CHAPTER 5
Odile
PARIS, MARCH 1939
MADEMOISELLE REEDER RANG,” Maman told me as Rémy and I walked in the door. “She wants to see you.”
Turning to Rémy, I saw my whirl of hope and relief reflected in his eyes.
“Are you certain taking a job is a good idea?” Maman asked me.
“Certain.” I hugged her.
Rémy gave me his green satchel. “For luck. And for the books you’ll be bringing home.”
Rushing to the Library before Miss Reeder could change her mind, I sprinted through the courtyard and up the spiral stairs, then slid to a stop at the threshold of her office, where she sat reviewing documents, silver pen in hand. Eyes tired, lipstick long gone, she looked peaked. It was after 7:00 p.m. She gestured for me to be seated.
“I’m finalizing the budget.” As a private institution, she explained the Library did not receive government funds—it relied on trustees and donors for everything, from buying books to paying for heat.
“But you won’t need to worry about that.” She closed the folder. “Professor Cohen speaks highly of you, and I’m impressed with you. Let’s talk about the job. The fact is, we’ve hired candidates who haven’t been able to continue for one reason or another, so we ask employees to sign a two-year contract.”
“Why didn’t they stay?”
“Some were foreign, France simply too far from home. Others found dealing with the public difficult. As you wrote in your letter, the Library’s a haven; staff works hard to make sure it remains so.”
“I believe I can handle it.”
“The salary’s modest. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.”
“One last thing. Staff takes turns working weekends.”
No more Mass or suitors? “I want to work Sundays!”
“The position is yours,” she said solemnly.
I jumped up. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Thank you, I won’t let you down!”
She winked mischievously. “No bashing in subscribers’ heads!”
I laughed. “I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”
“You start tomorrow,” she said, and returned to the budget.
I dashed out, hoping to catch Rémy before he left for his political rally, and slammed into him on the sidewalk.
“You came!”
“What’s the verdict?” he asked. “You were in there forever.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Same difference,” he grumbled.
“I got the job!”
“Told you!”
“I thought you’d be at your rally,” I said.
“Some things are more important.”
“You’re the president. They need you.”
He covered my foot with his. “And I need you. Without toi, there’s no moi.”
* * *
AT HOME, I entered the sitting room, where Maman was knitting me a scarf.
“Well?” She set aside her needles.
“I’m a librarian!” I drew her up and waltzed her around the room.
ONE-two-three.
BOOKS-independence-happiness.
“Congratulations, ma fille,” she said. “I’ll bring Papa around, I promise.”
Intending to prepare for work, I went to my room to review my Dewey Decimal notes. Yesterday, in the Luxembourg Gardens, I saw several 598 (birds). Someday, I’ll learn 469 (Portuguese).… Was there a number for love? If I had my very own number, what would it be?
I thought about Aunt Caro—it was she who first introduced me to the Dewey Decimal system. How I’d loved sitting on her lap during Story Hour as a child! Years later, when I was nine, she introduced me to the card catalog, an unusual piece of wooden furniture made of tiny drawers, each with a letter on it.
“Inside, you’ll find the secrets of the universe.” Aunt Caro opened the N drawer to reveal dozens and dozens of stock cards. “Each has information that will open entire worlds. Why don’t you take a peek? I bet you’ll find a treat.”
I peered inside. Flipping through the cards, I came across a candy. “Nougat!”
She taught me how to find the next clue, a call number that would lead us to the section, to the shelf, to the exact book. A treasure hunt!
Aunt Caro had the tiniest waist and the biggest brain. Like Maman’s, her eyes were periwinkle, but while my mother’s had faded like one of Papa’s navy dress shirts, Aunt Caro’s were bright with life. As a reader, she was an omnivore, devouring science, math, history, plays, and poetry. Her bookshelves ran over, so her vanity table was a mixture of pink blush and Dorothy Parker, mascara and Montaigne. Her armoire held Horace and high heels, stockings and Steinbeck. Her love of books and her love for me imbued my being like the amber scent of Shalimar she dabbed behind our ears.
Memories of Aunt Caro reminded me why I needed the job.
* * *
ON MY FIRST DAY, I felt more nervous than I had at the interview. What if I disappointed Miss Reeder? What if someone asked a question I couldn’t answer? If only Aunt Caro were still with us. I’d have told her not to come on my first day, but she would have anyway. Laden with Shelley and Blake, she would have winked at me, and my nervousness would have melted away as I remembered what she’d said—the answers were here, one simply had to seek.
“Introductions,” the Directress said briskly, and presented Boris Netchaeff, the urbane Franco-Russian head librarian, impeccable as always in his blue suit and tie. At the circulation desk, subscribers lined up to pass before him the way they did their parish priest—for communion, for a private word. The glint in his green eyes never dimmed, not even when he listened to subscribers’ long-winded stories. He knew where to procure the finest clothing (“My man at the Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville won’t steer you wrong.”) as well as what to look for when purchasing a horse. Stern Mrs. Turnbull said he was an aristocrat who’d owned a stable of purebreds. Mr. Pryce-Jones said Boris had been in the Russian army. There were as many rumors as books in the Library.
Boris was famous for his bibliotherapy. He knew which books would mend a broken heart, what to read on a summer day, and which novel to choose for an adventurous escape. The first time I’d returned to the Library without Aunt Caro, ten years ago now, the tall stacks seemed to close in on me. The titles embossed on the spines of stories didn’t speak to me like they usually did. I found myself with tears in my eyes, staring at a blur of books.
Looking concerned, Boris drew near. “Your aunt didn’t bring you?” he said. “We haven’t seen her in a while.”
“She won’t be coming back.”
He selected a book from the shelf. “It’s about family, and loss. And how we can have happy moments even when we’re down.”
I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my ship.
Little Women was still one of my favorites.
“Boris started here as a page—a sort of library apprentice—and knows absolutely everything about the ALP,” Miss Reeder said.
He shook my hand. “You’re a subscriber.”
I nodded, pleased to be recognized. Before I could respond, she whisked me to the reading room, where we approached a woman writing near the window. Gray hair framed her face, black glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. Before her, books on Elizabethan England covered the table. Miss Reeder introduced the trustee, Countess Clara de Chambrun. I knew her name. I’d recently finished Playing with Souls, one of her novels. A countess and a real-life writer!
“Researching another book on the bard?” the Directress asked. “Why don’t you use my office?”
“No need for special treatment! I’m a subscriber like anyone else.”
The Countess’s accent was most definitely not French, nor was it British. Did America have countesses? The mystery would have to be solved another day. The Directress steered me toward the periodical room, which was to be my post. On the way, she introduced her secretary Mademoiselle Frikart (
French-Swiss), the bookkeeper Miss Wedd (British), and the shelver Peter Oustinoff (American).
I surveyed the long shelves that held fifteen dailies and three hundred periodicals from America, England, France, Germany, and countries as far away as Japan. When Miss Reeder told me that I’d also be responsible for the bulletin board, the newsletter, and the ALP News column in the Herald, I panicked, thinking there was no possible way I could manage it all.
“You know,” she said, “I started in this section, and look where I am now.”
We enjoyed a moment of complicity as we watched subscribers read, heads bowed, books held reverently in their hands.
Mr. Pryce-Jones approached. He reminded me of a spry crane sporting a paisley bow tie. With him was a subscriber who resembled a walrus with bushy white whiskers. “Hello, gentlemen, please welcome the newest addition to our staff,” Miss Reeder said before returning to her office.
“Thank you for the advice about laying out an argument,” I told Mr. Pryce-Jones.
“Glad you got the job,” he said, his bow tie bobbling. Gesturing to his friend, he added, “This conniving journalist is Geoffrey de Nerciat. He thinks the Library’s copy of the Herald belongs to him.”
“Spreading lies again, old boy?” asked Monsieur de Nerciat. “That’s all you diplomats are good for.”
“I’m Odile Souchet, librarian and referee,” I joked.
“Where’s your whistle?” Mr. Pryce-Jones asked. “With us, you’ll need one.”
“Our shouting matches are legendary,” M. de Nerciat bragged.
“The only person who can bellow louder than us is the Countess.”
“Which we learned when she managed to insert herself between us and insisted we take our differences outside.” The Frenchman gazed at Clara de Chambrun.
“Quite scared me! Thought she was going to take me by the ear.”
M. de Nerciat grinned. “That fine lady can take me anywhere she likes.”
“Doubt her husband would agree to that.”
“And him a general! Better watch my step.”
The duo continued to spar; I put out the dailies and familiarized myself with the magazines. Soon I was lost in the tables of contents, my mind full of history, fashion, and current events.
“Mademoiselle? Odile?”
Deep in the fog of work, I barely heard.
“Excuse me. Mademoiselle?”
I felt a hand on my upper arm. Glancing up, I saw Paul.
He looked dashing in the uniform of les hirondelles, the swallows, policemen who patrolled on bicycle. His navy-blue cape emphasized his broad chest. He must have come directly from work.
Once, when I was reading on a gusty day in the park, the wind took hold of the pages and I lost my spot. Paul made my heart flutter like those pages rushing past.
Then a horrific thought occurred to me: What if Papa had sent him?
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
“I’m not here because of you.”
“Didn’t think you were,” I lied.
“Many tourists ask the police for directions. I need a book to improve my English.”
“Did my father tell you I got the job?”
“I heard him grumbling about uppity women.”
“Following up on a clue,” I said tartly. “He’ll soon make you lead detective. Just what you want.”
“You’ve no idea what I want.” He drew a nosegay from his messenger bag. “These are to wish you well on your first day.”
I should have thanked him by kissing him on each cheek, but I felt shy and buried my nose in the blooms. My favorite flowers, daffodils held the promise of spring.
“Shall I help you find some books?”
“It’ll be good practice to find them on my own.” He held up a library card. “I plan on spending time here.”
Paul strode toward the reference room, leaving me adrift in the aisle. His card had been newly issued. Perhaps he’d come for me.
Over the course of the morning, most subscribers waited patiently as I helped them find periodicals; only one complained. “Why can’t anyone here keep track of the Herald?” he grumbled. Later, I found the newspaper crumpled under Monsieur de Nerciat’s briefcase.
A scuffle brought me out of the periodical room, to the circulation desk, where a red-faced woman waved a book in Boris’s face and shouted that the Library must stop lending “immoral” novels. When he refused to censor the collection, she stormed out.
“Don’t look so shocked,” he told me. “It happens at least once a week. Someone always thinks our job is to protect morals.”
“Out of curiosity, which book was she talking about?”
“Studs Lonigan.”
“I’ll make a note to read it.”
He laughed, and watching him, I couldn’t help but think how odd—and wonderful—it was that we were now colleagues.
“I have something for you,” he said.
“You do?” I hoped he’d selected a novel for me. Instead, he tendered a list of seventy books that I was to gather and wrap for out-of-town subscribers. I consulted my watch. Already 2:00 p.m. I’d been so busy, I’d forgotten lunch. Too late now. From Summer, 813, to Alcools, 841, the treasure hunt took me throughout the three floors of stacks. By 6:00 p.m., my feet ached and so did my head. I’d never felt a fatigue like this, not even during exam week. I’d met twenty people and couldn’t remember a single name. I’d spoken English all day, answering dozens of inquiries—Is it true that Frenchmen eat frog legs, and if so, what do they do with the rest of the frog? May I access the archives? Where’s the restroom? What did you say, girl? Speak up! By the end of my shift, the language deserted me. It was like opening a novel, only to find the pages blank.
Clutching my droopy daffodils, I stepped into the cold night air. Frost covered the pebbles of the path and made them slick. The blisters on my feet throbbed. The walk home seemed as if it would take fifteen years instead of fifteen minutes. Limping along, I noticed that across the way, under the dim light of the lampadaire, a black car chugged. My father got out and opened the passenger door.
“Oh, Papa, merci.” Relieved to slip back into French, I slid onto the seat, sitting for the first time since breakfast.
“Are you hungry?” He presented me with an Honoré pastry box. Opening it, I savored the buttery aroma of the financier before taking a bite. The cake came apart in my mouth; I closed my eyes and chewed slowly.
“Ça va?” he asked. “The first day, and you’re already exhausted. You don’t have one of your headaches, do you?”
“I’m fine, Papa.”
“At your age,” he said, his tone tender, “Maman and I had just survived the war and were mourning the loss of friends and family. You’re only twenty—we want you to enjoy your youth, find a beau, go to dances, not slave away in some book factory.”
“Papa, please, not tonight…” My whole life, my parents’ talk of war had ricocheted around me—tanks and trenches, mustard gas and mutilated soldiers.
“All right, we’ll talk about something else. Now, I know you work Sundays, so I’ve invited a fellow for dinner on Wednesday. This one says he reads!”
CHAPTER 6
Odile
EACH MORNING BEFORE the Library opened, I paid a visit to a different department. Monday, I had an appointment in accounting, where Miss Wedd, the bookkeeper, was known for her keen mind and scrumptious scones. When she leaned over her ledger, I saw three pencils tucked in her brown bun. After she explained the expenditure lines—everything from coal and firewood to books and glue for bindings, I asked if I could interview her. I had an idea for the monthly newsletter Miss Reeder had assigned to me. In addition to the usual scholarly reviews and the list of books that had been checked out the most, I wanted to include something more personal about subscribers and staff.
“What kind of reader are you?” I asked, notepad in hand.
“I liked maths in school. Numbers always made more sense than people. That’s
why my favorite books are by the ancient Greeks: Pythagoras and Heraclitus. We’re still using their work, their ideas.
“I’m not like Boris and Miss Reeder. I’m not good with the public.” She slid a fourth pencil into her hair. “But I hope that in some small way, my contribution here matters. For over a decade, I’ve filled entire books with tales of generous donors and knowledgeable staff who work long hours, only I write vertical columns instead of horizontal lines.”
Interviewing her was like watching a rose bloom: she opened up, the petals of her cheeks pink with passion. “Thank you,” I said, glad I chose her. “Readers will love your answers, and I’m eager to discover Heraclitus.”
I was also enjoying getting to know my colleagues. Tuesday, I spent time with Peter-the-shelver, the only one tall enough to reach the top ledges. By arranging the books on the cart by their call numbers, he shelved ten books in the time I replaced two. He had the fine physique of a boxer, but when matronly Madame Frot’s foghorn of a voice blared through the stacks, “Peter dear, oh, Peter,” he dove into the cloakroom to avoid the amorous subscriber.
Wednesday, I went to the children’s room, where short bookshelves bordered the walls, and tiny tables and chairs were grouped in front of the crackling fire. Though I’d never met the children’s librarian, Muriel Joubert, I felt like I knew her, because the neat script of her signature appeared on each of the cards of the books I checked out. In the last week alone, she beat me to My Ántonia, Belinda, and The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano. Given all she’d read, I’d pictured a white-haired lady. Instead, I found a girl my age observing me with keen violet eyes. Even with the black braid crowning her head, she didn’t measure five feet.
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