The Paris Library(86)
“If you didn’t understand that one, read another.” She pointed to the letters in the box.
“There’s nothing to understand. They’re trash. Old trash.” I tried to rip them up, but Mary Louise snatched the letters and folded them exactly the way we’d found them.
“I want to go home,” I said.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should go.”
“Yes, maybe you should,” Odile said.
Odile.
We turned to face her. Her brows were raised, curled like question marks. What were we doing in her room? What were these bits of paper at our feet?
She was happy to see me. I could see it in the lift of her lips, in her gentle gaze.
Mary Louise and I were used to getting in trouble, though we’d never been caught red-handed. Part of me wanted to apologize to Odile for invading her privacy, but most of me wanted her to apologize for that nasty letter, for teaching me those horrible French words, for making me think she’d been in the Resistance when she was just a liar.
“Was it you who took my books from the shelves?” Her voice was serene.
Dropping the letters, Mary Louise pushed past me and ran off. But if Odile had taught me one thing, it was to stand my ground. I looked her straight in the eye. Straight into her soft brown eyes. “Who are you?”
CHAPTER 34
Odile
PARIS, JULY 19, 1943
BITSI DIDN’T BOTHER with bonjour. She barged into my bedroom, where I was writing to Rémy at my desk. Bedraggled and out of breath, she announced, “Boris was playing cards!”
“Cards?”
“And then he was shot!”
“Shot?” My hand flew to my heart. “Is he… is he alive?”
“They hauled him off to Pitié Hospital for interrogation.”
Under the control of the Gestapo, “Pity” Hospital was practically a death sentence. No, not Boris. I couldn’t bear to lose another friend.
“At home, I pace and fret,” Bitsi continued, “so I went to the Library to get some work done. The Countess had just come back from talking to Dr. Fuchs. She said that Boris’s wife rang her at midnight. In the morning, the Countess went straight to the Bibliotheksschutz. ‘Boris Netchaeff has been with the Library for nearly twenty years,’ she informed him. ‘He would never do anything to compromise it. You promised to help if there was a problem.’
“He asked her to prepare a written report. Ha! The Countess knows about the Nazis and their reports! She presented a full account of the incident, typed and signed by a witness. He phoned someone, who informed him that Boris was scheduled to be deported.”
“Deported!”
“But Dr. Fuchs promised to intervene.”
That was something. I knew he’d keep his word. The Bibliotheksschutz wasn’t as bad as the rest of them. “How can we help Boris?”
“By helping Anna.”
We bicycled to the Netchaeffs’ in the nearby suburb of Saint-Cloud. Is Anna in? We were whisked into the apartment, filled with friends and relatives talking in hushed tones. Yes, Hélène had been in the next room and heard everything. Poor little cabbage, she’s only six. What were the Nazis searching for? I hope they let Anna see Boris. Would you believe the Gestapo had the gall to come back, at three in the morning, no less? They wanted the cigarettes they’d seen on the table.
Late that evening, Anna returned, pale as the moon. The Gestapo had shoved her into a dank room in the basement and shown her photo after photo of men she didn’t know—the same ones they’d shown Boris—before allowing her to see him. Still in his blood-caked shirt, he hadn’t been examined by a doctor.
* * *
IN AUGUST, BORIS was transferred to the American Hospital, thanks to the intervention of Dr. Fuchs. Boris had been shot through the lung, and because the wound wasn’t treated for several days, a life-threatening infection had set in. After a month, doctors allowed him to have visitors other than his wife. In the hospital’s grand entrance hall, Anna told Bitsi and me, “He’s feeling better. Yesterday, he teased me about bringing him a pack of Gitanes.”
I smiled, not entirely sure he was joking.
“Hello there!” Margaret said, rushing toward us. “Sorry I’m late.”
I hadn’t seen her for weeks. Tanned and insouciant, she brimmed with happiness.
“Poor Boris!” Margaret said. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I rang,” I said tersely. “You never returned my calls.”
“I was at the seaside with—” She glanced at Bitsi and Anna. “I was at the seaside. I should have stayed in better touch.”
On the way to see Boris, one of the nurses greeted me warmly. It was touching to be remembered. She and I chatted in the hall while Anna made sure that he was awake.
Once in the room, I made a beeline for Boris. Fussing like Maman would, I tucked the blanket over his chest. His green eyes were soggy with painkillers, but the corner of his mouth lifted like it did when he was about to say something silly.
“Our country has truly become France Kafka.”
“It’s been a Metamorphosis.” I tried to keep my tone light.
“Sorry to leave you on your own at the circulation desk,” he said.