The Paris Library(98)

Each summer, Grandma Jo and I had spent afternoons sipping lemonade on her screened porch. Her passion was jigsaw puzzles. Sprinkling the pieces on her table, we reconstructed blue skies over Bavarian castles. Since we were marooned in the middle of wheat fields, those fragmented photos were my first look at the outside world. Grandma’s puzzle habit—two a week—got expensive, so Mom bought them secondhand. The pro: cheap. The con: hours spent on a puzzle only to find pieces were missing, lost long before the church rummage sale.

It had been a while since I’d felt the frustration of an incomplete puzzle, but I recognized the feeling now. An element of Odile’s story was missing. A part of the frame or one of the corners. If Odile loved Paul, why had she married someone else?





CHAPTER 40

Odile




PARIS, AUGUST 1944

THE ALLIES ARE getting closer. The news rolled down the rue de Rennes, it lingered in side streets. It whispered along the paths of Père Lachaise and made it to the Moulin Rouge. They’re getting closer. The news clambered up the steps of the metro and bounced over the white pebbles of the courtyard to the circulation desk. We’d heard that the Allies had landed on the beaches of Normandy over two months ago, so where were they? The press—full of propaganda—was no help. We depended on word of mouth.

“The Allies must be getting closer,” Boris told me as we checked out books.

“I’ve seen Germans packing their vehicles in front of Occupied hotels.”

“Vacancy signs will soon be up!” Boris replied.

Mr. Pryce-Jones, shaky from his time in the internment camp, leaned on a cane as he crossed the threshold. He’d been released three weeks ago; M. de Nerciat followed close behind, hands held out, worried his friend would fall.

“I shouldn’t be back in Paris,” Mr. Pryce-Jones muttered. “Not when others remain imprisoned. And did you have to use my age as a pretext to get me out?”

“No, my dear fellow, I could have told them you were feebleminded.”

I hid my smile behind The Turn of the Screw, 813. Some things hadn’t changed.

“Where are the Allies?” M. de Nerciat asked.

“They must be on their way,” Boris said.

I couldn’t wait to tell Margaret, who was returning after a week of nursing her daughter through a bout of the mumps. When Margaret arrived after lunch, I barely recognized her. The brim of a new white hat hid her eyes, and the matching silk dress was as snowy as a christening gown. It’s chic to be shabby, I reminded myself as I ran a hand over my worn belt.

“That thing’s more notches than leather,” she said as she joined me at my desk. “Let me offer you an outfit.”

“No,” I said, more sharply than I intended. Everyone knew what clothes like Margaret’s meant. Paul called the women who slept with Soldaten “stuffed mattresses.” But perhaps I was being unfair. She’d always had beautiful clothing—I’d worn many of her things myself. The new ensemble wasn’t necessarily from her lover.

“What did I miss?” she asked.

“They say the Allies will get here any day!”

I expected her to be thrilled like the rest of us, but she merely said, “Oh.”

Bitsi came to say hello, my grandmother’s pearly opal on her finger. When my parents had discussed giving the heirloom to Bitsi, I insisted. I wanted her to have it, to know we considered her family. I’d even showed her Rémy’s and my secret place. Among the crumpled handkerchiefs and dust bunnies, we lay together, me clutching his toy soldier, she his favorite book, Of Mice and Men. I’d grown up believing that love lasted until a mistress tore a couple apart, but Bitsi had proven that not even death could destroy true love. In that dark womb, we sobbed, our tears welding us together as sisters more than any wedding ever could.

I’d received a letter from one of Rémy’s friends and handed it to Bitsi to read.


Dear Odile,

We called your brother “Judge” because he’s the one we went to to settle our disputes. I even fashioned him a gavel with a rock, twig, and a length of twine. Stuck here, far from home, we’re frustrated and angry. Bored and hungry. Don’t take much to set someone off. “Judge,” I’d say, “is your court in session? Louis won’t stop taking the Lord’s name in vain. It tears Jean-Charles up, and he done tore into Louis.” Our arguments may seem petty, but the Judge took each one seriously and managed to soothe men who’d reached the end of a frazzled rope. We miss him.

Faithfully yours,

Marcel Danez



Seeing Bitsi’s expression brighten as she read, I insisted that she keep the letter. Marcel’s tribute meant the world to me, but she meant more. She held the scrap of paper to her heart and made her way to the children’s room.

Watching her go, Margaret hissed, “That hair of hers resembles a crown of thorns! Little Bitsi will tire of the role of weepy widow, and take a beau.”

Her insinuation—that Bitsi’s grief for Rémy was an act—hit me like a fist. I couldn’t bear that idea that Bitsi would forget my brother. My chest hurt so much I could barely breathe. I rushed from the room. If I’d slowed down, if I’d stopped to think, I would have remembered a time when Bitsi’s virtue had made me feel tarnished, too; Margaret’s scorn was less about Bitsi and more about her own shame.