The Librarian Spy(54)
His chin lifted. “I am an engineer. I trained at Arts et Métiers ParisTech.”
Ava recognized the name from a text she had recently photographed on French engineering. With so many factories in France, it had been her hope to identify weaknesses that might help the US grind Nazi operations in France to a halt.
A smile teased at his lips. “You know the school.”
“It’s renowned.”
He nodded in gratitude. “I excelled there at industrial engineering. So, you see why I could not remain in Paris when the Nazis were coming.”
A man of his experience would have immediately been put to work by the Germans to manufacture arms. At least, until all Jews were made to quit their jobs and relocate.
“I tried to convince my sister to join me,” Otto continued. “But we lived in France since we were children, when our parents moved there for my father’s job. He too was an engineer.” He sighed. “France is home. I should have pushed harder for Petra and her family to leave as well.” He shook his head, as if doing so would free him of regret.
“Even in Marseille I was not safe,” he continued. “As the Germans swept over the border, the embassies were overrun as were the ticket offices. I cannot count the hours I spent waiting in an endless queue, sleeping where I stood, going without meals. But when you are a French Jew, and your other nationality is German...” He gave a cynical smirk. “I finally paid someone to forge an exit visa from France and a transit visa into Spain, then Portugal. They all worked, except Spain, who imprisoned me for two weeks before a friend could bribe my way to freedom. Once I arrived here, I fell yet again into an exhaustive wait. One of the lucky ones to have escaped...” He gave a sound somewhere between a choke and a laugh.
“The Nazis have taken everything from us.” Grief lined his face and his shoulders sagged in defeat, his pipe held loosely and forgotten in his left hand. “Our families are gone, our homes commandeered and given to those who spoke against us, our jobs are nonexistent, our futures unknown and we have nothing but the belongings that will fit in a suitcase or upon our backs. We have succeeded in escaping them, but they have still succeeded in destroying us.”
Ava shook her head. “No.”
Otto’s brows rose, his stare incredulous. “I was a man of great wealth and influence. I commanded respect wherever I went. Now I am nothing.”
“You aren’t,” Ava said vehemently. “Not when you are here to tell your story. Not when there are those like Ethan who work miracles with limited resources to get you onto safe shores. Not when people like me are photographing your books, your correspondence, your papers, and your lives to share your heritage, to ensure Hitler can never make any of you into nothing. He will not succeed in destroying you.”
Otto stared at her, and emotion sparked in his eyes. “It is the fear of every generation that the rising youths will destroy this world.” He pushed the envelope toward her. “I believe you just may save it.”
She hesitated as she reached for the letter.
“Let Petra’s story live forever, for I believe she is no longer of this world.” Otto swallowed, taking a moment before pulling another envelope free from his jacket, this one crisp and clean. “I will be able to obtain more newspapers than this, but here is what I have for now.”
“Thank you for trusting me.” Ava carefully accepted both items.
“Thank you for understanding.” Otto nodded to Ava and pushed up from the table, leaving a cloud of sweet, gray smoke in his wake.
The temptation to remove Otto’s letter from her purse and read its contents was almost unbearable. Whatever it contained was precious to Otto, and that made it precious to Ava. And so she sat back and bided her time until she was inside the large conference room of the embassy the following day.
In her time at the Library of Congress, she had handled many delicate items of note. There had been a medieval text on medicine and the power of stones from the thirteenth century with muted ink upon yellowed and brown-spotted vellum. There had been The Federalist from the eighteenth century with Eliza Hamilton’s careful signature at its top from Thomas Jefferson’s own private collection that he sold to the library after a fire ravaged its stock. She had even held the library’s copy of the Gutenberg Bible.
It was with that same care and respect that she now extracted the letter from its envelope and laid it on the table to read.
Dearest brother—At present, I sit in Vél d’Hiv, the sports arena you once visited when you cheered on cyclists in the Olympics more than fifteen years ago. The glass ceiling has been painted blue to prevent visibility to bombers, and it leaves us all awash in a ghastly green pallor. Worse still, it draws the heat of the intense summer sun. They mean to keep us all contained within—the thousands of us whom they have captured and transported where we are penned like animals. The windows are sealed tightly shut, so there is no air entering to offer salvation and nothing foul may leave. And there is much that is foul. The lavatories are either locked or clogged, and the odor is so thick in the heat that I can scarce draw breath.
It was my intent to write only to let you know where we were, but now that I have pen to paper and nothing but an eternal wait ahead of me, I find myself compelled to share with you what exactly has transpired in these years in Paris. What brought us to where we are now...
Peggy came into the room and stopped short when she saw Ava, a lunch bag in her hand. “Oops, sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”