The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(33)

Quantentheorie des einatomigen idealen Gases by Albert Einstein.

She straightened as a chill prickled over her skin. “Is that German?”

“It is.” Mr. Evans lips tucked together, his brows edging together. “It was saved from the book burning the Nazis did around seven years ago. Foyle has been determined to get his hands on all of them and even made a bid to Hitler himself. Who knows why?” Mr. Evans put his hands over the cover, hovering without touching. “Knowing Foyle, he’d probably stuff them into the sandbags around his shop like he does with the rest of the old books he’s used so callously.”

Grace had seen the squared off sandbags in front of Foyles and had wondered at their shape. Never had she dreamed he would have filled them with old books. Her gaze wandered to the reddish-brown stain on the cover of the battered tome. It was fascinating and yet disconcerting.

“What is that?” She indicated the book.

Mr. Evans drew in a long inhale and slowly let it out. “Blood.” He lifted the book free of the cloth. “Old blood. Hitler didn’t take kindly to the books he meant to burn being hidden.”

His unspoken suggestion dropped on her with horror. “Do you mean someone may have died to save it?”

She followed him into the back room where he moved around several boxes to reveal a safe embedded in the wall. She blinked in surprise, having never even known of its existence.

“Most likely.” He spun at the knob, ignoring the keyhole an inch below it, and the door swung open with a heavy, metallic groan. Inside were nearly a dozen more books with German titles along their spines. While not new, none were in the same poor condition as the one by Albert Einstein.

“There are many voices Hitler would quiet, especially those who are Jewish.” Mr. Evans slid the new book reverently beside the others. “It is the duty of the rest of the world to ensure they will never be silenced.” He tapped a yellow spine with Almansor in gilt at its top. “‘Where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as well.’ Heinrich Heine isn’t Jewish, but his ideals go against what Hitler believes.” Mr. Evans pushed the safe door closed with an ominous bang. “This war is about far more than blackouts and food rationing, Miss Bennett.”

She swallowed.

People were dying to save books, to prevent ideas and people from being snuffed out.

Grace wasn’t doing nearly enough.

“I think I may join the ATS,” she said abruptly.

His large eyes blinked behind his spectacles. “I do not think that is a wise decision, Miss Bennett. Why not join the ARP as a warden instead?”

Grace frowned at the idea of being like Mr. Stokes, noting every amount of light emanating from households and gleefully telling them to be put out.

The bell at the front of the shop jangled, announcing a customer. Wordlessly, Grace left Mr. Evans with the safe as she went to the front of the store. It was no patron who awaited her, but Mrs. Nesbitt.

She wore a beige mackintosh belted at her narrow waist and a black hat set perfectly in the center of her hair, which was pulled back as severely as before. Her mouth was an angry slash of red in her hard-set features.

“You are just the wretch I came to see,” Mrs. Nesbitt said, her words nipped out with arrogant precision.

The aggression of her demeanor was like a slap and rendered Grace momentarily at a loss for words. “I...I beg your pardon?” she stammered.

“Don’t play innocent with me, you minx.” Mrs. Nesbitt stormed into the shop, her hard, black heels striking the floor like jackboots. “Look how organized this is. How clean. How perfectly laid out by section.” She jabbed a finger at a sign marked History by way of demonstration. “And displayed.” She slid a side glare at the children’s table set artfully with a colorful array of books.

She didn’t bother to hide the accusation icing over her words. “How curious that your orders at Simpkin Marshalls are increasing as the rest of us struggle to sell our usual stock?”

Grace’s boldness in dealing with the sharp-tongued woman previously was gone, washed away by the open hostility and cemented by the need to uphold the face of Primrose Hill Books within its walls.

Grace dug her nails into her patience and clung on. “With all due respect, Mrs. Nesbitt,” she replied levelly, “you are not the only shop to use displays in such a fashion, nor are you the only one to label the sections.”

“Your display is quite purposefully styled,” Mrs. Nesbitt snapped.

Grace knew the exhibit in the front window was eye-catching, a blend of popular mysteries with a sprinkle of children’s books to entice a housewife with a child in tow to enter. It was purposefully styled, as Mrs. Nesbitt said, but then many displays on Paternoster Row had been.

“Thank you,” Mr. Evans replied. “Grace has worked hard on it, as well as everything else in the shop.”

Mrs. Nesbitt spun around and faced Mr. Evans, tall and skinny to his short and plump. “I mean it looks very much like my display. How dare you?”

He gave her a bored look. “Do not blame your flagging sales on our prosper.”

“How could I not?” Mrs. Nesbitt declared. “To what else do you attribute your success aside from organizing your shop like mine?”

“Competition,” Grace interjected, bolstered by Mr. Evans’s support. “You are amid many other booksellers on Paternoster Row, yet we’re alone here on Hosier Lane.”