried a more direct approach. At the rectory, Father invited me into the kitchen. Without his robes, he resembled someone’s grandpa. He scooted a plate of Oreos in my direction, but for once I wasn’t hungry. Figuring that half-truths were better than no truth at all, I crafted a story, careful not to say anything about my accusations.
“That’s all?” Iron-Collar asked skeptically.
For so long, I’d wanted to hold a secret close to my heart. Something that only I knew. Now I had one, but the secret wasn’t exciting, it was pathetic.
“She caught me snooping. It’s a pretty big deal.”
“Enough for her to stop coming to church?”
“Why won’t she let me say I’m sorry?”
“Sometimes, when people have gone through tough times, or been betrayed, the only way for them to survive is to cut off the person who hurt them.”
The Paris Library Page 28