Page 133 of The Last Library of Paris

On day three, some soldiers came in through the burned front door – luckily we were all safely downstairs. We heard their boots tramping overhead and them shouting to one another.

‘I think they’re looking to see if the building is empty,’ said Guy, as we all listened to them chatting above our heads.

Fortunately for us, the young soldiers clearly weren’t overly dedicated to their jobs. They stayed for less than half an hour and then left.

The next day, some others arrived. This time we heard them securing the building. Guy crept up the basement steps, listening at the door.

When they’d gone, he reported back that they were going to clear the books out and use the building as some sort of office for Nazi officials. I shuddered at the thought, but I was glad to know they’d clearly decided we had gone.

‘Did they mention us?’ I asked, almost dreading the answer.

‘They said there was no sign of the librarian,’ said Guy. ‘But one of them said the major wouldn’t be satisfied with that and they would have to keep looking.’

I rubbed my forehead, feeling wretched and unsure of what to do.

If they were only looking for me, then would it be safer for the others to leave? Alain was talking now, though he wasn’t eating very much. Perhaps he would soon be strong enough to go.

I wasn’t sure either way. I was crippled with indecision.

By day seven, Alain was much better physically. But he was quiet. Subdued. Very unlike Alain, all in all.

‘Alain?’ I said that evening as he lay on his bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

‘Alain?’ He turned his head to look at me, his eyes glassy. ‘Do you think the Resistance will be looking for you? Do you think they can help us?’

He didn’t reply, simply turned his head away again.

‘Leave him alone,’ Guy said. ‘He needs to rest.’

But I couldn’t help thinking that now was absolutely the time we needed the help of the Resistance most of all, and we had no way to contact them. No way of even knowing where they were. In the darkness of that night as I tried to sleep, I even wondered if the Resistance existed at all.

The following day we decided to go and find more food. Sylvie wanted to hunt out more painkillers for Alain. She was down to the last few aspirin, and she didn’t want to use more morphine when he didn’t need it.

‘Are you still in pain, Alain?’ she asked him. ‘Is your shoulder hurting?’

Alain made a face. ‘A little.’

Sylvie nodded. ‘I will get medicine,’ she said. ‘I will go to see Jacques.’

On the street parallel to the library was a tiny tabac, run by Jacques – a Jewish man. He, of course, hadn’t been allowed to trade since the Germans arrived. His children had gone with their mother, fleeing France for safer places – though I wasn’t sure where. But we had given him books to read, and Guy had helped him board up his broken windows, and so when we first went into hiding, it was Jacques we turned to for help. He had a shop full of tins of food and other non-perishable goods. It had been a real lifesaver.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Guy said. He looked at Alain, who was – I had to admit – looking much better. He’d eaten some food and he was sitting up in bed.

‘Will you be all right?’ he asked Alain. ‘We won’t be long.’

Alain nodded.

Guy gave his leg a pat under the thin blanket and Alain caught his hand and pulled him into a hug. It felt significant, though I wasn’t sure why.

Curfew was close and it was getting dark now – I felt safer leaving the library in the dim light – and it was raining, so Guy and I huddled under an umbrella. Sylvie pulled her hat on, right down over her ears, and we hurried off. Jacques had no aspirin, but he had made chicken soup.

‘How did you get chicken?’ Guy said in astonishment.

‘Not a whole chicken,’ said Jacques. ‘A tiny bit of chicken. It is mostly rice, I admit. But it is good. It is healing.’

My eyes were hot with tears as I thought about this man, who had nothing, making soup to make us feel better.

We weren’t gone long – less than an hour certainly. Guy and I locked the door behind us, while Sylvie took the soup to Alain. But when we headed back to the basement, she was waiting at the top of the stairs, looking sick with worry.