The Paris Library

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  Maman lifted her head and stared at me with helpless eyes.

  25 August 1940

  Dear Rémy,

  We miss you and hope you’ll be able to come home. If you’ve written, I’m afraid the letters haven’t yet arrived. Maman and Papa are well. Paul’s away, helping with harvest. I miss him so and can’t imagine how much you must miss Bitsi.

  More and more people are coming to the Library, for community, for respite. Though many subscribers fled (with our books!), we’re at capacity. Miss Reeder refuses to turn anyone away.

  I haven’t heard from Margaret, but Bitsi finally received a card from her brother, so that’s reassuring. She’s well, though she pines for you.

  Will this letter find you? There’s so much I want to tell you.

  Love,

  Odile

  25 August 1940

  Dearest Paul,

  Please thank your aunt for her kind invitation. I’d love to meet her and long to see you, but must stay in Paris in case we hear from Rémy.

  Yesterday, Bitsi received a card from her brother. He, too, is a prisoner of war. I wanted to weep when I heard. As much as I love the Library, sometimes work is unbearable.

  Coming face-to-face with Bitsi is like looking in the mirror—I see my own worry in her puckered brow, my misery in her chalky complexion. It’s twice as hard for her, since both her sweetheart and her brother have been imprisoned. I put a teacup full of posies on her desk. I wish I could do more. I wish I had better news, fewer maudlin thoughts. When will you return?

  All my love,

  your prickly librarian

  25 August 1940

  Dear Margaret,

  I write to you often, but haven’t yet received a letter from you. I hope that you are well. It’s been difficult here. Rémy’s in a Stalag. Maman had a breakdown, and Papa brought in his mistress to care for her. Bet she didn’t realize emptying bedpans would be the kind of favor she’d be granting! Ah, well, every position has its drawbacks. Maman’s recovered enough, but not too much. She likes to be waited on. Or she knows who the “nurse” is and wants to make her suffer. Knowing Maman, a bit of both.

  Nazis have swarmed Paris, and even the national library. At the ALP, we receive requests from prisoners of war, but Nazi authorities won’t allow us to send books to Allied soldiers imprisoned in Germany. It’s heartbreaking.

  Look at me, as dour as Madame Simon. I’ll include some pleasant news. Peter-the-shelver and Helen-in-reference have been spending so much time together—picnicking in the courtyard on their lunch hour, holding hands when they think no one sees—that they have become Helen-and-Peter. They are in love, and it’s lovely to see.

  Come home! The Library’s not the same without you.

  Love,

  Odile

  * * *

  COME SEPTEMBER, Miss Reeder tore off the brown paper that shrouded the windows. When I looked out, I no longer saw the pebbled path or the urn filled with ivy. All I saw were lost letters and faraway friends. I saw Margaret, crunching along the path!

  “Rémy?” was the first word out of her mouth, which made me love her even more. “Have you had more news of him?”

  “Not since that one card.”

  “My dear friend.” She hugged me. “I worried about you and Rémy, about the Library…”

  “Raconte!” we said at the same time. Tell! I want to know everything.

  She recounted the flight from Paris. “The roads were flooded with cars. German pilots fired on civilians, so anytime a plane flew overhead, cars screeched to a stop and people dove into the ditch. We ran out of gas rations and had to walk the last ten miles to Quimper. Christina howled the entire time. How to explain war to a child?”

  Lawrence had wanted to send them back to London, but Margaret refused. “For the first time, I feel important, as if my work, well, my volunteer work, matters.”

  “You are important,” I insisted. “We need you here.”

  “Sincèrement, I’m thrilled to be back to repairing books!”

  “Is Lawrence happy to have returned?”

  Margaret picked at her pearls. “He’s in the Free Zone.”

  France had been slashed in two, with the North under German control and the South governed by the hero of the Great War, Marshal Philippe Pétain.

  “A pity Lawrence is so far away,” I said. “Is he working there?”

  “He’s with a… friend.”

  “How long will he be gone?”

  Margaret searched for words the way I did after a long day spent swerving between French and English. “Oh, who cares about him!” she finally said. “Let me tell you about the trip back. To ensure we had enough petrol, I filled old teapots.”

  “Not leaky ones, I hope!”

  * * *

  A WEEK LATER, when Paul arrived at my door—his hair sun bleached the color of hay, his cheeks ruddy, I simply stared. In bed at night, I’d imagined our reunion many times. Throwing myself at his chest, covering him with kisses. His hands on my bottom, making my body thrum. Yet when he took me in his arms, I remained stiff. Tense for so many months, I couldn’t unwind. “Je t’aime,” he said. Feeling his lips on my temple, my body softened, and I wept. Cradling me, he brought me onto the landing, knowing I didn’t want to worry my parents. I’d put up a good front for them, for Bitsi, for subscribers, but with Paul, I didn’t have to pretend.

  “We’ll get through this together,” he said.

  My sobs subsided and I nuzzled closer. I could stay in Paul’s embrace forever. Well, until Maman joined us. Noting the baskets of potatoes, butter, and cured ham that he’d brought, she told him, “The way to Odile’s heart is through her stomach.”

  “A good provider,” Papa said.

  At the table, in the sitting room, my parents hovered. A few of Maman’s worry lines faded, and Papa laughed for the first time in a month.

  “I’ve missed you,” Paul whispered to me. “I wish we could have five minutes alone.”

  “Let’s meet at your place tomorrow.”

  “Four colleagues have rooms on my floor. If they saw you, your reputation would be ruined.”

  KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST

  15 August 1940

  Dear Maman and Papa,

  All is well. My health is improving. In the barrack, a doctor from Bordeaux has a bunk near mine. He snores, but his presence is reassuring. Thank you for your cards. Could you send a few things? A warm shirt, underwear, handkerchiefs, and a towel. Some thread. Shaving soap and a razor. If it’s not too much trouble, food that conserves well, perhaps some pâté.

  Please don’t worry. We’re treated fairly and have no complaints under the circumstances.

  Your loving son,

  Rémy

  KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST

  15 August 1940

  Dear Odile,

  How are you? And Bitsi and Maman and Papa and Paul? My shoulder is healing. Near Dunkirk, I was hit by enemy fire. Hurt like hell! Of course, when you used to kick me under the table, I complained that hurt like hell, too. Several men in my unit were captured. We felt resentful about our fate until we learned how many had been killed.

  We—French soldiers and some British, too—were marched through what felt like most of Germany with very little food or rest. You know me, I’ve never been athletic. After weeks of walking, many of us were relieved to arrive here and sleep on a bed—even if it’s just wooden planks—instead of the cold, soggy ground.

  Thank you for your letters. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to write before now.

  Love,

  Rémy

  30 September 1940

  Dear Rémy,

  Thank goodness you told us what you need—Maman wanted to send rosaries, so you and the others could “pray properly.” Today, for the first time in ages, she attended Mass. She hadn’t been well, so Papa found a nurse for her.

  At first, I wasn’t sure about having a stranger care for Maman, but then I saw how well they get on. Eugénie wears a cardigan with a
white blouse, an ordinary woman with rounded shoulders and melancholy eyes. Every so often, a wistful smile touches her lips. Kind of like Maman. In the evening before Papa arrives, we three take tea.

  He arrives later and later. His car was requisitioned, so he takes the bus. Unfortunately, few circulate because there is almost no fuel available.

  With you gone, Papa picks on me twice as much. And he’s become overprotective—he doesn’t like me going out, not even to see a matinee. The Nazis have their own cinemas and whorehouses, so surely Bitsi, Margaret, and I are safe. The lights dim, and we express our true feelings—when the newsreels show Hitler, everyone hisses.

  With the “Soldaten” telling us what is “verboten,” German seeps into our skulls. And their soldiers are learning French. A cross-eyed Kommandant attempted to converse with our bookkeeper—remember her, the intrepid scone baker with a love of dead Greek mathematicians? “Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Vous êtes belle,” the officer said, to which Miss Wedd replied, “Heave, ho!” When he didn’t understand, she added, “Auf Wiedersehen!”

  Love,

  Odile

  * * *

  IT WASN’T EASY to keep letters light, especially when the Nazis were all over Paris. At a staff meeting, Boris informed us that they’d seized more than one hundred thousand books from the Russian library near Notre-Dame.

  “More than one hundred thousand books,” Margaret repeated weakly.

  Once, when I was little, Aunt Caro and I had gone there. After Mass at Quasimodo’s cathedral on the island in the river Seine, we crossed over to the Left Bank and meandered down the rue de la Bûcherie to a hôtel particulier. The doors of the mansion were open, so we peered inside. “Welcome, welcome,” we were told. The librarian, who wore reading glasses on a silver chain around her neck, handed me a picture book. Aunt Caro and I marveled at the words, not just in a foreign language, but in a foreign alphabet.

  The walls were covered by bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling—so high that one needed a ladder to reach the highest shelves. Aunt Caro let me climb it all the way to the top. That day, like any day with my aunt, was heaven.

  Now, I imagined those shelves bare. Imagined the librarian with tears in her eyes. Imagined a subscriber coming to return a book, only to learn that it was the only one left.

  “Why are they looting libraries?” Bitsi asked.

  Boris explained that the Nazis wanted to eradicate the cultures of certain countries, in a methodical confiscation of their works of science, literature, and philosophy. He added that the Nazis had also pillaged the personal collections of prominent Jewish families.

  “Jewish subscribers,” I said, “including Professor Cohen.”

  Yesterday in the reading room, at the table in the corner, I’d spied piles of books. Behind them, I could make out white hair and a peacock feather. It was almost as if the professor had created a barricade of library books—works by Chaucer, Milton, and Austen, to name a few.

  The professor didn’t seem to notice when I drew near.

  “Revisiting the classics?” I asked.

  “The Nazis seized my books. They stormed in and shoved my entire collection—my first editions, even my article about Beowulf whose last page was still in the typewriter—into crates.”

  “No…” I wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “I’m so sorry…”

  “I am, too.” She gestured helplessly to the piles. “I wanted to sit with my favorites again.”

  At the staff meeting, Margaret said, “Forty years of research gone.”

  “We know her favorites,” Bitsi said. “I can scour the booksellers to replace some.”

  “What about our other subscribers?” Miss Reeder asked.

  “And the Russian library?” Boris added.

  “What about our Library?” I said.

  “She’s right,” Miss Reeder said. “The Nazis will be here soon enough.”

  * * *

  IN OCTOBER, SCHOOL began, proof that life went on, no matter what. Mothers ironed shirts and made sure their children had notebooks and pencils. Certain foods were becoming scarce, and housewives waited in long lines at butcher shops. Fashion magazines churned out tips on how women should wear their hats (tipped to the back). Margaret and I boxed books to send to internment camps in the French countryside, where Communists, Gypsies, and enemy aliens—civilians whose country happened to be at war with Germany—were imprisoned.

  The Propagandastaffel worked overtime, trying to stir up resentment. Posters plastered on buildings, metro stations, and theater lobbies showed a French sailor flailing in a red sea of blood. Clutching the tattered tricolor, he implored, “Don’t forget Oran!” where the British navy had scuttled our ships. How could we forget? They’d killed more than a thousand French sailors. M. de Nerciat still wouldn’t speak to Mr. Pryce-Jones.

  Refusing to be swayed by Nazi propaganda, Parisians had defaced the posters, covering “Oran” and scribbling other words so the line read, “Don’t forget your bathing suit.”

  At lunchtime today, Paul and I went to Parc Monceau. Rigid with anger, he strode over the sandy pathway, and I had a hard time keeping up.

  “I’ve been ordered to repair the posters,” he said. “It’s worse than directing traffic in those damn white gloves. When people see me mopping up graffiti, they snicker.”

  “That’s not true.” I tucked my arm through his, but his stance didn’t soften.

  “It’s humiliating. Cops used to have weapons. Now we have sponges. I used to keep people safe. Now I erase scribbles.”

  “At least you’re here.”

  “I’d rather be with Rémy.”

  “Don’t say that,” I said.

  “At least he fought. At least he’s still a man.”

  “You’re doing your part.”

  “By keeping their propaganda pristine?” He kicked a twig out of our way. “It’s humiliating.”

  KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST

  20 October 1940

  Dear Odile,

  Thanks for the pâté. Everyone enjoyed it. Though most who receive food from home share, there are a few hoarders. How disappointing that even in such conditions, we can’t pull together.

  Paul sent news clippings and a sketch he did of Story Hour. Bitsi’s holding an open book over her head, like it’s a roof. I can practically hear her tell the children that books are a sanctuary. I was glad to have some news from Paris. Don’t be afraid to tell me what’s going on. I want to know what’s happening there. It takes my mind from what’s happening here. We’re all going stir crazy, wondering how long we’ll be prisoners. One of the fellows has taught me to play bridge. It seems that all we have here is time.

  Love,

  Rémy

  12 November 1940

  Dear Rémy,

  I’m glad you liked the sketch. Paul’s talented, isn’t he? Maman invites him and Bitsi over often. At dinner last week, Papa showed her your baby pictures. With her, he’s not gruff. I wish you could see how she’s won him over. I wish you could come home, period. Yesterday, nearly 2000 lycée and university students protested against the Occupiers. Old men like Marshal Pétain may run the country, but the young people will lead the way.

  Love,

  Odile

  I didn’t tell Rémy that the pâté we’d sent was our family’s meat ration for the week. I didn’t tell him that the demonstration didn’t last long because the authorities broke it up. I didn’t tell him that the Nazis had seized the Czechoslovakian library. I didn’t tell him that the Kommandantur wrote to inform us that in a week’s time, the Bibliotheksschutz would “inspect” our library.

  Miss Reeder, Boris, Bitsi, and I gaped at the diktat.

  “What’s a Bibliotheksschutz?” Bitsi asked.

  “Literally translated, it means ‘Library Protector,’ ” the Directress said.

  “That’s a good thing, right?” I said.

  Miss Reeder shook her head sadly. “It’s quite an ironic term. I imagine they’re going to seize
our collection.”

  “It’s the Book-Gestapo,” Boris explained.

  * * *

  ON THE DAY of the “inspection,” Boris smoked a pack of Gitanes before noon. Miss Reeder threw herself into paperwork, wanting to be sure there could be no technical reason to close the Library. I gathered books to be reshelved. The Great Gatsby, Greenbanks, Their Eyes Were Watching God, these novels were dear friends. Glancing at Margaret, I knew we were thinking the same thing: How can we go on without the Library?

  “Let’s take tea to Miss Reeder,” she said. “We must do something or we’ll go mad!”

  I felt jittery, so Margaret carried the tray. As she placed it on a table near Miss Reeder’s desk, I asked, “How are you?”

  “Sick to my stomach, and shattered to the core,” the Directress replied. “Waiting for his majesty, the Bibliotheksschutz. Praying that somehow we’ll stay open.”

  Margaret poured the chamomile tea. The hot porcelain warmed my clammy hands. I was about to take a sip when I heard heavy heels hit the hardwood floor and echo through the stacks.

  In her chair, the Directress squared her shoulders. Three men in Nazi uniforms entered. No one said anything. Not hello, not bonjour, not guten Tag, not you’re under arrest, not Heil Hitler. Two of them—no older than me—were brawny soldiers. The third was a slim officer wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He carried a leather briefcase.

  The trio sized up items in the office: the papers on the desk; the empty shelves, where rare manuscripts and first editions had been held until they’d been sent into exile, in anticipation of this moment; the Directress, her alabaster skin, her glossy chignon, her pursed lips.

  If Miss Reeder was scared, no one in the room knew it. I’d never seen her sit with such straight posture, never seen her face devoid of warmth. She always rose to welcome visitors, ignoring the gender protocol, which allowed her to remain seated and merely extend her arm to shake hands. But these uninvited guests did not deserve her usual attentions.