Page 12 of The Last Library of Paris

Averting my eyes from the swastikas hanging from the building opposite, I looked proudly at the Stars and Stripes flying from our flagpole. We were the American Library of Paris. The last library still open in the city. And though the Nazis had removed all the Tricolores from Paris, they hadn’t taken my US flag. I thought it was just a matter of time before someone tore it down, but for now, there it stayed, flapping gently in the morning breeze. I turned the handlebars and rattled through the archway entrance to the library.

The sun was warm on my back as I dismounted, in a slightly ungainly fashion, and took the books from the basket. It was going to be another hot day. I thought about the German soldiers in their thick uniforms and heavy hats and allowed myself a small smile at how uncomfortable they would be.

Inside the library was quiet and cool. My footsteps echoed through the building as I walked through the back entrance and into the main lobby where my colleague Sylvie was sitting at the desk.

She raised an eyebrow at me, in an especially Gallic way, and said: ‘You’re late.’

‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘You’re early.’

‘My neighbour was cooking fish, and the whole building was smelly,’ she said with a scowl. ‘Who eats fish for …’ She flailed her hand, losing the English word.

‘Breakfast,’ I said. ‘Le petit-déjeuner.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not right.’

‘In fancy country houses in England they eat kedgeree for breakfast,’ I told her, putting my pile of books onto the counter. ‘It’s rice and smoked haddock, with spices.’ I frowned, trying to remember. ‘And a boiled egg.’

Sylvie looked appalled.

‘Oh, it’s awful,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Like a whole load of foods that shouldn’t be eaten together all at once. If you have so much as one mouthful, you can taste it for days.’

‘The Brits are rotten,’ Sylvie said.

‘They’re our only hope,’ I reminded her. ‘God help us.’

With another roll of her eyes, Sylvie stood up and reached for the books. ‘What are these?’

‘Another donation. From Delphine Blum? Remember her? She ran that little bookshop near the Tuileries. Lovely woman, says she couldn’t give much, but she wanted to do her bit.’

Sylvie’s expression softened. ‘Delphine,’ she said. ‘I know her. She’s still in Paris?’

‘She was packing her bags when I went yesterday.’

I closed my eyes briefly as I remembered the fear in Delphine’s eyes.

‘Where will she go?’

I shrugged. ‘She says she has family down south, but it’s risky for her to travel.’

‘She should have gone before the Nazis came.’

‘Easy to say that now.’

Sylvie nodded. ‘I suppose.’

‘Is Guy here already?’

‘Upstairs. Should we open up?’

I glanced at the big clock over her head and nodded. It was important to me that we kept opening the library every day, at the same time as we’d always opened, even when no one came.

Sylvie came round from behind the desk and together we walked to the large wooden doors at the front of the library. I turned the key and with some effort – especially on Sylvie’s part because she was tiny, though her arms were lean and muscled – we each pulled one door, letting the morning sunshine stream in.

‘Nous sommes prêts,’ Sylvie said.

‘Ready for anything,’ I added. ‘Ah, bonjour, Patrice.’

‘Bonjour, Frances,’ the man waiting outside said. I smiled at him, grateful that some of our readers – the ones who were still allowed to visit the library – kept coming. ‘Bonjour, Sylvie.’