Chapter 17 Frances
Frances
Paris
Guy and I had been sorting books all day, because the Soldiers’ Book Service had taken off in a way I’d never expected.
We were getting requests from all over France and beyond.
From hospitals, army camps, prison camps, and even from individual soldiers.
We sent packages of books roughly every other week, but we were already talking about how to increase the collections.
And as word spread about what we were doing, we were being sent donations of books, and money, to keep things going. I’d written to many of my old friends about our scheme, and they’d told others and every day brought more deliveries, and more donations.
Today’s erratic Paris postal service had also brought a couple of thank-you notes from soldiers who’d received a book, which was gratifying.
‘We should put a map of Europe on the wall, and mark everywhere we’ve sent books,’ Guy suggested. ‘It would be great to see how far we are spreading.’
I was reading another request. ‘And North Africa,’ I said, waving the note at him. ‘And the Middle East; this is from soldiers in Syria.’
‘?a alors,’ said Guy, making me laugh. I loved the ways the French had of expressing surprise.
‘It’s just frustrating that we can’t provide a library in every hospital,’ said Guy.
‘And every POW camp,’ I added. ‘Though I’m glad our efforts are being appreciated.’
Guy picked up one of the notes we’d been sent. ‘It makes it all feel worthwhile.’ He looked serious for a moment. ‘Can we keep this up, Frances? It is a lot of work and there aren’t many of us.’
‘There may only be three of us …’
‘Four,’ said Guy.
I hid my grimace. ‘Four of us, but we are stronger than the sum of our parts,’ I said. I paused. ‘Guy, has Alain said much to you about what he does when he’s not here?’
‘Bits and pieces,’ Guy said cautiously. ‘Why?’
Because I saw him with a Nazi, I thought. But I didn’t say that. ‘I’m just curious,’ I said.
Guy frowned but he didn’t argue.
I looked at the piles of books surrounding us.
‘Perhaps we should move everything downstairs, so we can keep the library open and sort books at the same time? Rather than keeping things separate. There’s plenty of room down there.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Guy. ‘Then we can all do a bit of everything.’
‘We’ll do that when the next donation arrives,’ I said. ‘But for now, let’s get sorting this last lot of books. Shall I put them in alphabetical order, and you shake the pages? Or the other way round?’
‘I’ll shake,’ said Guy. ‘I know we are checking for propaganda, but I like to find other things inside. Shopping lists that remind me of the way things were, or metro tickets, or pressed flowers.’
I smiled. ‘Poignant reminders of better times.’
‘Exactly.’
We got to work, me arranging the books into alphabetical piles, while Guy shook each one to see if there was anything hidden inside.
After an hour or so, I stood up, stretching out my back.
‘We should finish up.’
‘No deliveries to readers today?’
I shook my head. ‘Not today. There are only a few requests, so it makes sense to bundle them all with tomorrow’s delivery. You can tell Alain to stand down for tonight.’
Guy looked rather pleased about that.
‘Shall I ask Sylvie to close up?’
‘Yes, please.’
Guy nodded and wandered off. I went to look out of the window, to check there were no late readers approaching the library.
There were not. But as I watched, I saw a man in uniform, walking along the street.
I tracked his progress carefully, on high alert, but then he lifted his face to look up at the building, and I saw it was the man who’d visited before – Marcus.
I knocked on the window, and he glanced up in my direction.
Come round the back, I mouthed, pointing to my right and hoping he’d understand.
He gave me a nod, and carried on walking past the main door of the library.
I hurried out of my office and downstairs to where Sylvie was putting on her coat by the main desk.
‘Be careful getting home,’ I said. I worried a lot about Sylvie, and the way she treated the whole Nazi occupation like a colossal inconvenience and refused to be bullied by irritating soldiers.
Now she gave me an exasperated glance.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘I’ll come with you, Sylvie,’ said Guy, who also worried about her. He looked at me. ‘If it’s all right for me to go now, too?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll lock up.’
Guy was already winding a scarf round his neck.
‘à bient?t,’ he said.
‘à bient?t.’
I pulled the heavy doors shut behind them and dropped the lock with a satisfying clang. Then I turned and went to the back door.
‘Hello?’ I whispered into the gloomy evening.
Marcus emerged from a shadow, his hat under his arm. ‘Hello.’
‘Come in, quickly.’
He slipped in through the door, like he was a shadow himself, and I closed it behind him.
Without talking we made our way upstairs and into my office, and I closed that door too. Just like the first time, Marcus checked for listening devices, looking into corners, under the desk, on the telephone and all sorts. But this time it was far less frightening, and I watched him with interest.
Finally, he nodded, and sat down in the chair opposite mine.
‘All clear,’ he said.
‘No one comes in here without me,’ I pointed out. ‘I’m hardly likely to listen to my own conversations.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ he said, and once again his English accent jarred with his uniform.
I smiled at him. ‘Would you like a drink? Coffee?’
‘How about something a little stronger?’ He reached into his jacket and pulled out a large hip flask, which he waggled in my direction. ‘I owe you a brandy.’
‘I’ll get the glasses.’
I went to the shelf and took down two glasses and Marcus sloshed the brandy into them.
‘Did you bring the books?’ I asked. I took a large gulp and felt the liquid warming my insides.
‘I brought one of them.’
‘Only one?’
‘I couldn’t decide if it was riskier to bring them all at once or individually,’ Marcus said, scratching his head. ‘Thought this way was best.’
I nodded. ‘That makes sense.’
He had a bag with him. Now he put it on the desk and opened the buckles. Inside was a leather-bound book.
‘Here.’ He passed it to me.
‘Flora und Fauna des Schwarzwaldes,’ I read.
‘Flora and Fauna of the Black Forest,’ he translated.
I raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Danke.’
‘I thought if I made it sound boring, no one would look at it twice.’
‘Smart.’ I opened the front cover, admiring the pencil sketch of a tree on the page. ‘Did you draw that?’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘It’s pretty.’
‘I like it. Do you still draw?’
‘There isn’t much to inspire me here in Paris.’
I flicked through the pages. They were neatly typed and there were occasional line drawings of a person. Nothing detailed, more an impression of a figure.
‘I wanted to capture something about some of the people I spoke to,’ Marcus said. He took a large swig of his brandy. ‘I didn’t want them to be forgotten.’
Turning back to the first page, I read aloud: ‘1933. Is it like a diary? From way back then? That was when you first went to Germany? But you weren’t involved with the Nazis at that time?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘I was working for the SOE but I wasn’t a sleeper agent then. It was mostly observation, intelligence gathering, that kind of thing. War still felt avoidable back then.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘I just felt it was important to write it down,’ he said. ‘The early entries are just my own thoughts. They burned the books, you know?’
‘I remember,’ I said. ‘Awful.’
‘I stood outside the opera house in Berlin, and I watched the fires. I felt sick thinking about how my mother would feel. She loves books. She loves culture. She thinks education and learning is the most important thing in the world. My father too. Books are his business.’
‘Your mother is right,’ I said, smiling. ‘Your parents sound wonderful.’
He nodded. ‘They are.’
‘So you started speaking to people?’ I prompted. ‘Jews in Berlin?’
‘Yes. Everyone was scared. Many people were fleeing if they could. It was a strange time.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said, thinking of the German tanks rumbling down the Champs-élysées.
I flicked through the pages again, pausing as I went to read a story or two.
Soon I was engrossed. Marcus was a good, clear writer.
He didn’t use flowery or dramatic language.
Rather he let the stories speak for themselves.
And they were shocking. The early tales spoke of businesses being boycotted, closed shops, workshops with no work.
There were stories of civil servants being locked out of offices.
‘This is terrible,’ I said, eventually.
‘That was only the beginning,’ Marcus said. ‘This volume goes up to the start of 1938.’
‘So the next book is Kristallnacht?’
‘The Night of Broken Glass,’ said Marcus, nodding. ‘I raced around the city in the days that followed, trying to speak to anyone I could before they were arrested.’
‘You are a brave man,’ I said. ‘That was dangerous.’
‘Words are important.’
‘They are.’
Marcus looked down at his hands. ‘I know I’m a little bit odd,’ he said. ‘I am not good with people – I’m better in the company of books. I was a strange child, and as an adult I muddle along, mostly by watching others.’
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ I said.
‘Words make the world make sense.’
‘Especially in a time when very little is making sense.’
He nodded at me, and I felt a moment of understanding pass between us.
‘I have Jewish friends,’ I said. ‘Here in Paris. Perhaps I could add their stories?’
‘That would be good,’ Marcus said. ‘Important.’
‘Then I’ll speak to them. Their lives are changed so completely to how they were, I’m surprised every day that they keep going.’
‘The resilience of ordinary people is always surprising,’ Marcus said. ‘So, you’ll keep this book safe?’ he asked. ‘And the others?’
I got up and went to the shelf behind my desk.
‘This is my special bookshelf,’ I told him.
‘It’s all the books that mean something to me.
’ I grinned. ‘But it’s also whatever I’m reading at the moment.
Something that caught my eye that I fancy reading in the future.
Something I read recently.’ I ran my fingers along the books.
‘This is here because it has a ripped spine and I meant to get it mended, but I haven’t. ’
‘I can mend that,’ Marcus said, holding out his hand.
‘Really?’
‘Of course.’ He gave me a quick smile. ‘It gives me a reason to be working on the books, too. If the men I live with question what I’m up to, I’ll say I’m doing a favour for a friend.’
I handed the book over and he slid it into his bag.
‘What I’m saying is, no one will move a book from this shelf because it is mine,’ I said. ‘But also, no one will think a book is special or out of the ordinary because it’s on this shelf.’
‘It’s the perfect hiding place,’ Marcus said. ‘Thank you.’