Thank you for downloading this Scribner eBook Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Scribner and Simon & Schuster CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP or visit us online to sign up at eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com For Wendy Weil 1940–2012 In August 1944 the historic walled city of Saint-Malo, the brightest jewel of the Emerald Coast of Brittany, France, was almost totally destroyed by fire Of the 865 buildings within the walls, only 182 remained standing and all were damaged to some degree —Philip Beck It would not have been possible for us to take power or to use it in the ways we have without the radio —Joseph Goebbels Zero August 1944 Leaflets At dusk they pour from the sky They blow across the ramparts, turn cartwheels over rooftops, flutter into the ravines between houses Entire streets swirl with them, flashing white against the cobbles Urgent message to the inhabitants of this town, they say Depart immediately to open country The tide climbs The moon hangs small and yellow and gibbous On the rooftops of beachfront hotels to the east, and in the gardens behind them, a half-dozen American artillery units drop incendiary rounds into the mouths of mortars Bombers They cross the Channel at midnight There are twelve and they are named for songs: Stardust and Stormy Weather and In the Mood and Pistol-Packin’ Mama The sea glides along far below, spattered with the countless chevrons of whitecaps Soon enough, the navigators can discern the low moonlit lumps of islands ranged along the horizon France Intercoms crackle Deliberately, almost lazily, the bombers shed altitude Threads of red light ascend from anti-air emplacements up and down the coast Dark, ruined ships appear, scuttled or destroyed, one with its bow shorn away, a second flickering as it burns On an outermost island, panicked sheep run zigzagging between rocks Inside each airplane, a bombardier peers through an aiming window and counts to twenty Four five six seven To the bombardiers, the walled city on its granite headland, drawing ever closer, looks like an unholy tooth, something black and dangerous, a final abscess to be lanced away 2014 She lives to see the century turn She lives still It’s a Saturday morning in early March, and her grandson Michel collects her from her flat and walks her through the Jardin des Plantes Frost glimmers in the air, and Marie-Laure shuffles along with the ball of her cane out in front and her thin hair blown to one side and the leafless canopies of the trees drifting overhead as she imagines schools of Portuguese men-of-war drift, trailing their long tentacles behind them Skim ice has formed atop puddles in the gravel paths Whenever she finds some with her cane, she stops and bends and tries to lift the thin plate without breaking it As though raising a lens to her eye Then she sets it carefully back down The boy is patient, taking her elbow only when she seems to need it They make for the hedge maze in the northwest corner of the gardens The path they’re on begins to ascend, twisting steadily to the left Climb, pause, catch your breath Climb again When they reach the old steel gazebo at the very top, he leads her to its narrow bench and they sit No one else here: too cold or too early or both She listens to the wind sift through the filigree of the crown of the gazebo, and the walls of the maze hold steady around them, Paris murmuring below, the drowsy purr of a Saturday morning “You’ll be twelve next Saturday, won’t you, Michel?” “Finally.” “You are in a hurry to be twelve?” “Mother says I can drive the moped when I am twelve.” “Ah.” Marie-Laure laughs “The moped.” Beneath her fingernails, the frost makes billions of tiny diadems and coronas on the slats of the bench, a lattice of dumbfounding complexity Michel presses against her side and becomes very quiet Only his hands are moving Little clicks rising, buttons being pressed “What are you playing?” “Warlords.” “You play against your computer?” “Against Jacques.” “Where is Jacques?” The boy’s attention stays on the game It does not matter where Jacques is: Jacques is inside the game She sits and her cane flexes against the gravel and the boy clicks his buttons in spasmodic flurries After a while he exclaims, “Ah!” and the game makes several resolving chirps “You’re all right?” “He has killed me.” Awareness returns to Michel’s voice; he is looking up again “Jacques, I mean I am dead.” “In the game?” “Yes But I can always begin again.” Below them the wind washes frost from the trees She concentrates on feeling the sun touch the backs of her hands On the warmth of her grandson beside her “Mamie? Was there something you wanted for your twelfth birthday?” “There was A book by Jules Verne.” “The same one Maman read to me? Did you get it?” “I did In a way.” “There were lots of complicated fish names in that book.” She laughs “And corals and mollusks, too.” “Especially mollusks It’s a beautiful morning, Mamie, isn’t it?” “Very beautiful.” People walk the paths of the gardens below, and the wind sings anthems in the hedges, and the big old cedars at the entrance to the maze creak MarieLaure imagines the electromagnetic waves traveling into and out of Michel’s machine, bending around them, just as Etienne used to describe, except now a thousand times more crisscross the air than when he lived—maybe a million times more Torrents of text conversations, tides of cell conversations, of television programs, of e-mail, vast networks of fiber and wire interlaced above and beneath the city, passing through buildings, arcing between transmitters in Metro tunnels, between antennas atop buildings, from lampposts with cellular transmitters in them, commercials for Carrefour and Evian and prebaked toaster pastries flashing into space and back to earth again, I’m going to be late and Maybe we should get reservations? and Pick up avocados and What did he say? and ten thousand I miss yous, fifty thousand I love yous, hate mail and appointment reminders and market updates, jewelry ads, coffee ads, furniture ads flying invisibly over the warrens of Paris, over the battlefields and tombs, over the Ardennes, over the Rhine, over Belgium and Denmark, over the scarred and ever-shifting landscapes we call nations And is it so hard to believe that souls might also travel those paths? That her father and Etienne and Madame Manec and the German boy named Werner Pfennig might harry the sky in flocks, like egrets, like terns, like starlings? That great shuttles of souls might fly about, faded but audible if you listen closely enough? They flow above the chimneys, ride the sidewalks, slip through your jacket and shirt and breastbone and lungs, and pass out through the other side, the air a library and the record of every life lived, every sentence spoken, every word transmitted still reverberating within it Every hour, she thinks, someone for whom the war was memory falls out of the world We rise again in the grass In the flowers In songs Michel takes her arm and they wind back down the path, through the gate onto the rue Cuvier She passes one storm drain two storm drains three four five, and when they reach her building, she says, “You may leave me here, Michel You can find your way?” “Of course.” “Until next week, then.” He kisses her once on each cheek “Until next week, Mamie.” She listens until his footsteps fade Until all she can hear are the sighs of cars and the rumble of trains and the sounds of everyone hurrying through the cold Acknowledgments I am indebted to the American Academy in Rome, to the Idaho Commission on the Arts, and to the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Thank you to Francis Geffard, who brought me to Saint-Malo for the first time Thank you to Binky Urban and Clare Reihill for their enthusiasm and confidence And thanks especially to Nan Graham, who waited a decade, then gave this book her heart, her pencil, and so many of her hours Additional debts are owed to Jacques Lusseyran’s And There Was Light, Curzio Malaparte’s Kaputt, and Michel Tournier’s The Ogre; to Cort Conley, who kept a steady stream of curated material flowing into my mailbox; to early readers Hal and Jacque Eastman, Matt Crosby, Jessica Sachse, Megan Tweedy, Jon Silverman, Steve Smith, Stefani Nellen, Chris Doerr, Dick Doerr, Michèle Mourembles, Kara Watson, Cheston Knapp, Meg Storey, and Emily Forland; and especially to my mother, Marilyn Doerr, who was my Dr Geffard, my Jules Verne The largest thanks go to Owen and Henry, who have lived with this book all their lives, and to Shauna, without whom this could not exist, and upon whom all this depends © ISABELLE SELBY ANTHONY DOERR is the author of the story collections Memory Wall and The Shell Collector, the novel About Grace, and the memoir Four Seasons in Rome He has won numerous prizes both in the United States and overseas, including four O Henry Prizes, three Pushcart Prizes, the Rome Prize, the New York Public Library’s Young Lions Fiction Award, the National Magazine Award for fiction, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and the Story Prize Raised in Cleveland, Doerr lives in Boise, Idaho, with his wife and two sons MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT SimonandSchuster.com authors.simonandschuster.com/Anthony-Doerr ALSO BY ANTHONY DOERR Memory Wall Four Seasons in Rome About Grace The Shell Collector We hope you enjoyed reading this Scribner eBook Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Scribner and Simon & Schuster CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP or visit us online to sign up at eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com Scribner A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com This book is a work of fiction Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental Copyright © 2014 by Anthony Doerr All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever For information address Scribner Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 First Scribner hardcover edition May 2014 SCRIBNER and design are registered trademarks of The Gale Group, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, Inc., the publisher of this work The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com Book design by Ellen R Sasahara Jacket Design by Tal Goretsky and Lynn Buckley Jacket photograph by Manuel Clauzier Library of Congress Control Number: 2013034107 ISBN 978-1-4767-4658-6 ISBN 978-1-4767-4660-9 (ebook) Contents Epigraph Part Zero: August 1944 Chapter 1: Leaflets Chapter 2: Bombers Chapter 3: The Girl Chapter 4: The Boy Chapter 5: Saint-Malo Chapter 6: Number rue Vauborel Chapter 7: Cellar Chapter 8: Bombs Away Part One: 1934 Chapter 9: Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle Chapter 10: Zollverein Chapter 11: Key Pound Chapter 12: Radio Chapter 13: Take Us Home Chapter 14: Something Rising Chapter 15: Light Chapter 16: Our Flag Flutters Before Us Chapter 17: Around the World in Eighty Days Chapter 18: The Professor Chapter 19: Sea of Flames Chapter 20: Open Your Eyes Chapter 21: Fade Chapter 22: The Principles of Mechanics Chapter 23: Rumors Chapter 24: Bigger Faster Brighter Chapter 25: Mark of the Beast Chapter 26: Good Evening Or Heil Hitler if You Prefer Chapter 27: Bye-bye, Blind Girl Chapter 28: Making Socks Chapter 29: Flight Chapter 30: Herr Siedler Chapter 31: Exodus Part Two: August 1944 Chapter 32: Saint-Malo Chapter 33: Number rue Vauborel Chapter 34: Hotel of Bees Chapter 35: Down Six Flights Chapter 36: Trapped Part Three: June 1940 Chapter 37: Château Chapter 38: Entrance Exam Chapter 39: Brittany Chapter 40: Madame Manec Chapter 41: You Have Been Called Chapter 42: Occuper Chapter 43: Don’t Tell Lies Chapter 44: Etienne Chapter 45: Jungmänner Chapter 46: Vienna Chapter 47: The Boches Chapter 48: Hauptmann Chapter 49: Flying Couch Chapter 50: The Sum of Angles Chapter 51: The Professor Chapter 52: Perfumer Chapter 53: Time of the Ostriches Chapter 54: Weakest Chapter 55: Mandatory Surrender Chapter 56: Museum Chapter 57: The Wardrobe Chapter 58: Blackbirds Chapter 59: Bath Chapter 60: Weakest (#2) Chapter 61: The Arrest of the Locksmith Part Four: August 1944 Chapter 62: The Fort of La Cité Chapter 63: Atelier de Réparation Chapter 64: Two Cans Chapter 65: Number rue Vauborel Chapter 66: What They Have Chapter 67: Trip Wire Part Five: January 1941 Chapter 68: January Recess Chapter 69: He Is Not Coming Back Chapter 70: Prisoner Chapter 71: Plage du Môle Chapter 72: Lapidary Chapter 73: Entropy Chapter 74: The Rounds Chapter 75: Nadel im Heuhaufen Chapter 76: Proposal Chapter 77: You Have Other Friends Chapter 78: Old Ladies’ Resistance Club Chapter 79: Diagnosis Chapter 80: Weakest (#3) Chapter 81: Grotto Chapter 82: Intoxicated Chapter 83: The Blade and the Whelk Chapter 84: Alive Before You Die Chapter 85: No Out Chapter 86: The Disappearance of Harold Bazin Chapter 87: Everything Poisoned Chapter 88: Visitors Chapter 89: The Frog Cooks Chapter 90: Orders Chapter 91: Pneumonia Chapter 92: Treatments Chapter 93: Heaven Chapter 94: Frederick Chapter 95: Relapse Part Six: August 1944 Chapter 96: Someone in the House Chapter 97: The Death of Walter Bernd Chapter 98: Sixth-floor Bedroom Chapter 99: Making the Radio Chapter 100: In the Attic Part Seven: August 1942 Chapter 101: Prisoners Chapter 102: The Wardrobe Chapter 103: East Chapter 104: One Ordinary Loaf Chapter 105: Volkheimer Chapter 106: Fall Chapter 107: Sunflowers Chapter 108: Stones Chapter 109: Grotto Chapter 110: Hunting Chapter 111: The Messages Chapter 112: Loudenvielle Chapter 113: Gray Chapter 114: Fever Chapter 115: The Third Stone Chapter 116: The Bridge Chapter 117: Rue des Patriarches Chapter 118: White City Chapter 119: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea Chapter 120: Telegram Part Eight: August 1944 Chapter 121: Fort National Chapter 122: In the Attic Chapter 123: The Heads Chapter 124: Delirium Chapter 125: Water Chapter 126: The Beams Chapter 127: The Transmitter Chapter 128: Voice Part Nine: May 1944 Chapter 129: Edge of the World Chapter 130: Numbers Chapter 131: May Chapter 132: Hunting (Again) Chapter 133: “Clair de Lune” Chapter 134: Antenna Chapter 135: Big Claude Chapter 136: Boulangerie Chapter 137: Grotto Chapter 138: Agoraphobia Chapter 139: Nothing Chapter 140: Forty Minutes Chapter 141: The Girl Chapter 142: Little House Chapter 143: Numbers Chapter 144: Sea of Flames Chapter 145: The Arrest of Etienne LeBlanc Chapter 146: August 1944 Chapter 147: Leaflets Part Ten: 12 August 1944 Chapter 148: Entombed Chapter 149: Fort National Chapter 150: Captain Nemo’s Last Words Chapter 151: Visitor Chapter 152: Final Sentence Chapter 153: Music #1 Chapter 154: Music #2 Chapter 155: Music #3 Chapter 156: Out Chapter 157: Wardrobe Chapter 158: Comrades Chapter 159: The Simultaneity of Instants Chapter 160: Are You There? Chapter 161: Second Can Chapter 162: Birds of America Chapter 163: Cease-fire Chapter 164: Chocolate Chapter 165: Light Part Eleven: 1945 Chapter 166: Berlin Chapter 167: Paris Part Twelve: 1974 Chapter 168: Volkheimer Chapter 169: Jutta Chapter 170: Duffel Chapter 171: Saint-Malo Chapter 172: Laboratory Chapter 173: Visitor Chapter 174: Paper Airplane Chapter 175: The Key Chapter 176: Sea of Flames Chapter 177: Frederick Part Thirteen: 2014 Chapter 178 Acknowledgments About Anthony Doerr ... worse, the sultan’s scouts announced that a great army was gathering in the east The prince called together his father’s advisers All said he should prepare for war, all but one, a priest, who said... anti-air gun called an 88 that can fire twenty-one-anda-half-pound shells nine miles Her Majesty, the Austrians call their cannon, and for the past week these men have tended to it the way worker... the Channel at midnight There are twelve and they are named for songs: Stardust and Stormy Weather and In the Mood and Pistol-Packin’ Mama The sea glides along far below, spattered with the countless