The Librarian of Burned Books, page 2
Berlin was magical and Althea was charmed, wooed, nearly under a spell. She found herself—as she had so often in the week since she’d arrived in the city—with her notebook in hand, desperate to capture the scene that was so much bigger and overwhelming than anything she’d experienced in her sheltered life growing up in rural Maine.
Professor Diedrich Müller, her liaison from Humboldt University, watched her with enough affection in the slant of his smile that it had her ducking her head and tucking everything away in the pocket of her winter coat.
“No, don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying watching a famous writer at work,” Diedrich said, with the ease of someone apt at navigating socially awkward people.
The week before, when she’d stepped onto the docks at Rostock after her long trip from New York, she’d nearly tripped at the sight of him. She’d been informed that a literature professor would be waiting for her when she disembarked in Germany, but she’d pictured an older gentleman with a penchant for tweed jackets and esoteric poems. Not movie-star gorgeous Diedrich Müller, with his warmed-honey hair, snow-melt-blue eyes and effortless charm that poured off him in waves.
Even his voice was appealing, with an accent that conjured images of gothic castles rising against rich pine trees and stories of big, bad wolves who ate little girls in one bite.
If she ever added him into a novel, her editor would deem him too perfect, too unrealistic.
“It’s not important,” she demurred, still not used to being looked at as if she had something interesting to say. Before her debut novel had caught the world’s attention so completely and unexpectedly, the only person she’d talked to with regularity had been her brother Joe. And he was family, so he didn’t have a choice. “Just silly scribblings.”
“Well, I hope you plan on including these ‘silly scribblings’ and other descriptions of our magnificent city in your next book.”
“Of course.” Althea supposed it was one of the reasons she’d been invited to Germany in the first place—to paint the country in a positive light.
She didn’t mention that she seemed to have lost her ability to tell a story ever since she’d been plucked out of obscurity by a twist of fate. Every time she tried to start her next novel, the blank pages mocked her. How was she supposed to follow up lightning in a bottle?
Even the notebooks she’d filled since arriving in Berlin were full of hollow words that didn’t quite live up to what she was seeing.
“There is nothing more beautiful than this city in winter,” Diedrich continued, handing over a cup of steaming mulled wine he’d procured for her. “Except perhaps a lady who can appreciate its splendor.”
Althea fought off a blush and wondered if she would ever get used to this man’s flirtations. “Only perhaps?”
A flash of white teeth in genuine amusement. What a big mouth you have. Did that make her Little Red Riding Hood?
Diedrich bent close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Depends on the lady.”
Althea lost her battle with the flush that had been working its way up along her neck. He didn’t mean her, he couldn’t.
She had no delusions of her own beauty. It wasn’t that she thought herself unappealing, but she was the type who was always lauded for her intellect over her looks. Everything about her was plain, from her pleasant, forgettable face and eyes to the spattering of freckles that had been deemed cute when she’d been younger but now got her unsolicited advice on face powder.
She had made an attempt tonight to match the image he must have of the sophisticated, world-renowned author she was on paper. There wasn’t much she could do with the heavy curtain of hair that never seemed to want to stay where she put it, but she had visited a boutique the day before—one of those kinds of shops that made her fearful of touching anything—to purchase a dress that wasn’t two decades out of style.
The way Diedrich’s smile had turned sultry when he’d seen her in it confirmed that the risk had been worth the expense.
After Althea finished the wine, Diedrich handed her a sweet pastry. “You have to sample all that the culture has to offer, my dear.”
“Do you include yourself on that list, Professor Müller?” Althea asked, knowing her cheeks must be impossibly pink. She hoped he’d blame it on the cold.
“Miss James,” he murmured, a pleased chastisement lurking in his tone, one she recognized only secondhand from nights parked in the furthest corner of her brother’s pub back home. This was how men who were interested in a particular woman talked.
As she often did when she was flustered, Althea tried to imagine she was writing instead of living this scene. What would she do if she were the main character instead of the dowdy friend there simply to add contrast, if she were Lizzy Bennet instead of Charlotte Collins?
Gathering all her bravery, Althea took a half step in front of Diedrich, enough to turn back with a saucy smile before taking off at something much faster than their meandering stroll, the dare implicit.
Catch me if you can.
In letting go of Diedrich, Althea had thought she might get disoriented, overwhelmed. Becoming untethered from a companion in the midst of a crowd could leave one dizzy and nauseous. Especially here in a city she didn’t know, where she only passably spoke the language.
But there was something about the market—shoulders brushed against hers, faces turned with absent half smiles, children pulled at the hem of her coat. Rather than being caught in an avalanche, uncontrolled and terrifying, Althea was just a single snowflake in a storm that was so much larger than herself.
It was how she’d felt since she’d stepped off the train in Berlin.
Before this trip, she’d only ever left Owl’s Head once in her life and that had been to meet her editor in New York on the publication day of her novel. The thought of going to a different country by herself had been terrifying. More than once, she’d unpacked her bags.
What is the worst that could happen? she’d asked herself.
You could die, the fear whispered back.
What is the best?
You could live.
Althea had repacked her bags and left her cottage by the cliffs.
She’d always been safe in the worlds she created for her characters, and always slightly out of place in the real one. But in Berlin she seemed to fit.
It took her a few seconds to realize she’d stopped in the middle of the crowd. Then she noticed what she’d been staring at.
Books.
They reeled her in, a hook caught in the softness of her belly, the line snapping taut, tugging until she found herself in front of the merchant, her fingers hovering over the leather-bound volumes on display.
“The lady has excellent taste,” the man said in English, though there were enough pauses between the words to signal that he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the language.
“Reinmar von Hagenau,” Althea breathed out, snatching her hand back so as not to leave accidental fingerprints on the treasure. Von Hagenau was a beloved Minnesänger—the German equivalent of a troubadour. He hailed from the twelfth century and had been well respected by the peers of his day, all of whom wrote lyrical poems and songs featuring courtly love and honor.
The merchant’s eyes lingered on the book in the same way parents gazed at precocious children. When he looked up, he seemed to read in her face that she might be a kindred soul. “Too expensive, yes?”
Althea smiled and shrugged and tried in German: “I’m sorry.”
“No, no.” The merchant waved away her apology and then squatted down behind his table. He pulled up a thick book that, while hardback and sturdy, was clearly less decadent than the one on display. He held it out with both hands. “For you.”
She took it, rubbing a palm over the cover to brush away the few flakes that had landed, and nearly gasped in pleasure when she saw the title. It was a simpler volume of the von Hagenau collection.
“How much?” Althea asked, digging for her coin purse. It would be more affordable than the version meant for collectors, certainly, but she still didn’t know if she had enough with her. The money her publisher had offered for another novel had been life changing, but she’d been cautious about spending any, worried that they might demand it all back when she failed to produce work of the quality they expected.
“A gift,” the merchant said, bowing slightly. He tapped the spot over his heart once, and then pointed at her. “Die Bücherfreundin.”
“‘A friend of books,’” Diedrich murmured from behind her, his palm heavy on her waist, his chest close enough it brushed against her back when he inhaled.
“Die Bücherfreundin,” Althea repeated to herself. The polite part of her wanted to insist on paying for the collection, but the cost of the perceived rejection of his generosity would be far higher than that of the book.
Instead she held up a finger, then dug in her satchel so she could pull out a copy of Alice in Wonderland, one that she’d brought along as a safety blanket, the parallels between herself and a disoriented and dazzled Alice dropped into Wonderland too strong not to find comforting.
“A gift,” she deliberately parroted, though she attempted it in German as he had in English.
He took it with the slightly shaking hands of the elderly, smiled once he realized what the book was, and then pressed it to himself in an approximation of a hug.
The man nodded once, an acknowledgment, a goodbye. And then turned his attention to another customer.
Althea wanted to linger, wanted to stay wrapped up in the experience, but Diedrich was already towing her along, and she trailed behind him toward the edges of the market, toward their dinner plans, and maybe toward their after-dinner plans if she continued to act as if she were the main character in the scene instead of the wallflower. If she continued to be Berlin’s version of Althea James.
While she’d thought she’d been successful in the market with her clumsy flirtations, her few attempts on the stroll along the Spree to dinner fell flat. Diedrich had slipped into a thoughtful silence that was uncharacteristic to what she’d been learning was his natural affinity for bright conversation. Their dinner was a quiet affair, then, because she’d never mastered the art of small talk. She spent the time worrying, turning over everything she’d said, wondering if she’d done something wrong.
Despite the fact that the international literary community seemed to view her as someone important, she truly was just a simple, unsophisticated girl. Even now as she took part in a cultural program designed to bring “well-known and respected authors” of German origin back to their home country for six-month residencies, she couldn’t help but feel like a fraud. Not only because she still hadn’t come to terms with the idea of herself as a real writer, but because she’d never thought of herself as anything but American.
Her grandparents hailed from a village outside Cologne, but all she’d really ever known of them were the names scribbled in the family Bible. And her mother had never shown any interest in her heritage. They were Americans, and no one would tell Marta James otherwise.
After Marta had died young, Althea had been too busy raising her brother the rest of the way into adulthood to think much of anything beyond whether they had enough money to buy sugar that week.
Still, even if Althea didn’t feel connected to her German ancestors, the offer to come to Berlin had been too tempting to pass up. If she agreed to participate, she’d get a round-trip ticket, a stipend, an apartment in a safe neighborhood, and a liaison from a local university to help show her around. In return, she’d be asked to attend a few political and social gatherings, as well as give a handful of talks about The Unfractured Light, the novel that had shifted Althea from a hobbyist into the category of “well-known and respected.”
She chewed on her bottom lip now, studying Diedrich’s face carefully. The lines between his brows weren’t deep, nor was his frown. Not anger, then, but contemplation.
Althea was about to try to lighten the mood—how, she wasn’t sure—when Diedrich seemed to shake off whatever strange emotion had settled around his shoulders.
“You enjoy German literature,” he said, with that smile he’d bestowed on her back in the market.
She basked in the warmth of it, relieved that she hadn’t somehow lost his affections. “Yes.”
Diedrich beamed. “May I offer a suggestion?”
“Please.”
“It’s one of my favorites.” Diedrich shifted to withdraw a book with a red cover from his inside jacket pocket.
The flickering candlelight on their table caught gold lettering as his fingers caressed the worn binding. Whatever this was, it was clearly treasured, so much so that he carried it around with him.
The cover was simple and straightforward, nothing too elaborate.
“I would very much enjoy hearing your thoughts on it.”
“Of course.” Althea gave him the best smile she could as she tapped the title. Mein Kampf. She could read German better than she could converse or write in it, so the translation came easily. “My Struggle.”
Diedrich gave an approving nod. “I am positive you will find it quite fascinating.”
Although she didn’t tend to gravitate toward autobiographies, Althea was aware enough to recognize the name of the author as the head of the very party that was funding her trip to Berlin. To be polite, she murmured, “I’m sure I will.”
Chapter 3
New York City
May 1944
Viv’s femme fatale outfit had wilted right alongside her confidence, which had been thoroughly stamped out back in that steakhouse booth.
But she didn’t have time to change into something less dramatic before she was due for drinks in the West Village. When she’d made the plans with Harrison Gardiner, one of William Morrow’s rising editorial stars, she’d hoped they would be celebrating. Now she just wanted something strong to douse the strange blend of rage and sorrow and humiliation that tangled uncomfortably in her chest.
She walked because the tavern where they were meeting was only a handful of blocks from the restaurant, and she needed the air, afraid that if she sulked on the subway tears would ruin the mascara she’d swiped on that morning. And usually once she started crying she couldn’t seem to stop. It was as if her grief was lurking, waiting for any hint of vulnerability. Mostly, she kept it at bay, but in moments like these when all she wanted to do was talk to Edward it tended to hit her the hardest that she would never be able to again.
Viv caught sight of Harrison through the grungy windows of the White Horse Tavern, chatting up a young woman who looked like she’d just stepped off the bus from Iowa.
Had there ever been a time when she’d been set to meet Harrison for cocktails where he hadn’t immediately found the closest available woman to flirt with? She rolled her eyes, but for the first time since she’d sauntered into that restaurant an hour ago, she laughed.
She stepped into the tavern and earned herself a low whistle by the scruffy artist type who’d stationed himself by the door. The man was likely drunk enough he couldn’t see straight, or else he wouldn’t have blessed her with the so-called admiration.
It wasn’t that Viv didn’t know how to draw eyes to herself. She was sharper than the women gracing all the magazine pages, willowy in contrast to the Betty Boop ideal that men kept pinned to the control panels of their fighter planes. But she knew her long lines, combined with a pointy chin, high cheekbones, and strawberry-heavy blond hair held their own allure, made her interesting to look at. Like a fox, she’d been told more than once by men who had probably thought they were being creative. Still, she wasn’t the type to earn wolf whistles from strangers. Not sober strangers, at least.
She ignored the man and crossed the room to shove herself into Harrison’s side. The girl from Iowa startled, her big blue eyes snapping to Viv’s, a blush on her milkmaid skin.
“I see what happens when I’m late,” Viv teased, snatching the olive from Harrison’s drink. “You find yourself another date. Did you even let the seat get cold?”
“No, I wasn’t . . . ,” the girl hurried to reassure, but Viv just winked at her. The girl flushed and then scrambled off the stool and out the door in a whirlwind of limbs and skirts.
Harrison watched her go and then swung his narrowed-eyed gaze back to Viv. “Mean.”
Viv took the girl’s vacated spot. “Please, it wasn’t like that was love. You didn’t even know her name.”
“There are more important things in life than names, doll,” Harrison said, but there was no heat in his voice and he was already signaling to the bartender hovering nearby for two fresh martinis.
“Right, like her measurements,” Viv said, kicking his shin with the tip of her pumps. Harrison smirked and snatched the olive from her drink before she could protest.
The first time they’d met, Harrison had deployed his charm on her. He was dark haired and slim, almost handsome, though his face was a touch too long, his eyes too pinched together. But he’d made her laugh, and she thought that might be a large part of his appeal. When she hadn’t flirted in return, he’d backed off immediately and they’d settled into friendship.
Sometimes on lonely nights she longed for the butterflies she’d felt only once in her life; in the darkest hours, she wished that when she met a witty, attractive man she could have that sense of possibility that made everyone else around her so giddy.
Then she remembered the pain that had come with the ghosts of those butterflies, thought of the warmth that bloomed in her with each friendship made. It had taken her a few years but she had realized love didn’t have to be a white wedding; it could be sharing drinks and gossip on an otherwise terrible day.
“Congratulations on Too Busy to Die,” she said. Harrison might be a friend but he was also a bright young thing at a big publishing house, which meant she kept tabs on him because of her job with the council. It was within her scope of responsibilities to know what each house had on their list each season, what the next bestsellers would be, and what all the top editors were working on. These details helped her decide what books to include in each month’s ASE shipment.
