The Librarian of Burned Books, page 5
“Hitler is chancellor,” the woman breathed out, glee and something close to mania in her face. “We will soon be free.”
Althea gasped, though the woman was long gone by the time she did. Had this been what Diedrich had smiled about only a few days ago? Had he known this was coming?
It had been the first time in weeks that Diedrich had seemed optimistic about the state of his party. Before that he’d mostly sounded frustrated that the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, or NSDAP as the Germans called it, was still reeling from the blow that had come in the November elections, when they had lost seats despite revolutionary, and expensive, campaign efforts.
His enthusiasm for the cause certainly hadn’t dimmed. For Althea, as someone who’d rarely, if ever, paid attention to politics before coming to Berlin, Diedrich’s passion had been exhilarating.
“Chancellor?” Althea asked one of the revelers, this time in English, just in case she’d misunderstood.
“Chancellor,” the young man agreed, tipping his head back to yell it to the night sky. The confirmation provoked a rolling cheer to ripple through the crowd, many of the men throwing up the salute that Hitler had made his own.
Flames burned bright above the marchers’ heads as they made their way toward Alexanderplatz. Althea hesitated one moment, two, and then let herself be swept along into the flood of bodies, all of whom were busy chanting things she only half understood.
Once again, like in the marketplace, Althea expected to feel untethered, overwhelmed. Instead she became a part of the frenzied crowd, buoyed by their elation, their excitement.
“How did this happen?” she yelled to the young woman next to her but didn’t get an answer. Althea had been foolish to expect one.
The crowd cut through the city, along the Spree, heading for the Reich Chancellery, the torches lighting their way. They sang in German, cried and laughed and danced, and Althea cried and laughed and danced alongside them, patriotism for her ancestors’ country thrumming in her blood, heady and hot and irresistible despite the fact that the pride was so new to her.
In the month that she’d been in Berlin, Germany had started to seem more like hers than rural Maine ever had. She had expected to feel like Alice dumped in Wonderland, everything slightly skewed and upside down, wrong side out. Instead, Althea couldn’t shake the idea that her old life had been the distorted one.
Althea had always been an odd child. The other girls at the small school in Owl’s Head had certainly pointed out all the ways she was strange. She had been too small, too smart, too pale, too poor, had raised her hand when she knew the answer to any question, which everyone told her was too often.
It had been in stories that she had escaped from her peers’ merciless taunts, and when the boring books on her mother’s shelf hadn’t been enough to keep her entertained, she’d started telling her own.
First they were about princesses and dragons and castles, fantasy acting as a refuge for her child’s mind. But as she grew, they matured with her. They became the prism through which she viewed the world, the cruelty of it, the beauty of it. She had started using stories as a way of understanding all the reasons those other children, and then other adults, were both cruel and beautiful, as well. What she hadn’t acknowledged was how much distance that let her put between herself and other people—she the viewer, the creator, the reader; they the characters, the subjects, the puppets.
As she sunk ever more in love with Berlin—the anonymity she had never before experienced, the bright lights, the laughter, the streets that never seemed to end but just turned into new places she’d never been before—she became aware of how stifling that desire to protect herself had become.
The habit was hard to break, especially when she became flustered, like with Diedrich’s flirtations in the winter market. But Berlin was helping her realize she didn’t need to hide in a story to escape life. Sometimes life was enough.
So how could she not be enchanted with the wave of German nationalism that was sweeping through the city?
Althea’s fingers had gone numb from the cold by the time they reached the square in front of the Chancellery, but she couldn’t be bothered by something as pedestrian as the weather in this moment.
“There.” Someone beside her gasped and pointed. In the window was a simple black silhouette, the unimposing figure of a man who had inspired thousands to take to the streets that night.
By the time Herr Hitler opened the French windows to greet his adoring supporters, the square had filled to the point that Althea was pressed shoulder to shoulder with the students surrounding her. Tears streaked down the cheeks of the girl to Althea’s left, while the boy to her right had his arm locked above his head, devotion clear in the way he tilted his face up to Hitler.
The new chancellor didn’t speak, which was a disappointment. The man’s oration skills were legendary.
Hitler watched them, though, seeming to bask in the cries of love and fealty. Althea was even close enough to the front of the crowd to imagine she could see the way his mouth ticked up in a self-satisfied smile.
The mob had well and truly settled in, content with their impromptu party, beer somehow materializing in the hands of the men nearby, songs swelling and cresting. A scuffle or two broke out, but the violence was nipped at the source by the blackshirts who were stationed sporadically throughout the crowd.
Althea caught sight of men congregating near the door of the building, recognizing Herr Joseph Goebbels from an introductory dinner when she’d first arrived in the city. She had made a special point of talking to him, as he had been the one to actually invite her to Berlin. Technically, her trip was funded through the Nazi Party, but Diedrich had informed her that it was Goebbels’s pet project. Upon meeting him, Althea had been struck by his appreciation for how much books and art and even newer mediums like film could play a role in politics.
Diedrich told her that Goebbels was destined for a cultural cabinet position should Hitler ever became chancellor. That would certainly explain the smug expression Goebbels wore now.
Beside him, the light from the streetlamp glinted off blond hair, and Althea sucked in a breath.
Diedrich.
If she had been even slightly bigger, she didn’t think she would have been able to maneuver her way toward the front, but her petite stature let her slip through the spaces until she broke free from the tangle of bodies.
She stumbled forward but only for a second, because in the next instant, Diedrich’s arms were around her, warm and comforting and smelling faintly of tobacco as he always did. She buried her face in his chest as he swung her around, both of them laughing for absolutely no other reason than they were delighted.
“You’ll see,” Diedrich whispered into her temple when he set her on her feet once more. “You’ll see how much better it will be now.”
Althea didn’t doubt it. She had heard enough from Diedrich’s friends how dire it was to get Hitler into a position of power. He was seen as their only hope, their shining beacon, their savior from men who wanted to keep Germany locked in poverty simply to pad their own pockets. The men who wanted Germany to bow to the capricious, cruel whims of the rest of a world that had blamed the country for the entirety of the Great War, a world that wanted to salt the earth and let Germans die rather than offer compassion. The November Criminals who had gone along with the armistice and signed the country’s death certificate.
“I know,” Althea whispered, tipping her face up to smile at Diedrich. He hesitated a beat and then dropped his lips to hers. He tasted of whiskey and happiness and when she gasped in surprise his tongue slipped into her mouth.
A shiver of desire ran through her as she pressed into him, needy and confused and riding a rush of pleasure she’d never known before.
She was twenty-five, and this was her very first kiss.
He pulled back after pressing his lips chastely once more to the corner of her mouth. Something unbearably fond sparked behind his eyes, and he laughed once more. “Come, darling, let’s find some champagne.”
Althea let herself be tugged along.
After all, Adolf Hitler had come to power.
It was a night to celebrate.
Chapter 7
New York City
May 1944
Viv might have originally scoffed at Harrison’s idea of mimicking the big final scene of a book in her fight with Taft, but as she rode the subway back from Brooklyn she couldn’t remember why.
Americans who had been slogging through a seemingly never-ending war had been primed for years through films and propaganda to want a spectacular ending where the good guys triumphed, the handsome man got the girl, and the villain was served his just deserts.
Viv could give them two out of three of those at least.
If she played this right.
The train jolted to a shuddering stop, and Viv slipped through the subway doors just before they closed.
The stop was only a few blocks from the council’s headquarters in the New York Times Hall, nestled as it was between the bold signs and bright facades of its Broadway neighbors.
“Viv, your letters,” Miss Bernice Westwood called out when Viv stepped into the lobby of the renovated theater.
The greeting threw Viv off for a beat, her heels skittering on hardwood when she pivoted toward Bernice’s desk.
“Thank you,” she said, a bit breathless from the exertion. Viv took the bag she knew was filled with several bundles of envelopes tied together with twine.
They would all be from soldiers stationed abroad, writing to thank the council for the ASEs, asking for more books, wondering if they could have their messages sent directly to the authors. A few might even be from relatives of the boys, pleading for their loved ones to get any extra copies of the more popular novels. It was a large part of Viv’s job to read them, reply when warranted, and pull out the notable ones for when journalists came calling, looking for quotes about the initiative.
“A light day?” Viv asked, looking behind Bernice for more. Sometimes there were too many sacks for her to carry in one trip.
“Mm-hmm,” Bernice murmured absently before leaning forward, her mop of blond curls bouncing around her chin, eyes wide. “Rumor has it you ambushed Taft in a steakhouse yesterday. Is that why you ran in here just now like a chicken?”
She should have known better than to hope that her humiliating spectacle at the restaurant hadn’t made its way through the council’s headquarters. Especially since she’d seen the predicted mention of it in the Post. The write-up had been buried on the inside pages, but enough busybodies worked at the council and they read those anonymous gossip sheets religiously.
“No,” Viv said, pursing her lips and deciding a distraction would be the best bet here. “But I do have a new idea on how to fight Taft.”
“Do tell,” Bernice demanded.
“I have to pitch it to Mr. Stern first.” Viv reached out to give Bernice’s hand an apologetic squeeze. “Wish me luck.”
Bernice pouted her displeasure, but then smiled brightly. “You’re doing right by the boys, you know. By not giving up.”
Viv didn’t bother pointing out that she would likely crash and burn just like she had for the past six months. She’d learned a long time ago that if you faked confidence well enough, other people would start believing you knew what you were doing.
“Taft won’t know what hit him,” she said with a wink.
Mr. Philip Van Doren Stern, the head of the council, was a kind man, tall and thin with a long face. His wire-rimmed glasses and conservative suits gave him a serious look that Viv had realized quickly acted as camouflage to his understated humor and mischievous nature.
She tapped on his open door lightly, the letters still tucked beneath her arm.
The smile he’d been about to offer shifted into a contemplative frown when he caught sight of who was knocking. Viv should have known that if the rumors of her plan to confront Taft had reached Bernice, they certainly would have been brought to the attention of the president of the council. “Mrs. Childs.”
Viv cringed at the reprimand he delivered so easily with just her name, the full brunt of his disappointment landing on her shoulders. Mr. Stern had taken a chance on hiring her back in the fall, right after Edward had died, and she hated letting him down.
“I know, I shouldn’t have done it,” Viv said as she slunk into his office. “But I have a much better plan now. One that might actually work.”
“Oh, Vivian.” Mr. Stern sighed, and then got up to pour them both a glass of scotch. He tapped the rims together and handed over hers. “It may be time to throw in the towel.”
“But Congress changes laws every day,” Viv pointed out. It was the most important part of her idea. The Soldier Voting Act had become law, but that didn’t mean Taft’s censorship amendment couldn’t be excised from it.
“I suppose.”
“And no one really liked Taft’s ban in the first place,” Viv soldiered on. “They just didn’t want to endanger the voting act.”
“They didn’t want to go against Taft,” Mr. Stern added gently. “Which they still won’t want to do now.”
“That’s why we have to convince them it’s more politically advantageous to side with us,” Viv said, with more certainty than she felt. She’d learned firsthand how few of Taft’s colleagues wanted to get on his bad side. “My mistake was focusing on Taft. We have to focus on everyone else and show them they’re on the wrong side here.”
“How do you propose we do that?” Mr. Stern asked, rubbing a thumb between his eyebrows as if he was staving off a headache. It wouldn’t be the first time Viv had been likened to a brewing migraine.
“We convince their voters to make a fuss about it,” Viv said, eager now. “And to do that, we put on a show.”
Mr. Stern waved his hand to encourage her to elaborate.
“We hold an event, we invite the media, the publishing world, librarians, our best authors,” Viv said, the words coming out in a rush. The concept was still half-formed, but the more she talked about it the more she was convinced it stood a chance of working. “I’ll call all the big dailies to let them know it’s happening. There are even a few people in radio I can tap.” Viv paused and caught her breath. “Not enough people know what’s at stake with this amendment. We need to show them why it’s important.”
“And the voting act won’t muddy the waters this time,” Mr. Stern said, nodding.
“If we get the public on our side, lawmakers won’t be able to ignore the issue any longer,” Viv said. “They only really care about something if it affects their chance at reelection, you know that. We need them to realize this could hurt their campaign war chests.
“Taft intimidated enough of his colleagues to get this amendment through,” Viv continued. “But once we bring the full brunt of the public’s outrage down on their heads, they’ll switch their alliance like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Every good story needs a villain, and lucky for us Taft has offered himself up on a silver platter.”
She might feel guilty if she thought she was painting Taft as a ruthless, ambitious brute that he wasn’t. But what lay beneath that folksy facade was exactly that, and she had no qualms about removing his mask.
“I can do this,” Viv promised, mostly believing it. Or partly believing it, at least, which was good enough. “We lay the groundwork with articles and well-placed opinion pieces. We start getting attention from our usual supporters but then also from big political donors and the general public. Everything will build in momentum until the big day.”
He was teetering, clearly, but not convinced yet. As the public face of the initiative, he had to play nice with lawmakers, even if they wanted to destroy the council. But as a man who believed in what they were doing, he wanted to see the amendment killed as much as she did.
“One event, held here, with speakers who will volunteer their time,” she wheedled a bit. “All of this will be at minimal cost to the council.”
On instinct, Viv reached into the bag that Bernice had handed her. She knew Mr. Stern appreciated how much the ASE program touched the soldiers. Still, there was a difference between knowing that in theory, and reading the letters every single day, as she did.
She plucked out a few, skimmed as fast as she could, and then held out the perfect one.
To Whom It May Concern—
My name is Sergeant Billie Flick. I’m with the 107th. I’m not a writer or nothing, don’t have a good way with words, but I wanted to try to thank you all for the books you’re sending. We lost a kid three days ago. He’d lied on his enlistment papers, said he was older than his sixteen years, we called him Cisco because he came from San Fran.
On his last few days, all he kept talking about was one of your books. Wind, Sand and Stars it was called, and I gotta tell you the boys laughed at that title. Told Cisco he should sign up for a literary salon. He said, no, you have to read it. It’s about the “bonds of friendships forged in fire.” Those were the words he used, can you imagine?
He got shot taking a piss outside the barracks by a bored Kraut sniper. Didn’t see it coming, which is always a blessing.
Cisco won’t be remembered by more than his mama and family, probably. He was brave in a quiet way, the kind that made him tell a lie to get sent over here in the first place. He didn’t save no one, nor change the tides of the war. But he’s worth someone other than us knowing about.
And I like to think he lives on by any man who carries a copy of that book in their pocket. So, thank you for that.
Respectfully,
Sergeant William Flick, 107
Viv wondered if Billie realized he’d never even included the kid’s name. It probably didn’t matter that he hadn’t, anyway. To those men, that kid had been Cisco, and he’d likely be forgotten after the next dozen or so deaths they experienced.
That’s how war was. Everyone had a touching story to tell, and yet because of that, it was almost like there were none.
