Clara sits forward in her chair, her glance shifting between Mr Akkersijk’s excited, twitching fingers and the letters he’s grasping tightly between them.

‘How?’ she asks. ‘How are they special?’

Mr Akkersijk takes a deep breath, smoothing the papers with a slow, soft, rhythmic circling of his palm. ‘Well, I will need to get them authenticated, of course, but I believe – from the content – that they were written during the Second World War, during the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam.’

Clara puts her own hand to her mouth. ‘Oh.’

He nods, eyes alight with excitement. ‘Do you know much about the author of the letters?’

Dropping her hand back to her lap, Clara shakes her head. ‘Not much. Marthe was my great-grandmother. She raised my grandfather in Amsterdam before the family moved to England in the 1960s. She died long before I was born. I only found the letters a few weeks ago in the attic. My granddad left a note, but he didn’t explain anything. I’m not sure he knew. But he wanted me to find out. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Ah,’ Mr Akkersijk considers this. ‘That’s very interesting. Well, often Holocaust survivors never spoke – quite understandably – of what they went through.’

Clara feels her hands go clammy in her lap. She squeezes them together.

‘Holocaust?’

‘Well, I can’t be certain, of course, until I’ve read them all,’ Mr Akkersijk says. ‘But, even though they aren’t dated, and even though they seem to be simply love letters, a few references are made that lead me to believe—’

‘—love letters?’

Mr Akkersijk nods, with the flicker of a smile. ‘Yes, they are really quite passionate.’

Clara sits forward again. ‘They are?’

‘Oh, yes.’ He nods again and points to the first letter atop the little pile. ‘Would you like me to translate some of them?’

A shiver of something: anticipation, excitement, nerves, panic, flushes through Clara. ‘Well, yes, that would be … lovely. Thank you.’

Mr Akkersijk nods once more and bends his head over the letter.

‘My dearest, darling Otto,’ he begins. ‘How I—’

‘Otto?’ Clara interrupts. ‘Who’s Otto?’

Mr Akkersijk smiles. ‘I rather hoped you might know that. You certainly have a better chance of knowing than I do.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Clara says. ‘Sorry, I just didn’t realise, I mean, I didn’t know who the letters were for.’

‘He wasn’t your great-grandfather?’

‘No,’ Clara says. ‘I’m pretty sure he was called Lucas, like my granddad.’

‘Ah, well then it would seem that Marthe had another love, this Otto, before she married Lucas.’

‘Yes,’ Clara agrees. ‘So it would seem.’

‘Shall I go on?’

Clara nods, a little more vigorously than she expected to. ‘Please.’

Mr Akkersijk returns to the letter.

When Mr Akkersijk reaches the end of the letter, he looks up at Clara. Not quite catching his eye, she glances quickly down at her still-clammy hands clasped in her lap. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him while he read – the words ribboning from his mouth to curl around and tug at her heart – but suddenly she’s embarrassed for him to see her staring, in case he can tell on her face the way she’s feeling.

At thirty-three years old she’s never known love as it’s written in Marthe’s letter. She’s never known love unlike it either, because she’s never known true love at all. To hear Mr Akkersijk speak such love aloud, even though, of course, he’s not actually addressing his words to her, causes Clara’s body to react in strange blushing ways, as if he’s touching her, as if his voice is blowing softly on her bare skin, as if he’s whispering into her ear, little puffs of air brushing past her hair.

Clara coughs. When, at last, she glances up Mr Akkersijk is looking right at her.

‘It is beautiful, no?’

Clara nods.

‘From what I’ve read so far, I believe she was writing during the war, most probably to a lover she was separated from.’

‘A soldier?’

Mr Akkersijk gives a slight shrug of his thin shoulders. ‘I cannot tell. I hope to gain that information when I have a chance to read all the letters in detail.’ His eyes glint with excitement and the silver edge of glee coats his voice.

Clara wants to ask: Have you ever been in love like that? Are you still? Tell me, tell me how it feels. But, of course, she doesn’t.

Mr Akkersijk stands. He presses one hand next to the pile of letters, fingers just touching the paper edges. He reaches out his other hand across the table. Tentatively, Clara takes it.

‘Thank you for bringing me these letters. I will take great care of them,’ he promises.

‘Thank you,’ Clara says. ‘I’m very grateful for, for ….’

Gently, he releases her hand.

‘When I’ve read them, how shall I contact you?’ he asks. ‘You’ll be returning home soon, I imagine?’

Clara wishes she wasn’t. She wants to say ‘no’, to say that she’ll be staying, that she’ll wait until he’s ready to see her again, that she’ll stroll the streets of Amsterdam for the next few weeks – or however long the translating will take – and return to the steps of The Amsterdam Archive of Paperphilia the moment he calls. But, of course, she can’t. She must return to the shop; she must leave on a ticket already purchased for the day after tomorrow. But Clara doesn’t want to leave. Since the moment she set foot on the first cobblestone, Clara has felt a strange sort of claim on this place. As if it were hers to explore, as if it would unfurl slowly to reveal all its secrets, its nooks and crannies, its places of darkness and light.

‘I’ll give you my phone number,’ Clara says, conceding to the duller reality of practicalities. ‘And, again, thank you so much for helping me.’

Mr Akkersijk nods. ‘Not at all, Ms Cohen. I’m sure it will be a very illuminating experience for me too. It’s always a thrill to find historical correspondence such as this. I thank you for bringing it to me.’ He gives a little bow and Clara realises that, much as she might like to stay, this is her cue to leave.

 

Edward sits happily at the kitchen table, devouring his chicken dinner – rather pleased that it’s actually edible – and still utterly thrilled to be sitting between his wife and his daughter. He wonders if the experience will ever become commonplace again. He hopes not, just as he hopes it will last for ever.

Swallowing a slice of potato – only slightly burnt – he turns to his wife. ‘Have you been outside the house yet?’

An odd glimmer of guilt flits across Greer’s face. ‘Wh—no, why do you ask?’

‘Oh, no reason,’ he says, chewing on a piece of chicken – admittedly a little too dry. ‘I was just wondering if you’re able to?’

Greer shakes her head.

‘I don’t think Mum can go out, Dad,’ Tilly says sagely, pushing a forkful of peas across her plate. ‘I think she’s trapped by some sort of spiritual force field and can only remain manifest in the house.’

Both her parents turn to face her.

‘Remain manifest?’ They echo, almost in unison. ‘Spiritual force field?’

Tilly gives a self-satisfied nod. ‘I’ve been doing research. You can find out everything on the Internet.’

‘Clearly,’ Edward says, swallowing another potato. ‘Though how accurate is, I imagine, another matter.’

Tilly regards her father with a look he’s become sadly familiar with lately, the look that says: Oh, what do you know?

Edward returns to his wife. ‘Well, force fields aside, I was just wondering if you’d seen that new atrocity they’ve erected in the city centre?’ He grimaces, plunging back in without waiting for an answer. ‘It’s nearly as awful as the Queen Anne multi-storey car park …’

Tilly gives a dramatic sigh. ‘Oh, here we go again.’

‘Well, it is hideous,’ he snaps. ‘There aren’t enough expletives in the English language to adequately describe that monstrosity. I swear, every time I drive past it I get hives. And, if you’re ever forced to park there, you can feel how angry the architect who built it was – I bet he was pissed off not to get a greater commission, just a car park, he was ranting, just a bloody car park! – the parking places are far too small, too many pillars, too many twists, too many kerbs to trip and fall off. I bet, when he finished, the architect gave a self-satisfied “fuck you!” to the city council. Who, probably, couldn’t have cared less—’

‘Dad!’

‘Oh, yes, sorry, I didn’t mean … But still, I meant every word, except the swear words, of course.’

Greer smiles.

‘But, seriously, can you blame me?’ Edward storms on. ‘I mean, the city of Cambridge is one of the most beautiful in the world, elevated to the sublime by nine-hundred-year-old colleges, by the intricate carvings of King’s College Chapel and the like, by buildings so beautiful they bring tears to my eyes, and then the council let total idiots shit on all that splendour with buildings that look like they’ve been chucked together by children. Except that your average three-year-old could do a much better job building that parking lot, I’m—’ Edward regards his wife. ‘You’re getting that look again.’

Greer sits up, defensive. ‘What look?’

‘That glazed look you get when I talk about architecture.’

‘I do not,’ Greer protests.

Tilly shuffles in her chair. ‘May I be excused?’

Greer shifts her gaze to Tilly’s plate. ‘Are you sure you’ve finished?’ She dips her head meaningfully to indicate the chicken breast that has been cut up but barely consumed, the potatoes and peas pushed around the plate collecting congealed gravy. ‘It doesn’t look like you ever started.’

Tilly nods. ‘Maybe we could go back to getting takeaway tomorrow night.’ She raises her eyebrows in Edward’s direction. ‘Sorry, Dad, but cooking isn’t really your forte.’

‘Cheeky monkey,’ he says, then shrugs. ‘But, yeah, I suppose you’ve got a point.’

‘Perhaps you should leave chickens alone,’ Tilly suggests, ‘and just stick to buildings. Maybe you should ask the city council if you can design the next available car park – show them how it should be done.’

Greer laughs.

And, despite these harsh criticisms of his culinary prowess, Edward still can’t imagine ever being happier than he is right now.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Well, maybe I will.’