The Paris Library(73)

He stepped toward the Soldaten and their girls. His jaw was clenched. His fist clenched. He didn’t look like himself. For the first time, he frightened me.

“Don’t pick a fight. It’s not worth it.” I grabbed his arm and held on tight.



* * *




SOLDATEN WERE BECOMING impossible to avoid. They loafed at our favorite cafés, they set up more and more checkpoints on our streets. It was difficult to know where they’d turn up. On my way to Montmartre to deliver scientific works to Dr. Sanger, I passed through a metal barricade that had not been there just the day before. One of the soldiers grabbed my satchel and dumped the contents onto the ground. I winced as the heavy tomes hit the pavement and fell open. He picked one up and leafed through the pages. Perhaps he was looking for top-secret codes or a knife hidden in the binding; perhaps he was just bored. Glancing at the title, he smirked. “Mademoiselle is reading treatises on physics?”

It had been a long time since my physics class at lycée. If he asked a question, I was in trouble. I could say the works were for a neighbor, or I could ask a question of my own.

“Are you saying women should stick to books on embroidery?”

He handed over my satchel and told me to pick up my books.

When I returned to the Library, I tried to warn Margaret, but she refused to acknowledge the danger she was in, even as we filled crates intended for internment camps where foreigners like our Miss Wedd and the Left Bank bookseller Miss Beach were imprisoned.

“Have you registered with the police yet?” I asked for the tenth time.

“I feel French, that should be enough,” Margaret said, gently laying Christmas Pudding over Pigeon Pie.

“Perhaps you should join Lawrence in the Free Zone.”

“His mistress wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Mistress? No, it couldn’t be. I revisited our conversations, searching for clues I’d missed. She’d said he was with a “friend,” and I’d taken the word at face value. Margaret had never spoken of receiving letters from her husband, never mentioned missing him. I felt a fool, blathering about Paul while she suffered in silence. I could read books but couldn’t read people.

I knew that a mistress could bring about a divorce and worried that Margaret might move to London, or worse, disappear like Aunt Caro. I must have appeared distraught, because Margaret placed her hand over mine. “Diplomatic ties between France and England were cut,” she said. “He stayed for her. Lawrence and I live separate lives. It’s not what I wanted—especially for Christina, who never sees her father—but I’ve accepted it.”

“He’s an idiot. He must be if he doesn’t see how lovely and brave you are.”

Margaret smiled tremulously. “No one’s ever seen me the way you do.”

My hand tightened around hers. “Do you think he’ll want a divorce?”

“Couples like us don’t divorce, we ‘muddle through.’?”

“So you’ll stay?”

“I’ll never leave the Library.”

“Promise?”

“The easiest one I’ve ever made.”

“I’m thrilled you’re staying, but don’t want you to get in trouble. What if you get arrested like Miss Wedd? Please think about signing at the commissariat. It’s the law.”

“Not all laws are meant to be obeyed.” She untangled her fingers from mine and set the lid firmly onto the crate of books. Case closed.





CHAPTER 28

Margaret




IN THE SILVER evening light, Margaret ascended the steps of the metro station, wondering which book she would read to her daughter at bedtime. Bella the Goat or Homer the Cat? Too late, she spied a new checkpoint. She retreated slowly.

A soldier demanded, “Vos papiers.” He spoke French with a harsh German accent.

She held out her papers.

He assessed them, then glared at her. “Anglaise?”

English? The enemy.

He took hold of her arm. His knuckles brushed against her breast, and she shrank back, maneuvering her bosom away from his touch.

Margaret was the only foreigner they found. Prodding her along, they moved down the pavement. She’d never been so scared. She knew the men could shove her into an abandoned courtyard and have their way with her, and her life would change forever.

Six blocks later, they entered a requisitioned police station. Inside, there were desks on one side of the room, and on the other, a holding cell where three gray-haired ladies slumped on a bench. Their smeared mascara and creased dresses told Margaret that they’d been imprisoned several days.

“My daughter…,” she said when the soldier shoved her into the cell. “May I please telephone?”

“This isn’t a country club,” he replied. “You aren’t our guest.”

The ladies made room on the bench, and Margaret perched primly on the edge. Normally, she would introduce herself as Mrs. Saint James, but it seemed silly to stand on formality in a cell.

“I’m Margaret. My crime is being English.”

“Ours too.”

“They caught us on the walk home from our book club.”

“We were quite a catch!”

“Those strapping soldiers must feel proud of stopping ladies from reading Proust.”