Page 19 of The Secret Librarian
Camille assessed her for a little longer, before finally calling out.
‘Good morning,’ she said in Portuguese, even though she was certain the woman wouldn’t know the language. Her dress was fashionable, and she was wearing heels, her dark-blonde hair half up with soft curls falling from the pins. She looked ... Camille narrowed her gaze. She looked distinctly out of place, and itimmediately made Camille suspicious. If she wasn’t local, and she wasn’t a refugee, then who was she?
The woman nodded, her eyes meeting Camille’s.
‘You’re French?’ Camille asked, in her native tongue, just to see whether the woman could understand her or not.
‘American,’ the woman replied, flashing Camille a small smile. ‘But my grandmother was French and my grandfather Portuguese, so I speak a little of both languages.’
‘And what brings an American girl all the way to Lisbon?’ Camille asked, frowning.
She’d seen all sorts come looking in her shop, usually British, German or even Japanese men, as well as an increasing number of Americans lately, and they were all looking for foreign newspapers or magazines, all eager to obtain the same material it seemed. The last American had offered to trade her chewing gum and candy if Camille made sure to keep certain papers behind the counter for him alone, on top of whatever price she charged. It didn’t take much guesswork to know they were spies, and with Portugal being one of the few places they could move around without sanctions, in a country almost entirely unaffected by the war, it was like a melting pot of nationalities. The fact they seemed to have an unlimited amount of money to spend was another giveaway.
‘Actually, would you believe that I’m a librarian?’ the American said. ‘I’ve been sent here to find and preserve history for our Library of Congress. They’re determined to document the war as carefully as possible, for historical purposes, so I’m going to be very busy ...’ The woman laughed. ‘Sorry, I talk too much when I’m nervous!’
Camille didn’t buy the story for a second. The woman’s eyes were wide and she looked more nervous than a girl on her first date, which told Camille that there was more to the story than she was letting on. Camille certainly wasn’t convinced the woman wasa librarian, and the last thing she needed was trouble around her shop, or another reason for the police to come looking.
‘Well, that’s all rather interesting,’ Camille replied. ‘I dare say you’re the first American librarian I’ve met before, although perhaps there are more here and they simply haven’t introduced themselves?’
The woman smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘All the others would have been men though, so they might not stick out like a sore thumb in the same way I do.’
‘Ahh, I see,’ Camille said, considering the woman before her and trying to ascertain whether she was genuinely nervous or playing a very convincing part. Perhaps the talking-too-much nerves were part of her cover story. ‘And this endeavour, it is helpful to your country?’
The American frowned. ‘Yes, it’s very helpful. They’ve sent me a long way to complete the task.’
Camille forced a smile, considering that she’d been too direct with her question. It wasn’t her intention to be rude to customers, especially not American ones with deep pockets when she very much needed the money. ‘And how are you finding Lisbon so far?’
‘It’s beautiful here. Nothing at all what I expected. We keep hearing stories of fallen cities and ruined buildings back home in America, but to think war hasn’t touched Portugal is almost impossible to believe until you see it with your own eyes. It’s certainly something else.’ She paused for breath. ‘I’ve heard that Jews and Nazis might even pass on a street corner here. Is it true?’
‘Yes, it’s true,’ Camille said. ‘But don’t for a moment think that those Jews aren’t terrified, just because they’re in Lisbon, because they are. They’ve seen things, experienced things, that you couldn’t even imagine if you tried. So the fact that they might be standing on a street corner side by side does not for a second mean they’re not still scared, that war hasn’t touched here, because it has.’
The woman’s eyes widened and her cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. That was incredibly naive of me.’
But Camille found she couldn’t stop now that she’d started speaking, anger bubbling up inside of her. ‘Those French Jews who’ve made it here? They are only a handful, a lucky few who managed to flee and find safety here. If you’d seen Nazi soldiers marching the streets in Paris as if they owned the place, hungry children starving and begging for food, the mothers lined on street corners ...’ Camille blinked away a tear, knowing she should stop but not able to; she was so angry. It was all too much – this naive American, the night she’d spent with Kiefer, the memories she was trying so hard to bury. ‘War has touched here,’ she said, softly this time, restraining herself. ‘Just because the Jews don’t have yellow stars pinned to their jackets and the buildings are still standing, doesn’t mean it hasn’t touched the people here.’
The American’s eyes were filled with tears now, and Camille regretted how harsh she’d been with her words. But after everything she’d been witness to, she couldn’t stand that anyone could be so naive.
‘Please accept my apology,’ she said, taking a deep breath and holding out her hand. ‘The war has taken a lot from me, but I should have held my tongue. I’m Camille.’
‘Avery,’ the woman said, her palm soft against Camille’s. ‘But there’s no need to apologise. You were right in speaking frankly, and it’s me who should be sorry. It was a silly question I asked.’
They both stared at each other for a long moment, before Camille finally spoke again. ‘May I help you find something while you’re here? A book perhaps? It’s the least I can do.’
‘Well,’ Avery said hesitantly, as if she wasn’t sure what to say, or perhaps she was trying to be careful with her words so she didn’t receive another sharply worded lecture. ‘I’m interested in books, but I’m really looking for newspapers.’
‘Foreign editions?’ Camille asked. ‘You mean British? German? Or our local Portuguese paper that’s delivered every day?’
Avery’s smile seemed more relaxed now, and Camille found herself curious all over again about who this woman actually was. Given how Avery had reacted to the tongue-lashing she’d given her, Camille was starting to wonder if shewasperhaps just an innocent librarian and not a highly trained spy.
‘Well, anything you have would be a great start,’ Avery said. ‘I’d also, well, the book burning in Berlin ...’
Camille waited, not filling the silence and letting Avery continue talking instead.
‘The types of books that were destroyed, well, it would be a great shame to not preserve them for history’s sake, if you know what I mean. If you ever had a copy, I would most certainly be interested.’
Camille didn’t imagine for a moment that an American woman had been sent all the way to Portugal for history’s sake, but she went along with it anyway.
‘The books you speak of, if I were to have anything like that and the wrong person discovered such a thing ... Well.’ Camille paused and lowered her voice, realising just how ill-informed Avery truly was. It was as if she didn’t even understand how careful she had to be, that a person couldn’t just speak their mind in such a way. ‘Avery, you can’t go around asking openly for those types of books. Lisbon, all of Portugal in fact, leans very heavily towards fascism.’
