Page 14 of The Secret Librarian
Camille nodded and waved goodbye to him, exhaling the breath she hadn’t even known she was holding and taking a moment before going to help the mother and son with their book selection. But even as she talked to them and found books the young boy might like, it was Avery she kept thinking about.
She might just be the librarian she was claiming to be, and if that was the case then Camille wanted to find out everything there was to know about her pretty new American customer.
And she especially wanted to find out what this microfilming was that she had spoken of, because she had the strangest feeling that if the woman’s sympathies were strong enough, she might be one of the few people in the city who could be useful when it came to Camille’s late-night forgeries.
Most especially if she had a camera at her disposal and experience at developing film.
It was after dark when Camille reached the square.
She’d worked late, and the forged visas she’d penned were now drying, but when she’d left her shop, a little boy had been waiting in the shadows.
It was the boy she was still following now, but she was careful to walk a long way behind him just in case she was being watched, not wanting to put him in danger.
It wasn’t a crime to liaise with the large numbers of Jewish families now populating the square, but she was reluctant to give the Portuguese police any further reason to be suspicious of her.
The little boy dashed into one of the many makeshift tents – the square had become almost like a city of refugees – and Camille waited for a moment, looking behind her before following him again.
‘She’s here,’ the boy whispered in French, and a woman’s head emerged barely a second later.
‘Thank you for coming,’ the woman said. ‘You are the lady from the bookshop? The French lady?’
Camille nodded.
‘We were told we could trust you.’
‘I can’t be here for long. Do you need visas?’
‘Yes, and I also need identification papers for my daughter,’ the woman said. ‘She’s only a toddler, but we won’t be able to leave without papers. I’m afraid of what the authorities will do if they catch us.’
‘Do any of you have visas to be here?’ Camille asked.
The woman shook her head, tears filling her eyes, visible in the glow of the street light. ‘No.’
‘Without the right documentation for all of you, they could send you all back,’ Camille told her. ‘The PVDE raid the camps here often, looking for those who are here illegally. You’re not safe without entrance visas.’
‘I have no money to offer you, I can’t—’
Camille reached for the woman’s hands and held them tightly, the conversation reminding her of the last time she and Hugo had said the same words she was about to whisper now.
‘I don’t want payment from you. Your safety is payment enough, and you’ll need everything you have for your passage out of Portugal. ’
The woman’s hands were cold in Camille’s and she kept hold of them, wanting to warm them as much as she could before she let go.
‘Do you need blankets? Is there anything I can do to help you be more comfortable?’
Tears slipped down the woman’s cheeks then, and Camille felt emotion building up in her throat as their eyes met. They had both known pain, and they had an immediate bond over what they’d suffered.
‘I knew who you were. When they were talking about you here in the camp, I knew.’
Camille studied her face, but she was certain she’d never seen this woman before.
‘You helped my brother and his family, a long time ago. You and your husband.’
Camille’s breath caught at the mention of Hugo.
‘I helped many families, but your brother ...’ She closed her eyes, wondering if it was him, seeing the man and his family in her mind, remembering the hope shining from their gazes when she and Hugo had promised them that they’d take them to safety, before everything had turned upside down.
She wanted to ask, but the question stuck on her tongue.
‘I’m told my brother made it to New York. It’s why I’m hoping to follow him.’ The breath the woman let out shuddered from her lips. ‘It’s why I risked everything.’
Camille’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘Then we need you to be ready. I’ll make the visas for you first, and then your daughter’s identification.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t have a camera for passports, but I’ll find one. You can trust me, I promise I’ll find a way.’
She had the woman write down details for her, and Camille carefully placed the paper into a hidden pocket in her coat, before disappearing into the dark again.
Women like the one she’d just met, mothers fighting to keep their children alive, gave Camille a purpose in Lisbon, and the moment the sun came up she would be back in her bookshop working on their visas.
Because if they were caught without the correct paperwork because she hadn’t completed it fast enough, they’d surely be sent back to where they’d come from, and that wasn’t something she wanted on her conscience.