I stomped down to my bedroom. Bringing his mistress into his house. If only Paul were here, he’d talk sense into Papa. I wrapped my arms around my ribs, wishing it were Paul holding me. When my father disappointed me, when I had a trying time with a snippy subscriber, when I missed Rémy so much I ached, Paul was the balm I rubbed into my bruised soul.

At 8:00 p.m., my father knocked on my door. “Dinnertime.”

“I’ve lost my appetite!”

All night, I lay awake and pictured myself cornering the harlot. Face red with shame, she would apologize for daring to breathe the same air as my mother. She would promise to never darken our doorstep again. She would never again speak to Papa.

Before I left for work, I looked in on Maman. Tender as a lover, Eugénie stroked Maman’s hair; tender as a mother, she wiped her nose. I hadn’t once changed Maman’s nightgown, hadn’t emptied the bedpan. This stranger had stepped in and done all that I couldn’t. Slowly my outrage dissipated.

I kissed Maman’s cheek. She didn’t stir.

“No improvement?” Still, I found it hard to meet Eugénie’s gaze.

“Eight handkerchiefs yesterday. Better than the day before, when she used a dozen.”

“Oh, Maman…”

“I know how she feels.”

“Your son, too?”

“In the Great War. He was a toddler when they bombarded our village. I hope your mother never learns how I feel.” Eugénie stroked Maman’s arm. “Hard, so hard this life, Hortense. But your children need you. We could write your son. Your daughter’s here, wouldn’t you like to see her?”

Maman lifted her head and stared at me with helpless eyes.

25 August 1940

Dear Rémy,

We miss you and hope you’ll be able to come home. If you’ve written, I’m afraid the letters haven’t yet arrived. Maman and Papa are well. Paul’s away, helping with harvest. I miss him so and can’t imagine how much you must miss Bitsi.

More and more people are coming to the Library, for community, for respite. Though many subscribers fled (with our books!), we’re at capacity. Miss Reeder refuses to turn anyone away.

I haven’t heard from Margaret, but Bitsi finally received a card from her brother, so that’s reassuring. She’s well, though she pines for you.

Will this letter find you? There’s so much I want to tell you.

Love,

Odile

25 August 1940

Dearest Paul,

Please thank your aunt for her kind invitation. I’d love to meet her and long to see you, but must stay in Paris in case we hear from Rémy.

Yesterday, Bitsi received a card from her brother. He, too, is a prisoner of war. I wanted to weep when I heard. As much as I love the Library, sometimes work is unbearable.

Coming face-to-face with Bitsi is like looking in the mirror—I see my own worry in her puckered brow, my misery in her chalky complexion. It’s twice as hard for her, since both her sweetheart and her brother have been imprisoned. I put a teacup full of posies on her desk. I wish I could do more. I wish I had better news, fewer maudlin thoughts. When will you return?

All my love,

your prickly librarian

25 August 1940

Dear Margaret,

I write to you often, but haven’t yet received a letter from you. I hope that you are well. It’s been difficult here. Rémy’s in a Stalag. Maman had a breakdown, and Papa brought in his mistress to care for her. Bet she didn’t realize emptying bedpans would be the kind of favor she’d be granting! Ah, well, every position has its drawbacks. Maman’s recovered enough, but not too much. She likes to be waited on. Or she knows who the “nurse” is and wants to make her suffer. Knowing Maman, a bit of both.

Nazis have swarmed Paris, and even the national library. At the ALP, we receive requests from prisoners of war, but Nazi authorities won’t allow us to send books to Allied soldiers imprisoned in Germany. It’s heartbreaking.

Look at me, as dour as Madame Simon. I’ll include some pleasant news. Peter-the-shelver and Helen-in-reference have been spending so much time together—picnicking in the courtyard on their lunch hour, holding hands when they think no one sees—that they have become Helen-and-Peter. They are in love, and it’s lovely to see.

Come home! The Library’s not the same without you.

Love,

Odile

* * *

COME SEPTEMBER, Miss Reeder tore off the brown paper that shrouded the windows. When I looked out, I no longer saw the pebbled path or the urn filled with ivy. All I saw were lost letters and faraway friends. I saw Margaret, crunching along the path!

“Rémy?” was the first word out of her mouth, which made me love her even more. “Have you had more news of him?”

“Not since that one card.”

“My dear friend.” She hugged me. “I worried about you and Rémy, about the Library…”

“Raconte!” we said at the same time. Tell! I want to know everything.

She recounted the flight from Paris. “The roads were flooded with cars. German pilots fired on civilians, so anytime a plane flew overhead, cars screeched to a stop and people dove into the ditch. We ran out of gas rations and had to walk the last ten miles to Quimper. Christina howled the entire time. How to explain war to a child?”