Page 5 of The Librarian Spy

If Joseph was not back by dawn the following day, however, desperation would draw her to the police, no matter the risk.

The massive wooden doors of her apartment building came into view, and she pushed inside to the courtyard. All was quiet within.

A quick stop by their letterbox revealed it to be empty and devoid of any clues as to Joseph’s whereabouts. The sense of unease in her gut tightened further still as she tried to suppress the hope that he would be home.

She trudged up the stairs to the fourth floor and to the narrow apartment that Joseph’s parents left him when his mother passed away several years before the war. Though Hélène and Joseph were in Paris at the time, he kept his childhood home with the intent to use it for holidays. They did so several times. One summer in particular, they explored the winding streets during the day and stayed out late in the evening, drinking wine along the Rhône as the warm July air cooled. Lucky for them, the apartment was a place of refuge when the Germans marched into Paris. With so many fleeing to Lyon in those days, such accommodations would have been impossible to find otherwise.

Joseph hadn’t wanted to flee the City of Light when they were all warned to go, loathe to abandon his students and his work. But he had left everything in Paris for her, to keep her safe. That had been three years ago, back when their marriage had been happy.

She unlocked the door and pushed inside to reveal a dark, empty entryway.

“Joseph?”

Though she expected no answer, a sense of despair washed over her when none came. He really was gone.

But where? And when would he finally return?

The sky darkened as the imposed curfew neared. Each second dragged into a minute in her interminable wait for Joseph to come home. Hélène was preparing to retire early, yielding to the exhaustion of a heavy heart and an empty belly when a soft knock sounded at the front door.

Surely Joseph wouldn’t knock. Unless, of course, he didn’t have his key.

She ran to the entryway with such haste, the floorboards barely creaked underfoot. But it was not her husband who stood on the other side of the door. A woman with blond hair similar to her own regarded Hélène warily with wide dark eyes.

The blood in Hélène’s veins turned to ice at the appearance of a stranger. She nearly slammed the door when the woman put her hand to the glossy wooden surface to keep it from closing.

“Pierre.” She whispered so quietly, Hélène could hardly make out the name.

“Is he here?” the woman continued in her almost silent tone. “Please, I must see him.” The glance she cast behind held an edge of paranoia.

Exactly the kind of thing a neighbor like Madame Arnaud was liable to notice.

Hélène waved the woman in to prevent her from speaking further. While Hélène knew no one named Pierre, the woman was obviously in danger.

Which meant Hélène was now also in danger.

But somehow, she could not turn away the woman. Not when Joseph had so mysteriously gone missing. Not when a niggling at the back of Hélène’s brain suggested this might all be related.

The stranger hesitated a moment before stepping over the threshold. Her brown coat was dappled with raindrops from the evening drizzle, and the hem of a dark maroon dress fell past her knees. While her garments appeared to be clean and in good condition, her black shoes were scuffed beyond repair.

Only when the door clicked closed did the stranger speak again. “Please, I must see Pierre. I know I should not have come here, but I did not have any other choice.”

Hélène shook her head. “I know no Pierre, but perhaps I can help. What’s happened?”

The woman’s eyes went wider still at Hélène’s admission, and she backed up toward the door.

“Is it the police?” Hélène pressed in a low voice. “The Gestapo?”

Her own heart pounded at the risk she was taking. This woman could be a collaborator like Madame Arnaud across the hall, who monitored everyone like a beady-eyed predator and always commented about Hélène having no children. But then, few possessed the fecundity of Madame Arnaud with her eight sons. A proper Vichy wife to be sure.

If the stranger was indeed a collaborator, Hélène would surely be turned in for having asked about danger from the Gestapo.

The woman’s desperate gaze scanned the apartment behind Hélène, like she was seeking something urgent. “I need papers.”

Hélène frowned. “I don’t have any papers here.”

“An identity card, a new one. I was told Pierre...” Tears swam in the woman’s eyes and her face crumpled. “I escaped the roundup several months ago on Rue Sainte-Catherine and have been in hiding since, but every place I go is found out. I need new papers. Ones that don’t have this.”

Hands shaking, she presented her identity card, declaring her to be Claudine Goldstein with a red stamp at the top. JUIF. Jew.