“A poster said Paris would be an open city,” I said. “What does that mean?”

“Paris won’t defend herself, and the enemy won’t attack. It’s a way to ensure the safety of the inhabitants.”

“So no more bombs?” I asked cautiously. War communiqués weren’t always to be believed, but I had utter faith in Mr. Pryce-Jones.

“Bombs, no,” he replied. “Germans, yes.”

Margaret ran into the Library. Pale as her pearls, she scanned the room and rushed over to me. “I had to ask one last time,” she said. “Are you certain you don’t want to come?”

“If Rémy returns…”

“I understand.” She clasped my hands. “What if we never see each other again?”

It was a question with no answer. I could only tell her, “You’re my dearest friend.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do without you. I love the Library, but I love you more.”

A car horn blared.

“It’s Lawrence. Christina must be fussing,” she said shakily. “I’d better go. Bon courage.”

I love the Library, but I love you more. It was exactly how I felt. We were just like Janie and Pheoby in my favorite book. We could tell each other anything.

Watching my best friend leave turned me into a leaky teapot. Not wanting my habitués to see me lose control, I blinked rapidly as I hurried to the card catalog. Flicking through the cards, I let my tears soak into the stock paper, all angst carefully concealed in the O drawer.

“Margaret’s doing the smart thing.” Professor Cohen draped her shawl over my shoulders.

“Are you leaving, too?”

She smiled wryly. “Ma grande, no one’s ever accused me of doing the smart thing.”

* * *

A LIBRARY IS A sanctuary of facts, but now rumors made their way into the periodical room, where Professor Cohen and Mme. Simon chatted at the table. “I heard that from now on in schools, they’ll only teach German,” Madame told me as I tidied a pile of magazines. “We won’t be allowed on the sidewalks, just Germans. Are you listening to me, girl?” She poked my chest. “They’ll rape anything with legs. Especially pretty ones like you.” Fear churned in my stomach as I tried to ignore her. “Cover yourself in mustard so they won’t want to have their way with you.”

“Enough!” Professor Cohen said.

* * *

THE DIRECTRESS HAD arranged for vehicles to take colleagues to Angoulême, where they would assist staff at the American clinic. I wanted to see them off, but Papa ordered me to stay home.

“I need to say goodbye!”

“Absolutely not.”

“If I don’t go, Miss Reeder will be alone.” I remembered how a sobbing subscriber had collapsed into her arms. The Directress was staying, and it wasn’t even her country at war.

“I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about you.”

“Miss Reeder says—”

“Miss Reeder says! What about what I say?”

“What about the Library?” I asked.

“What about the Library?” he said, exasperated. “Do you not understand the danger?”

The following morning, we awoke to blasts from loudspeakers. “Protests and hostile acts against German troops are punishable by death!”

CHAPTER 19

Miss Reeder

PARIS, JUNE 16, 1940

WAS THIS REALLY Paris? Miss Reeder did not think so. The avenues were deserted, market stalls empty. Even the sparrows had fled. She walked briskly toward the bus stop, past the flower shop, where she spied spidery carcasses of hydrangeas, then past a boarded-up bakery. She longed for the ordinary, magical smell of croissants. Usually, she rode the number 28 to the Library, but public transportation had ceased. Continuing on foot, briefcase and gas mask in tow, she cringed at the sight of a trio of German soldiers on patrol. Worried about where else she might find such men, Miss Reeder moved faster, one thing on her mind: the Library.

She crossed the Seine. There was not another soul on the vast Concorde Square, not a single car motoring down the Champs-élysées, France’s grandest traffic hazard. In the liveliest city in the world, she could hear a hairpin drop. The stillness was strange. She’d never felt so alone. Nonetheless, seeing the embassy reassured her, and she was tempted to stop in to inform Ambassador Bullitt that the Library remained open—after all, he was the honorary president. But she knew that before the French government had taken to the road, the prime minister had asked the American ambassador to deal with the arriving German generals and to maintain order. The heaving swastika atop the opulent Crillon Hotel, directly across the street from the embassy, indicated that the ambassador had work to do.

The Directress entered the Library courtyard as the caretaker opened the shutters. She was just in time to see the sleepy eyes of her world awaken.

“I’ll be in my office. No visitors until nine, please,” she told the caretaker as usual before preparing a carafe of coffee. At her desk, she reread the telegrams, hoping they’d changed overnight, like everything else. “Fund solicitation has been withheld,” the third vice president of the board had written from New York. “Uncertainty might arise in the minds of our friends as to whether the Library could continue.” Another wrote: “We assume that the Library closed. I doubt it can have any existence in the immediate future.”