The Paris Library(75)

“I’m letting you go,” he whispered.

The door to the cell was open. She moved to wake the ladies.

“Not them, just you.”

“Why me?”

“You’re beautiful. You shouldn’t be here.”

He was like Lawrence. He saw what he wanted to. She lay back down.

“I’d let you all go if I could,” he said, “but I can’t explain an empty cell.”

She glared at him, angry he’d dangled the possibility of freedom in front of her, only to fling it away. “The war hasn’t taught you to lie?”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“Your commander will shout and you’ll feel ill at ease. What’s the worst that will happen to us? Sent to a prison far from loved ones, with no food, no heat, no books.”

“I’ll let the four of you go—”

“Merci. Danke.”

“I’ll let you all go, if you read me the novel.”

“What?”

“We’ll meet once a day. On the steps of the Pantheon, or wherever you want.”

“That’s absurd.”

“One chapter per day.”

She wished she could see his expression, but he was facing away from the dim light. “Why?”

“I want to know what happens next.”





Paris





9 May 1942


Monsieur l’Inspecteur: I am writing to inform you that at the American Library, the directress Clara de Chambrun née Longworth writes lies and excuses to keep both the head librarian and caretaker in Paris, rather than allowing them to be dispatched to work in the Fatherland.

Boris Netchaeff visits the homes of Jewish readers. Each evening, he carries away several batches of books. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were smuggling obscene books to people. He has no morals, and refuses to keep the library’s collection pure. He says he took French nationality, but I have my doubts.

Do your job—rid Paris of these foreign degenerates.

Signed,

One who knows





CHAPTER 29

Odile




BREAKFAST WAS A few spoonfuls of oatmeal and an egg that Maman split three ways, careful to place the crumbled bits of yolk back on the white. Her cheeks, once plump plums, were now sunken prunes. Papa had lost so much weight that she’d taken in his trousers. His broom-shaped mustache could no longer hide the sad sweep of his mouth.

“You should be married instead of a spinster librarian,” he told me. “What’s wrong with you?”

I stared at Rémy’s chair. I missed his support.

“Paul is a wonderful young man,” Papa continued.

“Then why don’t you marry him?”

“Enough!” Maman said.

For once, my father shut up. I could almost hear Rémy say, That’s all it took? One word? If only we’d known!

At work, I barely made it past the threshold before Boris loaded me down with books. I didn’t mind. We all faced checkpoints, and I knew that he and the Countess delivered just as many. On the way to Professor Cohen’s, I tried to enjoy the lush June morning, but Papa’s criticism echoed, What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you?

I slumped on the professor’s settee. My gaze moved from the grandfather clock that burped the hour to the always empty vase to the clouds of concern in the professor’s eyes.

“Is everything all right?”

It wasn’t professional to vent, but she did ask. “Papa thinks I should get married.”

She leaned forward on her chair. “Are you and Paul engaged?”

“Yes!” It felt good to share my secret with her. “But only Rémy knows. And now you.”

The clouds lifted. “This calls for champagne. Alas, cherry wine will have to do.” At the sideboard, she took a bottle and emptied the last drops into two glasses.

“To you and your young man.”

We sipped the sweet wine.

“Why haven’t you told your parents?”

“The minute I do, Papa will pick the wedding date and name the grandchildren. Maman has sewn so much that my trousseau takes up an entire room—you could drown in doilies. Mostly, though, I want to wait for Rémy. It’s my decision, not my father’s.”

“I empathize, my dear. I do. But my mother used to tell me, ‘Accept people for who they are, not for who you want them to be.’?”

“What does that mean?”

“Your father’s old, he won’t change. And dogs don’t have kittens, so you’re as stubborn as he. The only thing you can change is the way you see him.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Talk to him,” she said. “Tell him how you feel about Paul, and that you want Rémy at your side.”

“Papa just wants to marry me off.”

“He misses your brother, too. Surely he’ll understand.”

I pouted. “You don’t know my father.”

“When you’re older…”

I bade her farewell, bristling as I stomped down the steps. When you’re older! What’s wrong with you? Barreling down rue Blanche, I noticed a brunette in an elegant blue jacket, a yellow star on her lapel. I froze, hurt pride suddenly the farthest thing from my mind.