I had straight As and no boyfriend, and Tiffany Ivers was trying to steal Mary Louise from me. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“All the other girls get to wear makeup. Why can’t I?”
“A pretty girl like you doesn’t need all that gunk on your face.”
Most of what Dad said didn’t register. I didn’t hear his concern, didn’t hear him say I was pretty. All I heard was the unequivocal no.
“But, Dad—”
“I hope you don’t nag your mother like this.”
For the thousandth time, we both looked at the bedroom door.
* * *
BACKPACKS SLUNG OVER our shoulders, Mary Louise and I trudged home from school. We stopped on First Street to pet Smokey the German shepherd, continued past the Flesches’, who had forty-seven ceramic gnomes scattered around their yard, one for each year they’d been married. On the corner lot, old Mrs. Murdoch brushed back her lace curtains. If we cut across her lawn instead of taking the sidewalk, she called our parents.
In Froid, we all shopped at the same grocery store, we drank from the same well. We shared the same past, we repeated the same stories. Mrs. Murdoch wasn’t as mean before her husband keeled over shoveling snow. Buck Gustafson was never the same after the war. We read the same newspaper, we depended on the same doctor. On our way to here or there, we drove down dirt roads, we watched combines roll round the fields, their headers snatching up the wheat. The air smelled clean. Honest. Our mouths and nostrils filled with the tender taste of hay, and the dust of harvest pumped through our blood.
“Let’s move to a big city.” Mary Louise glowered at Mrs. Murdoch. “Where no one knows our business.”
“Where we can do anything,” I added. “Like scream in church.”
“Or not even go to church.”
We paused at this, an idea so enormous it took time to sink in, and walked the last block to my house in silence. From the street, I could see Mom at the window. The reflection on the glass made her seem pale like a ghost.
Mary Louise headed home; I continued to the mailbox and held on to the weathered post, not ready to go inside. Mom used to make cookies and chat with friends at the kitchen counter. Sometimes, she’d pick me up from school and we’d drive to the Medicine Lake Refuge, her favorite place for bird-watching. In the station wagon, Mom and I faced the same direction; the road stretched before us, rich with possibilities. It was easy to confide in her about a run-in with Tiffany Ivers or a bad grade on a test. I could tell her the good things, too, like the time in PE class when Robby was team captain and he chose me first, even before he picked any of the boys. Each time I struck out, they complained bitterly, but he stayed at my side and told me, “You’ll get ’em next time.”
Mom knew everything about me.
At Medicine Lake, there were 270 species of birds. We moved through the knee-high needle-and-thread grass. Binoculars hung from the strap around Mom’s neck. “Maybe hawks are more majestic,” she said, “and piping plovers have the best name. Still, I like robins best.”
I teased her for driving all this way to observe birds that we could find on our front lawn.
“Robins are elegant,” she told me, “a good omen, a reminder of the special things we have right in front of us.” She hugged me tight.
But now, she stayed home alone and rarely had the energy to talk, even to me.
Just then, Mrs. Gustafson went to her mailbox, and I crossed the brown strip of grass that separated us. She held a letter to her chest.
“Who’s it from?”
“My friend Lucienne in Chicago. We’ve written to each other for decades. She and I came over on the ship together—three unforgettable weeks from Normandy to New York.” She regarded me. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine.” Everyone knew the rules: Don’t draw attention to yourself, no one likes a show-off. Don’t turn around in church, even if a bomb goes off behind you. When someone asks how you are, say “fine,” even if you’re sad and scared.
“Would you like to come over?” she asked.
I plunked my backpack in front of her shelves. There were books up and down, but only three photos, small as Polaroids. At my house, we had more pictures than books (the Bible, Mom’s field guides, and an encyclopedia set that we’d found at a garage sale).
The first photo was of a young Marine. He had Mrs. Gustafson’s eyes.
She moved to my side. “My son, Marc. He was killed in Vietnam.”
Once, when I was handing out bulletins at church, a flock of ladies landed near the basin of holy water. Just as Mrs. Gustafson entered, Mrs. Ivers whispered, “Tomorrow’s the anniversary of Marc’s death.” Shaking her head, old Mrs. Murdoch replied, “Losing a child, nothing worse. We should send flowers or—”
“You should stop gossiping,” Mrs. Gustafson snapped, “at least at Mass.”
The ladies dipped trembling fingers into the holy water, quickly made the sign of the cross, and slunk to their pews.
Running my hand over the top of the picture frame, I said, “I’m sorry.”
“As am I.”
The sorrow in her voice made me uneasy. No one ever came to visit her. Not her in-laws, not her French family. What if everyone she’d ever loved was dead? She probably didn’t want me here, dredging up her losses. I moved to pick up my backpack.
“Would you like a cookie?” she asked.
In the kitchen, I grabbed the biggest two on the plate and gobbled them down before she touched hers. Thin and crunchy, the sugar cookies were wrapped in the shape of a miniature spyglass.
She’d just finished the first batch, so over the next hour I helped roll out the rest. I appreciated that she didn’t say anything about Mom. Not, “We miss your mother at the PTA, tell her everyone has to pull their weight.” Or, “Nothing wrong with her that a pork roast couldn’t fix.” Silence had never felt so good.
“What are these cookies called?” I asked as I grabbed another.
“Cigarettes russes. Russian cigarettes.”
Communist cookies? I put it back on the plate. “Who taught you to make them?”
“I got the recipe from a friend who served them when I delivered books.”
“Why couldn’t she get her own books?”
“She wasn’t allowed in libraries during the war.”
Before I could ask why not, there was a pounding at the door. “Mrs. Gustafson?”
It was Dad, which meant it was six o’clock—dinnertime, and I was in trouble. Wiping the crumbs from my mouth, I prepared my case. Time slipped by, I had to stay to help finish…
Mrs. Gustafson opened the door, and I expected hurricane Dad to rain down.
His eyes were wide, his tie crooked. “I’m taking Brenda to the hospital,” he said to Mrs. Gustafson. “Can you look after Lily?”
I wanted to say I was sorry, but he rushed off, not waiting for a response.
CHAPTER 3
Odile
PARIS, FEBRUARY 1939
THE SHADOW OF Saint-Augustin church loomed over Maman, Rémy, and me as we set forth from yet another dull Sunday service. Released from the oppressive grasp of incense, I sucked in icy gales of air, relieved to be away from the priest and his gloomy sermon. Maman prodded us along the sidewalk, past Rémy’s second favorite bookshop, past the boulangerie with the broken-hearted baker who burned the bread, through the threshold of our building.
“Which one is it today, Pierre or Paul?” she fretted. “Whoever he is, he’ll be here any minute. Odile, don’t you dare scowl. Of course, Papa wants to get to know these men.… Not all of them work at his precinct. One might be a perfect suitor for you.”
Another lunch with an unsuspecting policeman. It was awkward when a man showed an interest in me, mortifying when he showed none.
“And change into your blouse! I can’t believe you wore that faded smock to church. What will people think?” she said before rushing to the kitchen to check on the roast.
In the foyer, at t
he mirror with the chipped gilding, I re-braided my auburn hair; Rémy ran a dab of barber cream through his unruly curls. In French families, Sunday lunch was a ritual every bit as sacred as Mass, and Maman insisted that we look our best.
“How would Dewey classify this lunch?” Rémy asked.
“That’s easy—841. A Season in Hell.”
He laughed.
“How many underlings has Papa invited so far?”
“Fourteen,” he said. “I bet they’re afraid to tell him no.”
“Why don’t you have to go through this torture?”
“Because no one cares when men get married.” With an impish grin, he snatched my scarf and pulled the scratchy wool over his head, knotting it under his chin the way our mother did. “Ma fille, women have a short shelf life.”
I giggled. He always knew how to cheer me up.
“The way you’re going,” he continued in Maman’s shrill manner, “you’ll be on the shelf forever!”
“A library shelf, if I get the job.”
“When you get the job.”
“I’m not sure…”
Rémy slipped off the scarf. “You have a library degree, you speak English fluently, and you got high marks at your internship. I have faith in you; have faith in yourself.”
A knock at the door. We opened it to find a blond policeman in a peacoat. I braced myself—last week’s protégé had greeted me by rubbing his greasy jowls against my face.
“I’m Paul,” this one said. He barely touched his cheeks to mine.
“Pleasure to meet you both,” he said as he shook Rémy’s hand. “I’ve heard good things about you.”
He seemed sincere, but I had trouble believing Papa had said anything remotely positive about either of us. All we heard about were Rémy’s dismal grades (Yet he was best debater in his law class!) and my lackluster housekeeping (“How can you sleep on a bed that has books all over it?”).
“I’ve looked forward to today all week,” the protégé told Maman.
“A home-cooked meal will do you good,” she said. “We’re glad you’re here.”
Papa thrust his guest into the armchair near the fireplace, then served the aperitif (vermouth for the men, sherry for the women). While Maman flitted from the seat near her beloved ferns to the kitchen, making sure the maid carried out her instructions, Papa presided from his Louis XV–style chair, his broom-shaped mustache sweeping assertions from his mouth. “Who needs these chômeurs intellectuels? I say let the ‘intellectual unemployed’ compose their prose while working in the mines. What other country distinguishes between smart loafers and dim ones? My tax money at work!” Each Sunday, the suitor changed; Papa’s long-winded lecture never did.
Once again, I explained, “No one’s forcing you to support artists and writers. You can choose ordinary postage stamps or those with a small surtax.”
Next to me on the divan, Rémy crossed his arms. I could read his mind: Why do you bother?
“I’ve never heard of that program,” Papa’s protégé said. “When I write home, I’ll ask for those stamps.”
Perhaps this one wasn’t as bad as the rest.
Papa turned to Paul. “Our colleagues are having a hell of a time with the detention camps near the border. All these refugees pouring in—soon there’ll be more Spaniards in France than in Spain.”
“There’s a civil war,” Rémy said. “They need help.”
“They’re helping themselves to our country!”
“What are innocent civilians to do?” Paul asked Papa. “Remain home and be butchered?”
For once, my father didn’t have a reply. I considered our guest. Not the short hair that stuck straight up, nor the blue eyes that matched his uniform, but his strength of character and serene fearlessness in standing up for his beliefs.
“With all the political upheaval,” Rémy said, “one thing’s sure. War is coming.”
“Nonsense!” Papa said. “Millions have been invested in security. With the Maginot Line, France is completely safe.”
I imagined the line as an immense ditch on France’s borders with Italy, Switzerland, and Germany, where armies who tried to attack would be swallowed whole.
“Must we discuss war?” Maman asked. “All this grim talk on a Sunday! Rémy, why don’t you tell us about your classes?”
“My son wants to drop out of law school,” Papa said to Paul. “I have it on good authority that he skips class.”
I racked my mind to find something to say. Paul spoke before I could. Turning to Rémy, he said, “What would you like to do instead?”
It was a question I wished Papa would ask.
“Run for office,” Rémy answered. “Try to change things.”
Papa rolled his eyes.
“Or become a park ranger and escape this corrupt world,” Rémy said.
“You and I keep people and businesses safe,” Papa said to Paul. “He’ll protect pinecones and bear scat.”
“Our forests are as important as the Louvre,” Paul said.
Another answer that brooked no response from Papa. I looked to Rémy, to see what he made of Paul, but he’d turned toward the window and taken himself to a faraway place, as we often did during interminable Sunday lunches. This time, I decided to stay. I wanted to hear what Paul had to say.
“Lunch smells delicious!” I hoped to steer Papa’s attention from Rémy.
“Yes,” Paul added gamely. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months.”
“How will you help your refugees if you quit law school?” Papa continued. “You need to stick to something.”
“The soup must be ready.…” Maman picked nervously at the dried fronds of her ferns.
Wordlessly, Rémy skirted past her to the dining room.
“You don’t want to work,” Papa called out, “but you’re always the first in line to eat!”
He couldn’t stop, not even in front of a guest.
As usual, we ate potato-leek soup.
Paul complimented Maman on the creamy soup, and she murmured something about it being a good recipe. The scrape of Papa’s spoon on the porcelain signaled the end of the first course. Maman’s mouth opened slightly, as if she wanted to tell him to be gentle. But she would never reproach Papa.
The maid brought out the rosemary mashed potatoes and pork roast. I squinted at the mantel clock. Usually, lunch dragged on, but I was surprised to see that it was already 2:00 p.m.
“Are you a student as well?” Paul asked me.
“No, I finished school. And just applied for a job at the American Library.”
A smile touched his lips. “I wouldn’t mind working in a nice, peaceful place like that.”
Papa’s black eyes gleamed with interest. “Paul, if you’re not content in the Eighth District, why not transfer to my precinct? There’s a sergeant’s position for the right man.”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m happy where I am.” Paul’s gaze never left my face. “Extremely happy.”
Suddenly it felt as if it were just the two of us. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give him the pent-up confidences of her heart.
“Girls working,” Papa scoffed. “Couldn’t you have at least applied at a French library?”
Regretfully, I left the tender scene with Paul, and with Dickens. “Papa, the Americans don’t just alphabetize, they use numbers called the Dewey Decimal system—”
“Numbers to classify letters? You can bet some capitalist came up with that idea—they care more about figures than letters! What’s wrong with the way we do things?”
“Miss Reeder says it’s all right to be different.”
“Foreigners! God knows who else you’ll have to deal with!”
“Give people a chance, you might be surprised—”
“You’re the one who’s in for a surprise.” He pointed his fork at m
e. “Working with the public is damn hard. Why, yesterday I was called in because a senator had been arrested for breaking and entering. A little old lady found him passed out on her floor. When the reprobate came to, he didn’t stop shouting obscenities until he started vomiting. Had to hose him down before we could get the story out of him. He’d thought he was at his mistress’s building, but that his key didn’t work, so he crept up the trellis and into the window. Believe me, you don’t want anything to do with people, and don’t get me started on the scum running this country into the ground.”
There he went again, complaining about foreigners, politicians, and uppity women. I groaned, and Rémy tucked his stockinged foot over mine. Comforted by this small touch, I felt the tension in my shoulders soften. We’d invented this secret show of support when we were little. Faced with our father’s wrath—“Twice this week you’ve had to wear the dunce cap at school, Rémy! I should staple the damn thing to your head.”—I’d known better than to console my brother with a kind word. The last time I had, Papa said, “Taking his side? I should thrash you both.”
“They’ll hire an American, not you,” Papa concluded.
I wished I could prove the all-knowing commissaire wrong. I wished he would respect my choices, instead of telling me what I should want.
“A fourth of the Library’s subscribers are Parisian,” I countered. “They need French-speaking staff.”
“What will people think?” Maman fretted. “They’ll say Papa isn’t providing for you.”
“Many girls have jobs these days,” Rémy said.
“Odile doesn’t need to work,” Papa said.
“But she wants to,” I said softly.
“Let’s not argue.” Maman scooped the mousse au chocolat into small crystal bowls. The dessert, rich and dreamy, demanded our attention and allowed us to agree on something—Maman made the best mousse.
At 3:00 p.m., Paul rose. “Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry I must go, but my shift starts soon.”
We followed him to the door. Papa shook his hand and said, “Consider my offer.”
I wanted to thank Paul for standing up for Rémy, and for me, but with Papa there, I remained silent. Paul moved closer, until he was just before me. I held my breath.
The Paris Library Page 3
