The Paris Library(93)

CHAPTER 37

Odile




AS I SAT at my desk, pen in hand, I couldn’t stop thinking about the crow letters. It was true that Parisians were aware of appearances, of how friends and strangers dressed. We admired a scarf worn the right way, the jaunty tilt of a hat, but now that appreciation transformed into criticism, even envy. Who does she think she is, flaunting that fur? Why does he have new shoes? What did Margaret do for that gold bracelet?

I wondered who would write such letters. I regarded the man in the moth-eaten suit. Did you write one? My gaze shifted to the woman in the blue beret. Or was it you? Everyone appeared normal. Or what had become normal—hungry and haggard.

Boris came to remind me that he had to leave early for a doctor’s appointment. “You seem distracted.”

“Just down,” I said.

Those letters. There had to be a way to save others from Professor Cohen’s fate. At the circulation desk, as Margaret and I stamped books for subscribers, I realized that if there were no crow letters, there would be no arrests.

I tugged at the collar of my blouse. How could it be so warm in November?

“You’re flushed,” she teased. “Thinking of Paul?”

I didn’t notice the light tone and shook my head.

“Where is he, by the way? He hasn’t stopped by in ages.”

“I have to go out,” I said, “just for an hour. Will you take care of things here?”

“But I’m only a volunteer.”

“Act as bossy as Boris. You’ll be fine.”

“But why must you leave? Are you feeling ill?”

“Yes,” I said distractedly. “I’m just sick.”

Speeding along the boulevard, I thought up explanations in case Papa’s secretary stood guard: “I was in the neighborhood.” In case he was working: “Maman wonders if you’ll be home for dinner.” I hoped no one would be there, that I could get in and out and back before anyone but Margaret knew I’d gone.

In front of the commissariat, I hesitated. I was afraid of getting caught. When Papa was angry, his torrential temper was frightening. Yet I was more afraid of the person I’d become if I didn’t act. I thought of those letters, more arriving each day, and marched in. Avoiding the men in uniform milling about, I kept to the perimeter of the wall.

Papa’s secretary was gone, and his door wasn’t locked. I contemplated the mounds of letters on the desk, the cabinet, the sill, before shoving a fistful into my satchel. Fastening the flap, I peeked out. Men swarmed up and down the corridor. Clutching my satchel, I crept down the hall.

“You there, stop!” a guard shouted.

I held my head high and kept going.

“Halt!”

I was about to bolt when greasy fingers grasped my nape.

“What’s the hurry?” the policeman asked, one hand on me, the other on the gun in his holster.

I’d fixated on Papa, and I hadn’t considered there’d be danger from anyone else. I was so frightened I couldn’t speak.

Men came out of their offices. Some looked stern, others apprehensive. A white-haired commander asked, “What’s this disturbance?”

“I found her sneaking about, sir.”

The commander frowned. “What do you think you’re doing, Mademoiselle?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

“Show me your ID,” the guard ordered.

My carte d’identité was in my satchel. If I opened it, they’d see the letters.

The guard grabbed my bag, and instinctively, as if he were a hooligan in the métro, I yanked it from his grasp.

Finally, I found my voice. “I’d hoped to see my papa, but he wasn’t in.” I pointed toward his office.

The commander’s expression eased. “You must be Odile. Your father’s right, you’re the loveliest girl in Paris. Sorry to have been gruff. We’ve doubled our security because of saboteurs.”

“Saboteurs?” I said weakly. Was that what I was? Saboteurs received life sentences. At the Library, we’d recently learned that a subscriber had been condemned to hard labor for printing tracts for the Resistance.

“No need to be frightened,” he said. “We’ll keep your father safe.”

I tried to say “thank you,” but my mouth just quivered.

“You’re a shy thing, aren’t you? Don’t worry your pretty little head. Run along home.”

Hugging my satchel, I hurried back to the Library.

“Well?” Margaret said, trailing me to the hearth. “What was so bloody important?”

I threw the letters into the fire and watched them burn. “Something came up.”

“Do you realize the risk you’ve run?”

Had she discovered what I’d done? “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Leaving the Library unattended is completely irresponsible! The Countess is exhausted—did you know she’s so hell-bent on protecting this place that she spends the night in her office? Bitsi’s practically a mute unless you’re here. Boris shouldn’t be working. We’re counting on you.”



* * *




FROM THE COURTYARD, Paul stared at me through the window, his face full of sorrow. I shook my head. He left. Every few days, he tried again. He followed me through the stacks, through the streets, through the gray winter rain. He was with me even when he wasn’t. I was angry he hadn’t told me about the professor right away. Angry at myself for being blind. Angry because despite everything, I missed him.