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Ten

It had taken Christian a week to track down Karl Gustaf.

One would think that after months of slow and methodical work in Paris—following a decade of it in his own professional life—he’d have learned some patience.

And when it came to classifying books, teaching, or doing research for his next paper, he had it in spades.

For some reason, though, he found his patience greatly lacking in a few key areas now, and all of them revolved around the people he most wanted to see and was most afraid of finding.

Alfred Kantorowicz had been stopped at a checkpoint two days ago and, hence, brought in for questioning.

He didn’t know the man personally, but Christian was well aware that he was the director of the Library of Burned Books and that, as such, he ought to be treated more severely than the other exiled writers Christian had interviewed thus far.

He’d asked what he was supposed to ask. He’d given the usual orders for registry and had directed the search of his flat, removing any verboten texts. He’d then dismissed Kantorowicz, as expected...without asking the questions whose answers he really wanted.

Where was Earnst Yung? Josef Horowitz? Kantorowicz had been stopped not at one of the checkpoints leading into the city, but at a random one near his old address, which meant that he’d somehow slipped back into Paris undetected.

Who else had done the same? What other friends were here?

So close? So out of reach in all but the worst ways?

He strode toward one of the many hotels that had been pressed into use by the Reich, one he hadn’t visited before, briefcase in hand and face as neutral as he could make it.

So many members of so many departments had been sent to and then called from Paris since they “liberated” it that trying to find one particular officer proved ridiculously difficult.

At first he’d wondered if Gustaf had already been recalled, perhaps even replaced.

..but then a reply had come to one of his many inquiries yesterday.

The anxious knot in his stomach hadn’t been at the thought of finally meeting the man who had put the creases in Corinne Bastien’s brow—it was the fact that the message had been waiting for him when he returned from knocking on Josef’s door.

There’d been no answer. Just as he’d prayed. Just as he’d feared.

But he had to keep knocking. He called at the last known residences of every member of the Deutsche Freiheitsbibliothek at least once a week, just in case they’d managed to avoid all the random checkpoints. Because if he left anyone out of the rotation, Ackermann would notice. Note it. Report it.

Perhaps just rebuke him for the oversight and order him to correct it...or perhaps he’d decide that Christian had better be sent back to Berlin and whoever was next on the list be brought in to finish his job.

It would be easier to let that happen. Be dismissed. Return to his quiet life, where fear of the Gestapo knocking on his door would at least only put him at risk, no one else. And at least with the Gestapo in Berlin, he had a friend who could possibly help mitigate any consequences.

But what if it hadn’t just been some strange chance, or even Erik Reinholdt’s conniving, that had led him here? What if it was what God wanted? What if the Lord had sent him here to try to mitigate some of the damage being done, to help those he could?

What if this was his path to atonement?

“That isn’t the way it works,” the priest had said last week when he’d finally worked up the courage to go to reconciliation at the small church nearest to the Library of Burned Books, after he’d dismissed Kraus one evening.

“You do not choose your own atonement, especially when there has been no sin.”

“But there has ,” he’d insisted. Otherwise, why would he feel this crushing guilt, this emptiness? What was that, if not separation from the Father?

“You did the only thing you knew to do in an impossible situation,” the faceless priest had said. “The sins of pride you have confessed, of selfishness, of lack of trust in our heavenly Father—those I can forgive. For those I can ascribe penance. But not for the other.”

He knew, intellectually, that the priest had been trying to tell him that his decision hadn’t been a sinful one. But what it felt like was that forgiveness was withheld, when he craved it so deeply.

He pulled upon the door to the hotel, remembering walking into the church for Mass yesterday, for the first time in nearly a year.

He’d chosen a small but not too small church for that, in an arrondissement he otherwise never visited.

No great cathedral, no tiny community. Somewhere he wouldn’t be noticed.

He’d worn his civilian clothes, his fedora pulled low over his brow until he made his way inside, and then he’d chosen one of the back pews, where he could scarcely hear the Latin intonations, but where the rhythm of them could still tug at his soul.

Should he have taken Communion? He hadn’t been sure. Despite the priest’s words, he hadn’t felt clean enough, worthy enough. He hadn’t been certain that the wafer wouldn’t choke him, holy fire strike him down.

But his mother’s words had echoed in his mind and urged him into the aisle with the others.

His perfection is greater than our imperfection.

We are not capable, by ignorance or pride, of defiling his holiness.

But his holiness is capable of cleansing us, working in us, even when we don’t fully believe it. Do not deny it the chance.

He didn’t dare wonder what his mother would think if she realized he’d avoided Mass for so long.

True, being a Catholic in Nazi Germany came with risks—priests were among the murdered on the Night of the Long Knives, the church’s property had been stripped, all schools and societies closed.

Private citizens weren’t forbidden from practicing their faith, exactly.

..they just knew that if they vocalized any critique of Hitler based on those beliefs, they’d pay for it.

But being a German Nazi Catholic in occupied Paris? That was a new sort of risk. The same one, though, that he risked in every other part of his life. So if he was walking the tightrope anyway, he’d better do it fortified by the Savior.

A soldat manned the front desk, saluting when he saw Christian’s rank. “ Sonderführer . How may I be of assistance?”

Christian pasted on a smile—the one made for secretaries and office workers. “I have an appointment with Sonderführer Karl Gustaf.”

“Of course. You’ll find his office in room 402, sir.”

“Thank you.” A quick ride on the lift, a short walk to the room in question, a polite knock on the door, and then he was being ushered inside by Karl Gustaf.

“Bauer!” the younger man greeted him with an enthusiastic handshake, blue eyes alight. “I’ve been hearing of your work since I hit Paris. From the University of Berlin, aren’t you? I’m a Munich man, myself.”

Christian forced a smile—the one reserved for university rivalries. “I’ll forgive you for it.”

Gustaf laughed and motioned him to one of the wooden chairs set up at the cramped desk. “I admit I was surprised to learn that a professor was given your appointment rather than a librarian by trade.”

So had he, but it probably wouldn’t serve him to say it. Christian shrugged. “I am director of the university library in addition to being a professor. I in fact served on the committee that compiled the list of banned books.”

One of the most frustrating appointments he’d ever experienced, until he’d come to Paris. At first he’d tried to argue for so many books, so many authors...then he’d wondered if doing so would get him labeled as a dissident too. Put his whole family in danger.

Was it better to speak up and be permanently silenced or to work silently, doing what good he could?

It was a conversation he and Erik had had on several occasions.

Christian, as he was recruited to this ignoble work; Erik, as the police force he’d served on so happily was absorbed into Hitler’s Gestapo.

They’d both felt like cowards by choosing the second, but they’d reasoned they could do more good hidden among their enemies.

Christian had managed to save more books that way than if he’d been arrested.

Perhaps, through them, saving people too.

And Erik—banished to a desk and the Gestapo’s files because of his hesitation in joining the Party—could now alter those files here and there, to help people avoid punishment for their beliefs.

Gustaf leaned back in the chair he’d selected, impressed. “What an honor. I was a student at the time. I suppose that gives you unique qualifications though, yes? You probably don’t even need to consult the list as much as the rest of us would, if you helped compileit.”

“Indeed. Sometimes I think every author’s name is branded in my memory.

” So many friends, heroes, favorites. He leaned back too and hooked an ankle over the opposite leg.

“Though I miss the university world. When I heard that the Ministry of Education had sent representatives to oversee the French universities, I was a bit jealous, I confess. How has your work been going?”

Gustaf’s smile was open, not a hint of suspicion in his eyes. He had no reason to think, after all, that Christian was asking with ulterior motives. No way of knowing that his intentions weren’t to make a friend, but to protect one.

Because she was a friend, even if she didn’t want to be. The only one he could risk talking to about books, art, philosophy. He didn’t know if it was within his power to protect her position at the university—but if it was, he’d do it. And by his calculation, it began here.

His host poured coffee from a carafe into a cup. “Care for some?”

“Yes, thank you.” He took a cup, sipped.