The Forgotten Bookshop in Paris by Daisy Wood

Author:Daisy Wood [Wood, Daisy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2022-07-07T12:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

April 1941

Jacques was walking home from the Gare Saint-Lazare that afternoon when a passer-by caught his attention: a tall young man wearing a thin jacket and ill-fitting trousers that flapped a couple of inches above his feet, which were shod in heavy boots that were caked in mud. He was bearded, which was also unusual, and his fair hair was matted, his face dirty. Added to these peculiarities, he held a cigarette casually between his first two fingers, pointing outwards, when the usual way was to grip one’s Gauloise firmly between finger and thumb with the burning end facing inward. Parisians walked with their eyes down but this man had his shoulders back and his head up, glancing about with an air of curiosity. And then, to cap it all, he looked the wrong way when crossing the road and stepped into the path of a motorbike, whose rider had to swerve to avoid him.

See what needs to be done and do it, Jacques heard the priest say. It was so simple, if one had the nerve.

‘Ça va, mon ami?’ he cried, seizing this stranger by the arm and propelling him down a side street, away from the sentry box manned by German soldiers up ahead.

As he’d suspected, the man didn’t seem to understand a word of French, but he was content to be propelled along the street. Jacques tried to convey by smiles and gestures that he meant no harm, and the tramp smiled and nodded back to show he understood. Jacques led the way, taking detours to avoid any points where they might be stopped. And then, rounding a corner, they walked straight into a sea of grey-green uniforms. A prison van with its doors open had been parked across the street and troops were pouring into a nearby house, from which screams and shouts could be heard. Those who weren’t taking part in the action were stopping and checking passers-by for their own entertainment.

His heart racing, Jacques reached into a pocket for his identity card. If the man beside him even had a card, it was bound to have been forged.

‘Schnell! Quick!’ rasped the German in front of them: a thin-faced, ratty youth with pockmarked skin.

The stranger made a show of patting his pockets, his movements becoming increasingly desperate. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and he looked positively deranged.

‘Idiot!’ Jacques shouted, cuffing him on the back. ‘Hurry up and don’t keep this good man waiting.’ He turned to the soldier. ‘This is my cousin from the country. He’s a little, you know …’ And he tapped the side of his head.

Catching on, the foreigner hung his head and shifted from foot to foot, mumbling incoherently.

‘Stand up straight, you great oaf!’ Jacques yelled, reaching up to clip him around the ear. ‘I’m ashamed to be seen with you.’

The German was smiling now. He made some comment to a couple of the others, which had them all laughing, and soon Jacques and his companion had an audience for their performance.

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