“How are things at the Library?”

I heard the questions she didn’t ask. Will my friends notice I’m gone? Will they miss me?

The professor’s expression, unguarded, was filled with an immense sorrow. How odd to see this internal landscape—the inside of an apartment, the inside of a life. To enter a subscriber’s home and see things meant to remain private. I didn’t know what to say. Neither did she. In the end, it was the author who found the words. “Thank you for bringing the books. I must get back to my novel.”

* * *

NEWS FROM THE outside world rarely reached the Occupied Zone. Though Miss Reeder’s mother had written weekly since 1929, the Directress hadn’t received a letter in six months. No foreign books or periodicals arrived; I imagined them stacked up in a New York warehouse.

Even with rations, food became hard to find. At the market, Maman queued for an hour to buy three puny leeks. Miss Reeder’s polka-dot dress, once formfitting, now hung on her slight frame. Helen-in-reference still had frizzy hair and dreamy eyes, but she’d lost twelve pounds. Like them, I’d become too thin. I told Dr. Thomas that I hadn’t had my period in months; he said I wasn’t the only one.

Famished, I moved at half speed, delivering reading material throughout Paris, from posh apartments bordering Parc Monceau to modest rooms in Montmartre. Today at the checkpoint, one of the soldiers—the officer in charge—took a closer look at the contents in my satchel. “Call of the Wild? The Last of the Mohicans? What’s a French girl doing with novels in English? Show me your papers!”

The Kapit?n ran his finger over the photo of my carte d’identité, perhaps convinced it was counterfeit. He asked the other soldiers a question in German. They moved closer, until I was surrounded. I’d never felt smaller. Examining the books, the Soldaten spoke quickly; I could only make out a few words: Gross Roman Gut. What were they saying? Did they think I was carrying messages? Would they arrest me? What excuses could I offer? That I was a librarian at the ALP? No, they might visit. That I had an English friend? No, they might detain Margaret.

“A ‘French girl’ can be interested in other cultures, you know,” I told them. “My brother and I appreciate Goethe.”

The Kapit?n nodded approvingly. “We Germans have good writers.”

He handed back my belongings; I hurried away before he changed his mind.

It was difficult to avoid these spot checks because the Nazis set up barricades on random streets. When I finished my deliveries, I returned to the Library and warned Margaret about the danger of being arrested as an enemy alien.

“I know. On my way home yesterday, I spied a checkpoint and darted into a milliner’s. Three hours and four hats later, the Nazis left.” She wound her pearls around her finger. “It feels as if there’s a noose around my neck.”

When our bookkeeper missed work, we feared the worst. We searched Miss Wedd’s apartment building, hospitals, and police stations, before Boris learned what had happened—the Nazis had arrested her and sent her to an internment camp in eastern France. Imprisoned because she was British.

Miss Reeder decided that foreign staff members should leave France. “One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do is ask Helen-and-Peter to leave,” she told subscribers and staff at the farewell party. “I know it’s the right decision. My head—and heart—will function much easier when I know they’re safe.”

Helen’s complexion was ashen, but there was a light in her eyes. Peter had proposed. Knowing that their Library love story would endure made us feel less blue as we raised a glass to bid them adieu.

“Thank goodness Miss Reeder is staying,” I told Bitsi.

“For now,” she replied.

* * *

FEBRUARY, MARCH, APRIL. Winter wouldn’t let go. Gray clouds groped the sky, a dreary rain drizzled day and night. On his daily round, Paul brought me a bouquet of lilacs. “You’ve been so glum,” he said. “Have you heard from Rémy recently?”

I pulled an envelope from my pocket and unfolded his latest letter as if it were priceless linen.

Dear Odile,

Happy Easter! I’m thinking of you. Thanks for Villette. I’m beginning to think of the Bront?s as dear friends.

We’ve been forced to work on farms. Their men are fighting on the Eastern Front, so mostly, it’s women and old folks here. We prisoners are trotted into town, where the landowners sniff around us, wanting a brawny worker.

Fellows sabotage what they can—the farmers are the enemy, after all. I wish you could meet Marcel. When an old frau led him to her barn and shoved a pail into his chest, expecting him to milk the cow, he yanked on its tail as one would pump water from a well. Startled, the heifer kicked him. Now he’s laid up with me in the barrack. He insists the look of disgust on the frau’s face was worth a couple of broken ribs.

Love,

Rémy

He put on a good front for me, the way I did for him.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.

“Where to begin? There’s a German soldier billeted at Bitsi’s apartment. He sleeps in her brother’s room. I don’t know how she bears it. Yesterday after work, she wept in the children’s room, and I didn’t know if I should comfort her or pretend I didn’t see. She has her pride, after all. M. de Nerciat and Mr. Pryce-Jones still aren’t speaking—I hate that the war has ruined their friendship. We worry for Miss Reeder, who gets gaunter by the day—”