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WHILE HIS BODYGUARD watched from the steps of the National Theater, Thomas crossed a square named for a 17th century regiment, the Gens D’Armes. On his right stood a domed Protestant church, the German cathedral; on the left was an identically-styled house of worship, built in the 18th century for Huguenot refugees, the French cathedral. With a parting glance at the gray stone Schauspielhaus and the vigilant figure of Helga Schmitt, he walked to a block of shops and apartment buildings and entered Tauben’s.
A brass bell tinkled overhead as he closed the glass door. The ground floor was filled with antique furniture and fine china. Colorful glass lampshades and bronze statuettes competed for space with cupboards, bureaus, enameled boxes and silverware. Two shelves ran the length of the far wall, with porcelain cups, saucers, dishes and teapots arranged according to their design and place of manufacture. Dresden china occupied the upper shelf, products of the Berlin area were set lower.
“You are not interested in Meissen porcelain?” The question came from a short, balding man standing on the last step of a wooden staircase. He wore metal-framed glasses and a loose-fitting gray wool suit.
“You must be the proprietor.”
“Benjamin Tauben, at your service.”
“I believe Professor Brinkmann notified you?”
“Yes, Herr Rost. The good doctor is one of my oldest customers, mostly curios and knickknacks for his wife, an invalid.”
“He told you what I am after?”
“Only in the vaguest terms.”
Thomas swept an arm around the store. “I don’t see any rare books or manuscripts.”
“On the floor above. Come with me, please.” The elderly businessman turned slowly, climbed the steps and entered the first room on the right.
When Thomas caught up, he stood outside in the short corridor and inspected the bookroom, evidently formed by knocking out the wall of the next room to create a more spacious depository. Even so, books were piled up from the floor almost to the ceiling in the spaces between the bookshelves that lined the room. On his left, manuscripts lay on a wide counter in front of glassed-in bookcase that ran the length of that side of the room. Only the narrow aisles were free of books and papers. Besides natural light from a single window opposite the door, the owner had switched on a pair of overhead lamps.
Thomas entered the room. “A wonderland of literary and scholarly works.”
“Take your time, Herr Rost. When you are ready, perhaps I can assist in your search.”
Thomas went to the window, pulled aside the thin curtain and peered up the street. No sign of Helga, he noted, but that didn’t mean much. She would be close by. He crossed the room again and opened the glass doors of the bookcase. “Jack London’s Call of the Wild, Zola’s Nana, Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past, the works of banned authors. Where did you get them?”
“Those and more, rescued from the pyre in Bebel Platz, 1933—pulled from the flames, hidden under coats and smuggled to safety.”
Thomas shifted his gaze from the books to a ragged coat hanging off a hook by the door, a yellow Star of David sewn on the front. Then his eyes fell to a typewriter on the floor. He pointed to the machine. “I thought Jews weren’t allowed to own one.”
“Nor are we permitted to own a business,” the Jew said quietly.
“Isn’t this your store?”
“I manage it. A good German bought it a few years ago. He keeps me on, I don’t know why. In return I help him turn a fair profit.”
“Not a fair life for you.”
The old man sighed. “It isn’t so bad. Others have a much more difficult time of it. In fact, since October matters have become especially precarious for my kinsmen in Berlin. The Gauleiter, Dr. Goebbels, seems determined to clear the capital of Jews. I fear that God had abandoned us.”
Thomas thought of Pastor Bonhoeffer and the opposition to the Nazis. He ran a fingertip along the spines of banned books. “Tell me about your customers. Who can afford to shop here?”
“Mostly government officials, their wives and those making money in war-related industries.” Tauben offered a sad smile. “New money chasing old culture.”
“Sometimes forbidden culture?”
“That, too.”
“So who is buying from this room?”
“Few even know it exists. Most Nazis, I have found, are not great readers.”
“How many diaries are in your collection?”
The old man pulled a leather bound book off a lower shelf. “The journal of Theodor Fontane, the author of Effi Briest. Even though he died in 1898, some people still read his novels.”
“I am looking for the diary of Anka Stahlherm, an ex-girlfriend of the Propaganda Minister.” It was a lie, and an awkward one at that, considering Goebbel’s role in book burnings.
Tauben eyed Thomas more carefully. “Presumably the girl lost it. It would not have been published.”
“Dr. Goebbels is very anxious to gain possession of the diary.”
“From the rumors that surface about his wife, Magda, I imagine he would like it under his control.”
“Would anyone buy such a document?”
“Now we get to the point of your visit. I will not insult you by assuming that you are an errand boy for Dr. Goebbels. I suspect that you are under some kind of pressure to obtain the girl’s diary, and for that you have my sympathy.”
Thomas flinched under the shopkeeper’s unyielding gaze. “Forgive me, Herr Tauben. I misled you in a clumsy attempt to limit the damage of my inquiries.”
“You can risk telling me.”
“It is something quite sinister, I must warn you.”
“That is the nature of the world a Jew lives in.”
“People have been hurt, some have died because of this diary.”
“I am a survivor,” Tauben assured. “In order to help you, I need the truth.”
Thomas took a deep breath. “All right, I have until Christmas Day to find the diary of Geli Raubal.”
The bookseller’s face turned ashen. “And you do this for Dr. Goebbels?”
“For another in the Party elite. He has his reasons. As for me, I want to get my father out of prison.”
Tauben paced from the door to the window and back. He stopped and said, “Peter Rost used to come here and browse the shelves. Did you know that?”
“No, sir.”
“You are involved with very nasty people. I can see nothing good coming from this search. But for the son of Thomas Mann’s editor, I will do what I can.”
“Thank you.”
“The owner of this store, Wilhelm Neurath, is one of Germany’s most discerning collectors. He lives a quiet life on Oranienburgerstrasse, close to Neue Synagogue—what’s left of it after Kristallnacht.”
“Will you give me a letter of introduction?”
“I suppose so. Herr Neurath has a country home west of Potsdam, but he was here yesterday. That means he is spending the holidays in the city.”
“Any chance he might have the diary?”
“He specializes in 19th century manuscripts and first editions, so probably not. He has not expressed any interest in politics to me. But he is personally acquainted with most of Germany’s collectors of private literary estates and individual volumes.”
Suddenly there was the sharp sound of plate glass shattering downstairs, followed by a duller crack, a glass container hitting the floor and then a bright flash of light. Black smoke rose quickly on the superheated air and, as Thomas stuck his head out into the hall, smoke curled darkly up the stairs. On the ground floor, flames were spreading fast, feeding on the old wood.
“Is there another way out?” Thomas asked.
“Kristallnacht,” Tauben said, “it’s happening again.”
“Think, Herr Tauben,” Thomas said loudly. “Is there a fire escape at the back of the store?”
Before Tauben could answer, a brick smashed through the window pane, followed by another burning bottle that broke on the floor and spread gelatinous gasoline over books and papers and the proprietor’s pants and coat. Thomas reached for the shopkeeper and pulled him down in the corridor and beat out the flames with his bare hands. The air quickly became too hot to breathe, the smoke too thick to see through as the fire fed off of old manuscripts—many of the bound volumes on the shelves facing immolation for the second time.
As Thomas’ nostrils filled with noxious smoke, he said, “Molotov cocktails. We’ve got to get out.”
The old man had collapsed on the floor. Gritting his teeth, Thomas bent down and hoisted Tauben over his right shoulder in a fireman’s carry and carefully descended the stairs. His eyes stung from the smoke and fine ash. His throat was beginning to ache. At the bottom of the stairwell, he stumbled on the last step, caught himself and turned toward the front door. It was blocked by blazing furniture.
Even the wood floor was burning, flames erupting like streams of lava. Not familiar with the store’s layout, he couldn’t trust to finding an unlocked back door, so he crouched down, shifted Tauben’s weight on his shoulder and made for the front through the curtain of fire. Ten feet from the door he bumped into a grandfather clock, knocking it over and blocking his path. As he tried to step over it, he tripped and went down hard, losing his hold on the shopkeeper.
A hand grabbed his right arm, tugged him up and pulled him outside onto the sidewalk. “What would you do without me?” she said, breathing hard.
“The old man is still inside.”
“Stay here,” she ordered. “I’ll find him.”
Moments later she emerged from the fully-engulfed shop as the klaxons of the fire brigade grew louder and laid the old man down gently onto the cobblestones. Tauben’s eyes were closed, his chest wasn’t rising or falling.
Thomas crawled over and, with a scorched hand at the shopkeeper’s throat, felt for a pulse. After a long minute, he sat back on the curb and watched as the first fire truck turned the corner off the Gendarmenmarkt.
“He’s dead,” Thomas whispered.
“Damnit, I was freezing out here,” Helga said. “I go for hot coffee and before I can drink it you’re in trouble again.”
“Another man, dead.”
“Can’t I leave you alone in a bookstore?”
“Who could’ve done such a thing?”
“A saw a couple of street thugs running away.”
“You’re suggesting it was a case of anti-Semitic violence?”
“No.” She shook her blonde head. “It’s because you were there.”