The Paris Library(60)

“Think of the story of Mahomet and the mountain!” the Countess replied. “I possess a pair of feet, so do Boris, Peter, and Odile. I am ready and willing to carry books to subscribers, and feel sure that every member of staff will be happy to do the same.”

“We’ll make sure all readers have books,” Margaret said.

“There’s danger involved,” Miss Reeder said gravely. She regarded each of us to make sure we understood. “The rules we’ve lived by have changed overnight. Delivering books could be perceived as defying authorities, and we may be arrested.”

“I arrived in Paris on the eve of war in order to put books into the hands of readers,” Helen said, “and I’m not about to stop now.”

“I’ll carry the entire contents of the Library to subscribers,” said Peter.

“We won’t let readers become isolated,” Miss Wedd insisted. “I’ll take them books. And scones, too, if I can scrape up enough flour.”

“Delivering books will be our way of resisting,” Bitsi said.

“We need to do this,” I said.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Boris said.

“Then let’s get to work,” Miss Reeder said.

She and the Countess wrote to Jewish subscribers. Bitsi called those who had a telephone. Seated at Miss Reeder’s desk, the receiver nearly as large as her head, I heard her voice catch. “Until things go back to normal… I’m sorry… Which books may we bring you?”

Boris prepared requests, tying the books together with twine. He proffered me a bundle for Professor Cohen, and I set off into a very different world.

I tried to avoid Nazi checkpoints, but a new one had sprung up two blocks away. On a narrow street, Soldaten—always armed, always in packs of five—prodded Parisians through metal barricades in order to verify our papers and search our belongings. As I stood in line, I realized I’d scribbled the professor’s address on a scrap of paper and tucked it in my satchel. Why hadn’t I just memorized where she lived? What if I led the Nazis back to her apartment?

A soldier demanded that I open my satchel. I just stood there. My breathing became so shallow that I thought that I would pass out. He grabbed my bag and rummaged through the books and papers inside.

“Nothing interesting here,” the soldier declared in German, “just a handkerchief, her house keys, and some books.”

At any rate, that’s what I thought he said. The only words I understood were nichts, interessant, and Buch. He eyed my papers, ogling the photo on my carte d’identité, before thrusting the documents at my bosom and growling, “Be on your way!”

When I rounded the corner, I scoured my satchel for the scrap with the address. Vowing to be more careful, I ripped it up. I didn’t want to endanger readers. After my breathing returned to normal, I started off again.

I’d always wondered where the professor lived, and imagined her in an airy study that bordered a rose garden. Not that she’d invite me in. This was not a social visit, and given the circumstances, I had no idea what to say. It’s not right? The Library sends its regrets? This is strange business?

Nothing?

It was a twenty-minute walk to Professor Cohen’s. Inside the blond Haussmannian building, the staircase curved like an escargot’s shell. I made my way to the second floor, where I heard the rat-a-tap-tap of the typewriter. Afraid to disturb her, I considered leaving the bundle outside the door, but knew Boris wouldn’t like it if books were abandoned. Finally, I knocked. The professor ushered me in with a swish of her shawl. Following her into the sitting room, my gaze moved from the peacock feather in her hair to the skeletal wall of shelves that once held one thousand volumes. The Nazis had plunged a bayonet into the body of the professor’s research.

“They even stole my diaries—my happy times with loved ones, my moments of despair.”

They’d confiscated her private thoughts. Hurricanes, 551.552; censored books, 363.31; dangerous animals, 591.65.

She pointed to a pile of books on the chair. “Friends have stopped by. They know my taste, and little by little, I’ll rebuild my collection, maybe with a novel I’ve written myself. I spoke to an editor about my work in progress, and he seems most keen.”

Hope, 152.4. I glanced at her typewriter. “What’s your book about?”

“It’s about us. Well, about us Parisians. Like most, I love people-watching, but sometimes I think we’re too aware of each other. It creates a corrosive jealousy.”

Before I could respond, she left the room and returned with a tray of tea and cookies. I peeked at my watch—four o’clock. Other subscribers were expecting deliveries, and I didn’t want Boris to be cross. Yet I couldn’t leave after she’d gone to such trouble.

While the orange pekoe brewed, I nibbled on a Russian cigarette. My tongue seemed to swell as I savored a rare substance—butter. Where on earth had she found it?

“My nephew’s best friend owns a creamery,” she said.

I grimaced. “Whoever thought we’d feel obligated to justify having kitchen staples?”

“And it’s going to get worse.”

I had trouble imagining how things could get worse. “Miss Reeder promised to stop by tomorrow,” I said, hoping news of the visit would cheer her up.