Through the night, I stayed, telling tales, calming his fevered dreams, holding his hand until he died.

CHAPTER 18

Odile

PARIS, JUNE 3, 1940

I WAS BLOCKS FROM the Library, fetching books for my soldiers at the hospital, when the city went still. No pigeons warbling, no Parisians chatting. Just a loud whirr. I looked up and saw planes, dozens and dozens of them. My heart boomed in the hollow of my clavicle. In the distance, I heard the crash of shattering glass as bombs exploded. An alarm screeched its way through the streets. People ran around me, they ran into me. I tasted smoke and knew I should run for cover. Frozen on the sidewalk, I felt numb as I gaped at the raiders in the clear blue sky. All I could think of was Rémy. Where was he? Were these the smells and sounds that he faced?

When the bombardment was over—Was it an hour? Or two? Or was it only twenty minutes?—I clung to the sides of buildings all the way to the Library. At the front desk, staff gathered around me. I looked at Bitsi, who said, “Oh, dear!”; at the Directress, who now had a delicate line between her brows; at Margaret, who gripped her pearls; and at Boris, who said, “She’s going to faint!”

Miss Reeder sat me down. Boris poured a teacup of whisky to calm my nerves.

“You’re safe,” he told me, “for now.”

“German troops will never make it past the Maginot Line,” Margaret said.

“We’ve done our share of wishful thinking,” Miss Reeder said, “now plans must be made.”

“Are you saying we should leave?” Bitsi said. “I don’t know where my mother and I could go.”

The siren still screeched in my ears, and I couldn’t take in what they were saying. I only knew I had to return to the hospital: my soldiers needed me. I rose from the chair.

“You should sit tight,” Bitsi said.

No. I needed to get back to the wounded.

The hospital had sustained no damage, but inside, everyone was shaken. Reading material in trembling hand, I made my way through the ward, weaving between the beds, between the worried faces. At dinnertime, no one had much of an appetite. The nurses and I proffered bowls of soup and persuaded the soldiers to eat.

At home, Maman fussed. “You get home later each evening. Paul’s here, and the roast’s been ready for an hour.”

“Did Rémy write?”

“Not yet,” Papa said.

“A hell of a day,” Paul said as we picked at our plates. Needing the reassurance of his touch, I moved my leg so it rested between his.

“Good news in Dunkirk. ‘An obstinate battle continues…’?” Papa read from the war communiqué. “?‘Magnificent resistance of the allied troops.’?”

“I pray the war will end, and that he’ll soon be home,” Maman said, one hand on her aching temple, the other on the back of Rémy’s chair.

* * *

WHEN I ARRIVED at the Library the next morning, Miss Reeder was alone at a reading-room table, poring over the paper. Impeccable in her blue jersey dress, mascara dusting her lashes, lipstick just so, she didn’t let her fears stop her from coming to work.

Perhaps feeling my gaze, she glanced up. In her expression, I saw so much—concern, curiosity, courage, affection. “Was anyone in your family hurt during the bombing?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good.” She held up telegrams. “I’m afraid that mine is begging me to go home.”

I didn’t blame them. Sometimes, even I wanted to leave. “How can you stay?”

Gently, she cupped my cheek. “Because I believe in the power of books—we do important work, by making sure knowledge is available, and by creating community. And because I have faith.”

“In God?”

“In young women like you and Bitsi and Margaret—I know you’ll set the world right.”

Habitués gathered around to read the news. Le Figaro congratulated Parisians on their sangfroid. It stated that 1,084 bombs were launched, killing 45 civilians, injuring 155. A photo showed a bombarded building, rooms open to the world like a dollhouse.

“Every battle’s either a ‘magnificent struggle’ or a ‘valiant fight,’?” M. de Nerciat said.

“Each day, more news articles are blacked out,” Professor Cohen said. “What are the censors hiding?”

Mr. Pryce-Jones asked if he could speak with me in private. His milky blue eyes clouded with concern. “If I had a brother, I’d want to know.”

In the cloakroom, among broken umbrellas and wibbly chairs, the retired diplomat confided that the communiqués weren’t telling the real story.

“But… the newspapers say we’re winning.”

No, he said. According to his source at the embassy, tens of thousands of French and British soldiers had been captured. At Dunkirk, the Germans surrounded the Allied troops, who had their backs against the Channel. Braving attacks from the enemy, English ships sailed over to pick up their soldiers. Soon there would be almost no British military presence left on the continent.

I sank onto a chair, unable to reconcile the gulf between what we’d read and what he was telling me. The British were withdrawing mere weeks after the real combat had begun. What would happen to the French troops? What would happen to Rémy?