The Paris Library(88)

“We should send for Papa.”

She turned off the lamp. “He doesn’t deserve to know.”

“Oh, Maman…”

“Rémy enlisted to prove to Papa that he was a man.”

Even if it was true, blame wouldn’t bring Rémy back. If she remained fixated on my father, Papa would be dead to her, as dead as Rémy. I had to move Maman away from her resentment.

“We need to tell Bitsi,” I said.

“Tomorrow is time enough. Let her have one last night before we break her heart.”

In silence, Maman and I steeped in the shock of grief. For how long, I didn’t know. “Of course he wasn’t dead. He could never be dead until she herself had finished feeling and thinking.” 813. Their Eyes Were Watching God. I just had to keep thinking of him. Rémy penning an article at his desk. Rémy sipping coffee at our favorite café, calico cat on his lap. Rémy laughing with Bitsi. Rémy. Oh, Rémy. The fellows tell me I’ve been delirious. Rémy was gone. But how could that be, when there was so much I wanted to tell him?





CHAPTER 35

Paul




AT HIS DESK in the commissariat, Paul had one thing on his mind: Odile. If he could focus on her, he could forget everything else. Odile when they’d first met—she was angry, and he didn’t know why. Odile when he gave her a nosegay and her gaze softened. Her mouth, sweet and tart like cherries. The sway of her hips. Odile in her black dress, Odile without it. Her breasts. He loved to caress them, to taste them.

His boss pounded on the desk. “Don’t you have work to do?”

Paul shifted in his chair. “Yes, sir. But why—”

“Yours isn’t to ask questions. Yours is to shut up and follow orders. Here’s the list.”

Paul didn’t understand it. When war had been declared, the police had arrested Communists, Kraut pacifists living in France, a bunch of English folks—even ladies, and then Jewish people. On the poster beside his desk, the regulation stated: “Jews of both sexes, French and foreign, are to be subjected to random checks. They may also be interned. Agents of the police force are charged with the execution of the present order.”

Some colleagues had relished kicking people out of their apartments. Others feigned sickness to get out of the unpleasant work, but that wasn’t Paul’s way. He’d briefly considered fleeing to the Free Zone, but he refused to abandon his responsibilities like his father had. Paul wanted to take up the fight in North Africa with the Free French, but couldn’t abandon Odile. He’d turned down the promotion her father had offered so she would know that she came first. He’d told her things he’d never confided to anyone. His choice: Odile or everything and everyone else. The decision was easy.

He set off toward the farthest address on the list. He didn’t want to think about his job. Only Odile could push it from his mind. Odile on the bed. Odile, naked in the kitchen, whisking chocolat chaud in a stranger’s copper pot. At first, the trysts had been exciting, but now Paul was tired of sneaking around. He wanted to marry Odile. What if Rémy never came back? No one dared bring up the possibility. What could Paul do? Get a special license, and the second she said yes… He arrived at the address. He didn’t want to think about what he was about to do. Odile saying je t’aime. Odile fawning over his sketches. Odile reading éluard aloud to him. Odile. Odile. Odile.

Paul tramped up two flights and rang the bell. A white-haired lady appeared at the door, and he said, “Madame Irène Cohen? I’m supposed to escort you to the police station.”

“What have I done?”

“Probably nothing. I mean you’re—” He would have said old, but it wasn’t polite to remind a woman of her age. “It’s a random check.”

When she turned to take a book from the table, Paul noticed a peacock feather tucked in her bun. “You’re right to bring a book along,” he said. “Administration gets longer every day.”

“I know you. You’re Odile’s fiancé.” She thrust the slim volume at his chest. “Please give this to her, she’ll know what to do.”

Surprised, he fumbled, and the book fell. When its spine hit the floor, the pages fluttered, and Paul saw the American Library bookplate—Atrum post bellum, ex libris lux. Odile had told him it meant “After the darkness of war, the light of books.”

He picked up the book. “Madame, I’m a policeman, not an errand boy. You’ll be home by dinner and able to return it to her yourself.”

“You’re naive, young man.”

Paul drew himself up, ready to tell her off. Naive! He was a worldly fellow! Just because he wasn’t a soldier didn’t mean he hadn’t seen anything. Why, he’d traveled all over France. He was the breadwinner for himself and his mother. Who was she to judge, crazy lady with a feather in her hair? Feather in her hair. He remembered her now, well not her exactly. There were plenty of old folks at the Library, and he didn’t know them all by name. He recalled Odile’s awe as she spoke of her favorite subscriber, the professor with a peacock feather in her hair.

Professor Cohen put on her coat. When Paul saw the yellow star on her lapel, he started to sweat, and beads of shame dripped down his body. He’d wanted to tell Odile about the roundup, that terrible morning in July when he and others on the force, including her father, had arrested thousands of Jews, entire families, even children. But it wasn’t just his work, it was her father’s.