Tattered book bindings, warped shelves, and uneven floorboards were a few things that made this shop memorable. Josef spent many late hours at the shop during the war, sometimes all night.
The shop was both a retreat and a meeting place where plans were made and hopes realized. It became a book exchange. Villagers took books and brought some in, sharing what little they had with others.
* * *
Late one the evening under a dim light in the back of the shop, Josef sorted books by category. He heard the bell jingle as the German Officer entered the store. The officer roamed around looking at book titles. Josef was of German descent but born and raised a Frenchman. He ignored the officer and continued his work.
“Why are there so many books about politics?” the officer asked.
Josef peered over the top of his glasses. “People are curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.” The officer grinned. “Where’s the owner?”
“So, I see that you are curious as well?”
The officer picked up a book titled Crusade for Democracy. “Why would a German shop owner promote anti-German politics?”
“I am just the clerk, but the shop sells what people want.”
The officer tossed the book on the floor and glared at Josef. “Tell the owner I’ll be back to talk about support for the fatherland.”
Josef kept hope alive in the town of Vire, during World War II. His town in the Normandy region of France was almost destroyed by the bombing. Four hundred townspeople died, and ninety-five percent of the buildings were left uninhabitable.
The store survived and became a place of refuge in desperate times. It was a sanctuary. The citizens needed a distraction. No one would have guessed books would be the answer. Josef gave books away to help people believe in something. He held readings in the basement, story time for the children. They were the most vulnerable, and some were now orphans.
The shop became a place where people shared food, stories, friendship, and books, most importantly books. The doors were left unlocked; people were welcome anytime, day or night. Josef sorted, arranged, and repaired books. It’s what he did to make sure people could find everything they needed.
To look at Josef, one might assume he was weak. He was a bookworm and a writer of words, but his most notable publication was the underground newspaper of the French Resistance. So, he wasn’t strong of body, but his strength came from what he believed, from his will and determination for justice. Words were the weapon.
The presence of the German troops in town taunted and tested the villagers trying to get information from them about the resistance movements. No one talked. The underground newspaper gave them hope that relief was on the way, and that the American and British troops would come to their aid.
A week later, the officer came back to the shop demanding to see the owner.
The officer pointed to Josef. “Your name Josef is German. Ja?”
“I am French, born and raised in Vire.”
The officer drew his Luger from its holster. “You’re a traitor to your heritage.”
“My allegiance is to my nation and country, France.”
Blood rushed to the angry German's face. Without another word, he fired, and Josef fell back into a bookcase. The bullet pierced a book held by the shopkeeper. His body lay motionless as blood dripped from his wound. The officer flipped the closed sign on the door as he exited the shop, leaving his victim lying on the floor.
Within hours the German SS troops came to the shop to claim the body but found nothing. The shop was filled with people browsing through the shelves looking for treasures. They were questioned about the incident, but no one heard or knew anything. Many claimed the shop had been full of people all day and suggested the soldiers had the wrong address.
The soldier approached an older woman. “ I found this outside this shop. There’s an article written by Josef.” He removed the newspaper from underneath his arm and opened it, showing it was from the French Resistance.
“Why is that important?” The old lady's eyes narrowed as she stared intently. “There’s nothing here to find, you’ve looked around, now it’s time for you to leave.”
He smirked, “Should I leave the paper here for you to read?”
“Why? Don’t you think I have a copy? Besides you haven’t finished reading it.” She stood firm with her hands on her hips.
He called the other soldiers and left the shop tossing the newspaper in the trash on his way out.
The old woman was right. There was no evidence to be found, no blood, no body, no bullet casing, and no bullet-pierced book. It was June 1st, 1944. Five days later, US troops landed at Normandy.
* * *
“Many years have past and many things have changed since the end of WWII.” Jules turned to look at the tourists and said, “That’s how my grandfather supported the war effort.” Then he stood and slid his chair to the table. “Now, let’s take a walk across the street to his shop. I want you to look around and tell me what you see and how it makes you feel. There are some books that date back to the war years.”
This small group of tourists walked through the shop doors and searched the bookcases. Each person was looking for the perfect souvenir. Reproductions of the French Resistance newspaper with an article written by Josef turned out to be a big seller. A gentleman from the group was standing at the checkout counter when his eyes were drawn to a book on display behind the counter. With a fixed stare, the man peered at the book encased in plastic. The bullet hole was clearly visible, as were the blood-stained pages. The title of the book was Crusade for Democracy.
He turned toward Jules and said. “So, Josef died a hero?”
“Yes . . . but not in 1944.” Jules paused. “He passed away in 2018, on his one-hundredth birthday. He spent his later years at the bookshop, many days sitting on the bench in the front of the store reading and reminiscing.”
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