The Paris Library(91)

“I arrested someone we know. Professor Cohen.”

That was absurd. “There must be some mistake.” Cohen was a common enough name.

He drew a book from his messenger bag. Good Morning, Midnight. The last novel I’d delivered. I snatched it from him. “When?”

“Several weeks ago. I wanted to tell you—”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” This was why the professor hadn’t been home. No, it couldn’t be. I started toward her apartment.

He followed. “Let me come with you.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said, grabbing my arm.

I pulled free and broke into a run. The wooden soles of my shoes hit the sidewalk and made a loud echoing sound. I passed the boarded-up butcher shop, the chocolaterie with no chocolat, the boulangerie where housewives hoped to buy bread, the brasserie where the Boches swilled their bier.

I leapt up the escargot stairs two at a time and pounded on the door. Someone stirred on the other side, probably the professor preparing a pot of tea. She’d been out earlier, that’s all. She was home now. I heard the creak of the parquet, the tinny twist of the key in the lock. She’s fine. It was a misunderstanding. I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath.

The door swung open. A blonde in a sleek blue dress said, “Yes?”

I straightened. “I’m here for Professor Cohen.”

“Who?”

“Irène Cohen.” Peeking past the woman, I saw the grandfather clock, its hands fixed at 3:17. The crystal vase was full of roses. The bookshelves now held a collection of beer steins.

“You have the wrong address.”

“This is the right address,” I insisted.

“She doesn’t live here anymore. This is my apartment now.”

“Do you know where she went?”

The woman slammed the door.

Who was that? Why was she in the professor’s home, among her things? Why did she say that the apartment was hers? Needing answers, I made my way to Paul’s door at the hostel.

He gestured for me to enter, but I remained in the corridor.

“Why did you arrest Professor Cohen?”

“Her name was on the list of Jews.”

“The list? There’s a list?”

He nodded.

“Have you arrested others?”

“Yes.”

I thought of the first abandoned apartment where Paul and I had trysted. Though I’d asked whose it was, I hadn’t really cared. Now I understood who the apartments belonged to, why their treasures had been left behind. I covered my mouth in horror as I remembered how Paul and I romped in people’s homes, how we cavorted in their sheets.

“Forgive me for not telling you sooner,” he said. “I’ll never hide anything from you again.”

I looked at him, not sure what I saw. “How can I find her?”

“I’m a peon in the hierarchy. You know who you need to ask.”

I left without a word. The foolish reference librarian. My job was to find facts; instead, I’d turned away from the truth. I should have asked questions instead of burying my head in the goose-down pillows of strangers.

At home, I realized that Paul was right—my father was the one to talk to. Once I explained everything to him, he would ensure that the professor was released, perhaps within the hour.

The table was already set. Maman ladled the soup into our bowls. Gray noodles swam in water. “What I wouldn’t give for a leek,” she said.

Papa sipped from his spoon. “You do so much with so little.”

“Merci.” For once she allowed herself to accept a sliver of praise.

“Papa, one of my friends has been arrested.”

His spoon stilled. His eyes shifted nervously to Maman.

“Who is it, dear?” she asked.

“The professor. I told you about her—she helped me get the job at the Library. Paul said he arrested her.”

All atremble, Maman looked to Papa. “Why would he arrest some poor woman? Oh, this war.”

“Now you’ve upset your mother,” he told me.

I saw he wouldn’t say anything more.



* * *




AFTER BREAKFAST, I set out for Papa’s commissariat, composing arguments in my head. I’ve never asked you for anything. Won’t you at least try to help? I passed the sleepy guard and hurried down the hall to his office. It was early; his secretary wasn’t there to protect him. I pushed open the door.

He rose from his desk. “Is Maman all right?”

“She’s fine.”

“What are you doing here?”

Unsure of what to say, I glanced around. Dozens of envelopes were stacked around the perimeter. On the floor near the desk, letters pooled together, as if swept away by an angry fist.

I picked up a few.


Roger-Charles Meyer is a pure Jew, well as pure as that race can be, and I will not hide the fact that I would be delighted if he were taken away… It is quite simply what this individual deserves. I would be ever so grateful if you could facilitate his fall.



I went on to the next.


You aren’t going to tell me that you approve of those dirty Jews. We have had more than enough. While our loved ones are getting killed or taken prisoner, the Jews run their businesses. We poor imbecile Frenchmen are dying of hunger. And it’s not enough to die of hunger. When there are provisions, they’re for the Jews.