Page 36 of The Secret Librarian
Camille could see that Avery was flustered, if not downright upset, but she needed to know. She needed to know just how far Avery was willing to go, and if she pushed her away entirely, then so be it.
‘All I know is that more people like me are being trained and deployed, to send back enemy publications. If our intelligence service didn’t think it was useful, I doubt they would be continuing the programme, and I have to believe that they’re uncovering information that’s worth my time in sending it back to Washington.’
Camille nodded. ‘What if I told you that someone with an eye for detail like you could be directly helping the Jews arrivingin Lisbon? That you could be doing so much more to help the war effort, in a different way?’ She took a breath. ‘Am I correct in believing that you’re highly proficient with a camera? You mentioned you had been microfilming in America.’
Avery’s eyes widened. ‘The allegations against you were true? You’ve been ...’ Avery lowered her voice. ‘Forging identifications?’
Camille nodded. There was no point in hiding any part of the truth now. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Yes, I’m proficient with a camera. My work involves photographing documents on to microfilm.’ Avery stared at her, as if she’d only just understood why Camille had asked her the question. ‘You’re asking ifIwould help you?’ she asked. ‘You want me to create false documentation with you?’
‘I’m asking how far you’re willing to go to help those in need,’ Camille said. ‘And yes, whether you’d use your camera to help others who desperately need you.’
Avery was silent for a moment, and Camille watched as she bent to pick up a missed fallen book from the floor, before finally turning back to her.
‘I, well, I’d need to think about it.’
Camille could sense that Avery was interested in what she’d proposed, but she could also tell that if she wanted Avery’s help, she was going to have to open up to her.
‘Have you eaten today?’
Avery shook her head.
‘How about we go back to my apartment as soon as it’s time to close up, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.’
Less than an hour later, they walked in silence down the cobbled street to Camille’s apartment, but it was a comfortable silence andCamille found she was happy to be with Avery. She’d spent her life surrounded by men after her mother had passed – her father, her brother and his friends, and then Hugo – and she hadn’t realised how much she’d been craving female companionship. But she knew that she had to tread carefully – she hadn’t known Avery for long, and Camille wasn’t usually so quick to trust.
When they reached her apartment she showed Avery in, careful to lock the door behind her before turning on the light. She only wished she had a gramophone to play some music on, which she’d always done when entertaining friends in Paris before the war. You never could be too careful about blocking out conversation.
‘I hope you like a Merlot,’ she said, taking a bottle of red wine from the little kitchen sideboard. ‘One of my French customers traded it for books last week.’
‘I’m going to sound incredibly unsophisticated,’ Avery said as she took off her jacket and laid it on the arm of a chair, ‘but I’ve never actually tried red wine.’
Camille thought back to when Hugo had first come to her family’s home for dinner, recalling the look on his face when her father had questioned Hugo about his taste in wine, and how her father had watched Hugo trying his best Cabernet Sauvignon. She took out two glasses and pulled the cork from the bottle, pushing the thoughts away.
‘You’ll come to like it, I promise,’ she said, before filling both glasses and turning to pass one to Avery. ‘But it might take some getting used to.’
Camille laughed at Avery’s expression when she took a hesitant sip, taking one herself and enjoying the familiar sensation of the wine calming her nerves. She’d missed it – opening a bottle to share, relaxing at home, preparing food for someone other than herself. It was as if opening up to Avery had broken down a barrierthat had been in place ever since she’d left France, and rather than feeling uncertain about it, Camille felt a sense of relief.
‘I’ll put something together for us to eat. It won’t take long.’
‘Can I help?’
‘No, you enjoy the wine and I’ll prepare the food. I like having something to do.’ Camille took out a knife and chopping board, deciding to slice cheese and some cold meats, along with bread and some vegetables that she had.Like I used to do, when Papa and the boys would come home complaining of being so hungry that they couldn’t wait another moment to eat. They loved cheese and cold meat, pickles and lightly toasted bread.
She glanced behind her and saw that Avery was tucked up in an armchair, glass of wine still in hand but her shoes kicked off. Camille certainly hadn’t scared her off by telling her she had secrets, which indicated that the American had more nerve than she might have previously given her credit for.
‘In France, my husband and I ...’ Camille paused, her tongue stalling on his name, finding it almost impossible to say. ‘Hugoand I, we worked to transport Jews across the border to safety. He died in 1941. It was the reason I left my country and came to Portugal.’
Camille kept chopping, needing to keep doing something as she spoke. Thankfully Kiefer had never been to her apartment, because if he had, she’d be worried he might have hidden recording devices. But if he was suspicious of her at all, he’d never let on.
‘When I came here, I didn’t know how I’d be able to continue my work, but I soon realised that the French Jewish refugees who arrived without the correct visa paperwork or identification papers would be deported, and I couldn’t stand to have that on my conscience.’ Camille’s fingers tightly gripped the handle of the knife. ‘In France, it was my work with the Resistance that left me a widow, and I suppose that I felt as if I had nothing to lose by helping where I could here.’
‘You were a member of the Resistance? TheFrenchResistance?’ Avery asked, her voice barely a whisper, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘You were never married to a Portuguese man?’
Camille grimaced. ‘Today was terrifying for me not because of what they did to my shop, but because I thought someone had figured out who I really was. I thought my past had been uncovered somehow, that my work had been exposed, because everything you say is true.’ She didn’t go so far as to tell her about the note she’d received from Benoit – there were some things that she would keep a secret.
Silence filled the apartment, and Camille kept her back turned, half expecting to hear the door shut behind Avery. But instead of leaving, Avery had stood up and was behind her, her hand closing over Camille’s shoulder. Her palm was strong, comforting.
