The moment scholars yearn for is the one we most often see depicted in police detective shows: someone—a woman, say—races into a basement archive, rifling through box after box, file after file, the intensity building as she runs her hands through her hair, jotting down notes, until finally her face lights up. The answer is there, within reach. The music builds as the information seeker seizes upon the file that will deliver answers that have long evaded her. Yet research trips are also filled with mishaps: the wrong file that arrives during the last hopeful minutes of a research day because an archivist read the researcher’s “7” as a “1” (she forgot to draw a line through it as they do in Germany); the box that no one can locate, even though it is not checked out; the realization, on arriving in Berlin, that she should be in Leipzig instead because the Nazi regime relied heavily on regional organizations for its bureaucratic daily work; the clock ticking the days down to zero, when she returns home without her questions answered, yet again.
So I am immensely grateful to the archivists who guided me on my research journey at the two dozen archives that provided the foundation for this book, among them Carola Wagner at the German Federal Archives in Berlin-Lichterfelde, Lucia van der Linda of the Political Archive in Berlin, and Barbara Koschlig at the City Archive in Hamburg. Special thanks go to Monique Leblois-Pechon at the French National Archives for digging into a file slated for transit; Carola Staniek, Director of the German Book Museum at the German National Library, for answering my ongoing and obscure book-trade questions; and Thekla Kluttig of the City Archive of Leipzig for leading me in an inspired behind-the-scenes file hunt and for creating time when I thought I had none left. Not to be forgotten is a staff member at the French National Archives, whom I know only by his first name, Thierry, who tracked down the mysteriously missing, all-important, Box 1006 on my very last day in Paris. Without the patience and persistence of people like these, this book would not be here.
Funding for this project comes from multiple sources. I thank the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas, Austin, for a Mellon research fellowship in 2005; the Bibliographic Institute of America for a grant to work at New York area libraries in 2006; the German Academic Exchange Service (Deutsche Akademische Austausch Dienst) for a 2012 grant to explore German archives; and most of all, the University of Hartford, where the Provost’s Office provided sabbatical time and travel funds, and the Faculty Senate gave me Coffin Grants and summer stipends. David Goldenberg, my dean at Hillyer College, not only gave me a crash course in money laundering—useful when writing about Holroyd-Reece’s fast-and-loose financial dealings—but has also been a tireless fundraiser and supporter of my work. Thanks to his efforts, the Jay Camp Fellowship and the Gareau Fund offered additional travel monies and time.
Scholars need many things to write a book, especially one that requires so much research abroad: access to information; a place to rest their heads; and, if they’re lucky, the chance to exchange ideas with convivial, open-minded people over hearty meals after days spent in the company of old files (which, however entrancing, are not particularly adept at dinner conversation). I have been immensely fortunate to have found all of these. Jean-Dominique Fabrega scanned for me Holroyd-Reece’s thirty-page Christmas card for 1938, which I discovered on his blog “Histoires d’Histoire”; Yvette Vibert shared documents from her father’s days with the Pegasus Press; Geneviève Latour shared memories of the German Occupation of Paris and led me to Denys Ghiel, the daughter of the French Albatross managing director Jean-Louis Bricaire. Both she and Michel Ollendorff, the son of Holroyd-Reece’s right-hand man, Wolfgang Ollendorff, opened their homes and family albums to me. Editor Marc Jaffe told me of his early days with Kurt Enoch and Victor Weybright at the New American Library. Heike Schrammer and Gabriella Hemmersbach let me stay with them in Berlin, as did Reinart Feldmann and Hilde Koller in Leipzig. Michael Schwab played detective at the British National Archives before I could get there myself, and Sebastian Pannwitz sent me leads from the German Collection in Moscow’s National Archive. My uncle, “Onkel” Dick Troy, helped me wade through Nazi spreadsheets to uncover the story behind them. Helen Rozwadowski and Daniel Hornstein gave me a writer’s refuge in New London, Connecticut, as did Eric Martinson, in Wellfleet, Massachusetts. Dorothea Hauser, the lawyer-scholar who managed the Warburg Archive in Hamburg, spontaneously offered her guest bedroom in Berlin, and her outside-the-box thinking about my research. Joachim Gerdes, with his polished Italian, helped me navigate the Mondadori Fondazione archive in Milan, though it had been two decades since we had seen one another in Germany. He and his wife, Mariarosario, and their son, Dario, also gave me a home away from home in Genoa. Special thanks to Albatross-Tauchnitz collector Alastair Jollans for sharing his knowledge of these series and contributing so many images from his collection, and to Hauke Voss for his friendship, his company on bicycle forays to Albatross-related spots in Hamburg, and a standing room at the “Pension Voss.”
No book of this scope is built on air. I am grateful for the thoughtful networks of scholars, and for their meticulous and groundbreaking scholarship, which have offered me a solid base for my own research. The University of Hartford’s History Reading Group—Katherine Owens, Avi Patt, Michael Robinson, and Bryan Synche—first suggested that I break away from the traditional academic history, and Erin Striff was a motivating writing partner for a string of Saturdays. Marie Françoise-Cachin, in Paris, has graciously introduced me to international scholars. Pascal Fouché met with me to discuss French publishing during the German Occupation. Alan Steinweis not only informed my research through his work at the intersection of economics and culture in the Third Reich but also emailed me research suggestions and supported my grant applications though we had never even met. In Jan-Pieter Barbian, I encountered both an expert, author of many books on Nazi literary politics, and a generous spirit; whether responding to my “cold emailing” with research suggestions, meeting to talk Nazi literary politics behind the New York Public Library, or writing letters of recommendation, Dr. Barbian has been an important sounding board. In a time when everyone seems increasingly busy, these scholars have offered a model of generosity which I highly value.
I have been stunned, too, in other ways at the sheer openness of strangers who, when I arrived at their doorsteps, shared stories of decades past in response to my questions about their family members. Lady Elisabeth Schiemann, Holroyd-Reece’s stepdaughter, spoke at length with me, and—in a moment of great suspense—sifted through boxes in her attic to send me materials that have found their place in these pages. Thomas Wegner made the trip to the Cologne train station to share his memories of his uncle, the Albatross cofounder Max Christian Wegner. Charles Enoch took time from his hectic job at the International Monetary Fund to talk about his father’s cousin, the Albatross distributor Kurt Enoch, and to scan images for my book.
Friendships have also sprung up along the way. Ruth and Peter Gruenthal, Enoch’s daughter and son-in-law, opened their door to me over lunches and brunches and even for Ruth’s marvelous ninetieth birthday celebration, and Ruth has sent me many a necessary clarification. At the home of Markus Wegner, Wegner’s son from his third marriage, I have memories of eating berries and cream after sifting through the sepia tones of old photographs; Markus, a true historical and legal researcher, has also informed my book through his writings about his father’s military career and his insights into his father’s imprisonment. Matthias Wegner, Wegner’s son from his second marriage, unwittingly supplied me with my detective-show “Ah ha!” moment. Opening his hall closet, he pulled several thick binders from well-organized shelves, and the next thing I knew, I was walking across Hamburg, carrying bags of correspondence between his parents from the 1930s and 1940s. For the trust he has placed in me and for our illuminating, hours-long conversations over Earl Grey tea in his library, or over Hefeweizen at Tiefental, I am deeply appreciative. Fiona Brewster, Holroyd-Reece’s daughter, arrived late in my research scene, yet has taken up a lively and informed place within it. In providing anecdotes and photographs of her father, and in welcoming both me and my family into her little corner of France with amazing hospitality, she has become like extended family. Besides which, she is the only person in the world to call me “darling.”
This book has fortunately had many eyes upon it. I am grateful to Chris Rogers, former editorial director and history editor at Yale University Press, who pushed me to look at my story from ten thousand feet, and to Aaron Sachs, co-editor of Yale’s New Directions in Narrative History series, who advised me how to get there from the ground up. Dr. Sachs, in particular, brought his excitement about the project and his constructive criticism to the fore, both of which helped me push the book into its final form. Also at Yale, Erica Hanson and Clare Jones guided me through permissions and Senior Editor Susan Laity brought her amazing patience and careful eye for detail to this book, making it stronger with each query. Bevin Rainwater, at the University of Hartford, helped me generate production-ready images. My sister and brother, Christine and David Troy, volunteered to be my “urban readers,” offering their feedback at different stages. My friend, the writer-editor Rand Richards Cooper, deserves special mention (and a gold medal for patience) for willingly taking on the role of book surgeon when I needed to cut out a massive portion of my original manuscript. Any surgery is painful, but I would not have trusted anyone else to take this one on with such humor, grace, and precision.
Thanks to my in-laws, Lucille and Bob Robinson, in Maine—who passed away in April 2016—for believing in me. I especially thank Bob, a Second World War veteran of the Army Corps of Engineers, who, in true Robinson fashion, always made me feel I had accomplished more than I had. My dream team of critical thinkers and friends includes Ruth Hofstatter, for guidance in a dark time; my colleagues Mary Fister and Marcia Seabury, for their optimism and the occasional hallway dance; Molly Cooper, for knowing the power of a good talisman; Emilee Bozic, for emotional rescue bracelets; Karin Peterson, for making me laugh loud and long; Catherine Blinder, for her kitchen stool reality checks and inspired gatherings; Meg Staley, for being wacky and wise; Hebe Guardiola-Díaz, for keeping my gaze trained forward; Christine Troy, my sister, for feisty, pirate-mouthed tirades against those who stood in my way; Virginie L’Homme Fontaine, one of my oldest and dearest friends, for taking up the adventure with me; and my aunt, the painter Susann Minton, for living on in my heart ten years after her death, reminding me how lucky we are to be here, even in our confusion, and what a challenge and gift it is to bring something creatively to life.
There are, finally, the people I do not know how to thank. This list begins with my parents, Virginia and Bart Troy. Again and again, they have given the greatest gift of all: their time. They have flown in from Illinois to be super-hero grandparents to my three children, and the memory of them all squeezed in one bed with my parents reading to my children or playing games always leaves me with a smile. Coming from their world of order, they have tolerated our mess, even making dinner from behind the clothesline strung across our kitchen when our dryer broke. I hold for them a fierce love and appreciation and great gratitude that they taught me that our best shot at happiness lies in following our curiosity where it takes us.
My children—Tess, Isabella, and Theo—have grown up with this book, sometimes in the background and sometimes in the foreground. They have given me hugs and songs and cards on bad days, as on good. Day by day, they have rocked my world, teaching me a lesson beyond the scope of any research project: the reminder, as E. M. Forster once said, that “next to the Everlasting Why there is an Everlasting Yes.” I am in awe of the people they are becoming.
And finally, Michael Robinson, my husband of twenty years, has been my partner in this book as in my life. He was there to catch my first excitement about the topic, there to read draftier drafts of chapters than anyone should have to tolerate, and there to help me pull out the narrative thread that would keep the story moving forward. Now he—my love, despite and because, forever and always—will be there for the celebration, too, for which I am deeply grateful.
At one point when I was struggling with the arc of the story, a writer acquaintance of ours gave me a hopeful thought. “One day,” he said, “you will find yourself writing the last word of all.” And. Here. It. Is.