The Paris Library(41)

Miss Reeder snapped photos of volunteers packaging books, Bitsi wrote notes of encouragement to soldiers, and Margaret and I opened requests. I read out one from a professor of English, now a French corporal, who wanted textbooks in order to teach his regiment.

“Which shall we send?” Bitsi asked me.

I pretended not to hear.

Eyeing Bitsi and me nervously, Margaret read aloud, “?‘I am in the east of France and there are ones of us who read English, may we have some books and magazines, also some girls (not too old) who would agree to correspond with us?’?”

Completely charmed by the requests we received, I read out another. “?‘We are some comrades and me, in the French countryside, between Saar and Moselle. And as you might think, our pleasures are limited. If possible, will you send us any old copies of the National Geographic? This magazine shall make our pleasure, because we appreciate this beautiful review.’?”

“It must be hard for the soldiers to be far from home,” Margaret said. “What a relief to be able to do something for them.”

“Thank you for your dedication,” Miss Reeder said, her voice as comforting as a cup of cocoa. “We’re fortunate to have you.”

“What would I do without all of you?” Margaret teared up. “Oh, dear, the leaky teapot is back.”

“We’ve all been emotional lately,” Miss Reeder responded, eyes on me.



* * *




FEW SHOTS WERE fired in France, though the situation remained tense along the Maginot Line, where generals were certain the enemy would attack. We’d dispatched hundreds of books to the soldiers there. Several wrote back, kindly sending tokens of appreciation: a watercolor of a kitchen on the line, sketches of an enemy plane they’d shot down, a packet of cigarettes. Margaret and I read a letter from a British captain.


It was so kind of you letting me have that wonderful packet of books. I do so appreciate what you are doing for us and consider it most important to give the men all the recreation possible.

We want to express to you all our gratitude for the beautiful work you’re doing among us soldiers. For what you did in the last war and for what you are doing now, we’re most thankful.



Our Soldiers’ Service operation had grown so large—thousands of donated books, dozens of volunteers—that businessmen in the neighboring building lent us an entire floor. Piles of novels and magazines reached to the ceiling, a literary tower of Pisa. Miss Wedd baked us scones and recorded statistics about the books we sent. That autumn, we shipped twenty thousand tomes to French, British, and Czechoslovakian troops as well as to the Foreign Legion. Like Miss Reeder, I felt especially proud of our service to individual soldiers. I felt less proud of the fact that I’d barely spoken to Bitsi.

Maman grumbled that I was never home anymore, and Paul joked that he had to volunteer if he wanted to spend time with me, but I found that like Rémy, I “needed to do something.” As bereft as I felt without him, I knew it had to be worse for the soldiers who were far from home. I tucked cards of encouragement into their books.

Feeling uncertain about the future, I often checked the last page of a novel, hoping for a happy ending. In Villette, 823. “Here pause: pause at once. There is enough said. Trouble no quiet, kind heart; leave sunny imaginations hope. Let it be theirs to conceive the delight of joy born again fresh out of great terror, the rapture of rescue from peril, the wondrous reprieve from dread, the fruition of return.” I wished I could tear ahead in the story of my own life to reassure myself. The war would end. Rémy would come home. Paul and I would marry.

Exhausted again tonight, I fell into bed with a book.


He crossed the floor and seized my arm, and grasped my waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance…

“Never,” said he, as he ground his teeth, “never was anything at once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand! (and he shook me with the force of his hold.) I could bend her… the savage beautiful creature!

“Of yourself, you could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart, if you would: seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like an essence—you will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! Come, Odile, come!”



“Odile!” Maman banged on the door. “It’s past midnight.”

Picking up a pen and paper, I wrote:


Dear Rémy,

I could read all night, but Maman will pester me until I turn out the light. Today was another hectic day. The Library is as busy as ever—subscribers who left at the end of August are back, and we’re doing our best to get books to you all. Paul comes to take crates to the station. Margaret says he’s there for me, but I’m not sure. I don’t know how he feels. We’ve never said “I love you.” We’re never alone. Perhaps I keep him at arm’s length. It hurts to hope. I worry his feelings for me will disappear.



I remembered how Papa and Uncle Lionel had both found someone else. I mean, don’t sparks die?

“Lights out, Odile!”


1 December 1939

Dear Odile,

Thanks for the book! Jane Eyre is as feisty as you. How clever to write your impressions in the margins! Turning each page feels like we’re reading the novel together. Why on earth do you sympathize with Mr. Rochester? He’s a cad! I’m starting to doubt your taste in men.