Page 51 of The Last Library of Paris

I cycled a little slower when I passed the end of the street he’d walked down, wondering where he was going. I knew where he lived and it was quite a way from here, and he wasn’t walking towards the library either.

I was cycling so slowly now, I was in danger of my bicycle toppling over as I saw a soldier in uniform melt out of the shadows at the side of the road. I put my feet down, coming to a standstill, and I held my breath, poised to act – though I had no idea how – if it seemed Alain was in trouble.

The Nazi glanced round, then as he walked past Alain, he handed something to him, subtly. So subtly you’d never notice if you weren’t watching, and Alain gave him something in return, and then they both walked on. It was quick and half in shadow, but I knew what I’d seen.

I fiddled with the basket of my bike to give myself a reason for stopping, then when the Nazi approached the end of the street, coming towards me, I headed off again, pedalling much faster this time.

My hands were sweating as I gripped the handlebars. Why was Alain passing things to Nazi soldiers? Had I made a terrible mistake inviting him into our library and our tiny acts of rebellion? I pedalled faster, my thoughts racing as my legs pumped. What if he’d passed the soldier a list of Jewish names? The Nazis would not be happy to know anyone was acting on behalf of the people they were ostracising. I felt sick.

When I arrived at the library, I was clammy and upset. I hurried inside and found Sylvie arranging the loans desk. She looked at me with undisguised horror.

‘What has happened?’ she said. ‘Why is your hair like this …’ She gestured to her own lovely head of hair, smoothing it down flat against her forehead.

‘Oh,’ I said, touching my sweaty bangs. ‘I was cycling.’

‘It’s not raining.’

‘No.’

There was a pause. I took off my cardigan, ignoring Sylvie’s grimace as I dropped it on the desk.

‘Sylvie, I just saw Alain with a Nazi soldier.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Is he in trouble?’

‘No. He gave him something.’

‘What did he give him?’

‘I’m not sure. I couldn’t see. Something small. And the Nazi gave him something in return.’

‘Money?’ said Sylvie.

‘Perhaps.’

Sylvie’s shoulders relaxed, as though that was a relief. ‘Alain knows where to get things.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Medication. Alcohol.’

‘Nazis have their own doctors.’

‘For some things.’ Sylvie straightened a pen on her desk. ‘But other illnesses are harder to get medicine for. You know what I mean? Alain gets the drugs people need.’

‘For Parisians,’ I said. ‘Not for Nazis.’

‘For whoever can pay.’

‘It’s not right.’

Sylvie sighed as if I was being terribly stupid. ‘If Alain gets medication, or alcohol, or anything else for Nazis, he can charge them a lot of money for it. And that money pays for other things like the medication he gave to Maurice.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘I don’t like any of this,’ said Sylvie bleakly. ‘Ils nous prennant tout.’

They take everything. People were saying that more and more now about the Nazis. They had stripped Paris of everything from its food shops to its art and its people. They’d taken our dignity, our friendships, our trust. Now I was doubting a man who had helped us.