“I haven’t left my post!” she wanted to shout. “We’re here.” She needed to convince them that the ALP must remain open. “Libraries are lungs,” she scrawled, her pen barely able to keep up with her ideas. “Books the fresh air breathed in to keep the heart beating, to keep the brain imagining, to keep hope alive. Subscribers depend on us for news, for community. Soldiers need books, need to know their friends at the Library care. Our work is too important to stop now.” She reread the lines: too true, too sentimental. She composed herself, she composed more letters, this one to Mr. Milam of the American Library Association, that one to the board in New York: “We are giving the students what they need, the public, the books they want, and the soldiers, what we can. It is after all, something, to continue to hold on, to hope for a wider contribution to humanity.”

She poured herself some coffee.

“Any left?” asked Bill Bullitt, sticking his bald head into her office.

“Ambassador.”

“Directress,” he said. “You know why I’m here.”

“To advise me to return to the States,” she said flatly.

“President Roosevelt ordered me to leave Paris, and I’m still here. I won’t advise you to do something I refused to do myself.”

“Where is our common sense?” she said with a little smile.

“We must have left it in the States.”

She watched as he served himself a cup of coffee.

He sat down. “Take refuge at Le Bristol, where the other Americans are staying.”

“I can’t afford it.”

He took a sip. “Let me worry about that.”

“I’ll be fine at home.”

“Does your building have a basement shelter to protect against poisonous gas?”

She gestured to the gas mask slumped in front of the bookcase.

“Transportation’ll be disrupted for a time,” he said. “Le Bristol is just four blocks away.”

It would be convenient to be closer.

The stalemate brought silence.

“Can you tell me anything?” she finally said.

The confident tone he’d struck slipped away. “We’ve had a hell of a time dealing with the Germans. Promise you’ll be careful. And that you’ll move to the hotel.”

“I’ll go tonight.” She handed him the correspondence to be sent by diplomatic pouch.

“I won’t keep you.” He saw himself out.

A small part of her wished she’d listened when her parents had begged her to board a ship. She carried a photo of them in her purse. Each time she bought a baguette or fished around for her handkerchief, Mom’s and Dad’s eyes implored her to come home. She wished she could make them understand that Paris was home. She’d made her life’s work, her life here.

Remaining had been the right choice. If her parents had taught her one thing, it was to stand her ground, whether dealing with a malicious schoolmate or the domineering cataloger at the Library of Congress. You’re nothing without principles. Nowhere without ideals. No one without courage. Even as they begged her to come home, they were proud she stayed. Dear Mom & Dad, she wrote. There are many things I should like to say to you, many thoughts I should like to send, but alas, I shall have to depend upon your heart and understanding to know all that I carry inside…

Le Bristol. Her parents would be reassured that she was staying with compatriots. The hotel had a long list of esteemed guests: movie stars, heiresses, lords, ladies, and now a librarian. After work, she walked home to 1 rue de la Chaise to collect her things. As she unlocked the door, Mme. Palewski rushed to her. The concierge’s olive skin was chalky.

“What’s happened?” Miss Reeder asked.

“My husband was at the Polish Library. They came.” Madame began to weep. “They stomped in. Demanded the keys. Went through the entire building. The archives, the rare manuscripts. The director, he tried to stop them. Soldiers threatened to take him away.”

“Is your husband all right?”

“Yes. But they stole everything…”

The Nazis had been in Paris for three days, and it was starting. Miss Reeder had hoped that churches and libraries—quiet places of devotion—would not be disturbed.

She realized that soon she would face the enemy.

CHAPTER 20

Odile

2 July 1940

Dear Rémy,

Where are you? We long to see you, to have news from you. All is well with us. After keeping me home for ten long days, Papa finally allowed me to return to work. I was worried sick about the Directress, alone at the Library, but she insists she got “quite a kick” out of being the sole guardian. It felt terribly lonely without the others, who only just returned. When I laid eyes on Bitsi, I screamed with joy; M. de Nerciat took great pleasure in shushing a librarian. But the good news was followed with bad—Boris explained that the Nazis had arrived in Angoulême, too. Stern Mrs. Turnbull is traveling back to Winnipeg directly from there. Canadian and thus a British subject, she’s considered an enemy alien.

Here, Nazis are buying up everything from soap to sewing needles. We call them “tourists” because they take photos of monuments as if they’re on holiday. When they ask for directions—Where is the Arc de Triomphe? Where is the Moulin Rouge?—we tell them we don’t know. With the 9:00 p.m. curfew, the city is silent in the evening. We’ve been forced to move our clocks an hour ahead to their time zone. Every time I check my watch, it’s a reminder that we live on their time, on their terms.