“Why does everyone think she has all the answers?”

“If you could talk to Bitsi,” Margaret continued. “Isn’t it what Rémy would want?”

What about what I wanted? Why couldn’t Miss Reeder see she was being unfair? I didn’t deserve to be banned like Jean Moreau, who blew his nose in books he didn’t approve of. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

“I should go.”

In the chic suburb of Neuilly, under the bare chestnut trees on Boulevard Victor Hugo, I opened the hospital’s iron gate and hurried up the path. A nurse in a white cap and apron gave volunteers a first-aid lesson before giving us a tour. “If we were like the French,” she said, “we’d have plaques all over the place. ‘Josephine Baker sang in this exact spot.’ ‘Here’s where Hemingway started writing The Sun Also Rises after we removed his appendix.’?”

She introduced Dr. Jackson, who explained, “Things are calm in the combat zone, but we must be ready.”

Paper had been pasted on the windows, but he decided it wasn’t enough to hide the light. In charge of the fourth floor, I smothered the panes with blue paint, getting more on my dress than on the glass. Though I missed my habitués and being surrounded by books, I threw myself into the task, trying to forget the hole in my heart, the one I’d dug myself.

The ward, made up of 150 beds, housed a dozen soldiers who’d been injured by shelling along the Maginot Line. They were in pain. They had no privacy. No family or friends were able to visit. Their spirits were flagging. I made sure the soldiers had books and magazines on their nightstands. Reading offered escape, something else to think about, a privacy of the mind.

A curly-haired Breton quickly became my favorite because he was cheeky like Rémy. While I cleared away the lunch trays, he asked, “Will you read to me, mademoiselle?”

“Do you have a favorite author?”

“Zane Grey. I like cowboy stories.”

Grabbing the dog-eared copy of Névada from the library in the corner, I sat beside him and began to read. Finishing the first chapter, I asked, “What do you think?”

He grinned. “I think I could have read it myself—my leg’s busted, not my brain. But your voice is so pretty, you’re so pretty…”

“Scamp!” I reached over to muss his hair, like I would my brother’s. Hand midair, I stiffened. What if something happened to Rémy and he ended up in a hospital, injured or worse? He’d asked one thing. I needed to make things right with Bitsi.

I wished I could have blamed my rudeness to her on the war, but the truth was that I was immature. If I wanted to have a better relationship with my brother and Bitsi, I needed to change. I wanted to. But would I be able?

“Are you all right, mademoiselle?”

“Better than you,” I teased. “My leg’s in one piece.”

After my shift, I rushed to the Library, where I breathed in the heavenly smell of books. I found Bitsi shelving children’s stories.

“Let’s take tea.”

Her violet eyes brimmed with hope. “What about work?”

“Miss Reeder won’t mind.”

“I miss him,” Bitsi whispered.

I slipped my foot over hers, like I would have Rémy’s.

CHAPTER 17

Odile

PARIS, MAY 1940

IN THE COURTYARD, the roses were in bloom, and the sweet scent wafted into the Library. Despite the balmy days, everyone was touchy—worrying about loved ones far from home, about war communiqués that reported on deadly battles in Finland, about the likelihood that France might be next. Mr. Pryce-Jones told M. de Nerciat to “sod off.” Boris complimented Professor Cohen on her new briefcase, but Mme. Simon muttered, “When I see what you people have while good Frenchmen like my son work for a pittance…” At least Bitsi and I were getting along.

Deep in thought, I didn’t hear the whisper of her ballet slippers until she was beside me. “Miss Reeder wants a word. Staff meeting.”

Bitsi and the caretaker were the last to arrive; she moved to my side.

At her desk, Miss Reeder cleared her throat. “I have news. German troops penetrated Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. They’ve bombed the north and east of France.”

The North. Rémy was in the North. Please let him be all right. I sought Bitsi’s hand and held it in mine.

Miss Reeder said we must be prepared for bombardment and even warfare. There was simply no way to know. Parisian staff should leave the city; foreign staff, the country.

“Return home?” Helen-in-reference asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Miss Reeder replied.

“Are you leaving?” Boris asked.

“Please don’t go,” Bitsi mumbled to herself.

“No,” the Directress said. “The Library will remain open.”

Thank goodness. Bitsi squeezed my hand. We were scared, but at least we still had the Library.

“That will be all.” This phrase, used to signal the end of meetings, scattered us like billiard balls—to share the news, to have a cry in the cloakroom. Dazed, I stumbled to the periodical room, where Paul paced near the magazine rack.

“I just heard,” he said. “You must be worried sick about Rémy.”