I read each ALP News column, which is how I knew that Miss Reeder had resumed work at the Library of Congress; Miss Wedd had been released from the internment camp and gone back to keeping the Library’s books; Bitsi had been promoted to assistant director; the Countess had published her memoir; and Boris had retired. It was a satisfaction to know that the Library continued. Over the years, I’d seen my father interviewed about the rise of drugs in the city, and Margaret featured in a profile piece. I missed them, especially Margaret.
Now I wandered about the house, a ghost with no one to haunt. I ate alone. I slept alone. I was sick of being alone. In the closet, I stared up at my jewelry box, where I’d stashed the letters I couldn’t bring myself to burn. I’d made mistakes. I’d learned, but never fast enough. If my life had been a novel, full of chapters both dull and exciting, painful and funny, tragic and romantic, it was now time to reflect on the final page. I was lonely. If only my story would end. If only I were brave enough to close the book once and for all.
Buck’s rifle was propped in the corner. Dust had gathered on the scope. I wondered if the gun was loaded. Knowing Buck, it was. You were the gun, Paul was the trigger. No, that’s not what Margaret said. He was the gun, but you pulled the trigger. You pull the trigger. Hold up the gun and pull the trigger. I picked it up.
The doorbell rang. I didn’t care. The doorbell rang. My finger inched toward the trigger. Someone walked in and said, “Hello?” I recognized the voice. It was the girl who lived next door. I shoved the rifle back into place.
“Anyone home?”
Dazed, I walked to the living room.
“I’m writing a report on you. I mean, on your country,” the girl said. “Maybe you could come over.”
It was strange to see someone else in my living room.
“It’s like a library in here,” she added.
The last time had been four years ago, when the undertaker took Buck’s body.
The girl turned to go.
“When?” I asked.
She looked back. “How about now?”
It seemed that life had offered me an epilogue.
CHAPTER 48
Lily
FROID, MONTANA, MAY 1988
COLLEGE WILL BE a new chapter in your life,” Odile told me as we exited Mass. “Up to you to make it an exciting one.” It would be. I’d been accepted at Columbia, Mary Louise the New York Institute of Art. Thank God, because I couldn’t imagine life without her. Keith had enrolled at the Vo-Tech in Butte but promised to write to her. Robby was staying put. Tiffany was headed to Northwestern, or maybe Northeastern. I felt an unexpected nostalgia for my classmates, even the ones I didn’t like.
In the hall, each table had been specially decorated with baskets of flowers in the senior-class colors, red and white. At the percolator, the men talked about wily President Reagan, in Moscow for a summit. We women waited in line for pastries.
“You must be so proud of Lily,” Mrs. Ivers told Odile.
“I suppose she’ll go off to college and come back smarter than the rest of us,” old Mrs. Murdoch said.
“She’s already smarter than some,” Odile replied, looking pointedly at the other ladies, who scurried off.
I remembered the phrase envoyer balader, which literally means to send someone for a walk, but really means to blow them off. “They always try to talk to you,” I told Odile.
“Who?”
“Those ladies. They say, ‘Nice weather,’ or ‘Lovely sermon,’ and you send them packing.”
“They were mean to me.”
The petulant tone surprised me. It surprised her, too—I saw a dawning in her eyes.
“They’ve tried to make up for it,” I said. “Isn’t it time you gave them a chance?”
Odile regarded the ladies who were pouring themselves some coffee. She joined them at the percolator and picked up the pitcher of cream.
“Invigorating sermon today,” she told them.
Smiling tremulously, Mrs. Ivers said, “Indeed it was.”
“Father was inspired,” Mrs. Murdoch added, holding out her cup.
Odile poured the cream.
* * *
ON THE MORNING of graduation, I put on my beret and Gunne Sax dress, grabbed my speech, and went to Odile’s. On the lawn, robins were pecking at the ground. You were almost a Robin. Be brave. Oh, Mom, I’ve tried…
Odile was as excited as I was for graduation. She’d even replaced her tatty red belt with a stylish black one.
“Très belle,” I said.
She blushed. “Read me your speech.”
I pretended to be on the stage. “People say that teens don’t listen. Well, we do. We hear what you say and what you don’t. Sometimes we need advice, but not always. Don’t listen when someone tells you not to bother a person—reach out to make a friend. People don’t always know what to do or say. Try not to hold that against them; you never know what’s in their heart. Don’t be afraid to be different. Stand your ground. During bad times, remember that nothing lasts forever. Accept people for who they are, not for who you want them to be. Try to put yourself in their shoes. Or, as my friend Odile would say, ‘in their skin.’ ”
She beamed at me. “You hold so many people in your heart.”
I hugged her. She felt little, like a hummingbird.
Ellie came with the camera, and Odile insisted on reapplying lipstick before posing with me. Then it was time. The boys wanted Odile to sit in the “way-back” of the station wagon with them. Ellie and Grandma Pearl sat in the middle. Dad let me drive. He didn’t even offer his usual advice à la Don’t run over the kids playing on the sidewalk.
At school, Mary Louise, already in her gown and mortarboard, put a black tassel on my beret. In the gym, our class of fifty was seated in the front rows. Like heavy heads of wheat whispering to each other right before harvest, our murmurs rippled. I glanced back, to friends and family who’d come to support us. The town was always behind us. They were already behind us. This was goodbye. This was hello. I was done, I could leave. This was what I had wanted for years: out. And yet…
When I gave my speech, my voice trembled. Scanning the audience, I saw Dad’s proud expression, and added, “Finally, some advice from a banker’s daughter: find your passion, but make sure you have a job that pays the bills.” Everyone laughed. The band played “Only the Young” by Journey. One by one, each student’s name was called out, and we collected our diplomas at the podium. Afterward, with a roar of excitement, we threw our mortarboards into the air. Mary Louise and I hugged. A door had been thrown wide open.
At home, Joe, Benjy, and I tumbled out of the car, and the adults followed. Friends arrived for my party, and Ellie herded them into the house. “Carol Ann made the cake, chocolate of course, you know Lily!”
I looked at Odile. “A French lesson?”
“A quick one.”
At her kitchen table, I was glad to have Odile to myself, just like always. She handed me an envelope. Inside was a plane ticket to Paris and a black-and-white postcard. I hugged her. “I can’t believe it!” I examined the ticket. There was only one.
“Where’s yours?” I asked. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Not this time.”
I read the card. “To Lily, for your summer, with all my love.” Paris. It didn’t seem possible. Where would I stay? With my dorm room and orientation session, New York was simple in comparison. But Paris? I didn’t know anyone. Where would I meet people?
When I turned over the card and saw the picture, the answer became clear. In front of a majestic old mansion, there was a pebbled path bordered by pansies or maybe petunias. Standing inside, looking out the window, was a woman in white whose face was hidden by the sweeping brim of her hat. Underneath were the words “American Library in Paris, Open daily.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 2010, when I worked as the programs manager at the American Library in Paris, my colleagues Naida Kendrick Culshaw and Simon Gallo told me the
story of the courageous staff who kept the ALP open during World War II. Naida curated an exhibit about the Library during and after the war, consulting with librarians as far away as Boise, Idaho. She is brilliant, and I think of her as my Miss Reeder. Simon has been with the Library for fifty years and knows everything about the ALP. In addition to sharing his knowledge, he went over all of the Dewey Decimal numbers in this book. The numbers are the ones used today, not in 1939. He explained that each library has its own way of classifying books.
I am amazed by the bravery and dedication of the librarians at the ALP during World War II. Traits that continue in the staff today. Researching the novel took several years. During this time, director Audrey Chapuis and assistant director Abigail Altman were extremely supportive, sharing stories, documents, and contacts. I met Boris Netchaeff’s children, Hélène and Oleg. From them, I learned of Boris’s experience in the military as well as information about his family. Boris’s wife, Anna, was a countess, Comtesse (née) Grabbé; Boris did not hold a title but his ancestors were all titled princes or counts. When Anna and Boris left Russia, they left everything behind. Hélène was mentioned in the The Paris Library—she was in the apartment when the Gestapo burst in and shot her father. She wrote: “During my childhood I spent many days at the American Library… I was only a few months old when Papa carried me to the library… I still remember the sound of the beautiful parquet that creaked or crunched when someone walked fast, or the smell of books, and other details such as closed rooms where I was not allowed to go. I wondered why, and I still think that there might be people who were hidden…” The Library used every available square inch of space, so Hélène’s comment made me wonder if the librarians hid Jewish subscribers during the war.
Boris worked at the Library until the age of sixty-five. In 1982, he died at the age of eighty. Hélène said he was “increvable” (relentless or puncture-proof), despite being shot in the lung three times by the Gestapo and inhaling a pack of Gitanes per day.
When Miss Dorothy Reeder returned to the States, she raised money and awareness for the Red Cross in Florida. She then worked at the Biblioteca Nacional in Bogotá, Colombia, before rejoining the staff at the Library of Congress. Thanks to the American Library Association Archives, Miss Reeder’s top-secret report on life in Paris during the war is available online. I am grateful to Cara Bertram and Lydia Tang of the ALA Archives for their help. It was a pleasure to read Miss Reeder’s correspondence and to share it with you in this book. My favorite letter was to her colleague Helen Fickweiler. “One of the hardest things I have ever had to do is ask you and Peter to leave the Library and go back home. I know, however, it is the only right and just decision and both my head and heart will function much easier the day I know you are safe and sound in New York.
“Words cannot express my deep gratitude for your loyalty and devotion in staying with us through such difficult and trying times. Your work has always been excellent, and without your knowledge and efficiency, I doubt if we would be in a position to carry on.”
Miss Reeder mentions the money that Helen should receive from the Library fund in New York when she arrives—one hundred dollars, the equivalent of a month’s salary—and the letter of recommendation she will also receive. The Directress closes her letter with “As for you, if ever I have a personnel, no matter where I am, you shall be first on my list of coworkers, dear Helen, how can I ever thank you, or tell you what I feel.”
Helen Fickweiler and Peter Oustinoff got married when they returned to the States. Kate Wells of the Providence Public Library shared an article from the June 19, 1941, edition of the Evening Bulletin. “Miss Fickweiler lost 12 pounds during her stay in Nazi-occupied Paris and she says she doesn’t want to look at another turnip as long as she lives after being forced to consume the vegetable in so many different guises…” Helen and Peter’s granddaughter Alexis wrote, “Helen had been working with the resistance movement in Paris and met Peter there. He was also with the Allied forces and went on to work with the US, French, and Russian forces. Helen was a librarian in New York at the Chemists Club and later at the University of Vermont.”
The bookkeeper Miss Wedd returned from the internment camp and worked at the Library until her retirement. I have a lovely photo of her at her retirement party. Her face is radiant and she is wearing a corsage. Evangeline Turnbull and her daughter both worked at the Library until war was declared. As Canadians, and thus part of the Commonwealth, they were considered British subjects and enemy aliens. They returned to Canada in June 1940.
Dr. Hermann Fuchs, the Bibliotheksschutz or “Library Protector,” in charge of the intellectual activity in occupied France, Belgium, and the Netherlands, returned to Berlin after the war and remained a librarian. It was not Fuchs but Dr. Weiss and Dr. Leibrandt, the latter a specialist on Eastern Europe, who organized the pillaging of Slavic libraries in Paris. Martine Poulain, an expert on French libraries, writes, “The exact role that Fuchs played remains difficult to determine. Considered with goodwill (bienveillance) by his French colleagues before, during, and after the war, he was without a doubt more involved in the Nazi wrongdoings than the collective memory will allow.” Dr. Fuchs left Paris with German troops on August 14, 1944. He wrote to a French colleague, “I leave as I came, a friend of French libraries and of certain French librarians… First under the orders of Mr. Wermke, then as head of the service of libraries, I did my best to not let the ties that unite us break. I did not always succeed in what I wanted to do, and I could not help all those who asked. Often, circumstances were stronger than I was; often, military necessities forced me to give up on actions that I’d begun. It is up to you French to judge my conduct.”
In her memoir Shadows Lengthen (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1949), Clara de Chambrun wrote that Dr. Fuchs warned the ALP staff to be careful because the Gestapo was laying traps, and that she was later summoned by him to explain why the Library collection contained anti-German material. The Countess also described the time a subscriber threatened to denounce the Library. Denunciation letters were rampant at this time. One source claims three to five million such letters were sent, another claims 150,000 to 500,000. I created the denunciation letters about the Library; however, they were modeled on letters in the archives of the Mémorial de la Shoah, France’s Holocaust Museum. The letters that Odile finds in her father’s office are real. These letters, filled with such hate and anger, are hard to read. Many letters are violent and irrational. Most are anonymous and criticize family members, friends, and coworkers. In addition to denouncing Jewish people, accusations range from listening to the BBC to saying negative things about the Germans to the infidelity of wives whose husbands were POWs to people who bought or sold goods on the black market.
The events of the book are based on actual people and events, but I did change some elements. In real life, it was the secretary Miss Frikart who accompanied the Countess to the Nazi headquarters to answer to Dr. Fuchs. It was Miss Reeder who said about books that “no other thing possesses that mystical faculty to make people see with other people’s eyes. The Library is a bridge of books between cultures” when she publicized the Soldiers’ Service. Also, I condensed time after Miss Reeder’s first encounter with Dr. Fuchs. The Countess was away at her country home. Her meeting with Miss Reeder and the staff took place a few months later.
My goal in writing the book was to share this little-known chapter of World War II history and to capture the voices of the courageous librarians who defied the Nazis in order to help subscribers and to share a love of literature. I wanted to explore the relationships that make us who we are, as well as how we help and hinder one another. Language is a gate that we can open and close on people. The words we use shape perception, as do the books we read, the stories we tell one another, and the stories we tell ourselves. The foreign staff and subscribers of the Library were considered “enemy aliens,” and several were interned. Jewish subscribers were not allowed to enter the Library, and many were la
ter killed in concentration camps. A friend said she believes that in reading stories set in World War II, people like to ask themselves what they would have done. I think a better question to ask is what can we do now to ensure that libraries and learning are accessible to all and that we treat people with dignity and compassion.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Un grand merci to agent extraordinaire Heather Jackson for her kindness and for finding the perfect house as a home for The Paris Library, and her co-agent Linda Kaplan for bringing the book to the attention of agents and editors all over the world.
Tremendous thanks to the team at Atria, from my editor, Trish Todd, who convinced me with her first words, “You had me at the Dewey Decimal system,” to Libby McGuire, Lindsay Sagnette, Suzanne Donahue, Leah Hays, Mark LaFlaur, Ana Perez, Kristin Fassler, Lisa Sciambra, Wendy Sheanin, Stuart Smith, Isabel DaSilva, and Dana Trocker for their support and enthusiasm. Heartfelt thanks to Lisa Highton and Katherine Burdon and the team at Two Roads in the UK. A round of applause to copy editors Tricia Callahan and Morag Lyall for their attention to all my details.
Gratitude to my husband, sister, and parents, as well as to friends and colleagues who read drafts and whose encouragement sustained me: Laurel Zuckerman, Diane Vadino, Chris Vanier, Wendy Salter, Mary Sun de Nerciat, Adélaïde Pralon, Anna Polonyi, Maggie Phillips, Emily Monaco, Jade Maître, Anca Metiu, Alannah Moore, Lizzy Kremer, Kaaren Kitchell, Rachel Kesselman, Marie Houzelle, Odile Hellier, Clydette and Charles de Groot, Jim Grady, Susan Jane Gilman, Andrea Delumea, Maddalena Cavaciuti, Amanda Bestor-Siegal, and Melissa Amster.
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