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.

No one can believe that France has lost and so quickly. At the pulpit, the priest shook his Bible at us and bellowed that defeat is God’s punishment for our lack of moral values.

Papa said that a few people were arrested for writing graffiti or throwing rocks at German soldiers, but other than that, the situation’s calm. Paul looks angry enough to kill someone. He says his job now consists of directing traffic for the Nazis. They ordered him to wear white gloves, which make him feel like “a goddamn butler.” Soon he’ll help with harvest on his aunt’s farm. The change will do him good.

It must be hell for you to not be able to hold Bitsi in your arms. She misses you terribly. I swear that while you’re gone, I’ll take the best, sweetest care of her.

We haven’t had news from Margaret and hope she’s safe. The few subscribers who remain are checking out more novels than ever before, perhaps as a way to escape this unsettling metamorphosis—Boris calls it “France Kafka.”

Love,

Odile

“English Fleet scuttles two French battleships—Over 1000 French Sailors Killed,” read the headline. According to the Herald, across the Mediterranean in Oran, the English feared that the French navy would allow the Nazis to confiscate their ships. The English admiral gave the French an ultimatum—surrender your vessels or we’ll sink them—and six hours to relinquish the ships. When l’admiral refused, the English attacked. I read the article twice, but still didn’t understand. Allies were fighting each other?

“Traitor!” Monsieur de Nerciat shouted at Mr. Pryce-Jones. I didn’t need to read the newspaper to know that France had cut diplomatic ties with England. For days, I watched Monsieur stomp through the Library, muttering about finding a seat that hadn’t been tainted by betrayal.

I felt Boris beside me. “Phone call,” he said, his green eyes mournful. “Your father.”

I ran to the circulation desk and grabbed the receiver. “Papa? Is it Rémy?”

“Come home, dearest,” he said.

I fetched Bitsi, who was reading to a handful of children. One look at me, and she dropped her book. Rushing out of the Library, I grabbed her hand and tugged her along. We raced down the street, raced toward… I stopped. “What is it?” she asked. I shook my head. Suddenly I wanted to take as long as possible, afraid that Rémy was… I couldn’t say it, I couldn’t even think it. Right now, he was alive. Perhaps when we got home, he wouldn’t be.

Our life together played out before me. Our fifth birthday, when Maman had baked the chocolate cake with burnt edges. The day Papa took us to ride ponies in the Bois. The time Rémy and I filled the sugar bowl with salt, which caused Maman and her friends to choke on their tea. When she complained to Papa, expecting him to scold, he doubled over with a big belly laugh I wasn’t sure I’d heard since. Maman, no fool, only used sugar cubes after that. Endless Sunday lunches where a wink from Rémy was the only thing that kept me sane. The most important meal of my life, when I met Paul. Every memory included Rémy.

Until he’d joined the army, he was the first person I spoke to in the morning, the last at night. My best friend, my other half. Not that I’d ever told him. What if we’d spoken our last words to each other? I remembered the day he’d left home. What had I said? Take your sweater, you’ll catch cold? Hurry up, you’ll miss the train?

“Stop it,” Bitsi said.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

At home, Papa sat Bitsi and me down next to Maman, who was as pale as an aspirin. He braced himself against the hearth.

“We’ve received news of Rémy,” he said.