The Paris Library(72)

A hush fell over the room as the Countess, in her ermine wrap, entered the party on the arm of her husband, a white-haired gentleman in a tuxedo. Even without medals on his breast, it was clear from his deportment—chest thrust out, coolly surveying the guests as if they were his troops—that he had been a general.

Near the refreshment table, Madame Simon cornered Clara de Chambrun, giving a long-winded explanation of how she’d fashioned her tatty turban from a bathrobe. The Countess shot her husband a “save me now” look, and, like an obedient lapdog, he scampered over to whisk her away.

“He commanded soldiers on two continents,” Mr. Pryce-Jones said.

“But there’s no mistake about who’s in charge now,” M. de Nerciat observed.

“The general has met his Waterloo.”

“Met his Waterloo? He married her.”

Paul led me to my favorite section of the stacks, to 823, where we joined Cathy and Heathcliff, Jane and Rochester. I gazed at his lips, rosy from the wine. Slowly he knelt before me. “You’re the woman of my life,” he said. “The first face I want to see when I awake, the one I want to kiss at night. Everything you say is so interesting—I love hearing about the autumn leaves that crunch under your feet, the cranky subscriber you set straight, the novel you read in bed. I can tell you my deepest thoughts, my favorite books. The thing I want most is a continuation of our conversations. Will you marry me?”

Paul’s proposal was like a perfect novel, its ending inevitable and yet somehow a surprise.

From the reading room, I could hear my mother ask, “Where did Paul and Odile go?,” could hear Eugénie respond, “Oh, for once, let them be.”

“I wish we were at the apartment,” I whispered, “in our rosy boudoir.”

“I love being alone with you, too, only…”

“Only what?”

His Adam’s apple bobbled nervously. “We shouldn’t be sneaking around, it’s not right. I’m not sure how much longer I can—”

“Papa won’t find out.”

“Why do you make everything about your father?”

“I don’t!”

“Let’s not fight,” he said.

Caressing his face, I took in the changes that war had wrought: dusky shadows gathered under his eyes; lines formed bitter parentheses around his mouth. So much had changed. I wanted some things to stay the same—my work at the Library, our afternoon trysts.

“You’re the person getting me through the war,” he said, “through my work duties. I want us to be together.”

“Yes, my love. When Rémy’s released.”

I slid to my knees. Paul started to say something, maybe I love you, maybe I don’t want to wait, but I kissed him and his words were lost beneath my tongue. He drew me to his chest. My hands slipped under his jacket, his sweater, his shirt, to the heat of his skin. In the background, friends sang “Silent Night,” but Paul and I remained entwined, eyes closed to everything but our passion.



* * *




MY FAMILY CONTINUED to count the days of Rémy’s captivity as 1941 turned into 1942. January 12: Dear Rémy, You’re the only one I can tell: Paul proposed! We’ll have the wedding when you come home. February 20: Dear Odile, Don’t wait for me. Be happy now. March 19: Dear Rémy, Margaret and I have no more stockings, so we pat our legs with beige powder. Bitsi thinks we’re crazy. April 5: Dear Odile, Bitsi’s right! Thanks for the package. How did you know that I wanted to read Maupassant?

Everyone had to register for something—housewives for rations, foreign and Jewish people with the police. Though Mr. Pryce-Jones signed in weekly at the commissariat, Margaret hadn’t gone once. Scrawled on the sides of buildings, I saw Vs—for Victory over the Nazis, but I also saw “Down with Jews.” Marshal Pétain, the World War I hero who’d been appointed chief of state, transformed the French motto “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” to “Work, Family, Fatherland.” It felt as if Parisians’ state of mind was “Tense, Angry, Resentful.”

Paul and I strolled under the leafy shade of the Champs-élysées, past cafés filled with Nazis and their gaudy girlfriends. Soldaten had deutsche marks to buy beer and trinkets like bracelets and blush. The men were away from the Eastern Front and wanted to forget the war in the company of lovely, lonely Parisiennes.

I didn’t blame the girls. At eighteen, who didn’t long to dance? At thirty, mothers needed help with the bills. Their husbands had been killed in battle or were stuck in Stalags. The women went on with their lives the best they could. Still, next to them, I felt like a frump. I pinched my cheeks, hoping to bring out a little color, and reminded myself, It’s chic to be shabby.

“I can only dream of offering you a piece of jewelry.” Paul scowled at the couples. “Not being able to give you the sweet somethings you deserve—it’s damn humiliating!”

“How I feel about you has nothing to do with trinkets.”

“Those sluts get everything while we go without. They’re whores, sucking off—”

“There’s no need to be crude!”

“They should be ashamed, plastering themselves over the damn Krauts, sucking up to the enemy. I’d like to teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”