The Paris Library(58)

Love,

Rémy

12 November 1940

Dear Rémy,

I’m glad you liked the sketch. Paul’s talented, isn’t he? Maman invites him and Bitsi over often. At dinner last week, Papa showed her your baby pictures. With her, he’s not gruff. I wish you could see how she’s won him over. I wish you could come home, period. Yesterday, nearly 2000 lycée and university students protested against the Occupiers. Old men like Marshal Pétain may run the country, but the young people will lead the way.

Love,

Odile



I didn’t tell Rémy that the paté we’d sent was our family’s meat ration for the week. I didn’t tell him that the demonstration didn’t last long because the authorities broke it up. I didn’t tell him that the Nazis had seized the Czechoslovakian library. I didn’t tell him that the Kommandantur wrote to inform us that in a week’s time, the Bibliotheksschutz would “inspect” our library.

Miss Reeder, Boris, Bitsi, and I gaped at the diktat.

“What’s a Bibliotheksschutz?” Bitsi asked.

“Literally translated, it means ‘Library Protector,’?” the Directress said.

“That’s a good thing, right?” I said.

Miss Reeder shook her head sadly. “It’s quite an ironic term. I imagine they’re going to seize our collection.”

“It’s the Book-Gestapo,” Boris explained.



* * *




ON THE DAY of the “inspection,” Boris smoked a pack of Gitanes before noon. Miss Reeder threw herself into paperwork, wanting to be sure there could be no technical reason to close the Library. I gathered books to be reshelved. The Great Gatsby, Greenbanks, Their Eyes Were Watching God, these novels were dear friends. Glancing at Margaret, I knew we were thinking the same thing: How can we go on without the Library?

“Let’s take tea to Miss Reeder,” she said. “We must do something or we’ll go mad!”

I felt jittery, so Margaret carried the tray. As she placed it on a table near Miss Reeder’s desk, I asked, “How are you?”

“Sick to my stomach, and shattered to the core,” the Directress replied. “Waiting for his majesty, the Bibliotheksschutz. Praying that somehow we’ll stay open.”

Margaret poured the chamomile tea. The hot porcelain warmed my clammy hands. I was about to take a sip when I heard heavy heels hit the hardwood floor and echo through the stacks.

In her chair, the Directress squared her shoulders. Three men in Nazi uniforms entered. No one said anything. Not hello, not bonjour, not guten Tag, not you’re under arrest, not Heil Hitler. Two of them—no older than me—were brawny soldiers. The third was a slim officer wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He carried a leather briefcase.

The trio sized up items in the office: the papers on the desk; the empty shelves, where rare manuscripts and first editions had been held until they’d been sent into exile, in anticipation of this moment; the Directress, her alabaster skin, her glossy chignon, her pursed lips.

If Miss Reeder was scared, no one in the room knew it. I’d never seen her sit with such straight posture, never seen her face devoid of warmth. She always rose to welcome visitors, ignoring the gender protocol, which allowed her to remain seated and merely extend her arm to shake hands. But these uninvited guests did not deserve her usual attentions.

The “Library Protector” must have expected a director, not a directress. Staring at her, the Bibliotheksschutz spoke in German, his tone dark, his orders quick. The younger men left, quietly closing the door behind them like parlor maids. When the Directress remained taciturn, he said in flawless French, “What a fine library. I am most impressed, Mademoiselle Reeder. Nothing in Europe can compare with it!”

Upon hearing her name, she focused her gaze on his face. “Dr. Fuchs? You’re here in Paris? I had no idea.” She clapped her hands together as if happy to see an old friend. “I confess, I remarked the uniform, not the man.”

“I was assigned this post just last week, and am now in charge of intellectual activity in Holland, Belgium, and French-occupied territory,” he boasted, almost boyishly hoping for her praise. His shiny cheeks and fine sandy hair gave him the appearance of a Sunday-school teacher.

“You must be missing your library.” Her head tilted in sympathy.

“Indeed. The Staatsbibliothek can undoubtedly do without me. Whether I am able to do without it is another question.”

I’d assumed the Nazi would be an illiterate brute. Instead, he worked at the most prestigious library in Berlin. Margaret and I waited for a directive from the Directress, but she and the Bibliotheksschutz were completely absorbed by each other.

“You are now the Directress?” he continued. “My warmest congratulations.”

“We’re lucky to have a dedicated staff and volunteers.” She frowned. “Well, we had… Things have changed. Colleagues have had to leave.”

“It must be difficult on your own.” He jotted down his phone number on a scrap of paper and put it on her desk. “In case you need to contact me.”

“It’s been ages,” she prevaricated.

“Since the International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation colloquium,” he murmured. “Simpler times.”