The Paris Library

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  Exhausted again tonight, I fell into bed with a book.

  He crossed the floor and seized my arm, and grasped my waist. He seemed to devour me with his flaming glance…

  “Never,” said he, as he ground his teeth, “never was anything at once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand! (and he shook me with the force of his hold.) I could bend her… the savage beautiful creature!

  “Of yourself, you could come with soft flight and nestle against my heart, if you would: seized against your will, you will elude the grasp like an essence—you will vanish ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! Come, Odile, come!”

  “Odile!” Maman banged on the door. “It’s past midnight.”

  Picking up a pen and paper, I wrote:

  Dear Rémy,

  I could read all night, but Maman will pester me until I turn out the light. Today was another hectic day. The Library is as busy as ever—subscribers who left at the end of August are back, and we’re doing our best to get books to you all. Paul comes to take crates to the station. Margaret says he’s there for me, but I’m not sure. I don’t know how he feels. We’ve never said “I love you.” We’re never alone. Perhaps I keep him at arm’s length. It hurts to hope. I worry his feelings for me will disappear.

  I remembered how Papa and Uncle Lionel had both found someone else. I mean, don’t sparks die?

  “Lights out, Odile!”

  1 December 1939

  Dear Odile,

  Thanks for the book! Jane Eyre is as feisty as you. How clever to write your impressions in the margins! Turning each page feels like we’re reading the novel together. Why on earth do you sympathize with Mr. Rochester? He’s a cad! I’m starting to doubt your taste in men.

  Margaret’s right—Paul volunteers to be close to you. It shouldn’t hurt to hope. It should give you thrills, like a plateful of stars set before you, shimmering with possibility.

  I didn’t ask for leave at Christmas. Many soldiers in my squad have children, and I want them to be able to spend the holidays with family. I’ll try to get back to Paris in the spring.

  You didn’t mention Bitsi. There’s something gloomy about her letters. I get the impression she doesn’t spend time with friends, doesn’t ever have a laugh. She goes to work and back home. With her brother mobilized, she’s doubly miserable. It kills me to think she’s unhappy. I don’t want her to be alone. Please take care of her for me.

  Love,

  Rémy

  CHAPTER 16

  Odile

  FOR THE FIRST time, my family greeted the New Year without my twin. We three ate our duck confit in silence. These days, my inner metronome ticked back and forth—I was in tears, I was serene, I was befuddled, I was fine. At the Library, we continued to send packages to our soldiers. Staying busy—wrapping books, aiding subscribers—contained my fears.

  Paul helped haul crates to the station, where they would be shipped on trains. Today, when he saw me, his whole face lit up. My breath caught in my chest. Aware that gossipy Madame Simon was watching (and she was always watching), Paul and I said hello like we did the first time we met, with quick pecks on the cheek.

  From the threshold of the children’s room, Bitsi watched us maneuver a cart toward the door. I pretended not to see her. I’d received Rémy’s last letter two weeks ago, and still hadn’t done as he’d asked.

  At the Library entrance, Miss Reeder took in the scene. “You didn’t greet Bitsi,” she said.

  “I said hello to her this morning.”

  “You used to be friends.”

  “The train will depart soon,” Paul interceded. “We’d better get the books to the station.”

  “We’ll talk when you get back,” Miss Reeder told me pointedly.

  I wasn’t worried. The minute she entered her office, she’d be swept into a whirlpool of demands from subscribers and trustees, and she’d forget about me.

  Paul pushed the cart along the pavement. “Did you notice that Boris uses his gas mask as a lunch box? Maybe it’s a sign that despite the war, life has gone back to normal.”

  “The true sign is that he’s back to writing ‘The Passion of Boris.’ ”

  “What’s that?”

  “The history of the Library. Funny stories and statistics. He could dedicate an entire chapter to various ways people ask for The Grapes of Wrath: Grapes of Rats by Steinbaum, Grapes of Gravity, Grapevine Wrath, Vines of Grapes, Gabe’s Wrath, not to mention The Rapes of Wrath.”

  Paul chuckled. “I don’t know how he keeps a straight face.”

  In front of the station, I tripped on the curb. Paul put his hands on my hips to steady me, and I forgot about the books. All I saw was him. All I wanted was him. I longed to say I love you, but was scared. Scared he didn’t feel the same.

  He stroked my back. “Ça va?”

  “Oui.”

  “Je t’aime,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too.”

  I expected a roar of thunder or a solar eclipse, some magic to mark the moment. Instead, an old man knocked into us and shouted, “Watch where you’re going!”

  Paul and I laughed—the absurdity of the situation, the relief of finally saying what we felt. “Well,” I said.

  “Well,” he said.

  We continued into the station.

  After dropping off the books, we meandered back to the Library. Like the scent of baking bread, love was in the air. I noticed the heart-shaped ironwork of the balconies. A ballad playing on a distant radio. Cafés with tables for two. Paul—my love—kissed me at the entrance of the courtyard. Dreamily, I strolled up the pebbled path.

  At the circulation desk, Miss Reeder sat alone. The set of her mouth was sad.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. “Where’s Boris?”

  “I told him I needed to speak with you.”

  “Me?”

  “Petty quarrels are bad for staff morale, and subscribers deserve better.”

  I was in trouble because of Bitsi? “She started it!”

  “The American Hospital needs volunteers,” she said. “I want you to go there.”

  I want you to go.

  “But we have so much work here,” I argued.

  “True.”

  “I haven’t said a word to Bitsi!”

  “That’s the problem. You haven’t said a word.” Her eyes didn’t move from mine as she searched for wisdom that wasn’t yet there. “You need to grow up. A week of hospital work will put things into perspective.”

  “When do you want me to go?”

  “Now, please. You’ll receive your pay as usual. At the hospital, report to Nurse Letson. She’s expecting you.”

  I felt small, a fleck of dust Miss Reeder had wiped off a shelf. Too stunned to speak, I nodded to her and passed under the drooping French and American flags, into the courtyard, along the border of wilting pansies, to the street. At metro Monceau, I trudged down the jagged stairs, where I ran into Margaret. When I told her I’d been banished, her head tilted in sympathy. “You respect Miss Reeder so much,” she said. “Is it possible she has a point?”

  “Why does everyone think she has all the answers?”

  “If you could talk to Bitsi,” Margaret continued. “Isn’t it what Rémy would want?”

  What about what I wanted? Why couldn’t Miss Reeder see she was being unfair? I didn’t deserve to be banned like Jean Moreau, who blew his nose in books he didn’t approve of. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “I should go.”

  In the chic suburb of Neuilly, under the bare chestnut trees on Boulevard Victor Hugo, I opened the hospital’s iron gate and hurried up the path. A nurse in a white cap and apron gave volunteers a first-aid lesson before giving us a tour. “If we were like the French,” she said, “we’d have plaques all over the place. ‘Josephine Baker sang in this exact spot.’ ‘Here’s where Hemingway started writing The Sun Also Rises after we removed his appendix.’ ”

  She introduced Dr. Jackson, who expla
ined, “Things are calm in the combat zone, but we must be ready.”

  Paper had been pasted on the windows, but he decided it wasn’t enough to hide the light. In charge of the fourth floor, I smothered the panes with blue paint, getting more on my dress than on the glass. Though I missed my habitués and being surrounded by books, I threw myself into the task, trying to forget the hole in my heart, the one I’d dug myself.

  The ward, made up of 150 beds, housed a dozen soldiers who’d been injured by shelling along the Maginot Line. They were in pain. They had no privacy. No family or friends were able to visit. Their spirits were flagging. I made sure the soldiers had books and magazines on their nightstands. Reading offered escape, something else to think about, a privacy of the mind.

  A curly-haired Breton quickly became my favorite because he was cheeky like Rémy. While I cleared away the lunch trays, he asked, “Will you read to me, mademoiselle?”

  “Do you have a favorite author?”

  “Zane Grey. I like cowboy stories.”

  Grabbing the dog-eared copy of Névada from the library in the corner, I sat beside him and began to read. Finishing the first chapter, I asked, “What do you think?”

  He grinned. “I think I could have read it myself—my leg’s busted, not my brain. But your voice is so pretty, you’re so pretty…”

  “Scamp!” I reached over to muss his hair, like I would my brother’s. Hand midair, I stiffened. What if something happened to Rémy and he ended up in a hospital, injured or worse? He’d asked one thing. I needed to make things right with Bitsi.

  I wished I could have blamed my rudeness to her on the war, but the truth was that I was immature. If I wanted to have a better relationship with my brother and Bitsi, I needed to change. I wanted to. But would I be able?

  “Are you all right, mademoiselle?”

  “Better than you,” I teased. “My leg’s in one piece.”

  After my shift, I rushed to the Library, where I breathed in the heavenly smell of books. I found Bitsi shelving children’s stories.

  “Let’s take tea.”

  Her violet eyes brimmed with hope. “What about work?”

  “Miss Reeder won’t mind.”

  “I miss him,” Bitsi whispered.

  I slipped my foot over hers, like I would have Rémy’s.

  CHAPTER 17

  Odile

  PARIS, MAY 1940

  IN THE COURTYARD, the roses were in bloom, and the sweet scent wafted into the Library. Despite the balmy days, everyone was touchy—worrying about loved ones far from home, about war communiqués that reported on deadly battles in Finland, about the likelihood that France might be next. Mr. Pryce-Jones told M. de Nerciat to “sod off.” Boris complimented Professor Cohen on her new briefcase, but Mme. Simon muttered, “When I see what you people have while good Frenchmen like my son work for a pittance…” At least Bitsi and I were getting along.

  Deep in thought, I didn’t hear the whisper of her ballet slippers until she was beside me. “Miss Reeder wants a word. Staff meeting.”

  Bitsi and the caretaker were the last to arrive; she moved to my side.

  At her desk, Miss Reeder cleared her throat. “I have news. German troops penetrated Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. They’ve bombed the north and east of France.”

  The North. Rémy was in the North. Please let him be all right. I sought Bitsi’s hand and held it in mine.

  Miss Reeder said we must be prepared for bombardment and even warfare. There was simply no way to know. Parisian staff should leave the city; foreign staff, the country.

  “Return home?” Helen-in-reference asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Miss Reeder replied.

  “Are you leaving?” Boris asked.

  “Please don’t go,” Bitsi mumbled to herself.

  “No,” the Directress said. “The Library will remain open.”

  Thank goodness. Bitsi squeezed my hand. We were scared, but at least we still had the Library.

  “That will be all.” This phrase, used to signal the end of meetings, scattered us like billiard balls—to share the news, to have a cry in the cloakroom. Dazed, I stumbled to the periodical room, where Paul paced near the magazine rack.

  “I just heard,” he said. “You must be worried sick about Rémy.”

  He opened his arms, and I slid into his embrace.

  * * *

  A WEEK LATER, MISS Reeder approached, her brow creased with concern. “The American Hospital is overwhelmed,” she told me. “Why don’t you lend a hand for a few days? It’s a long shot, but you might encounter someone who knows your brother or his regiment.”

  “What about the Library?”

  “Books will outlast us all. Go find out what you can.”

  Nurses rushed from one operating theater to another, starched caps askew, aprons drenched in blood. Soldiers in soiled bandages slumped on chairs in the corridors. Volunteers washed the men’s faces and feet. I filled a basin with warm water and knelt before a serviceman, and another, then another. Each time I cleaned the blood from the face of a dark-haired soldier, I hoped Rémy’s intelligent eyes would be revealed. Countless faces later, I rose to stretch, to see if I could be of assistance in the ward, where the wounded lay on narrow beds. I didn’t know whether to be relieved because Rémy wasn’t here among the injured or scared that he was out there fighting.

  At dawn, I fell onto a cot in the staff room only to wake two hours later to serve breakfast. In their pajamas, French and English soldiers were stripped of uniforms, rank, and nationality. Social order was based on the severity of injuries. This was how I gauged the wounds: if a man flirted, he was feeling better; if he stayed silent, he was hurting.

  On a gurney, straight out of surgery, one moaned. I moved closer, smoothing his creased brow with my handkerchief, which Maman had dipped in lavender water.

  “You,” he said.

  “Me,” I replied.

  “You washed my face. Your touch was tender…” He dozed off, then startled awake. “I love you.”

  “With everything they pumped into you,” I replied, “you’d love a goat.”

  In the ward the next evening, I helped him write a letter home to America. He’d crossed into Canada and signed up with the Royal Air Force. “I was never one to sit on the bench,” he said. He gestured to my hands, raw from washing the wounded. “You aren’t, either.”

  “I’m used to patching up books, not people.”

  “Books?”

  “I’m a librarian.”

  “Do you shush people?”

  I gave his arm a playful poke. “Only impertinent soldiers.”

  “Wish we were in a library now.”

  “What kind of reader are you?” It was the first time in weeks that I’d asked the question.

  “The Bible. Where I’m from, they’re big on the Bible.”

  “Do you want me to bring you one?”

  “God, no! I mean, no thank you, I’ve already read it.”

  “How about I bring you something to read tomorrow?”

  “I’d like that.”

  He yawned, and an instant later, he fell asleep. It was nearly 9:00 p.m., and I needed to get home before Maman picked apart her ferns in worry. As I walked toward the door, a private named Thomas reached out, his fingers grazing my bloodied dress. He was nineteen. A barber, before. Yesterday, when I’d brought him a copy of Life with Lana Turner on the cover, he refused to open the magazine. “No need to look further,” he insisted.

  “Don’t leave, Mademoiselle Bookworm.” He clutched at my hem.

  I brushed his hair—brown like Rémy’s—from his forehead.

  “Don’t leave,” he whispered again.

  Maman would have to wait. I tucked the blanket underneath his chin.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “Anything.”

  “I wish you could meet my habitués at the Library. There’s an Englishman—imagine a crane wearing a paisl
ey bow tie. And his French friend—a walrus with a bushy mustache. Each day, they light a stinky cheroot and debate. Today’s topic: Proust’s madeleine, should it have been a croissant? Yesterday’s: Who’s the greatest athlete with a J in his name? Johnny Weissmuller or Jesse Owens.”

  I was rewarded with a small smile. “They’re both wrong—it’s the rower Jack Beresford. I want to hear more.”

  “There’s Madame Simon, with hand-me-down dentures that don’t fit her big mouth. Oh là là, she loves to gossip.”

  “Like the women at my church. More.”

  “The latest chin-wag is about my favorite subscriber, a professor with a mysterious past. ‘She married a man half her age,’ Madame Simon began, but our cataloger, stern Mrs. Turnbull with crooked blue-gray bangs, interrupted, ‘No, he was twice her age.’ Well, they were both right—the professor’s first husband was twice her age, and the second half her age. Then they speculated about the third.”

  “The third?” he said. “What a life.”

  I glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven.

  “Don’t go,” he said.

  His voice had become hoarse, so I lifted his head and gave him a sip of water. “You’ll never be alone,” I promised. “Shall I tell you more? You’d recognize the professor from a distance because she always wears purple. She talks about books like they’re her best friends…”

  “I want to meet her.”

  Through the night, I stayed, telling tales, calming his fevered dreams, holding his hand until he died.

  CHAPTER 18

  Odile

  PARIS, JUNE 3, 1940

  I WAS BLOCKS FROM the Library, fetching books for my soldiers at the hospital, when the city went still. No pigeons warbling, no Parisians chatting. Just a loud whirr. I looked up and saw planes, dozens and dozens of them. My heart boomed in the hollow of my clavicle. In the distance, I heard the crash of shattering glass as bombs exploded. An alarm screeched its way through the streets. People ran around me, they ran into me. I tasted smoke and knew I should run for cover. Frozen on the sidewalk, I felt numb as I gaped at the raiders in the clear blue sky. All I could think of was Rémy. Where was he? Were these the smells and sounds that he faced?