The Garden of Letters by Alyson Richman

looks at the walls. The spines protrude in an array of different shades. The leather volumes in red and brown, a few in forest green. The gilt letters of their titles glimmer like distant stars. A young man of around twenty stands behind a counter. He is tall, almost gangly, with a thick mane of black hair. His irises are deep amber. She has never seen an eye color like that before. Elodie immediately thinks of the gypsies who thread amber into necklaces, the prized pieces like fossils with bits of life trapped within. His face is beautiful and well chiseled, and Elodie reads it quickly like a sheet of music, taking in the angles and curves, memorizing the heights and plateaus.
    The bookseller’s hands rest on his desk. His long fingers are smudged with ink.
    “Luca, I’ve brought a friend,” Lena announces with confidence. Luca stares at both girls, but longer at Elodie. He says nothing at first, sizing her up with his eyes. Finally he wipes his hands on his smock and gestures for them to follow.
    He takes them to the back room, and Elodie is first struck by the smell of fresh ink and damp paper. There are hundreds of pamphlets in tall piles. Someone is filling small satchels with them. The room is crowded, with at least thirty young men who all seem to know one another. They eye Elodie with suspicion as soon as she enters.
    “She’s my friend,” Lena indicates right away. “She’s a cellist, with a memory like you’ve never seen.” She looks everyone straight in the eyes. There is a low grumbling in the room. Elodie hears it and begins to shiver. “You can trust her,” Lena says without flinching. “You have my word.”
    Three women are in the room; one is unmistakably Brigitte Lowenthal. The sharp features, the expensive blouse. She scans Elodie quickly when she walks into the room and then turns her head to focus on something more interesting that concerns her. Elodie notices how she places an elegant hand on Berto’s thigh. He has an artist’s face, a sculptor’s hands. In a flash, she can imagine with ease Brigitte naked on a daybed, Berto re-creating her flesh in smooth contours of clay.
    Another woman is in the corner. Elodie hears the name Jurika mentioned. She is dressed in trousers and a button-down shirt. She looks at the two girls with even more suspicion than do the men. It is clear from Lena’s body language that she has never seen this woman before, either.
    “You should go over to the Catholic coalition, if you’re interested in helping,” she tells them. “I don’t think this group is for you.”
    Lena stares back at her. “I have already begun fulfilling my duty here. Most of these men are happy I can deliver anything they give me.”
    “Lena’s a good
staffetta
, Jurika,” a tall student in dark colors says in Lena’s defense.
    “And I’ve never seen you at a single meeting before,” Lena challenges.
    “I’ve been in the mountains in France scouting, you little mouse.” She stands up and seems to draw the breath from the room. “I don’t suppose they teach you how to hold a gun in music school?”
    Elodie can feel herself shaking, but Lena remains undeterred. On the other side of the room, Brigitte turns a long, white neck in their direction. She pulls out a cigarette, which Berto quickly lights. Elodie sees how her eyes turn from boredom to amusement within seconds.
    “No,” Lena says as a smile spreads over her face. “But since you seem to be the expert, why don’t you come teach it there?”
    The tension in the room instantly dissolves and everyone, including Jurika, begins to laugh.
    “I like you,” Jurika says, as she stands up. When she rises, she is like a torch; her powerful energy fills the room. The girls bask for a moment, pleased they’ve amused this female leader.

    The girls are given satchels filled with the Communist papers for distribution. Luca walks them to the door.
    “We’ll see you two next Thursday at the same time. Now, get home to your