The Paris Library(82)
I loved Professor Cohen, and wanted to love what she loved. “Promise you’ll let me read it when you’ve finished. Do you think I’ll like it?”
She drew her shawl tighter around her. “I’m not sure. There’s no happy ending.”
* * *
AT 9:00 THE NEXT morning, the Countess and her husband waited in their car in front of my building. The general’s bowler covered most of his white hair. Like many Parisians, he had bags under his eyes. When he bore down on the gas pedal, the Peugeot ambled over the cobbles like an old nag who didn’t want to be ridden. From the back seat, I noted that he spent more time watching his wife than he did the road. We putted up the Champs-élysées, past the Arc de Triomphe, and arrived at the Majestic Hotel, Dr. Fuchs’s office.
“Shall I go with you?” the general asked.
“We’re perfectly capable of answering a few questions.”
“Then I’ll wait,” he said, gripping the wheel.
The lobby was empty. A dowdy blonde—Parisians called these German women “gray mice” because of their drab uniforms—led us to Dr. Fuchs’s sparse office. Seated stiffly at his desk, the Bibliotheksschutz appeared as perturbed as we felt. When he didn’t stand to greet us, as was proper, I knew something was very wrong. In French, he warned, “You must speak the truth.”
The Countess drew herself up. “There’s no question about the Library that we will not answer fully.”
“We received an anonymous letter accusing the Library of circulating anti-Hitler tracts.”
We’d been denounced?
“These caricatures were discovered in your collection.” He thrust a file at the Countess.
She flipped through the pages. “The drawings date from before the war, and periodicals like these never go beyond the reading room.” She placed the file on his desk. “I assure you that I would never betray the institution I promised to safeguard.”
“If they’ve been circulated,” I said tartly, “it’s because one of your compatriots carried them off. I saw one try to steal a journal.”
“Hush,” the Countess whispered. “Think before you speak.”
“I know that you also circulate banned books,” he said.
“You told Miss Reeder that we didn’t have to destroy them,” I argued.
At the mention of the Directress, his stance softened. “That’s true. But from now on, you must keep them under lock and key.” He drew a long breath. “Mesdames, it appears we have found a solution.” Switching to English, perhaps so the gray mouse eavesdropping in the corridor wouldn’t understand, he added, “I am most happy for you. I will not conceal that I am also very happy for myself.”
He rose, and we knew the meeting was over. Noting that even Dr. Fuchs was cautious around the gray mouse, the Countess and I remained silent until we returned to the car.
On the way back to the Library, I wondered about Dr. Fuchs’s odd declaration. Perhaps if we’d been found guilty of wrongdoing, so would he, as the administrator of libraries in the Occupied Zone.
When the Countess and I crossed the threshold, Boris drew a flask from the drawer and poured some bourbon into three teacups. The Countess eased onto a chair and took a sip. Quickly, I explained the allegations.
“Does Fuchs know about our special deliveries?” Boris asked.
“I don’t believe so,” she said. “But after such a close call, I’ve decided that instead of waiting until August for the annual closure, it would be best to close the Library to the public tomorrow.”
Bastille Day. Another holiday with no reason to celebrate.
CHAPTER 32
Boris
BORIS AND ANNA always played cards at the neighbors’ on Tuesday evenings. War or no war, Occupation or no Occupation. They went to the Ivanovs’ for a glass of wine and a light dinner that got lighter each week. Hélène played with Nadia in the bedroom. Behind closed doors, Bach on the phonograph, the shutters drawn, the couples unwound over slices of salo. At the table, able to confide, the way one may, with old friends, Vladimir spoke of the pupil he and Marina hid in the attic of their school. His parents had vanished, and he’d hidden at home for three days before telling anyone. Though he was only thirteen, Francis ate like a workhorse, and it was hard to acquire extra rations.
Talk turned to their own children. Boris loved listening to Anna speak about Hélène. Her tone became tender. Her eyes, too. Though she was exhausted from queuing for bread, for butter, for everything, Anna hadn’t let the war write anything on her face. No worry lines, no anger. At times, his shoulders slumped, defeated, and yes, bitter about this life—after all, they’d fled the Revolution only to be confronted with a war. But Anna sat straight as ever, until her strength became his.
After the plates were cleared away, Boris shuffled and dealt the cards. Anna beamed when she saw her hand, and he was glad.
A knock on the door. Startled, they looked at one another. Maybe it’s something, maybe nothing. The person will go away. We’ll wait.
Bam! Bam! Bam! on the door. Though their eyes met, the friends said nothing. Vladimir, Marina, and Anna put down their cards. Boris kept his. Vladimir went to the door and squinted through le judas. His back stiffened, confirming what Boris knew. Gestapo.