Love,

Odile

* * *

IT WASN’T EASY to keep letters light, especially when the Nazis were all over Paris. At a staff meeting, Boris informed us that they’d seized more than one hundred thousand books from the Russian library near Notre-Dame.

“More than one hundred thousand books,” Margaret repeated weakly.

Once, when I was little, Aunt Caro and I had gone there. After Mass at Quasimodo’s cathedral on the island in the river Seine, we crossed over to the Left Bank and meandered down the rue de la B?cherie to a h?tel particulier. The doors of the mansion were open, so we peered inside. “Welcome, welcome,” we were told. The librarian, who wore reading glasses on a silver chain around her neck, handed me a picture book. Aunt Caro and I marveled at the words, not just in a foreign language, but in a foreign alphabet.

The walls were covered by bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling—so high that one needed a ladder to reach the highest shelves. Aunt Caro let me climb it all the way to the top. That day, like any day with my aunt, was heaven.

Now, I imagined those shelves bare. Imagined the librarian with tears in her eyes. Imagined a subscriber coming to return a book, only to learn that it was the only one left.

“Why are they looting libraries?” Bitsi asked.

Boris explained that the Nazis wanted to eradicate the cultures of certain countries, in a methodical confiscation of their works of science, literature, and philosophy. He added that the Nazis had also pillaged the personal collections of prominent Jewish families.

“Jewish subscribers,” I said, “including Professor Cohen.”

Yesterday in the reading room, at the table in the corner, I’d spied piles of books. Behind them, I could make out white hair and a peacock feather. It was almost as if the professor had created a barricade of library books—works by Chaucer, Milton, and Austen, to name a few.

The professor didn’t seem to notice when I drew near.

“Revisiting the classics?” I asked.

“The Nazis seized my books. They stormed in and shoved my entire collection—my first editions, even my article about Beowulf whose last page was still in the typewriter—into crates.”

“No…” I wrapped my arm around her shoulder. “I’m so sorry…”

“I am, too.” She gestured helplessly to the piles. “I wanted to sit with my favorites again.”

At the staff meeting, Margaret said, “Forty years of research gone.”

“We know her favorites,” Bitsi said. “I can scour the booksellers to replace some.”

“What about our other subscribers?” Miss Reeder asked.

“And the Russian library?” Boris added.

“What about our Library?” I said.

“She’s right,” Miss Reeder said. “The Nazis will be here soon enough.”

* * *

IN OCTOBER, SCHOOL began, proof that life went on, no matter what. Mothers ironed shirts and made sure their children had notebooks and pencils. Certain foods were becoming scarce, and housewives waited in long lines at butcher shops. Fashion magazines churned out tips on how women should wear their hats (tipped to the back). Margaret and I boxed books to send to internment camps in the French countryside, where Communists, Gypsies, and enemy aliens—civilians whose country happened to be at war with Germany—were imprisoned.

The Propagandastaffel worked overtime, trying to stir up resentment. Posters plastered on buildings, metro stations, and theater lobbies showed a French sailor flailing in a red sea of blood. Clutching the tattered tricolor, he implored, “Don’t forget Oran!” where the British navy had scuttled our ships. How could we forget? They’d killed more than a thousand French sailors. M. de Nerciat still wouldn’t speak to Mr. Pryce-Jones.

Refusing to be swayed by Nazi propaganda, Parisians had defaced the posters, covering “Oran” and scribbling other words so the line read, “Don’t forget your bathing suit.”

At lunchtime today, Paul and I went to Parc Monceau. Rigid with anger, he strode over the sandy pathway, and I had a hard time keeping up.

“I’ve been ordered to repair the posters,” he said. “It’s worse than directing traffic in those damn white gloves. When people see me mopping up graffiti, they snicker.”

“That’s not true.” I tucked my arm through his, but his stance didn’t soften.

“It’s humiliating. Cops used to have weapons. Now we have sponges. I used to keep people safe. Now I erase scribbles.”

“At least you’re here.”

“I’d rather be with Rémy.”

“Don’t say that,” I said.

“At least he fought. At least he’s still a man.”

“You’re doing your part.”

“By keeping their propaganda pristine?” He kicked a twig out of our way. “It’s humiliating.”

KRIEGSGEFANGENENPOST

20 October 1940

Dear Odile,

Thanks for the paté. Everyone enjoyed it. Though most who receive food from home share, there are a few hoarders. How disappointing that even in such conditions, we can’t pull together.

Paul sent news clippings and a sketch he did of Story Hour. Bitsi’s holding an open book over her head, like it’s a roof. I can practically hear her tell the children that books are a sanctuary. I was glad to have some news from Paris. Don’t be afraid to tell me what’s going on. I want to know what’s happening there. It takes my mind from what’s happening here. We’re all going stir crazy, wondering how long we’ll be prisoners. One of the fellows has taught me to play bridge. It seems that all we have here is time.