Джанет Скеслин Чарльз - The Paris Library

Eleanor let herself be convinced. She got a silver tube of Pale Poppies. And she looked radiant.

In the Mezzanine Bistro, which looked onto the ground floor, we chose a table next to the Plexiglas edge so we could people-watch as if we were in a Parisian café. After we ordered, I saw an elegant saleslady hitch up her stockings when she thought no one was looking.

When the waiter set down Eleanor’s club sandwich and my French dip, she asked, “Are you having a good day?”

“ Mais oui ,” I said, dipping my sandwich in the jus.

After lunch, Ellie and I washed our hands in the ladies’ room. In front of the mirror, we puckered up and reapplied our lipsticks. It was the closest I’d ever felt to her. If we were French, this would be the moment I moved from the formal vous to the informal tu .

We got in the station wagon, and she drove us out of the city. The rock music on the radio disintegrated, and Ellie rolled the dial to our local country station. The Froid water tower, “water castle” en français , came onto le horizon .

Easing onto our street, we saw the fire truck. Hard to tell from five blocks away, but it appeared to be parked in front of our house. “The boys!” I gasped. Ellie sped up. The one day we were gone… Had Joe somehow found the matches in the drawer? Please let them be okay , I prayed.

The truck was at Odile’s. Wisps of smoke wafted from her window. A fireman tugged a deflated hose away from her house. Ellie hit the brakes, and we jumped out. Neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, where we found Odile slumped on the curb. Mrs. Ivers wrapped a quilt around Odile, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“What happened?” Ellie asked the fire chief.

“Kitchen fire,” he replied. “Something left in the oven.”

“Professor Cohen’s cookies,” Odile said. “I think of her more and more. It was my fault.”

“These things happen,” Ellie soothed. We squatted down on either side of Odile.

“My fault,” she insisted.

“You didn’t mean to,” I said.

Odile looked at me. I was so happy, I didn’t even care that she stared, eyes wide like I was a stranger.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I swallowed. “No, I’m the one…” There were so many things I wanted to say. I love you. Your forgiveness means everything to me. I’m still sorry.

“Why don’t you come to our place?” Ellie said.

I walked her to our house, to my room, where she lay down.

“Do you want me to go?” I asked.

“Sit down.” She patted the bed. “I want you to know. There are things that happened during the war that no one talks about, not even today. Things so shameful we buried them in a secret cemetery, then forever abandoned the graves.”

Her hand hugging mine, she introduced her cast of characters. Dear Maman and down-to-earth Eugénie. Blustery Papa. Rémy, the mischievous twin I would see every time I looked at Odile. His girl, Bitsi, the brave librarian. Paul, so handsome, I fell in love with him, too. Margaret, every bit as fun as Mary Louise. Miss Reeder, the Countess, and Boris, the heart and soul and life of the Library. People I would never know, would never forget. They’d lived in Odile’s memory, and now they lived in mine.

By the time she finished, I felt the story was a book I’d read, a part of me forever. When the Nazis entered the Library, I shuddered in the stacks. Delivering books to Professor Cohen, I tripped on the cobblestones, frightened that the Nazis would learn of my mission. As food grew scarce, my stomach rumbled and my temper flared. I read those terrible letters and didn’t know what to do.

“You were brave,” I told Odile. “Keeping the Library open and making sure all people could check out books.”

She sighed. “I merely did the minimum.”

“ Le minimum? What you did was amazing. You gave subscribers hope. You showed that during the worst of times, people were still good. You saved books and people. You risked your life to defy the fricking Nazis. That’s huge.”

“If I could go back, I would do more.”

“You saved people by hiding those letters.”

“If I’d destroyed all the crow letters the first time I saw them, more lives could have been saved. It took me too long to understand what needed to be done. I was too worried about being caught.”

I wanted to keep arguing, but her eyes fluttered shut.

OVER DINNER, WHILE Odile dozed, Ellie and Dad decided she would stay with us while her kitchen was remodeled, then went on to talk about this and that. I couldn’t stop thinking about the crow letters. Though I liked to think I wouldn’t have arrested innocent people, I’d proven that I was capable of believing blindly and lashing out. Watching Dad eat his beans, I noticed that his hair was turning gray. I wondered what worries kept him up at night, what he’d be willing to do in order to protect his family. I went through Odile’s story again, feeling that something didn’t add up.

Each summer, Grandma Jo and I had spent afternoons sipping lemonade on her screened porch. Her passion was jigsaw puzzles. Sprinkling the pieces on her table, we reconstructed blue skies over Bavarian castles. Since we were marooned in the middle of wheat fields, those fragmented photos were my first look at the outside world. Grandma’s puzzle habit—two a week—got expensive, so Mom bought them secondhand. The pro: cheap. The con: hours spent on a puzzle only to find pieces were missing, lost long before the church rummage sale.

It had been a while since I’d felt the frustration of an incomplete puzzle, but I recognized the feeling now. An element of Odile’s story was missing. A part of the frame or one of the corners. If Odile loved Paul, why had she married someone else?

CHAPTER 40

Odile

PARIS, AUGUST 1944

T HE ALLIES ARE getting closer. The news rolled down the rue de Rennes, it lingered in side streets. It whispered along the paths of Père Lachaise and made it to the Moulin Rouge. They’re getting closer. The news clambered up the steps of the metro and bounced over the white pebbles of the courtyard to the circulation desk. We’d heard that the Allies had landed on the beaches of Normandy over two months ago, so where were they? The press—full of propaganda—was no help. We depended on word of mouth.

“The Allies must be getting closer,” Boris told me as we checked out books.

“I’ve seen Germans packing their vehicles in front of Occupied hotels.”

“Vacancy signs will soon be up!” Boris replied.

Mr. Pryce-Jones, shaky from his time in the internment camp, leaned on a cane as he crossed the threshold. He’d been released three weeks ago; M. de Nerciat followed close behind, hands held out, worried his friend would fall.

“I shouldn’t be back in Paris,” Mr. Pryce-Jones muttered. “Not when others remain imprisoned. And did you have to use my age as a pretext to get me out?”

“No, my dear fellow, I could have told them you were feebleminded.”

I hid my smile behind The Turn of the Screw , 813. Some things hadn’t changed.

“Where are the Allies?” M. de Nerciat asked.

“They must be on their way,” Boris said.

I couldn’t wait to tell Margaret, who was returning after a week of nursing her daughter through a bout of the mumps. When Margaret arrived after lunch, I barely recognized her. The brim of a new white hat hid her eyes, and the matching silk dress was as snowy as a christening gown. It’s chic to be shabby , I reminded myself as I ran a hand over my worn belt.

“That thing’s more notches than leather,” she said as she joined me at my desk. “Let me offer you an outfit.”