The Paris Library(65)

When we left the warmth of the bed, we skated along the slippery parquet, to the sitting room, where we donned the clothes left in an impatient heap. Paul showed me his pocket watch. “We should get back before that scold with the oversized dentures complains about how long you’ve been gone.”

“Promise we can come back,” I said as we closed the door behind us.

He tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “Every day, if you like.”

We lingered in front of the Library. “I’d better go in,” I said shakily. My body felt as if it had been asleep and was now wide-awake. I noticed every blink, every breath, every heartbeat. I wondered if anyone would see a change in me.





CHAPTER 25

Odile




THE CIRCULATION DESK sat unattended. How odd. It wasn’t like Boris to abandon his post. I continued to the reading room, where my habitués sat motionless. No one spoke, no one read. I asked Madame Simon if she’d seen Boris. She shook her head, not even bothering to chastise me for returning from lunch five minutes late.

Something was dreadfully wrong. I rushed through the Library. The reference section was deserted, so was the children’s room. Miss Reeder’s office was locked. The Afterlife was empty. Finally, I found Bitsi in the cloakroom, huddled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest.

I knelt before her. “Is it Rémy?”

“No.” She stared at the parquet.

“Your brother?”

She met my gaze, her violet eyes drenched in sorrow. “Miss Reeder announced she’s leaving.”

It couldn’t be true.

“She and Boris went to procure her travel passes,” Bitsi added.

“Why is she going now, after all this time?” I asked.

“The trustees in New York sent a cable ordering her to leave France immediately. They think it’s only a matter of time before America enters the war, and they’re afraid she’ll be arrested as an enemy alien.”

I sank onto the floor next to Bitsi. I couldn’t imagine life without the Directress in the next room, where I could peek my head in and ask her advice. If it hadn’t been for her, Bitsi and I wouldn’t be friends. Miss Reeder offered me a chance to grow. She hadn’t lectured. She’d trusted me to learn my own lessons. What would I do without her?



* * *




TWO DAYS LATER, I helped Miss Reeder pack her belongings. Though I knew that her safety mattered more than anything, and that this was for the best, I moved slowly, wanting to keep her with us for as long as possible. In the drawer, a red address book teemed with cartes de visite from the likes of the Swedish ambassador and the Duchess of Windsor. I slid it into her briefcase.

“What will you do in the States?” I asked.

“Hug my family and hear about the moments I’ve missed. Beyond that, I haven’t given it much thought. Perhaps rejoin the Library of Congress, or apply to the Red Cross.”

“I wish…”

“I wish, too. It’s painful to leave. I’m so proud of the Library and the fact that we’ve remained open. But when you have no news of the outside world—not even from your own family…” Tears glinted, and she returned to packing her private collection—favorite books she’d brought from home, signed first editions from admirers, and several French volumes.

There goes Rilke, there goes Colette, and when the books were boxed, there goes Miss Reeder. Watching her empty the shelves was painful, so I turned to the desk. In the bottom drawer was a cache of correspondence. I knew I shouldn’t snoop, not with Miss Reeder right there, but couldn’t resist when I saw her bold, curving script. It was a letter to “Mom & Dad.”


One cannot plan more than a day in advance, so what the future holds, I do not know. I do, however, have the feeling that our Library will always continue. We’re doing a good piece of work, considering the handicaps. It’s not easy when you have to stand in line for food before going to work; when everything is extremely hard to get, including clothing, shoes, medical supplies, etc.; no heat and no hot water; and everything very expensive. Seeing the lines makes your heart sad. No soap—no tea—no nothing. The iron clamp is working—granted, in a very polite way—but hard—oh, very hard…

But physical hardships seem small when compared to those of the heart. We at the Library had our share like all others, but somehow it touches more closely when it takes place in your own building among your own staff. Someday I hope to tell you the story.

Love,

Dorothy



The missive reminded me of the ones I’d written to Rémy. Filled with the stark truth of the Occupation, I’d tucked those letters inside the musty classics on my bottom shelf. I wanted to shield him, the way Miss Reeder had her parents. There was so much we did not tell.

“It’s been wonderful to work with you,” she said.

“Truly?”

“Just promise that you’ll think before you speak. You may have the Dewy Decimal system memorized, but if you can’t hold your tongue, that knowledge is wasted. Your words have power. Especially now, in such dangerous times.”

“I promise.”

When she finished packing, only the paper with Dr. Fuchs’s phone number remained. “He said we could call day or night. I hope you’ll never need to.”