The Librarian of Burned Books, page 22
Times Hall was mostly dark when Viv finally left her office, but the shadows weren’t menacing. Viv now knew each nook and cranny of this place, like a second home to her.
It wasn’t until she stepped onto the street that her defenses came up. She’d grown up in the city, walked by herself most of the time without a thought. But many of Broadway’s bright lights had been dimmed either through closures or temporary brownouts. Out here, the shadows crept along in her wake, menacing rather than friendly.
Her fingers clenched against the coins she already had out for her subway ticket, a precaution she’d learned long ago. Part of not being scared to navigate the city alone came with being smart about the real dangers.
When she was only a few steps away from the subway entrance, a man crept out of one of the darkened doorways.
Viv squeaked, the noise embarrassing and high and hopeless, and her heart raced as she fumbled for the hat pin she kept at the bottom of her purse.
But the man held his hands up and stepped back so that the streetlamp caught his features, throwing his cheekbones, his nose, his chin into relief. He was short and well-dressed and his brown hair was just starting to gray and go thin at the edges. His three-piece suit was expertly tailored and clearly expensive, his shoes shiny and slick, and his watch Cartier. None of that meant he didn’t pose a danger, but Viv adjusted her thinking about what he might want from her.
She managed to curl her hand around the hat pin. She wanted to scan the street for help, but she couldn’t risk taking her eyes off the potential predator.
“Mrs. Childs, I promise you there’s no need for all that,” the man said in a molasses-tinged Southern drawl.
Viv didn’t believe him for a second. “Who are you? What do you want? How do you know my name?”
His pencil-thin eyebrows rose. “Which question do you want answered?”
This was no time for games. Viv yanked the hat pin out of her purse and jabbed the air between them. “All of them,” she said from behind bared teeth. “And quickly.”
“All right, all right, calm down,” the man said. “I guess I should have expected theatrics given where we are.”
He smirked at his own joke, but then sobered as Viv lunged closer.
“You have ten seconds,” Viv threatened.
“Kitten’s got claws,” he said. “I’ve come to talk, that’s it.”
“Talk about what?”
The man’s already raised brows lifted as if it were a silly question. “The thing that’s got you all hot and bothered, Mrs. Childs.”
Viv was so surprised, she nearly fumbled the hat pin. “The Taft amendment? This cloak-and-dagger routine is because of my event?”
“You’re the one who brought a dagger into this,” the man said, and then coughed into his hand, the lines at the corners of his eyes revealing that amusement she found so off-putting. “I mean a hat pin. I was simply waiting for you to come out; it’s not my fault you’re walking the streets alone at night. Who knows what could happen to you?”
“What do you want?” Viv asked, her fingers retightening on her weapon. For all that he mocked it, she had seen what kind of damage the metal could do.
“I’ve been so inconsiderate,” the man said, swiping both hands down the front of his suit. “I haven’t even introduced myself yet. Mr. Howard Danes at your service.”
“What do you want?” Viv repeated, each word landing hard and heavy between them.
Howard sighed, like he was the long-suffering patient man in their little tableau and she the hysterical woman. “Just to talk. I think maybe we could come to an agreement, you and me.”
“Unless you’re here to tell me Taft is going to remove the fines from the amendment—or better yet get rid of it altogether—we have nothing to talk about,” Viv said. She truly doubted this man brought good news, considering he had decided to approach her and not Mr. Stern. Considering he’d chosen to do so at night, when she was alone and vulnerable. This was not Taft waving a white flag.
“You’re a smart girl,” Howard said in that elongated drawl. “You know you’re not going to accomplish anything with this stunt of yours.”
And at that Viv finally relaxed. “Really? You don’t think so?”
“It’s admirable what you’re trying to do, but you’re in over your head, girl,” Howard continued, as if he sensed weakness. “I think we could come to some sort of arrangement.”
“An arrangement?”
“Now I know your husband died for this great country of ours,” Howard said, putting a hand over his heart and bowing his head. In doing so, he missed the way she tensed again. “Senator Taft would be honored to put forth Mr. Childs’s name for official recognition for his bravery in serving.”
She itched to slap Edward’s name out of this despicable man’s mouth.
“You’re saying you’ll give my husband a Medal of Honor for the cheap, cheap price of both his and my souls?” Viv said, as syrupy as his voice was. “I’m not for sale. And neither was Edward.”
“Mrs. Childs, be reasonable—” Howard said, ingratiating once again.
“No,” Viv cut him off. “You think I can’t accomplish anything with my little . . . stunt, did you call it? Well, I’ve already accomplished more in the past four weeks than I had in the six months prior to that. And you want to know how I know that?”
His eyes narrowed as if sensing a trap. And she nearly smiled when out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of movement.
“Because of you,” Viv said, with careful enunciation. “You see, you wouldn’t be here if we weren’t making progress. So thank you for the update.” She shifted and then waved down the night patrolman she’d seen rounding the corner. “Please, sir, help.”
And with one final smirk, she tucked the hat pin in her purse, turned, and walked into the subway station as Mr. Howard Danes stuttered excuses to the patrolman. She was tired, she was shaky from the encounter, she was sad that anyone thought that kind of trade would actually work. But more than anything, for the first time in ages, she was confident she was doing something right.
Chapter 34
Berlin
May 1933
I brought a present,” Dev said as she stepped into Althea’s room one day in early May holding a garment bag.
Althea clapped her hands in overdramatic excitement. “Is it a poodle?”
Dev eyed her and then grinned. “You have a better sense of humor than you let people believe.”
Flushing at the compliment—backhanded though it might be—Althea shifted her attention to the dress Dev now held out. The fabric was a dark blue that edged toward velvety black. A thin silver webbing added depth to the color, creating the effect of looking at the night sky.
Althea gasped, her eyes flying to Dev’s. “I can’t wear that.”
“Because it’s actually fashionable?” Dev asked with the practiced lift of a brow. Then she held out a pair of heels to go with the dress and nudged Althea toward the privacy screen in one corner of the apartment. “I won’t take no for an answer, darling.”
“Where are we going?” Althea said, without taking the dress.
“Moka Efti, it’s a nightclub I haven’t taken you to yet,” Dev said, shoving over the bundle of fabric into Althea’s arms. “I’m tired of all these Resistance meetings. It’s time for some fun. Now get changed, Hannah awaits.”
Hannah. Clearly Dev knew that was the magic word to get Althea to agree. Still, Althea hesitated for one heartbeat longer, picturing what she would look like in this dress. She knew enough about style to recognize that the depth of the blue would shift her skin from ghostly pale to polished porcelain; the shimmer of the webbing would lighten up her face; the cut would highlight her slim calves and delicate collarbone while hiding a lack of curves.
“What shall I do with my hair?” Althea asked a bit desperately, a bit hopelessly. The heavy curtain of it was always her burden to bear.
Dev eyed her for a long moment and then she crossed the room in three decisive strides. “Pins.”
Althea scrambled for a handful and then stood still as Dev divided her hair into three sections. With the meticulousness of an army general, Dev rolled Althea’s hair into a low chignon, tugging pieces loose so that it wouldn’t be too severe. When Althea looked in the mirror, she nearly gaped at what she saw. The softness of the style didn’t add roundness to her face like it did when she attempted such a thing. Rather, it highlighted the line of her jaw, the fullness of her lips. Even the dash of freckles across her nose contributed to the dreamy, Monet-like picture Dev had created out of her.
Dev patted Althea’s shoulder as she looked on with satisfaction. “Now the dress.”
As Althea changed, careful not to disrupt her hair, Dev poked around in her apartment as she was wont to do. “I forgot, have you heard about the book burnings?”
“The what?” Althea called, certain she hadn’t heard right.
“It’s shameful, darling,” Dev said. “A group of students have been organizing it for tomorrow night. Hannah wants to go to protest.”
“That’s terrible,” Althea said as she stepped back around the privacy screen. “What books are they burning?”
“Anything with anti-German sentiment,” Dev said, with an eye roll. “Which can pretty much mean any book they want. You look stunning. Hannah is going to swoon.”
Althea’s eyes dropped to the floor at the knowing affection in Dev’s smile. But she couldn’t help the small, answering grin at the thought.
The atmosphere in the new nightclub was more like a party than a show, and when they arrived Dev ordered Althea a drink that tasted of sugar and fire, and was far too good to be drunk slowly.
They found Hannah and Otto dancing in a dark corner, the two of them spinning in happy circles. Hannah wore a dress in that plum color Althea was learning she favored. It was cut low in the back, revealing creamy skin and the slight knobs of her spine. The skirt was shorter than Hannah usually wore, the hint of a garter peeking out as Hannah twirled away from Otto.
“Oh, Hannah imbibed,” Dev crowed in delight. “She is her most fun when she indulges, but it is a rare treat, let me tell you.”
“Friends,” Hannah cried out when she saw them, detangling herself from Otto to press wet kisses on their cheeks. “Dance with me.”
Dev nudged Althea into Hannah’s arms, taking the glass from her hands before it spilled everywhere.
The band struck up something fast and brassy, and Hannah’s hand settled into the small of Althea’s back, pressing her in close, so their bodies were flush against each other.
The room spun and not because of how they moved to the music.
“You look pretty tonight.” Hannah’s mouth brushed against the hinge of Althea’s jaw, her fingers dangerously low on Althea’s back. “You always look so pretty.”
This was what Althea had wanted, it was why she’d slipped the dress on in the first place. Heat gathered at her center as her legs brushed against Hannah’s, the tips of her breasts tightening as she became aware of the soft swell of Hannah’s beneath the silken fabric of her own gown.
Althea tipped her face up and she realized how close they were. They were breathing the same air, the act so intimate Althea’s throat went dry with expectation. It would be so easy just to let gravity pull her into Hannah, to erase that final centimeter.
Her life would change forever then. No more ignoring, no more pleading ignorance.
Hannah’s fingers flexed against her back, her pinkie dragging against the subtle curve of Althea’s derriere.
And then all of a sudden, it was too much.
She wanted to be brave, but she wasn’t. She wanted to be Berlin’s Althea James, but she knew better.
She was just a silly, stupid girl from Owl’s Head, Maine, and she’d never be anything but that.
Althea wrenched herself away, gasping, near tears, and stumbled through the crowd. Bodies crashed into her, the laughter too loud, the smoke too thick to breathe properly, the lights popping in her eyes.
Air came, blessed and a little too warm to help completely calm her scattered nerves. She found herself leaning against the brick wall of the cabaret’s alley, taking gulping breaths that made her light-headed. That was still better than the roaring panic from inside.
Suddenly there was a hand on the back of her neck. She flinched away, her eyes widening, her arms coming up to protect herself. But it was just Dev, watching her with a gentle expression that shredded all of Althea’s defenses.
She blinked up at her friend, unwelcome tears spilling from the corners of her eyes.
“Oh, little dove,” Dev sighed, throwing an arm around her shoulder, directing her back to the street. As Dev nudged her into a waiting car, Althea thought she heard Dev say, “Alas, too much, too fast.”
The ride passed in a blur of colors as Althea carefully kept her mind blank. She would not think of that moment in the dark corner, surrounded by sweaty, pulsing bodies, her own responding in kind. She would not think of the sweet smell of Hannah’s skin or the soft press of her hands.
She would not think of the devastated look Hannah had shot her in the moment she’d wrenched herself out of Hannah’s arms.
Althea crawled into bed, vaguely aware of Dev tucking her in. Afraid, of everything that would change after tonight—because they couldn’t just laugh off what happened as inconsequential—Althea stared out the window until dawn crept in. Only then did she allow herself to sleep.
ONE OF ALTHEA’S biggest fears was that Hannah would stop talking to her. Instead, when Hannah and Dev stopped by Althea’s apartment the next day to collect her to protest the book burnings, Althea realized she should have been worried about something else.
Hannah was acting like nothing had happened at all.
Meanwhile, Althea had trouble looking directly at her.
Dev decided to counter the strained awkwardness with chatter.
“Goebbels is calling for Germans all over the country to burn their own private collections,” Dev said. “And they’re going to broadcast the burnings from Berlin tonight, as well. They expect quite the crowd, apparently.”
“Will it be dangerous?” Althea asked, her mind reeling at the idea of a mass bonfire. Surely, it would be just a few radical students, and not the large event Dev seemed to believe was planned.
“You should be safe enough,” Dev said, and Hannah held up her hands.
“I’m going, you can’t convince me otherwise,” Hannah said with a stubborn slant to her jaw.
“Why they think this is a good strategy, I have no idea.” Dev grabbed Althea’s bag for her and started nudging them toward the door. “It’s not like books can be unread.”
Althea’s stomach heaved at the image of ink and paper disintegrating into ash.
She couldn’t help but think of Heinrich Heine’s prediction. Where they burn books, they will also ultimately burn people.
Only when Dev and Hannah turned to Althea with wide eyes did she realize she’d said that part out loud.
Dev grimaced. “Well, poets are dramatic, aren’t they?” She said it flippantly, but none of them, including her, laughed.
The evening drew them forward, all of them walking in a silence heavy with terrible thoughts. As they neared Opernplatz, in front of the state opera building, the torchlight illuminated the crowd.
“Here’s where I leave you.” Dev kissed them goodbye before disappearing.
“She’s working tonight, isn’t she?” Althea asked.
“The Nazis will want footage of this,” Hannah said. “They’ll want a pretty face to narrate.”
Despite the fact that Althea was a guest of the same program Dev was, she didn’t understand how Hannah could be so calm about it.
“Don’t you care?”
“I wish the world was different,” Hannah said, a bit of a slap in her voice, and Althea realized she was close to crossing some line. Hannah didn’t want—or deserve—Althea’s judgment about her friends.
Althea remembered the night Hitler had been named chancellor, how she’d joined in the marchers, joyous and giddy to be a part of something so much bigger than herself. She had no right to say anything about Dev.
The thought was consumed by the flames that licked up toward the stars of the darkening sky and the happy, startled cries of those watching as hundreds of stories burned to nothingness.
Althea nearly dropped to her knees at the sight of the pyre. It roared into the night sky, an angry lion consuming everything it was fed.
And it was fed well.
Piles of books were stacked in what seemed like every inch of the square. Students rolled in wheelbarrows full, young people came bearing sacks that strained at the seams, cars’ trunks stood open as volumes spilled out onto the pavement.
It was not just a few books, not just a symbolic fire.
There were thousands upon thousands upon thousands of books being tossed into the flames.
Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of people cheered and howled and threw up the Nazi salute. They chanted, “We are the fire, we are the flame; we burn before Germany’s altars.”
The flames were feeding the feverish excitement of the crowd just as the crowd fed the flames. Enormous Nazi banners hung from every building in the square, spectators leaning out of the windows, calling down their support. A band played, the music adding an eerie soundtrack to the delirious revelers.
Hannah gripped Althea’s arms and it was only then that Althea realized she’d been crying. Not dignified tears, but noisy, messy sobs.
“It’s sacrilege,” Althea whispered. If Althea had a church, it was within the covers of books; if she had a religion, it was in the words written there. Hannah just nodded.
“I know.”
And Hannah did know. Of that, Althea was certain.
A light rain had started to fall as if God himself was crying over the atrocity.
Goebbels took the stage then, the flames turning his face sunken and skeletal. Althea remembered when she’d first met him at a party, and it had been soft candlelight flickering against his skin. He’d been awkward, a touch strange, but mostly pleasant, interested in intellectual conversation, curious and thoughtful.
