CHAPTER 38 Odile

IN THE COUNTESS’S office, I eyed the makeshift mattress where she slept each night in order to keep watch over the Library—she was seventy years old, yet ready to confront Nazi soldiers. A few books rested near her pillow. I leaned forward to see the titles, but Bitsi tugged at my sleeve, urging me toward the others who’d gathered at the desk. Meetings that had once teemed with staff had dwindled to the secretary, the caretaker, Bitsi, Boris, Margaret, me, and Clara de Chambrun.

“Mr. Pryce-Jones was arrested,” the Countess began, “and sent to an internment camp.”

No, not another friend lost, locked up for being an “enemy alien.”

“M. de Nerciat has been fighting for his release,” she continued.

“I’ve read distressing reports,” Boris said. “They’re not sending people to internment camps, but to death camps.”

“Propaganda,” she said dismissively. “Think of the rumors we’ve heard.”

“Was he denounced?” Bitsi asked.

“It’s likely,” Boris said.

This war was taking everyone I held dear. Everything—my country, my city, my friends—had been looted and betrayed, and I would put a stop to it the only way I knew how. I needed to destroy those letters. I no longer cared if I got in trouble. One thing was sure. Something would burn. I ran out of the Library, Boris and Bitsi shouting after me.

“Come back!”

“You’ve had a shock.”

At the commissariat, I sprinted to my father’s office, closing the door behind me. I grabbed a letter and tore it in two, then another, then another. The rustle of paper being ripped had never sounded so satisfying. Realizing Papa could enter at any moment, I stuffed a fistful of letters into my satchel, crumpling them into ugly wads.

The doorknob clicked, and the door swung open. I stepped away from the desk, fumbling as I fastened the flap.

“My dutiful daughter,” Papa said dryly. “Here to pay me a visit?”

I didn’t know how to act.

Offended? You suspect your own daughter?

Nonchalant? I’m here. Big deal.

Honest? Yes, I’m a thief.

“I’ve received letters asking why the police haven’t followed up on information from earlier ‘correspondence.’ It was puzzling, since we investigated each accusation. I couldn’t understand.” He looked pointedly at the letters I’d torn apart. “Now I do.”

My hand tightened on my satchel.

“You don’t have anything to say for yourself?” he said.

I shook my head.

“I could be arrested,” he said. “They sentence traitors to death.”

“But surely you won’t be blamed.”

“My God, how can you still be so naive?” He placed his palms on his desk and bowed his head, almost in defeat.

“But, Papa—”

“Anyone else I would arrest. Go home. And never come back.”

I left with just a handful of letters. The most important thing I could do, and I’d failed.