The Paris Library

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  The “Library Protector” must have expected a director, not a directress. Staring at her, the Bibliotheksschutz spoke in German, his tone dark, his orders quick. The younger men left, quietly closing the door behind them like parlor maids. When the Directress remained taciturn, he said in flawless French, “What a fine library. I am most impressed, Mademoiselle Reeder. Nothing in Europe can compare with it!”

  Upon hearing her name, she focused her gaze on his face. “Dr. Fuchs? You’re here in Paris? I had no idea.” She clapped her hands together as if happy to see an old friend. “I confess, I remarked the uniform, not the man.”

  “I was assigned this post just last week, and am now in charge of intellectual activity in Holland, Belgium, and French-occupied territory,” he boasted, almost boyishly hoping for her praise. His shiny cheeks and fine sandy hair gave him the appearance of a Sunday-school teacher.

  “You must be missing your library.” Her head tilted in sympathy.

  “Indeed. The Staatsbibliothek can undoubtedly do without me. Whether I am able to do without it is another question.”

  I’d assumed the Nazi would be an illiterate brute. Instead, he worked at the most prestigious library in Berlin. Margaret and I waited for a directive from the Directress, but she and the Bibliotheksschutz were completely absorbed by each other.

  “You are now the Directress?” he continued. “My warmest congratulations.”

  “We’re lucky to have a dedicated staff and volunteers.” She frowned. “Well, we had… Things have changed. Colleagues have had to leave.”

  “It must be difficult on your own.” He jotted down his phone number on a scrap of paper and put it on her desk. “In case you need to contact me.”

  “It’s been ages,” she prevaricated.

  “Since the International Institute of Intellectual Cooperation colloquium,” he murmured. “Simpler times.”

  “If they’d told me the name of the Bibliotheksschutz, I could have saved myself a week of worry. I’ve been perfecting my tirade since we learned of the ‘inspection.’ ”

  “What were you going to say?” he asked, still standing at attention.

  “Stay for tea.” She gestured to a chair.

  Margaret went to get another cup. I knew I should have gone but was too fascinated by this turn of events.

  “I was going to tell the Bibliotheksschutz that a library without members is a cemetery of books,” Miss Reeder said. “Books are like people; without contact, they cease to exist.”

  “Beautifully said,” he replied.

  “I was ready to humbly beg to keep the Library open. How could I have guessed that it would be you?”

  “You must know I would never allow the Library to be closed. However…”

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “You’ll be bound by the rules imposed on the Bibliothèque Nationale. Certain books may no longer circulate.” He pulled a list from his briefcase.

  “Are we required to destroy them?” Miss Reeder asked.

  He looked at her, appalled. “My dear young lady, I said that they must not circulate. What a question between professional librarians! People like us don’t destroy books.”

  Margaret returned with a cup of Earl Grey. The citrusy smell of bergamot infused the room with hope. People like us. A fellow librarian, a kindred spirit. Yes, this war had divided us, but a love of literature would reunite us. We could meet over tea and talk like civilized people. Miss Reeder let out a shaky sigh, perhaps feeling the worst was over. She and the Bibliotheksschutz reminisced about conferences they’d attended and people they knew—oh my, the ALA event in Chicago was so interesting; ah yes, she’s retired now; he transferred to another branch and just isn’t the same.

  With a start, Dr. Fuchs consulted his watch and said he was late for his next appointment. “It was a pleasure to see you,” he told the Directress as he rose. At the door, beaming about a meeting that had gone well, he turned to us. I expected a comment about the collection or a bland farewell. “Of course,” he said, “certain people may no longer enter.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Odile

  DIGGING HER FINGERS into her temple, Miss Reeder murmured, “I must think. There must be a way… Perhaps we can deliver books somehow…”

  Staff filed in, one by one. Bitsi bit her lip. Boris frowned. Miss Wedd had twelve pencils in her bun. I pulled The Dreamers from Miss Reeder’s shelf. I needed something to hold on to. I didn’t have to turn the pages to know what was written: “This book is a map, each chapter a journey. Sometimes the way is dark, sometimes it leads us to the light. I’m afraid of where we’re going.”

  “Well?” Bitsi said. “What did ‘the Library Protector’ say?”

  “We must take forty works from our shelves,” Margaret replied.

  On the list: Ernest Hemingway, who’d written for our newsletter, and William Shirer, who researched articles in our reading room.

  “When you consider their banned-book list includes hundreds of works,” Boris said, “it’s a small price to pay.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Without these books, Paris would lose a part of its soul.

  “We can check them out to subscribers we know well,” Peter-the-shelver said.

  Subscribers we know well… I thought of Professor Cohen, of the students from the Sorbonne, of the little ones who came to Story Hour. Holding the book to my chest, I wondered how we could tell the professor that she was no longer welcome. I wondered how we would face our other Jewish subscribers. I wondered if we would deny children books. Of course, the diktat went deeper than books. The Bibliotheksschutz demanded that we cut subscribers from the fabric of our community.

  * * *

  THE COUNTESS CLARA de Chambrun arrived and settled into the chair that Dr. Fuchs had vacated. She was the only remaining Library trustee still in France—the others had sailed back to the safety of the States. She’d lived in America, Africa, and Europe. A Shakespeare scholar, she held a doctorate from the Sorbonne. I could see vast experience in her shrewd eyes, and hoped that with her help, we’d find a way forward.

  Reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she said, “Now, what did you need to tell me?”

  We turned to the Directress. Usually, she spoke briskly, aware time spent in meetings was time away from tasks. “I… That is…”

  “Go on,” the Countess urged.

  “No Jews are allowed in the Library by Nazi police regulations.” Miss Reeder’s voice was small. She shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe the words had come out of her mouth.

  “You can’t be serious!” Bitsi said. Chin jutting out, she resembled Rémy, raring to fight for those in need.

  “The books of the Alliance israélite universelle were seized,” Boris said, “in a complete and total amputation. The Nazis not only seized the collection of the Ukrainian library, they arrested the librarian. God only knows where he is. If we don’t follow orders, they’ll close the Library and arrest us. At best.”

  We looked to Miss Reeder.

  “ ‘Certain people may no longer enter,’ ” she repeated. “Several are our most loyal subscribers. There must be a way we can keep contact with them.”

  “Think of the story of Mahomet and the mountain!” the Countess replied. “I possess a pair of feet, so do Boris, Peter, and Odile. I am ready and willing to carry books to subscribers, and feel sure that every member of staff will be happy to do the same.”

  “We’ll make sure all readers have books,” Margaret said.

  “There’s danger involved,” Miss Reeder said gravely. She regarded each of us to make sure we understood. “The rules we’ve lived by have changed overnight. Delivering books could be perceived as defying authorities, and we may be arrested.”

  “I arrived in Paris on the eve of war in order to put books into the hands of readers,” Helen said, “and I’m not about to stop now.”

  “I’ll carry the entire contents of the Library to subscribers,” said Peter.

 
“We won’t let readers become isolated,” Miss Wedd insisted. “I’ll take them books. And scones, too, if I can scrape up enough flour.”

  “Delivering books will be our way of resisting,” Bitsi said.

  “We need to do this,” I said.

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Boris said.

  “Then let’s get to work,” Miss Reeder said.

  She and the Countess wrote to Jewish subscribers. Bitsi called those who had a telephone. Seated at Miss Reeder’s desk, the receiver nearly as large as her head, I heard her voice catch. “Until things go back to normal… I’m sorry… Which books may we bring you?”

  Boris prepared requests, tying the books together with twine. He proffered me a bundle for Professor Cohen, and I set off into a very different world.

  I tried to avoid Nazi checkpoints, but a new one had sprung up two blocks away. On a narrow street, Soldaten—always armed, always in packs of five—prodded Parisians through metal barricades in order to verify our papers and search our belongings. As I stood in line, I realized I’d scribbled the professor’s address on a scrap of paper and tucked it in my satchel. Why hadn’t I just memorized where she lived? What if I led the Nazis back to her apartment?

  A soldier demanded that I open my satchel. I just stood there. My breathing became so shallow that I thought that I would pass out. He grabbed my bag and rummaged through the books and papers inside.

  “Nothing interesting here,” the soldier declared in German, “just a handkerchief, her house keys, and some books.”

  At any rate, that’s what I thought he said. The only words I understood were nichts, interessant, and Buch. He eyed my papers, ogling the photo on my carte d’identité, before thrusting the documents at my bosom and growling, “Be on your way!”

  When I rounded the corner, I scoured my satchel for the scrap with the address. Vowing to be more careful, I ripped it up. I didn’t want to endanger readers. After my breathing returned to normal, I started off again.

  I’d always wondered where the professor lived, and imagined her in an airy study that bordered a rose garden. Not that she’d invite me in. This was not a social visit, and given the circumstances, I had no idea what to say. It’s not right? The Library sends its regrets? This is strange business?

  Nothing?

  It was a twenty-minute walk to Professor Cohen’s. Inside the blond Haussmannian building, the staircase curved like an escargot’s shell. I made my way to the second floor, where I heard the rat-a-tap-tap of the typewriter. Afraid to disturb her, I considered leaving the bundle outside the door, but knew Boris wouldn’t like it if books were abandoned. Finally, I knocked. The professor ushered me in with a swish of her shawl. Following her into the sitting room, my gaze moved from the peacock feather in her hair to the skeletal wall of shelves that once held one thousand volumes. The Nazis had plunged a bayonet into the body of the professor’s research.

  “They even stole my diaries—my happy times with loved ones, my moments of despair.”

  They’d confiscated her private thoughts. Hurricanes, 551.552; censored books, 363.31; dangerous animals, 591.65.

  She pointed to a pile of books on the chair. “Friends have stopped by. They know my taste, and little by little, I’ll rebuild my collection, maybe with a novel I’ve written myself. I spoke to an editor about my work in progress, and he seems most keen.”

  Hope, 152.4. I glanced at her typewriter. “What’s your book about?”

  “It’s about us. Well, about us Parisians. Like most, I love people-watching, but sometimes I think we’re too aware of each other. It creates a corrosive jealousy.”

  Before I could respond, she left the room and returned with a tray of tea and cookies. I peeked at my watch—four o’clock. Other subscribers were expecting deliveries, and I didn’t want Boris to be cross. Yet I couldn’t leave after she’d gone to such trouble.

  While the orange pekoe brewed, I nibbled on a Russian cigarette. My tongue seemed to swell as I savored a rare substance—butter. Where on earth had she found it?

  “My nephew’s best friend owns a creamery,” she said.

  I grimaced. “Whoever thought we’d feel obligated to justify having kitchen staples?”

  “And it’s going to get worse.”

  I had trouble imagining how things could get worse. “Miss Reeder promised to stop by tomorrow,” I said, hoping news of the visit would cheer her up.

  “How are things at the Library?”

  I heard the questions she didn’t ask. Will my friends notice I’m gone? Will they miss me?

  The professor’s expression, unguarded, was filled with an immense sorrow. How odd to see this internal landscape—the inside of an apartment, the inside of a life. To enter a subscriber’s home and see things meant to remain private. I didn’t know what to say. Neither did she. In the end, it was the author who found the words. “Thank you for bringing the books. I must get back to my novel.”

  * * *

  NEWS FROM THE outside world rarely reached the Occupied Zone. Though Miss Reeder’s mother had written weekly since 1929, the Directress hadn’t received a letter in six months. No foreign books or periodicals arrived; I imagined them stacked up in a New York warehouse.

  Even with rations, food became hard to find. At the market, Maman queued for an hour to buy three puny leeks. Miss Reeder’s polka-dot dress, once formfitting, now hung on her slight frame. Helen-in-reference still had frizzy hair and dreamy eyes, but she’d lost twelve pounds. Like them, I’d become too thin. I told Dr. Thomas that I hadn’t had my period in months; he said I wasn’t the only one.

  Famished, I moved at half speed, delivering reading material throughout Paris, from posh apartments bordering Parc Monceau to modest rooms in Montmartre. Today at the checkpoint, one of the soldiers—the officer in charge—took a closer look at the contents in my satchel. “Call of the Wild? The Last of the Mohicans? What’s a French girl doing with novels in English? Show me your papers!”

  The Kapitän ran his finger over the photo of my carte d’identité, perhaps convinced it was counterfeit. He asked the other soldiers a question in German. They moved closer, until I was surrounded. I’d never felt smaller. Examining the books, the Soldaten spoke quickly; I could only make out a few words: Gross Roman Gut. What were they saying? Did they think I was carrying messages? Would they arrest me? What excuses could I offer? That I was a librarian at the ALP? No, they might visit. That I had an English friend? No, they might detain Margaret.

  “A ‘French girl’ can be interested in other cultures, you know,” I told them. “My brother and I appreciate Goethe.”

  The Kapitän nodded approvingly. “We Germans have good writers.”

  He handed back my belongings; I hurried away before he changed his mind.

  It was difficult to avoid these spot checks because the Nazis set up barricades on random streets. When I finished my deliveries, I returned to the Library and warned Margaret about the danger of being arrested as an enemy alien.

  “I know. On my way home yesterday, I spied a checkpoint and darted into a milliner’s. Three hours and four hats later, the Nazis left.” She wound her pearls around her finger. “It feels as if there’s a noose around my neck.”

  When our bookkeeper missed work, we feared the worst. We searched Miss Wedd’s apartment building, hospitals, and police stations, before Boris learned what had happened—the Nazis had arrested her and sent her to an internment camp in eastern France. Imprisoned because she was British.

  Miss Reeder decided that foreign staff members should leave France. “One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do is ask Helen-and-Peter to leave,” she told subscribers and staff at the farewell party. “I know it’s the right decision. My head—and heart—will function much easier when I know they’re safe.”

  Helen’s complexion was ashen, but there was a light in her eyes. Peter had proposed. Knowing that their Library love story would endure made us feel less blue as we raised a glass to bid the
m adieu.

  “Thank goodness Miss Reeder is staying,” I told Bitsi.

  “For now,” she replied.

  * * *

  FEBRUARY, MARCH, APRIL. Winter wouldn’t let go. Gray clouds groped the sky, a dreary rain drizzled day and night. On his daily round, Paul brought me a bouquet of lilacs. “You’ve been so glum,” he said. “Have you heard from Rémy recently?”

  I pulled an envelope from my pocket and unfolded his latest letter as if it were priceless linen.

  Dear Odile,

  Happy Easter! I’m thinking of you. Thanks for Villette. I’m beginning to think of the Brontës as dear friends.

  We’ve been forced to work on farms. Their men are fighting on the Eastern Front, so mostly, it’s women and old folks here. We prisoners are trotted into town, where the landowners sniff around us, wanting a brawny worker.

  Fellows sabotage what they can—the farmers are the enemy, after all. I wish you could meet Marcel. When an old frau led him to her barn and shoved a pail into his chest, expecting him to milk the cow, he yanked on its tail as one would pump water from a well. Startled, the heifer kicked him. Now he’s laid up with me in the barrack. He insists the look of disgust on the frau’s face was worth a couple of broken ribs.

  Love,

  Rémy

  He put on a good front for me, the way I did for him.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul asked.

  “Where to begin? There’s a German soldier billeted at Bitsi’s apartment. He sleeps in her brother’s room. I don’t know how she bears it. Yesterday after work, she wept in the children’s room, and I didn’t know if I should comfort her or pretend I didn’t see. She has her pride, after all. M. de Nerciat and Mr. Pryce-Jones still aren’t speaking—I hate that the war has ruined their friendship. We worry for Miss Reeder, who gets gaunter by the day—”

  “At least you have a boss you can admire.”

  He looked troubled. I wanted to take him in my arms, wanted to forget the war for five minutes, but Mme. Simon’s dogged stare unnerved me. Would Paul and I ever be alone?