The Paris Library(62)

“At least you have a boss you can admire.”

He looked troubled. I wanted to take him in my arms, wanted to forget the war for five minutes, but Mme. Simon’s dogged stare unnerved me. Would Paul and I ever be alone?



* * *




FROM THE ESCARGOT staircase, I could hear Professor Cohen’s key strokes. This time as always, her landing was imbued with the inky scent of typewriter ribbon. Despite feeling melancholy, I grinned when she answered the door—in a tuxedo jacket.

“What on earth?” I asked.

“I’m trying to get into the mind of my character, so I put on my husband’s tails.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s great fun.”

Behind her, the bookshelves were nearly half-filled. Bitsi, Margaret, Miss Reeder, Boris, and I had brought books from our own collections, as had the professor’s friends. The pile of paper next to the typewriter had also grown.

“What’s new?” she asked.

I sighed. “I’ve been promoted to reference librarian.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“The previous one returned to the States. This wasn’t how I wanted to work my way up. I’d rather stay in the periodical room forever and keep my colleagues.”

“People make plans, and God laughs,” she said. “A cup of tea? And a more suitable attire?”

We chatted on the divan, teacups balanced on our laps, she in her tails, I with a black bow tie around my neck. I touched the silk. It did make me feel better.

Visiting Professor Cohen each week was one of the great joys of my job, of my life. She even let me read her work in progress, some of which took place at the Library. The chapters were so witty, so insightful, so her. The professor had become my favorite writer, all categories combined.





Paris





12 May 1941


Monsieur l’Inspecteur: Why aren’t you looking for undeclared Jews in hiding? Here is the address of Professor Cohen at 35 rue Blanche. She used to teach so-called literature at the Sorbonne. Now she invites students to her home for lectures so she can cavort with colleagues and students, mostly male—at her age!

When she ventures out, you see her coming a kilometer away in that swishy purple cape, a peacock feather askew in her hair. Ask the Jewess for her baptism certificate and passport, you’ll see her religion noted there. While good Frenchmen and women work, Madame le Professeur sits around and reads books.

My indications are exact, now it’s up to you.

Signed,

One who knows





CHAPTER 24

Odile




IN THE BARREN courtyard of our building, Maman winced as she ripped her beloved ferns from the window boxes. Beside her, Eugénie and I sowed carrot seeds in the soil. Helping Maman made me feel useful, and the sunshine felt heavenly.

“We could have planted vegetables last year.” She ran her fingers over the helpless ferns splayed over the cobbles. “But I liked having something beautiful.”

“Who knew the Occupation would continue?” Eugénie asked.

“What if it never ends?”

“We said that about the Great War. All good things come to an end, bad things, too.”

Maman read us a letter from country cousins, who promised to send provisions. When she finished, she said, “All my life, I’ve been embarrassed by my rural roots. When Papa’s bosses and their wives came for dinner, I always felt… not quite as fine as the Parisian ladies. Fatty mutton next to smoked salmon.”

“Oh, Hortense.” Eugénie took Maman’s dirt-caked hand.

“But now my roots may well save us.”

“In the form of carrots,” I joked.

“Why did you have to say mutton?” Eugénie lamented. “Now I’m starving.”

Chuckling, she and I carried the planters up the stairs and set them on the window ledges. Maman followed, her fist full of baby fronds that curled like question marks.

“I suppose we should see about dinner,” Eugénie said. “Why don’t you invite Paul over?”

“He’ll have to come for the company, not the meal,” Maman said as she set her ferns in a glass with a little water. “Rutabagas again.”

“Baked this time,” Eugénie said pertly.

After we ate, Maman pretended to tidy the secretary, and Paul and I sat on the divan. Since we couldn’t speak freely, I showed him a page of The Age of Innocence, our torsos nearly touching as we read. “When we’ve been apart, and I’m looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you’re so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between.”

Eugénie swept in and tugged Maman’s hand. “Oh, let them have some fun.”

“When they’re married, they can have all the ‘fun’ they want,” she replied.

“Where’s your father?” Paul said, bringing our communication back to the public domain.

“Still working. He comes home at night with files, but won’t tell us a thing. When I see the dark circles under his eyes…”