Remaining had been the right choice. If her parents had taught her one thing, it was to stand her ground, whether dealing with a malicious schoolmate or the domineering cataloger at the Library of Congress. You’re nothing without principles. Nowhere without ideals. No one without courage. Even as they begged her to come home, they were proud she stayed. Dear Mom & Dad, she wrote. There are many things I should like to say to you, many thoughts I should like to send, but alas, I shall have to depend upon your heart and understanding to know all that I carry inside…
Le Bristol. Her parents would be reassured that she was staying with compatriots. The hotel had a long list of esteemed guests: movie stars, heiresses, lords, ladies, and now a librarian. After work, she walked home to 1 rue de la Chaise to collect her things. As she unlocked the door, Mme. Palewski rushed to her. The concierge’s olive skin was chalky.
“What’s happened?” Miss Reeder asked.
“My husband was at the Polish Library. They came.” Madame began to weep. “They stomped in. Demanded the keys. Went through the entire building. The archives, the rare manuscripts. The director, he tried to stop them. Soldiers threatened to take him away.”
“Is your husband all right?”
“Yes. But they stole everything…”
The Nazis had been in Paris for three days, and it was starting. Miss Reeder had hoped that churches and libraries—quiet places of devotion—would not be disturbed.
She realized that soon she would face the enemy.
CHAPTER 20
Odile
2 July 1940
Dear Rémy,
Where are you? We long to see you, to have news from you. All is well with us. After keeping me home for ten long days, Papa finally allowed me to return to work. I was worried sick about the Directress, alone at the Library, but she insists she got “quite a kick” out of being the sole guardian. It felt terribly lonely without the others, who only just returned. When I laid eyes on Bitsi, I screamed with joy; M. de Nerciat took great pleasure in shushing a librarian. But the good news was followed with bad—Boris explained that the Nazis had arrived in Angoulême, too. Stern Mrs. Turnbull is traveling back to Winnipeg directly from there. Canadian and thus a British subject, she’s considered an enemy alien.
Here, Nazis are buying up everything from soap to sewing needles. We call them “tourists” because they take photos of monuments as if they’re on holiday. When they ask for directions—Where is the Arc de Triomphe? Where is the Moulin Rouge?—we tell them we don’t know. With the 9:00 p.m. curfew, the city is silent in the evening. We’ve been forced to move our clocks an hour ahead to their time zone. Every time I check my watch, it’s a reminder that we live on their time, on their terms.
No one can believe that France has lost and so quickly. At the pulpit, the priest shook his Bible at us and bellowed that defeat is God’s punishment for our lack of moral values.
Papa said that a few people were arrested for writing graffiti or throwing rocks at German soldiers, but other than that, the situation’s calm. Paul looks angry enough to kill someone. He says his job now consists of directing traffic for the Nazis. They ordered him to wear white gloves, which make him feel like “a goddamn butler.” Soon he’ll help with harvest on his aunt’s farm. The change will do him good.
It must be hell for you to not be able to hold Bitsi in your arms. She misses you terribly. I swear that while you’re gone, I’ll take the best, sweetest care of her.
We haven’t had news from Margaret and hope she’s safe. The few subscribers who remain are checking out more novels than ever before, perhaps as a way to escape this unsettling metamorphosis—Boris calls it “France Kafka.”
Love,
Odile
“English Fleet scuttles two French battleships—Over 1000 French Sailors Killed,” read the headline. According to the Herald, across the Mediterranean in Oran, the English feared that the French navy would allow the Nazis to confiscate their ships. The English admiral gave the French an ultimatum—surrender your vessels or we’ll sink them—and six hours to relinquish the ships. When l’admiral refused, the English attacked. I read the article twice, but still didn’t understand. Allies were fighting each other?
“Traitor!” Monsieur de Nerciat shouted at Mr. Pryce-Jones. I didn’t need to read the newspaper to know that France had cut diplomatic ties with England. For days, I watched Monsieur stomp through the Library, muttering about finding a seat that hadn’t been tainted by betrayal.
I felt Boris beside me. “Phone call,” he said, his green eyes mournful. “Your father.”
I ran to the circulation desk and grabbed the receiver. “Papa? Is it Rémy?”
“Come home, dearest,” he said.
I fetched Bitsi, who was reading to a handful of children. One look at me, and she dropped her book. Rushing out of the Library, I grabbed her hand and tugged her along. We raced down the street, raced toward… I stopped. “What is it?” she asked. I shook my head. Suddenly I wanted to take as long as possible, afraid that Rémy was… I couldn’t say it, I couldn’t even think it. Right now, he was alive. Perhaps when we got home, he wouldn’t be.
Our life together played out before me. Our fifth birthday, when Maman had baked the chocolate cake with burnt edges. The day Papa took us to ride ponies in the Bois. The time Rémy and I filled the sugar bowl with salt, which caused Maman and her friends to choke on their tea. When she complained to Papa, expecting him to scold, he doubled over with a big belly laugh I wasn’t sure I’d heard since. Maman, no fool, only used sugar cubes after that. Endless Sunday lunches where a wink from Rémy was the only thing that kept me sane. The most important meal of my life, when I met Paul. Every memory included Rémy.
Until he’d joined the army, he was the first person I spoke to in the morning, the last at night. My best friend, my other half. Not that I’d ever told him. What if we’d spoken our last words to each other? I remembered the day he’d left home. What had I said? Take your sweater, you’ll catch cold? Hurry up, you’ll miss the train?
“Stop it,” Bitsi said.
“What?”
“Whatever you’re doing.”
At home, Papa sat Bitsi and me down next to Maman, who was as pale as an aspirin. He braced himself against the hearth.
“We’ve received news of Rémy,” he said.
CHAPTER 21
Lily
FROID, MONTANA, APRIL 1985
DAD AND I got to the church at three thirty. Dipping my fingers into the rancid holy water, I noticed the swarm of pink roses that adorned the pews. There were almost as many flowers for the wedding as there were for Mom’s funeral, a little over a year ago now. I had a headache. I wished I could crawl into bed and pull memories of Mom over me like a comforter.
Eleanor’s mother rushed over. “Ready for the big day?” she asked Dad. She hugged me. My nose landed in her carnation corsage and I sneezed. She said, “Call me Grandma Pearl,” and led me into the back room, where she introduced me to three giggly bridesmaids, who, like “Grandma Pearl,” had come from Lewistown. My dress was the same Pepto-Bismol pink as theirs. Eleanor preened at the full-length mirror, a lace veil obscuring her face and chignon.
“You’re pretty as Lady Di,” I said. It was the honest-to-God truth—they both had those doe eyes.
I wanted to like her. I wanted her to like me. Yet when she pulled me to her sequined bosom and held me tight, my arms flailed, not ready to hug her.
“Hon,” she said, “I promise to look after you like my own.”
It was nice as far as promises went, and I knew how to respond. After my lesson on les adjectifs, Odile had said, I’ll teach you words in English. Words you’ll be expected to say. “I hope you and Dad will be happy,” I told Eleanor. Though I’d practiced, the sentence sounded stilted.
In French, there are two forms of “you,” the informal and formal. Tu for friends and loved ones, vous for acquaintances and people we want to keep at a distance. I would use tu with Dad
, but vous with Eleanor.
The organ boomed out Pachelbel, and we scurried to the back of the church. Mrs. Olson—the only organist in town—waited for no bride; weddings followed her schedule. Slipping down the aisle, I spotted Robby in the fourth row from the back. He watched me. Just me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my dress and slid between Odile and Mary Louise in the first pew. In neat pairs, the bridesmaids and groomsmen followed. The overbearing notes of “Here Comes the Bride” filled the church. Dad stood in the exact spot where Mom’s coffin had been. Her ivory casket had been carried up the same aisle that Eleanor and her father were walking down now.
“Dearly beloved,” Iron-Collar Maloney began, and tears filled my eyes. Scared that Dad would be upset if he saw, I hunched down and stared at the kneeler. Odile placed her foot on mine. The pressure gave me something to focus on.
“Married and Brenda barely dead,” Sue Bob said.
“And James taking up with someone so young,” Mrs. Ivers said, though she’d been the one to set them up.
“He’s doing this for Lily,” old Mrs. Murdoch said. “That girl needs a mother.”
Whisper, whisper, whisper. I tried not to listen.
“You may now kiss the bride,” is usually the best part, because it’s romantic and close to the end, but watching Dad kiss another lady felt weird. Mary Louise elbowed me, like she couldn’t believe it, either.
In the hall, pastel streamers floated between the fluorescent lights. “All this pink makes me want to barf,” Mary Louise said. Slouching on the metal folding chairs, we watched the bride and groom glide along, greeting guests. It was only a matter of time before they had a kid so they could replace me like they’d replaced Mom.
The cake, nearly as tall as Eleanor, echoed the frothy form of her Cool Whip dress. She and Dad cut the cake, his hand over hers on the silver knife. They tucked crumbs into each other’s mouths. Cameras flashed. Dad gestured for me to come get a slice. Of course, Tiffany Ivers got there first.
“At least the cake’s good,” she said.
“Shut up.” I grabbed two plates, one for Mary Louise, one for me.
“Just trying to be nice.” She turned to Dad. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobsen.”
He’d seen the exchange and probably wondered why his daughter couldn’t be as sweet as Tiffany Ivers. The plates in my hands trembled. Before Dad could scold, I rushed off, weaving between wedding guests.
Robby appeared before me. “Sucks, huh?”
I heard so much in those words. I’m sorry your mom died. Today must be hard for you.
“Yeah.”
He carried my plates back to Mary Louise, lingering at the table for a minute before heading back to his parents. She ate my cake and hers. When the DJ put on a slow song, I stared at the blinking exit sign above the door, not willing to watch Mr. and Mrs. Jacobsen smoosh up against each other. Dad tapped me on the arm. “Father-daughter dance, Lil.” He led me to the dance floor, where Mr. Carlson gently spun Eleanor around. We were supposed to dance, but just stood there. “In church,” Dad said, “I saw you with your head down.”
I tensed.
“I’m a little sad, too,” he admitted.
He took my hand. We swayed slowly, together, and for the rest of the reception, his confession stayed in my ears.
Dad and Eleanor drove off in our station wagon, decorated with a “Just Married” sign. Relieved the ordeal was over, I trudged home with Mary Louise. In my room, I changed into my eagle T-shirt. She kicked the pink dress under the bed.
* * *
CHEZ ODILE, I awoke to the aroma of buttery croissants. Feeling out of sorts, I didn’t eat much. I couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like when Dad and Eleanor got back from their lune de miel, moon of honey. Things would change, and I worried there wouldn’t be room for me.
“You seem pensive.” Odile handed me The Outsiders. “It’s about family, the one you’re born with, and the one you create with kindred souls. It’s about how we make a place for ourselves in this world.”
“Your books are lucky,” I said, eyeing her shelves. “They have an exact place they should be. They know who they’re next to. I wish I had a Dewey Decimal number.”
“I used to wonder what my number would be if I had one. We could create our own.”
This spurred a conversation. Should we be in literature or nonfiction? Should Odile’s number be French or American, and was there a French-American number? Could we share the same number so we’d always be together? We added 813 (American), 840 (French), and 302.34 (friendship), and created our shelf of 1955.34-worthy books. Some favorites were Le Petit Prince, Little Women, The Secret Garden, Candide, The Long Winter, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Their Eyes Were Watching God. When we finished, I felt like no matter what happened, I’d always have a place with Odile.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Mary Louise and I lounged on Odile’s couch and drank café au lait that was mostly lait while she hoed her garden. When we finished, I peeked into the drawers of her buffet.
“Do you still think she was a spy?” Mary Louise asked.
I shrugged. From the bills, I learned her clothes came from a boutique in Chicago. Not exactly a discovery—I knew they weren’t from Jeans ’n Things. In a faded Christmas card, someone named Lucienne urged Odile to contact her parents before it was “too late.”
“She’s right outside,” Mary Louise hissed. “You’re gonna get caught.”
“Something happened in Paris. There’s a reason she stayed here.”
When the sliding door opened, I slammed the drawer shut.
* * *
WHEN THE HONEYMOON was over, Dad came to get me at Odile’s, just as she and I finished my quiz on les verbes. She invited him in but he declined. We lingered on the porch, the spring sun warming us. I worried about what he was going to say. Numbers came easy to Dad. They always added up. Words were trickier. He never understood their weight.
“Thanks for taking care of Lily,” he said.
“My pleasure.” Odile beamed at me.
“Now that Ellie’s here, you can step back,” he said.
“Step back?” she repeated.
“Lily should spend more time at home.”
No way was I giving Odile up. She was on my side, no matter what. I could tell her anything. Dad bossed me around, but Odile never did. She trusted me to make the right choices.
I’d wash her car, mow her lawn, water her ferns—anything to keep taking lessons with her. Before I could tell her so, she said in French, “Same time tomorrow.”
“Oui, merci,” I said, my thanks gushing out gratefully.
* * *
ELEANOR QUIT HER job and Dad’s life went back to normal. After a long day at the bank, he came home to a wife, a daughter, and a hot dinner. On Saturday mornings, Eleanor made me vacuum and run a rag with lemon Pledge over every surface. “A young woman needs to learn these things. You’ll thank me later.” When I complained, Dad said I needed to “listen” to Eleanor. By that he meant “obey.”
Even when school let out for the summer, she got up early and sculpted her curls with mousse. Before Dad left for work, she straightened his tie ten times. Mom had never ironed my shirts, but Eleanor did. “No one’ll ever be able to say that I didn’t take care of you.” At dinner, when I spilled creamed corn on the tablecloth, she darted to the sink and returned with a rag to wipe up the blob.
I wanted a vacation from her, and couldn’t wait to start high school. I hoped that Robby would finally fall in love with me, that Tiffany would move away (or better yet, come down with a case of choléra). At night, in my room, I revised the day’s French leçon, then said what I was too timide to say in English: je t’aime, Robby, je t’adore.
On the first day of class, I slipped on my eagle T-shirt. Though it was two sizes too small and the decal had mostly peeled off, wearing it made me think of Mom.
In the kitchen, Dad jangled the car keys. “Ready to go?”
“We bou
ght you a new outfit,” Eleanor huffed. “Will you please go put it on?”
I crossed my arms. “No.”
We looked to Dad, the unwilling referee.
“I can hear them! ‘And that waif, Lily,’ ” Eleanor mimicked, “ ‘wearing high-water pants and a ratty T-shirt. What would her dear mother say?’ ”
“Folks talk, doesn’t mean we have to listen.” Dad pointed to his watch. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be late.”
“Fine,” she said.
It was no real victory.
In homeroom, I sat in the front row, Mary Louise behind me. Robby slid into the seat across the aisle from me. When I said, “Bonjour,” he glanced around, like he thought I was talking to someone else.
“Maybe stick to English,” Mary Louise advised.
“Hush,” Miss Boyd snapped, “or I’ll assign extra homework for everyone!”
Bref, le lycée was the same disappointment played out in front of other teachers in a bigger building, and at home, Eleanor greeted me with a new list of chores. “I’m not the one who promised to love, humor, and obey,” I muttered, barely swishing the mop over the linoleum.
Sometimes I dreamed of Mom. Of the way we watched geese soar. The way we sang “Jingle Bells” at the top of our lungs. The way we baked cookies. When my alarm went off, Mom went away. Grief hit so hard, I curled up in a ball.
“Get up, lazybones!” Eleanor banged on my door. “You’ll be late for school.”
“I don’t feel good,” I whimpered.
“You sound fine to me.”
Still, at Thanksgiving, Eleanor thought to include Odile, who made the dry turkey easier to swallow. When she confided that she’d spent the holidays alone since her husband died, Dad patted Eleanor’s hand, and we could see that he was proud of her. As I moved chunks of chalky pumpkin pie around my plate, Eleanor asked Odile to take a photo for a Christmas card. My fork stilled. Dad and Eleanor rose, ready to have their pictures taken, but my heart burned at the thought of Mom being scratched off the family map.
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