The Paris Library(56)

Lawrence had wanted to send them back to London, but Margaret refused. “For the first time, I feel important, as if my work, well, my volunteer work, matters.”

“You are important,” I insisted. “We need you here.”

“Sincèrement, I’m thrilled to be back to repairing books!”

“Is Lawrence happy to have returned?”

Margaret picked at her pearls. “He’s in the Free Zone.”

France had been slashed in two, with the North under German control and the South governed by the hero of the Great War, Marshal Philippe Pétain.

“A pity Lawrence is so far away,” I said. “Is he working there?”

“He’s with a… friend.”

“How long will he be gone?”

Margaret searched for words the way I did after a long day spent swerving between French and English. “Oh, who cares about him!” she finally said. “Let me tell you about the trip back. To ensure we had enough petrol, I filled old teapots.”

“Not leaky ones, I hope!”



* * *




A WEEK LATER, when Paul arrived at my door—his hair sun bleached the color of hay, his cheeks ruddy, I simply stared. In bed at night, I’d imagined our reunion many times. Throwing myself at his chest, covering him with kisses. His hands on my bottom, making my body thrum. Yet when he took me in his arms, I remained stiff. Tense for so many months, I couldn’t unwind. “Je t’aime,” he said. Feeling his lips on my temple, my body softened, and I wept. Cradling me, he brought me onto the landing, knowing I didn’t want to worry my parents. I’d put up a good front for them, for Bitsi, for subscribers, but with Paul, I didn’t have to pretend.

“We’ll get through this together,” he said.

My sobs subsided and I nuzzled closer. I could stay in Paul’s embrace forever. Well, until Maman joined us. Noting the baskets of potatoes, butter, and cured ham that he’d brought, she told him, “The way to Odile’s heart is through her stomach.”

“A good provider,” Papa said.

At the table, in the sitting room, my parents hovered. A few of Maman’s worry lines faded, and Papa laughed for the first time in a month.

“I’ve missed you,” Paul whispered to me. “I wish we could have five minutes alone.”

“Let’s meet at your place tomorrow.”

“Four colleagues have rooms on my floor. If they saw you, your reputation would be ruined.”


KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST


15 August 1940

Dear Maman and Papa,

All is well. My health is improving. In the barrack, a doctor from Bordeaux has a bunk near mine. He snores, but his presence is reassuring. Thank you for your cards. Could you send a few things? A warm shirt, underwear, handkerchiefs, and a towel. Some thread. Shaving soap and a razor. If it’s not too much trouble, food that conserves well, perhaps some paté.

Please don’t worry. We’re treated fairly and have no complaints under the circumstances.

Your loving son,

Rémy




KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST


15 August 1940

Dear Odile,

How are you? And Bitsi and Maman and Papa and Paul? My shoulder is healing. Near Dunkirk, I was hit by enemy fire. Hurt like hell! Of course, when you used to kick me under the table, I complained that hurt like hell, too. Several men in my unit were captured. We felt resentful about our fate until we learned how many had been killed.

We—French soldiers and some British, too—were marched through what felt like most of Germany with very little food or rest. You know me, I’ve never been athletic. After weeks of walking, many of us were relieved to arrive here and sleep on a bed—even if it’s just wooden planks—instead of the cold, soggy ground.

Thank you for your letters. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to write before now.

Love,

Rémy

30 September 1940

Dear Rémy,

Thank goodness you told us what you need—Maman wanted to send rosaries, so you and the others could “pray properly.” Today, for the first time in ages, she attended Mass. She hadn’t been well, so Papa found a nurse for her.

At first, I wasn’t sure about having a stranger care for Maman, but then I saw how well they get on. Eugénie wears a cardigan with a white blouse, an ordinary woman with rounded shoulders and melancholy eyes. Every so often, a wistful smile touches her lips. Kind of like Maman. In the evening before Papa arrives, we three take tea.

He arrives later and later. His car was requisitioned, so he takes the bus. Unfortunately, few circulate because there is almost no fuel available.

With you gone, Papa picks on me twice as much. And he’s become overprotective—he doesn’t like me going out, not even to see a matinee. The Nazis have their own cinemas and whorehouses, so surely Bitsi, Margaret, and I are safe. The lights dim, and we express our true feelings—when the newsreels show Hitler, everyone hisses.

With the “Soldaten” telling us what is “verboten,” German seeps into our skulls. And their soldiers are learning French. A cross-eyed Kommandant attempted to converse with our bookkeeper—remember her, the intrepid scone baker with a love of dead Greek mathematicians? “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Vous êtes belle,” the officer said, to which Miss Wedd replied, “Heave, ho!” When he didn’t understand, she added, “Auf Wiedersehen!”