The Paris Library(92)

And the next.


Sir,

I write to inform you about a case you should know about at 49 rue Du Couédic, where a certain Maurice Reichmann, a Communist of Jewish origins, is living with a Frenchwoman. Often, we witness terrible scenes at their door. I think that you will deign to do what must be done, and in advance, the businessmen of the street say Merci.



The final one listed names with corresponding addresses and job titles, noting at the end, 74 gros Juifs. Seventy-four important Jews.

“I don’t understand.” I threw the letters into the bin.

“Denunciations,” Papa said reluctantly. “We call them ‘crow letters.’?”

“Crow letters?”

“From black-hearted people who spy on neighbors, colleagues, and friends. Even family members.”

“Are they all like these?” I asked.

“Some are signed, but yes, most are anonymous, telling us about black marketers, résistants, Jews, people who listen to English radio, or say bad things about the Germans.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since 1941, when Marshal Pétain went on the radio to say that holding back information is a crime. These ‘crows’ have convinced themselves they’re doing their patriotic duty. It’s my job to confirm the veracity of each letter.”

“But, Papa…”

“It’s been made clear that if I find the work distasteful, there are dozens of men in line for my job.”

“It’s not right.”

“Neither is letting you starve.”

I’d assumed he spent his days helping people.…

“This… is for me?”

“Everything Maman and I have done for the last two decades has been for you and your brother! His Latin tutor. Your English lessons. And that trousseau. Maman has nearly gone blind embroidering. By the time you marry, you’ll have enough goods to fill a department store.”

“But I never asked for anything.”

“You’ve never had to.”

The realization hit me like a nightstick. My entire life, I’d been proud. I’d never hesitated to rebel against Papa and to think for myself. I’d seen what happened to Aunt Caro, and I worked hard for my own independence. Now, with unsettling clarity, I understood that though I’d never asked for anything, I’d never needed to—my parents had laid clothes, opportunities, and even suitors in front of me like a red carpet. I felt stunned. Paul wasn’t who I thought he was. Papa wasn’t who I thought he was. I wasn’t who I thought I was.

My father fished the letters from the bin. “I’ll do my duty and investigate each one.”

“Duty?”

“My job is to uphold the law.”

“But what if the law is wrong? What about the innocent men and women harmed by these accusations?” I heard my voice break, like it always did when I fought with my father. I reminded myself that I was here for a reason. “Papa, please, can we talk about Professor Cohen?”

“Every day, dozens of people ask for my help, searching for family members. I can’t help them and I can’t help you!” He gripped my arm and forced me out the door. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want you here. It’s no place for a respectable young lady.”

Outside, in the cold, I burrowed into my shawl. How can I help the professor? I asked Rémy.

Inform the Countess, I heard him say. He was right. She had many high-ranking contacts. Surely, she could help. I rushed straight to her office.

At her desk, she stared into her teacup, her mouth a sad moue. “I’ve told the others and now I must tell you,” she said shakily. “Our friend Irène Cohen was to be deported.”

It wasn’t too late. The Countess and Dr. Fuchs could save her like they’d saved Boris.

“She was at Drancy.”

A detention center north of Paris. Wait. Was?

“Conditions there are deplorable. I could hardly believe my ears when my husband described it. We tried to intervene on Irène’s behalf, but unfortunately…”

No. Not Professor Cohen, too. The floor beneath me swayed, and I reached out, palm flat against the wall, feeling that if I didn’t hold on, everything would disintegrate.

“She tried to get a message to me,” I said. “My father… the letters… It’s my fault.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” the Countess said. “We learned Mme. Simon’s son and daughter-in-law moved into the professor’s apartment. One needn’t be Sherlock Holmes to understand what happened. Apparently, Madame and her son were in communication with several commissariats and even the Gestapo.”

The scold with the tombstone teeth had written crow letters? We’d seen her nearly every day and only now discovered who she truly was? “She’d better never come back!”

“She won’t, believe me. But I didn’t finish. Irène has disappeared. My husband believes she might have smuggled herself out of the detention center.”

The professor had endured the grueling training of a prima ballerina and the almost impossible coursework at the Sorbonne. She’d taught there despite the odds and had outlived three husbands. If anyone could escape a prison, it was she. She couldn’t return to her apartment, but she could stay with friends in the countryside.… I needed to believe that she was safe, needed her to have a happy ending. I thought of a line from Good Morning, Midnight. “I want a long, calm book about people with large incomes—a book like a flat green meadow and the sheep feeding in it.… I read most of the time and I am happy.”