The Paris Library

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  “I need Odile here.” Maman trembled. “If anything happened to her…”

  I embraced her, suddenly understanding why I’d been kept home.

  * * *

  LEANING AGAINST THE weathered doorjamb, I observed Boris, busy at the circulation desk. He was gaunt in his suit. Silver now threaded the hair at his temples. If it hadn’t been for the Countess and Dr. Fuchs… When he saw me, he rose slowly, unsteady on his feet. Worried about his injuries, I kissed his cheeks gingerly; he crushed me in his emaciated arms.

  Soaking in the earthy smell of his Gitanes, I said, “Anna will kill you when she finds out you’ve been smoking.”

  “I still have one good lung,” he protested.

  I laughed. Not ready to stop touching him, I brushed a piece of fluff from his tie.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” he said.

  “I know. Me too.”

  Soon we were surrounded. The Countess, Mr. Pryce-Jones, Monsieur de Nerciat, and Madame Simon expressed their condolences. So young. So sad. A pity. This war… Just when I thought I would start to cry, Mr. Pryce-Jones said, “We’ve missed our favorite referee.”

  I smiled.

  “Fighting’s no fun without you,” M. de Nerciat added.

  The tone was light, but the concern in their eyes told a story of its own.

  I felt lucky to have such friends, to be back where I belonged. On my way to the reference room, I breathed in my favorite scent in the world—books, books, books.

  Margaret stepped from the stacks, as hesitant now as she’d been on her first day. I cringed when I remembered that she’d wanted to introduce me to her Leutnant.

  “I heard about Rémy,” she said.

  At the sound of his name, said so rarely now, I teared up.

  “About before,” she continued. “It was asking too much. I see that now.”

  “I’m sure Felix is lovely, and my family appreciated the food he got for…” I didn’t want to say my brother’s name in the same sentence as her lover’s.

  “I’ve prayed so hard for you and your family. I’m sorry I didn’t go to see you at home—I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”

  The war had stolen so much. Now I had to decide if I would allow it to claim our friendship. “It would have been a waste of time,” I said. “Maman didn’t allow anyone in.”

  “Not even Paul?”

  “Not even Bitsi.”

  “You weren’t kidding when you said she was strict.”

  “I’m sure there’s a lot of work.” I gestured to the files on my desk. “Would you like to help me field questions?”

  “More than anything.”

  The cadence of the Library took over, and we spent the day solving puzzles. (Where can I find information on Camille Claudel? What is the history of Cleveland?) I kept my hand in my pocket, on Rémy’s last letter. I had the whole thing memorized, but as the last subscribers left for the day, one line came flooding back: Don’t let this war separate you and Paul.

  I rang the precinct. “I’m free! Come to the Library.”

  As I paced the courtyard, the Countess approached. “I’ve tried to deliver books to Professor Cohen twice, but she hasn’t been home. Could you try now?”

  “I have plans with someone tonight. May I tomorrow?”

  “I suppose,” she said indulgently. “Does this someone have ‘A lean cheek… a blue eye’?”

  “Yes.” I recognized the line and added, “but not an ‘unquestionable spirit.’ ”

  She continued on, under the acacias, their whispering leaves illuminated by the dull light of the streetlamps. I remembered another line from As You Like It, “these trees shall be my books, / And in their barks my thoughts I’ll character.”

  When Paul arrived, I slid into his embrace.

  “I’m so sorry about your brother,” he said.

  I nestled closer.

  “I tried to visit,” he said. “Your mother’s a dragon.”

  “The war’s changed her.”

  “It’s changed everyone.”

  I didn’t want to think about war, of the loved ones we’d lost, of my beloved Rémy. On the way home, I asked, “How’s work?”

  “Bizarre.”

  The question used to be banal, but now it felt like a loaded gun. As we strolled, I asked after his aunt (I knew not to mention his mother), but he didn’t answer. I asked if his colleague had returned from sick leave. No reply.

  “Is everything all right?”

  We stopped. I could see he wanted to say something.

  “Tell me.”

  “A few days ago… well… Your father says what we’re doing—”

  “My father?” I said. “What does he have to do with anything?”

  Paul shrugged and stalked off.

  I caught up to him. “What’s wrong?”

  He stared straight ahead. “Why should there be anything wrong?”

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, for the first time, Paul didn’t stop in at the Library on his rounds. I hoped that nothing had happened to him. At work, he dealt with all kinds. He’d broken up more than one drunken brawl, and black-marketeers had been known to cudgel policemen who tried to seize their ill-gotten gains. Distracted by my worry, I forgot about the books I was supposed to deliver to Professor Cohen and went straight home.

  For the second evening in a row, Paul didn’t come. At closing time, I tucked the novels for Professor Cohen into my satchel. Climbing the escargot stairs, I expected to hear her typing away, but there was only an eerie hush. I knocked. “Professor?”

  Nothing.

  I put my ear to the door. Silence.

  I knocked louder. “Professor? It’s Odile.”

  Where could she be at this time of night? Was she visiting someone, or had something happened to her? Perhaps she’d gone to the country to see her niece. But she hadn’t mentioned any travel plans. Perhaps she’d had a malaise, though despite the deprivations, she’d remained hardy. I knocked again, then waited twenty more minutes before trudging home.

  At work the next morning, I told Boris, “For the first time, the professor didn’t answer her door. I didn’t know what to do. Should I have called someone? Should I return today?”

  I expected him to tell me that I was fretting for nothing, but he said, “Let’s go now.”

  On the way, he confided that three Jewish subscribers to whom he delivered books had disappeared. We didn’t know what to make of it. Had they fled Paris, and the menacing watch of the Nazis, or had something happened to them?

  When we arrived, Boris knocked; I called out, “Professor! It’s Odile,” but no one responded.

  * * *

  WHEN PAUL STAYED away for another week, I was devastated. Aunt Caroline had lost Uncle Lionel; Margaret had lost Lawrence. Perhaps Paul had lost interest in me. Since my family had received word about my brother, I hadn’t been good company. I was teary-eyed and had trouble concentrating on what people were saying. Perhaps Paul was with someone else. Paris was crawling with eager women. I remembered the time we’d strolled past cafés full of Soldaten and their girls, how he stared at the harlots in low-cut blouses.

  At dusk, when I left the Library, Paul was waiting. Relieved, I moved to embrace him, but he held me at arm’s length.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  He didn’t meet my gaze. “Don’t be angry.”

  I knew it. He was going to break my heart.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t come by more, especially since you found out about Rémy. It’s just work. It’s been horrible.”

  What? All this wasn’t about some hussy, it was about his job? I felt terrible for doubting him.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” I reached up to caress his hair, but he ducked his head.

  “I arrested someone we know. Professor Cohen.”

  That was absurd. “There must be some mistake.” Cohen was a common enough name.

  He drew a book from his messenger bag. Good Morning, Midnight. Th
e last novel I’d delivered. I snatched it from him. “When?”

  “Several weeks ago. I wanted to tell you—”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” This was why the professor hadn’t been home. No, it couldn’t be. I started toward her apartment.

  He followed. “Let me come with you.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he said, grabbing my arm.

  I pulled free and broke into a run. The wooden soles of my shoes hit the sidewalk and made a loud echoing sound. I passed the boarded-up butcher shop, the chocolaterie with no chocolat, the boulangerie where housewives hoped to buy bread, the brasserie where the Boches swilled their bier.

  I leapt up the escargot stairs two at a time and pounded on the door. Someone stirred on the other side, probably the professor preparing a pot of tea. She’d been out earlier, that’s all. She was home now. I heard the creak of the parquet, the tinny twist of the key in the lock. She’s fine. It was a misunderstanding. I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath.

  The door swung open. A blonde in a sleek blue dress said, “Yes?”

  I straightened. “I’m here for Professor Cohen.”

  “Who?”

  “Irène Cohen.” Peeking past the woman, I saw the grandfather clock, its hands fixed at 3:17. The crystal vase was full of roses. The bookshelves now held a collection of beer steins.

  “You have the wrong address.”

  “This is the right address,” I insisted.

  “She doesn’t live here anymore. This is my apartment now.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  The woman slammed the door.

  Who was that? Why was she in the professor’s home, among her things? Why did she say that the apartment was hers? Needing answers, I made my way to Paul’s door at the hostel.

  He gestured for me to enter, but I remained in the corridor.

  “Why did you arrest Professor Cohen?”

  “Her name was on the list of Jews.”

  “The list? There’s a list?”

  He nodded.

  “Have you arrested others?”

  “Yes.”

  I thought of the first abandoned apartment where Paul and I had trysted. Though I’d asked whose it was, I hadn’t really cared. Now I understood who the apartments belonged to, why their treasures had been left behind. I covered my mouth in horror as I remembered how Paul and I romped in people’s homes, how we cavorted in their sheets.

  “Forgive me for not telling you sooner,” he said. “I’ll never hide anything from you again.”

  I looked at him, not sure what I saw. “How can I find her?”

  “I’m a peon in the hierarchy. You know who you need to ask.”

  I left without a word. The foolish reference librarian. My job was to find facts; instead, I’d turned away from the truth. I should have asked questions instead of burying my head in the goose-down pillows of strangers.

  At home, I realized that Paul was right—my father was the one to talk to. Once I explained everything to him, he would ensure that the professor was released, perhaps within the hour.

  The table was already set. Maman ladled the soup into our bowls. Gray noodles swam in water. “What I wouldn’t give for a leek,” she said.

  Papa sipped from his spoon. “You do so much with so little.”

  “Merci.” For once she allowed herself to accept a sliver of praise.

  “Papa, one of my friends has been arrested.”

  His spoon stilled. His eyes shifted nervously to Maman.

  “Who is it, dear?” she asked.

  “The professor. I told you about her—she helped me get the job at the Library. Paul said he arrested her.”

  All atremble, Maman looked to Papa. “Why would he arrest some poor woman? Oh, this war.”

  “Now you’ve upset your mother,” he told me.

  I saw he wouldn’t say anything more.

  * * *

  AFTER BREAKFAST, I set out for Papa’s commissariat, composing arguments in my head. I’ve never asked you for anything. Won’t you at least try to help? I passed the sleepy guard and hurried down the hall to his office. It was early; his secretary wasn’t there to protect him. I pushed open the door.

  He rose from his desk. “Is Maman all right?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Unsure of what to say, I glanced around. Dozens of envelopes were stacked around the perimeter. On the floor near the desk, letters pooled together, as if swept away by an angry fist.

  I picked up a few.

  Roger-Charles Meyer is a pure Jew, well as pure as that race can be, and I will not hide the fact that I would be delighted if he were taken away… It is quite simply what this individual deserves. I would be ever so grateful if you could facilitate his fall.

  I went on to the next.

  You aren’t going to tell me that you approve of those dirty Jews. We have had more than enough. While our loved ones are getting killed or taken prisoner, the Jews run their businesses. We poor imbecile Frenchmen are dying of hunger. And it’s not enough to die of hunger. When there are provisions, they’re for the Jews.

  And the next.

  Sir,

  I write to inform you about a case you should know about at 49 rue Du Couédic, where a certain Maurice Reichmann, a Communist of Jewish origins, is living with a Frenchwoman. Often, we witness terrible scenes at their door. I think that you will deign to do what must be done, and in advance, the businessmen of the street say Merci.

  The final one listed names with corresponding addresses and job titles, noting at the end, 74 gros Juifs. Seventy-four important Jews.

  “I don’t understand.” I threw the letters into the bin.

  “Denunciations,” Papa said reluctantly. “We call them ‘crow letters.’ ”

  “Crow letters?”

  “From black-hearted people who spy on neighbors, colleagues, and friends. Even family members.”

  “Are they all like these?” I asked.

  “Some are signed, but yes, most are anonymous, telling us about black marketers, résistants, Jews, people who listen to English radio, or say bad things about the Germans.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since 1941, when Marshal Pétain went on the radio to say that holding back information is a crime. These ‘crows’ have convinced themselves they’re doing their patriotic duty. It’s my job to confirm the veracity of each letter.”

  “But, Papa…”

  “It’s been made clear that if I find the work distasteful, there are dozens of men in line for my job.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “Neither is letting you starve.”

  I’d assumed he spent his days helping people.…

  “This… is for me?”

  “Everything Maman and I have done for the last two decades has been for you and your brother! His Latin tutor. Your English lessons. And that trousseau. Maman has nearly gone blind embroidering. By the time you marry, you’ll have enough goods to fill a department store.”

  “But I never asked for anything.”

  “You’ve never had to.”

  The realization hit me like a nightstick. My entire life, I’d been proud. I’d never hesitated to rebel against Papa and to think for myself. I’d seen what happened to Aunt Caro, and I worked hard for my own independence. Now, with unsettling clarity, I understood that though I’d never asked for anything, I’d never needed to—my parents had laid clothes, opportunities, and even suitors in front of me like a red carpet. I felt stunned. Paul wasn’t who I thought he was. Papa wasn’t who I thought he was. I wasn’t who I thought I was.

  My father fished the letters from the bin. “I’ll do my duty and investigate each one.”

  “Duty?”

  “My job is to uphold the law.”

  “But what if the law is wrong? What about the innocent men and women harmed by these accu
sations?” I heard my voice break, like it always did when I fought with my father. I reminded myself that I was here for a reason. “Papa, please, can we talk about Professor Cohen?”

  “Every day, dozens of people ask for my help, searching for family members. I can’t help them and I can’t help you!” He gripped my arm and forced me out the door. “I’ve told you before, I don’t want you here. It’s no place for a respectable young lady.”

  Outside, in the cold, I burrowed into my shawl. How can I help the professor? I asked Rémy.

  Inform the Countess, I heard him say. He was right. She had many high-ranking contacts. Surely, she could help. I rushed straight to her office.

  At her desk, she stared into her teacup, her mouth a sad moue. “I’ve told the others and now I must tell you,” she said shakily. “Our friend Irène Cohen was to be deported.”

  It wasn’t too late. The Countess and Dr. Fuchs could save her like they’d saved Boris.

  “She was at Drancy.”

  A detention center north of Paris. Wait. Was?

  “Conditions there are deplorable. I could hardly believe my ears when my husband described it. We tried to intervene on Irène’s behalf, but unfortunately…”

  No. Not Professor Cohen, too. The floor beneath me swayed, and I reached out, palm flat against the wall, feeling that if I didn’t hold on, everything would disintegrate.

  “She tried to get a message to me,” I said. “My father… the letters… It’s my fault.”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself,” the Countess said. “We learned Mme. Simon’s son and daughter-in-law moved into the professor’s apartment. One needn’t be Sherlock Holmes to understand what happened. Apparently, Madame and her son were in communication with several commissariats and even the Gestapo.”

  The scold with the tombstone teeth had written crow letters? We’d seen her nearly every day and only now discovered who she truly was? “She’d better never come back!”

  “She won’t, believe me. But I didn’t finish. Irène has disappeared. My husband believes she might have smuggled herself out of the detention center.”