The Paris Library

by Janet Skeslien Charles

  Paul remained silent.

  “You won’t say anything, right?”

  “Who would I tell?” He turned me around and continued to massage my shoulders, his fingers digging in harder this time.

  CHAPTER 41

  Odile

  IN PARIS, GAS LINES had been cut and almost no one had power, yet there was a certain electricity in the air. Posters pasted on the sides of buildings urged Parisians to “attack the enemy wherever he might be.” The police went on strike, as did railway employees, nurses, postmen, and steelworkers. Paul helped dig up cobblestones and create barricades, anything to trap and ambush the enemy.

  Combat was something I’d read about, something that happened far away, but now I heard shots in nearby streets, and people were setting cars and tanks on fire. Rumors ricocheted like bullets. It was the Americans come to liberate us! No, it was de Gaulle! No, Parisians had had enough and were fighting back! The Germans were retreating! No, they weren’t giving up without a fight!

  Going to and from work, I crept along the sides of the buildings, scared of snipers, scared of bombs, scared nothing would change and we would live like this forever.

  On the evening of the twenty-fourth, as I tried to finish Voyage in the Dark before what was left of the candle flickered one last time and went out, the church bells in Paris rang. I rose and met my parents in the hall. In her dressing gown, Maman looked to the heavens, as if to marvel at God’s miracle. Papa held out his arms, the way he used to when Rémy and I were little and we’d gallop toward him. I knew my parents and I were thinking the same thing—if only Rémy were here. Wordlessly, we embraced, knowing the Occupation was at an end.

  * * *

  PARIS HAD BEEN liberated. Mr. Pryce-Jones limped through the Library, shouting, “The Germans have fled.” Close on his heels, M. de Nerciat exclaimed, “We’re free!” After kissing me on the cheeks, the two men embraced, then quickly stepped apart. They were the only discreet ones. I hugged Bitsi, Boris, and the Countess. Her servants brought over all the champagne left in her cellar. I drank more in one day than I had in my entire life.

  “The war’s not over,” Mr. Pryce-Jones warned.

  “But it’s the beginning of the end,” the Countess said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” M. de Nerciat said.

  “You’ll drink to anything, old chap!”

  On the scraggly lawn, staff and subscribers laughed and kissed and cried. The band—made up of six subscribers—swayed between “Stars and Stripes Forever” and “La Marseillaise.” Paul and I danced all night long. It was as if I’d held my breath for months and could exhale. I’d lived in the present, almost fearing the future. But the fight to survive was over, and Paul and I could start making plans. I let myself dream about a home and children.

  * * *

  DESPITE CITYWIDE FESTIVITIES, Margaret was glum. Her Leutnant had been arrested, and she didn’t know where he’d been taken. Worse, after a four-year absence, her husband had returned. Life with Lawrence stretched before her like a desolate country road. To take her mind from things, I invited her for a stroll in the Tuileries. Among the trees, in the dappled light, I watched her pick at her pearls. I wanted to console her, but didn’t know what to say.

  There was a ruckus coming from the other side of the fence, the pounding of a drum and Parisians shouting. Perhaps a parade to celebrate the Liberation, or even victory! Hoping it would cheer her, I coaxed Margaret through the gate.

  On either side of the rue de Rivoli, hundreds of men, women, and children clapped as a man thumping a bass drum passed. Next, an old man in a ragged suit dangled a plucked chicken, waving it in the air. Beneath the cadence of the beats, I thought I heard a wail.

  “It can’t be.” Margaret pointed to the old man.

  As he moved closer, I saw it wasn’t a chicken but a naked baby that he held. At the sight of the sobbing infant, I felt myself go dumb with shock.

  “The Krauts left a souvenir,” he cried, swinging the babe by its legs.

  “Bastard, bastard,” chanted the crowd. “Son of a whore!”

  Behind him, two men dragged a woman through the street. She was naked. And she was bald. Her feet were bloodied from being scraped along the cobblestones, her body white with fright. A dark patch of pubic hair stood vivid against her skin. She tried to break away, to reach her child, but the jailers jerked her back.

  “Tramp!” a man in the crowd shouted. “Where’s your lover now?”

  I’d never seen a bared woman, and now felt naked and violated myself. I stepped forward to help her, but Margaret grabbed my arm.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” she said.

  She was right. This wasn’t a parade, it was a mob. There was no stopping them. People were savages; I’d had years of proof. “Bastard, bastard,” they chanted. “Son of a whore!” Tears rolled down my cheeks. Completely surrounded, Margaret and I tried to move on, through the sea of bony elbows and scornful finger-pointing.

  “The Germans never would have permitted this,” a middle-aged woman tsked.

  “Do you see who’s holding the young woman, there on the right?” another said. “Last week, he was serving beer and saucisses to the Fritz.”

  “Who cares about him!” a man said. “That slut broke the rules.”

  “You don’t choose who you love,” Margaret whispered.

  “It isn’t about love,” he replied. “Only whores do what she did.”

  Margaret was shaking. Was she shocked by the condemnation of the crowd, or did she see herself in the young mother? I tucked her torso tight against mine and guided her home.

  The day was not done. Four blocks away, on a makeshift scaffold in the middle of the square, a city official wearing a blue, white, and red sash stood behind a woman and gripped her nape. Dressed in what appeared to be her Sunday best, she stared ahead while a barber shaved her head. Zip, zip, zip, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if he’d shaved dozens of women. As the clippers glided over her scalp, sandy tresses fell onto her shoulders. Le barbier tossed them to the ground like garbage. On the side of the stage, surrounded by men in uniform, five Françaises watched what would become of them as the crowd jeered. There’d been no trial, only this unseemly sentence. Seeing the women, dry-eyed and dignified, I wiped away my tears.

  CHAPTER 42

  The Barbershop Quartet

  ON PATROL, PAUL and his colleagues Ronan and Philippe happened upon Margaret, returning home from the market, a bunch of sickly carrots in her wicker basket. “How lovely to see you,” she said to Paul. The men exchanged glances, That’s her, the slut with the Fritz. Well, where is he now? The pearls around Margaret’s neck reminded Paul of all he’d been unable to offer Odile. Margaret’s white silk dress and hat reminded Ronan and Philippe that it had been years since they’d bought their wives new outfits. Impulsively, Paul took Margaret’s elbow and tugged her along. Philippe grabbed her other arm.

  “My goodness, Paul! Where are we going? Stop! My carrots fell out!”

  Margaret laughed, believing them still carried away by the joy of the Liberation, when total strangers kissed and danced. This laughter twisted Paul’s gut, making him angrier than he’d ever been. She sensed no danger, which made the men even more incensed. How dare she laugh at us? They were dangerous, damn it. The fact that they hadn’t fought for the army didn’t make them cowards. They’d spent the war patrolling the city, and knew every dodgy, deserted centimeter.

  Philippe and Paul dragged Margaret into an abandoned impasse. Ronan pulled the basket from her grasp, and she smiled brightly at him, thinking he meant to pick up her carrots. When she said merci, he hurled the basket through the grimy window of an abandoned concierge’s loge.

  Paul pushed Margaret to the ground. She tried to get up, she tried several times, but the men took turns shoving her down. Margaret peered around them, hoping to see a passerby. “Help!” she cried to a Parisienne, who hurried along, careful to look the other way.

  “
British bitch,” Paul said. “Abandon the fight, sink our ships, and come back when it’s all but over!”

  “I’ve been here the entire time!” Margaret cried. “With you and Odile.”

  “You’ve been with some Fritz. That’s what she says.”

  “They’re punishing sluts who slept with Nazis,” Philippe said. “Collaboration horizontale. I saw them, shorn on the square.”

  “That’s what she deserves,” Paul said.

  Margaret pushed on her hand and made it to her knees.

  They liked her on her knees.

  “Please. No.”

  The men hadn’t planned this. They’d never hurt a woman. Never wanted to hurt one. But before them, here she was, a trollop in the dirt. Foreign. Soiled. Eating steak while they went hungry. Wearing a new dress while their women did without.

  She wasn’t a woman to them, not anymore. They’d been beaten and humiliated. Now it was their turn to beat, to strike, to slash.

  Paul fingered her pearls. “Who gave you these?”

  “My mum.”

  “Liar!” He pulled them until they dug into her neck.

  “They were my mum’s.”

  “I bet they’re from your lover.” He jerked on the necklace, and the string broke. Pearls fell around her in a sad constellation.

  “My mum’s,” she wailed as Philippe scooped them up and put them in his pocket.

  “Shut up, or you’ll be sorry.” Ronan held out a knife to Paul. “Care to do the honors?”

  She wanted to tell him, “We’ve eaten dinner together. You’ve been to my home. When Odile was unsure of you, I stood up for you,” but her voice disappeared along with her courage.

  Paul took the knife.

  CHAPTER 43

  Odile

  THE FORBIDDEN ROOM smelled of mothballs. It was perhaps the one place in Paris that hadn’t changed during the war. The last time Maman had allowed me to enter, I was fifteen. With fantasies of the future floating in my head, I delighted in my trousseau, in the treasures the women in my family had crafted for my wedding. A wooden chest held a baby blanket crocheted by my grandmother. Soon, Paul and I would have a little one. I unfolded the flowing white nightgown that Maman had sewn. “For your honeymoon,” she’d said shyly. I hadn’t been with Paul since he told me about Professor Cohen, and we certainly hadn’t sought a new trysting place. He and I sat primly on the divan while Maman chin-wagged about chips in the china. A wedding would be a new beginning. I imagined walking down the aisle toward him. Engrossed in my daydream, I barely heard someone knocking at the front door. I made my way toward the insistent rapping, and found Paul on the landing, his face bathed in perspiration.

  “What on earth?” I giggled. “You’re like a little boy, pounding like that. Are you really so impatient?”

  He grabbed my hands. “Let’s get married.”

  It was like he’d read my mind.

  “We’ll elope,” he said. “Today. A civil service.”

  “Don’t the banns have to be up? Maman will be devastated if we don’t marry in the church. Besides, I’d like Margaret to be my maid of honor.”

  “Marriage is about the two of us, nobody else. Your parents will understand. Forget the banns, I have a special license. I’ve carried it in my pocket for a long time now, hoping.”

  “A special license?”

  “Please say yes.”

  Paul always knew what I wanted. “Embrasse-moi,” I said.

  In my arms, he trembled. “I love you. I love you so much. We’ll go away, we’ll never come back.”

  Would my parents be disappointed if Paul and I eloped, or secretly relieved? There was no money for a bridal dress much less a wedding feast. One thing was certain: after the long limbo of the Occupation, I wanted to be with Paul.

  “Yes!”

  “Leave a note for your parents. We’ll go to my aunt’s for our honeymoon. I need to get away! We need to get away.”

  “Are you all right? You don’t seem like yourself. Maybe we should wait.”

  “Haven’t we waited long enough? I want to marry you. I want a honeymoon.”

  Honeymoon, I thought dreamily, packing a few tattered dresses, the nightgown from my trousseau (almost sure Maman wouldn’t mind), and dear Emily Dickinson for the train trip. Paul called the stationmaster and asked him to get word to his aunt. Scarcely out the door, my suitcase clasped in his hand, I said, “Hold on! I can’t leave work.”

  “Tell them you need a week for our honeymoon. How can they say no to true love?”

  As I penned a note for the neighbor girl to deliver, I wondered if eloping was romantic or rash.

  At the counter of the mairie, the secretary didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Come back next week. The mayor has a full schedule.”

  I hadn’t been so sure about eloping, but now that there was opposition… “Please,” I said, “we’re in love.”

  “Paris may have been liberated,” Paul added, a twitch of hysteria in his tone, “but there’s a war on. No one knows what the future holds. We’re getting married, and you’re going to help.”

  Taking in our tense expressions, she went to see if the mayor would perform a spur-of-the-moment ceremony. Paul paced; I sat on a scarred wooden chair. We should have done this years ago, but I’d wanted Rémy at my side. I touched the empty seat beside me.

  “I wish he could be here, too,” Paul said.

  The secretary led us to the salle des mariages, where wispy clouds covered the light blue paint of the ceiling. The mayor donned his blue, white, and red sash and commenced the ceremony. Paul wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He was so nervous that when the time came to say “I do,” the mayor had to nudge him.

  In the train compartment, Paul picked up the newspaper and read a line, then folded it hastily and set it on his lap. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. Each time he fidgeted, his knee jostled mine.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing my leg.

  “Nothing.”

  “No regrets?”

  “Regrets?” He regarded me warily.

  “About getting married.”

  He placed his clammy hand over mine. “I loved you from the first instant I saw you.”

  “You loved Maman’s pork roast.”

  “What I wouldn’t give for a huge slice now.”

  We’d taken so much for granted.

  Paul’s aunt Pierrette met us at the station with the swayback horse and wagon. “You’re the one we’ve heard so much about! Pleasure to meet you.” Her ruddy skin was like leather, but she looked healthier than most Parisians.

  In the hearth, a pheasant roasted on the spit. Fat drizzled into the fire; flames jumped and sent up smoke. I hadn’t smelled this rich aroma in years, and my mouth watered. On the table, steam rose from the mashed potatoes in a ceramic bowl. I wished I could dive right in.

  “It isn’t much of a wedding feast,” Aunt Pierrette said. “But I didn’t have much notice, either.” She pinched Paul, and he grinned bashfully.

  “It’s a feast to us,” I said.

  I tried to eat slowly, but dinner was too delicious—Paul and I wolfed it down. His aunt left us alone to enjoy dessert by the light of the fire. Paul fed me spoonfuls of flan. The cream slipped down my throat, dewy drops of happiness.

  In our room, Paul worked a hand under my skirt while I closed the shutters. “Be patient! I have to put on my nightgown.”

  “I can’t wait.” He pushed me onto the bed. I kissed him softly. He unfastened his trousers and tugged my skirt up.

  “Slow down,” I murmured as he shoved my underthings aside. “We have our whole lives.”

  “I love you.” He plunged inside me. “Promise you’ll never leave me. No matter what.”

  “Of course, I promise.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, he harnessed the horse, and we rode the wagon to the village to buy a ring. In the display case at the jeweler’s, dozens of alliances, wedding bands, gleamed, surely
sold for a few francs by desperate people.

  “It’s not bad luck?” I asked Paul as he slipped one on my finger.

  “A happy marriage doesn’t depend on luck, but on intentions,” the jeweler replied.

  The gold band fit perfectly. For the next seven days, I could barely stop grinning.

  * * *

  THE TRAIN TO Paris was delayed. When I fretted about being late for work, Paul insisted we could go to the Library directly from the station. “You don’t have to accompany me,” I said.

  “But I want to, Madame Martin. And you need someone to carry your suitcase.”

  “Won’t you be late?”

  “I’m on evenings this week.”

  In the reading room, on the table in front of the windows, I was stunned to see a wedding cake, chocolates, champagne, and a samovar for tea.

  “You planned this?” I asked him.

  “They did.” He gestured to our well-wishers. There was the Countess looking proud. Boris and Bitsi beaming. M. de Nerciat and Mr. Pryce-Jones bickering, “Told you they’d get married.” “No, I told you.” And Eugénie with my parents?

  “I can see why you enjoy working here,” my father said. “I wish I’d visited sooner.”

  “Oh, Papa! I’m glad you’re here now.”

  “Congratulations, ma fille,” Maman said as she and Eugénie embraced me.

  I gushed over the sugary wedding cake (Oh, the rations everyone had donated! That meant more to me than anything!) and regaled them with Paul’s passionate proposal. He then recounted the ceremony.

  “Where’s Margaret?” I asked Bitsi.

  “She hasn’t been in this week. We sent an invitation, but she didn’t reply.”

  I frowned. Was she ill, or was Christina? I started toward the telephone, but a cork popped—the sign of celebration, my favorite sound in the whole world—and the Countess proffered a glass of champagne. Paul and I listened to tributes from family and friends as we filled our faces with cake. I barely noticed when he kissed my cheek and slipped away to work.