The Librarian of Burned Books, page 17
The books were what gave her a big life; they let her into a thousand different worlds where she could be a thousand different people. For the longest time she walked around like she had a secret no one else knew.
She had been thinking about it all wrong, she now realized. The success of the ASEs proved that sharing the secret was so much more powerful than hoarding it close to her chest. In doing so, the thread of humanity that ran between all of them tightened, strengthened, became all the more vibrant for the worlds and emotions and journeys that every reader experienced together.
It didn’t take knowing a soldier personally for Viv to reach out into the night and know someone else in the world was finding solace in the very words she was reading at that very moment. It was like looking up at the moon and feeling a connection to anyone who was touched by its light.
Everyone slogging through this endless war—even those on the home front—had to find their own reason to keep going.
Making sure that connection wasn’t taken away from the soldiers was Viv’s.
VIV DECIDED TO proceed as if success was inevitable—not only would Althea James show up at the Taft event, she would deliver a fiery speech putting to rest any worries that she was a Nazi sympathizer.
While the blind optimism may have been a tiny bit foolhardy on her part, it did allow her to move forward with the rest of her plans after she’d finished up at the library.
Off the record, she rang up a journalist at the Columbus Dispatch in Ohio who’d reached out to her a few months back about a puff piece on the ASEs.
“An exclusive?” Marion Samuel pressed when Viv pitched her a profile on Althea James. Marion sounded interested if hesitant. Althea James had become something of a national celebrity, and the fact that she never gave interviews or talked to anyone at all really made her that much more intriguing to most people.
Viv hedged. “If I get her to agree to it.”
“Well, I won’t hold my breath,” Marion said. “But for an exclusive interview with Althea James? I’d guess you’d make front page with that.”
The next call was to Leonard Aston, a veteran of the Great War who had come home with demons in his eyes and a permanent limp that had kept him out of the current mess.
He had also been one of Charlotte’s longer-term paramours, once Theodore Childs had moved into his own, separate residence. Sometimes Viv dreamed Leonard might think of her like a daughter, but she guessed they weren’t actually close enough for that. Still, he answered her calls, and that’s what mattered.
And that worked out in her favor because he was currently the Life & Style editor at Time magazine.
“You gave the exclusive away?” he shouted over the phone, but Leonard’s bark was notoriously worse than his bite.
“How many of Taft’s voters are subscribers, Leo?” Viv asked patiently.
“Tons, hundreds, thousands even, I’m sure of it.” But she heard the humor this time. “All right, all right. I get my own interview, though, yeah?”
“If I can get her to say yes,” Viv hedged once more.
“Would never bet against you, kid,” Leonard said, and she would have found it sweet had he not hung up without waiting for a response.
With those boxes checked, Viv contacted Harper & Brothers, where a friendly but firm assistant informed her that the house wouldn’t give out any information on its writers. When she asked for the name of the editor, at least, the woman had hung up on her.
She didn’t have any close contacts at that particular publisher, but she knew someone who might.
Viv tempted Harrison Gardiner out of his office the next day with an offer to stroll Booksellers’ Row on Fourth Avenue. As one of publishing’s bright young things, Harrison liked to stay well-informed about what the big shops were keeping stocked and he rarely said no to leaving the office early.
While waiting for Harrison outside Biblo & Tannen, Viv ran her fingers over the spines of the books stacked high on one of the tables.
There had been an added benefit in keeping herself busy this afternoon—Memorial Day had never been a holiday she’d thought too much about before, but now she couldn’t avoid it. Not when every store in the city wanted to do its part in honoring their fallen boys.
She didn’t want to think about Edward as a fallen boy. She wanted to think about him as the man who’d loved spending lazy afternoons on this very street, browsing through the wares.
Edward hadn’t been a book lover. Like many men she knew, he’d forced himself to read for school and had never learned to do so for pleasure.
But Edward had always enjoyed watching the shoppers on Booksellers’ Row, endlessly delighted by each person’s choice, especially if it offered a contradiction to who the world probably thought they were. Like a tiny Italian grandmother buying a book with the raciest cover on the table.
Viv blinked back the swell of emotion, annoyed with herself for remembering Edward in public. She rarely thought about him outside the privacy of her own home, not wanting to be caught sobbing in the middle of a sidewalk. Part of the reason she was so focused on Taft and the ASEs was because it didn’t leave much room for the grief to run rampant and swallow her whole.
At some point she had to believe it would become bearable. She would be able to walk down this avenue and remember the way he created stories for the strangers, making them more and more outrageous the harder Viv laughed. Or how he would pluck her new purchases out of her hand to theatrically recite embarrassing sections right there on the street.
She knew one of these days she’d stop turning to the space beside her, ready to point out the mysterious widow draped in furs and jewels, only to find nothing but air. But today was not that day.
“You look far too sad for someone who is taking on Capitol Hill and winning,” Harrison said from behind her.
Viv forced a smile until it became natural, the memory of Edward tucked back in that locked box of hers.
“‘Winning’ might be a generous description,” Viv said as they fell into step, arm in arm.
“Considering you had given up a few weeks ago, I think this counts as winning,” he argued, looking very pleased with himself.
“You want me to say thank you, don’t you?” Viv said, pretending to be put out.
“A little appreciation goes a long way to getting any favors you want,” Harrison teased. “And I assume that’s why I’m really here, as much as you clearly enjoy my company.”
“Ulterior motives? Who, me?” Viv asked, all innocence, to make him laugh. But then she broke and updated him on all the ducks she was lining up for the Taft conference, including her long-shot hope of getting Althea James to show up.
“I have a college buddy at Harper,” Harrison mused, as they stopped at one of the book racks. It was what she’d been counting on—publishing was small, the inner circle of stars even smaller. But she did have to stamp down on a flicker of irritation that it was so easy for him. “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll make the case.”
“That’s all I ask,” Viv said, grateful despite the quick second of resentment. “Thank you.”
As they shifted toward the next sidewalk table, a man in a bright-white ten-gallon Stetson stepped out from the shop, white pistols tucked into jewel-covered holsters, his handlebar mustache nearly touching his collar.
Viv turned to her left, where Edward so often stood, some silly comment sitting on her tongue.
The space was empty, though. Just as it always would be.
Chapter 25
Paris
November 1936
The news that Hannah’s parents had received visas to England came on the first day of the book exhibition.
Hannah stared at the letter, stunned as she realized her parents were already aboard a ship headed toward Southampton without saying goodbye. If she were a different person, she might have cried. But Hannah had always known that in her parents’ rank of priorities she came as an afterthought.
They’d told her time and again that they didn’t blame her for what happened to Adam, even though she’d confessed the truth to them not long after he’d been dragged off to that concentration camp. But Hannah knew she’d been blinded by a pretty face, and they’d all paid the price for it.
The note informed Hannah that a hefty sum had been deposited in her bank account, enough to get her through several years. The only nod to the familial duty they still felt toward her.
Hannah read the entire message one more time, and then she breathed deep and said goodbye. Goodbye to parents who had never loved her the way parents should love a child, the way they had loved Adam.
Goodbye to the innocence of believing love could be unconditional.
Crossing the room to the fireplace in three quick strides, Hannah tossed the envelope into the flames. The ink and paper hissed their protest as they were devoured by the fire, as they devolved to ash.
Otto was her family now. She clung to that thought as she dressed, pinched color into her cheeks, slipped on her shoes, and waved adieu to Brigitte, who had warmed to her in recent days. She didn’t think about how she’d felt Otto drifting away from her since they’d moved to Paris.
Otto greeted her on the street with a happy, carefree smile that she hoped to mimic. As they walked toward the boulevard Saint-Germain and the exhibition, she steered the conversation toward silly, lighthearted gossip, trying to wash away the darkness of the morning. The darkness of what was going to come.
But at the first sight of the swastika, Hannah could no longer participate in idle chatter.
This was Paris.
This was free land.
This was not Nazi Germany.
Hannah repeated those facts over and over and over as she walked toward the banners that carried that sign of pure hate.
The Library of Burned Books had set up shop in the Société de Géographie two doors down from where Nazis in German military uniforms lingered outside a storefront. Mister Heinrich Mann and his equally famous brother, Thomas Mann, were both present, overseeing the library’s display, along with a handful of other big names, authors Hannah recognized from shelving their books time and again. Everyone was kind, everyone was cheerful, and every smile was brittle at the edges as eyes continued to wander toward the banners, toward the uniforms, toward the Parisians who were being enticed by the Nazi exhibit.
The library had put out apple cider for the occasion as well as pastries to lure in the casual passersby. Hannah made a concerted effort to talk to anyone who left the Nazis’ storefront with a brown bag tucked under their arm.
If this was a fight they were going to win, they couldn’t hold grudges against the people they wanted to persuade.
Otto lounged in a corner chair, offering amusing commentary as the day went on, and then bitter asides as they all realized this endeavor wouldn’t be as successful as they’d hoped. People stopped, they browsed, they even engaged sometimes. But Hannah didn’t get the sense the library was changing anyone’s minds.
“The Nazis can’t really be so bad” she heard.
“They’re shaking things up” she heard
“. . . but the Jews do seem to have a lot of power.”
The last one was whispered just loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Hannah turned away from the man, forced a smile, and ushered an older woman closer to the display of Jewish-authored books that Hannah had so carefully curated.
She knew, though, that they all heard the comment. If this had been a battle for the soul of Paris, the Library of Burned Books had lost.
When her shift was over for the day, she collected Otto and stepped out onto the boulevard.
Wolf whistles greeted them, despite the fact that Otto was there as a deterrent.
His arm tensed beneath her hand, but Hannah kept walking, pulling him along, silently begging him not to engage even as she knew this could be the excuse he’d been waiting for all day. The urge had itched beneath both their skins; the difference was Hannah could ignore it in favor of heading home for a cup of tea.
Otto didn’t have that much self-control.
Hannah closed her eyes briefly when she realized two of the Nazis had broken off to follow them. Please, please. Her fingernails dug into the fabric of Otto’s coat.
“Fräulein,” one called, his voice arrogant and amused. Hannah kept walking.
His friend drew the word out. “Fräulein.”
“Don’t ignore our poor, lonely souls,” they called in German, earning themselves a few looks from people passing on the street.
Otto stilled beside her, and she hurried to whisper beneath her breath, “Ignore them, ignore them.”
But of course the men were uncouth. They were Nazis in Paris—they were born to offend in this very moment. Like so many of Hitler’s brownshirts, they were clearly battle-worn, had been stripped bare and then rebuilt in the name of violence during the Great War.
“Look at her walking away,” the first one crooned.
“I am.” The second took the baton and ran with it. “And that’s one fine ass.”
Before Hannah could realize what was happening, Otto turned and landed his fist on the jaw of the bigger Nazi.
Everything froze for one heartbeat, two, time stretching then collapsing on itself.
And then the man howled, more out of surprise than pain. Otto wasn’t strong enough to cause a bruise, but that didn’t matter. When men like these tasted violence, they swarmed.
Knuckles connected with Otto’s face, and his head snapped back with a crack as if his spine had broken.
He’s dead.
Hannah’s vision went white at the thought.
But Otto didn’t collapse, simply stumbled, his arms and legs still working.
Otto steadied himself, his hands clenched and up in front of him, a boxer preparing for a match.
Move.
Hannah couldn’t, though. Her legs wouldn’t listen. They wouldn’t listen.
They’ll hit you, too.
But it wasn’t fear that held her rooted to the spot. It was shock.
This was Paris.
If she could think . . . if she could . . . think . . .
The commotion had drawn a crowd, and her eyes flew from one face to the next, desperate, searching.
No one stepped forward.
The Nazi Otto had hit was on the balls of his feet, taking quick little jabs at Otto’s jaw. Mocking taunts, almost, more than anything.
Otto stumbled but managed to land a few punches himself.
Could she stop this now? Before it went further? The Nazis were circling, but they hadn’t descended.
Just move.
But before she could step in front of Otto, blocking him with her body, the Nazi grew tired of playing with his food. And he lashed out fully. Between blinks, Otto crumpled to the ground, a puppet whose strings had been snipped.
Blood flecked one of the man’s knuckles.
Blood flecked the pavement.
Blood roared in her ears.
Help.
They needed help.
And then both of the Nazis were on the ground, on top of Otto.
No one else had moved. Hannah hadn’t moved. She hadn’t stepped in front of Otto. She hadn’t protected him.
A whimper cut through the noise, so quiet she probably shouldn’t have heard it. But she had. It was a low, broken sound that shattered a heart she’d thought was already in as many pieces as it could be.
Hannah heard every moment of her life in that whimper, every moment of Otto’s.
Do something.
Now.
Hannah ducked under a swinging arm, throwing herself onto the pile of bodies, going for anything she could reach on Otto—a leg, his coat, a hand. Anything.
Pain bloomed in her cheekbone, sharp and staticky, racing along her spine.
A boot, she realized as the ache settled into a throb of misery.
As she held her face with a shaky hand, she met the Nazi’s eyes, the one who had kicked her. In that one moment, remorse flickered into his expression. And then an errant elbow caught his jaw, and everything about him hardened.
He drew his fist back and then his knuckles connected with her already bruised cheek.
A tinny sound rang in her ears as she lay on the sidewalk, her teeth too loose in her mouth, her body heavy and unwieldy. Nausea threatened and if she could only close her eyes, just for a second, just for a . . .
Otto cried out.
Hannah gasped as she pressed herself up, her elbow sending out dull ripples of pain as she did.
But that didn’t matter right now. Without hesitating, Hannah threw herself back into the pile, reaching, reaching, reaching until finally her fingers tangled in Otto’s shirt.
“Stop,” she cried in German.
“Please help.” This time she managed it in French, calling to the crowd. And she thought of the pistol, thought of pressing the barrel to one of the men’s foreheads and pulling the trigger. It was the first time in her life she’d imagined killing someone. But in that moment, she knew if she’d had the weapon she would have at least tried. “Please help.”
No one came to help them. The tides pulled her down, pulled her beneath the waves of pounding hands and evil men.
Otto, she thought as she tried to wrap herself around his broken and battered body.
Hannah breathed out. Thought No.
And then she kicked. Her foot landed. A crack broke the strange stillness of the night.
She kicked again. Howled. Scratched. Flailed until arms connected with vulnerable faces, until hands struck lucky blows.
The police arrived.
But their help came too little, too late.
Chapter 26
New York City
May 1944
Viv paced in front of Hale’s campaign office, restless following her afternoon with Harrison on Booksellers’ Row. She hadn’t wanted to go home to an empty apartment—it was Charlotte’s bridge night with her two oldest, dearest friends. So Viv had found herself in Brooklyn and marveled how familiar she was becoming with this side of the river.
