Page 14 of The Last Library of Paris

I loved Paris. Or at least, I had loved it before the war. Now everything was different. Even the road signs were all in German now.

I pedalled past the mairie – the town hall – for the district, where of course the flagpoles were now hung with Nazi flags. The French Tricolores were long gone. Outside the building a queue of people stood in silence, waiting for the ration tickets that would provide the meagre allowances the Germans let us have. I was fortunate that I only had to think of myself; I couldn’t imagine how it would feel for mothers and fathers to watch their children going hungry.

My legs worked faster as I passed the sorry sight. I didn’t want to linger there with the feeling of desperation in the air. Plus, there were more soldiers keeping an eye on the queue, and I didn’t want to attract their attention, either.

I turned the corner and with my head down and my eyes firmly fixed on the road, I headed for my first stop.

The deliveries always took longer than I expected them to. Always. Everyone liked to chat about the book they’d just read, and how life was treating them – not well, of course, but their stoicism astonished and impressed me.

At one stop, I found fresh vegetables in the kitchen and looked at the couple – Manon and Fred – in amazement.

‘There’s a man,’ Manon said to me in a low voice. ‘Well, a group of men. They’re getting the train each week to farms outside Paris and getting fruit and vegetables to sell.’

‘Black market,’ I said with a disapproving curl of my lip. There was always someone getting rich in times of crisis.

But Manon shook her head, a small smile on her face. ‘More a grey market,’ she said. ‘The prices are not too high. The men are helping.’

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but she insisted things weren’t as cut and dried as I thought.

‘You do what you have to do,’ she said.

‘Indeed,’ I said. But still I protested when she tried to get me to take a few potatoes and carrots.

‘Take them,’ Manon said. ‘We have plenty.’

Overwhelmed by her kindness, I put the vegetables into my basket and carried on.

I eventually reached Maurice’s little house, near the river, where I saw Guy’s bicycle outside.

‘I thought I’d missed you,’ I said when he answered the door to my knock. ‘Is he still bad?’

‘Worse,’ Guy said. He stood back to allow me to enter. Maurice’s tiny cottage was all on one floor, with the bed in the corner. He lay there, breathing shallow and his face wan.

‘Maurice,’ I said, going over to him. ‘What’s going on there, buddy? I hate to see you this way.’

Maurice’s eyes opened and he tried to speak through dry lips.

‘Here.’ Guy handed me a cup of water and I helped Maurice sit up enough to drink. Then he fixed me with a stern look and said: ‘Stupide femme Americaine.’

‘Hey!’ I laughed mostly out of relief because Maurice and I had always teased one another about our nationalities and if he was still joking that meant he was still with us. ‘You’re a lazy Frenchman.’

He gave me a small smile and rested back against his pillow.

Guy tugged my sleeve and we moved away slightly so we could talk without Maurice overhearing.

‘He’s run out of his medicine,’ he said quietly. ‘He takes pills for his kidney problems.’

‘Can we get more?’

‘I can,’ said Guy. ‘But not legally.’

I looked at him. ‘Where?’

‘I know someone …’

‘Black market?’

‘No.’ He lowered his voice even more. ‘Resistance.’