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He then spent the next five minutes praying that, somehow, Kraus wouldn’t ruin it all.

He wouldn’t point out in the hearing of either Gustaf or Ackermann that this professor was none other than the neighbor of the Deutsche Freiheitsbibliothek, whom they had met multiple times, whose flat they’d had lunch in one day—only one, so far as Kraus knew.

That Christian wouldn’t be caught red-handed in the careful story he’d been trying to maintain to protect her.

It was all crumbling to pieces. Every bit of it.

And while part of his mind spun, trying to find answers truthful enough to satisfy them all, the larger part was too tired after a sleepless night worrying for Josef.

All he could do was close his eyes for two blessed seconds and give the entire mess into the capable hands of God.

If I overstepped, forgive me. If I shouldn’t have tried to protect her through my own power, then correct the mess I’ve made. You be her protection, O Lord. Be her salvation. Be her provision.

What would she do if she lost this position? Could she find another somewhere else? If not here, then in another city?

Perhaps his heart split into innumerable splinters at the thought—but that didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter if he got in trouble for withholding this detail about her identity.

What could they really do to him? It wasn’t like anyone had asked him about her and he’d lied.

He’d simply failed to connect dots for them, dots that he could claim he thought were irrelevant.

But Corinne— Corinne .

After a few minutes, though, the frantic litany whispering through his mind had little choice but to quiet, given the cadence of her voice as she read the German words.

He fell into rapt attention as her students would pipe up with their questions and thoughts and translations—eventually seeming to forget Ackermann’s unwieldy presence—and she would not just answer but lead them into further thought.

He’d known that she would be good at this.

He hadn’t had to see her in action to know it.

But now that he was, he fell even more in love with her.

You could apply at the Sorbonne...I could apply at the University of Berlin.

In another world, the world that should have been, they could have.

One or the other or both. They could be happy.

Together. Both doing what they loved. He could imagine slipping into her classes whenever he had the time and listening to her.

He could imagine looking up and finding her in his.

He could imagine walking home together, talking over their students and the essays they had to grade and the research they wanted to do, the papers they wanted to write and publish.

He could imagine pulling her between the shelves of his library and showing her a book.

He could imagine ending every day, starting every day, punctuating every laugh with a kiss. He could imagine the freedom to actually look at each other and admit to knowing each other. To being friends. To being more.

Frustration—no, sorrow—twisted through his stomach. Would that world ever come? In his lifetime? In Felix’s?

“Ah, so then, I think we have a translation of that line we can embrace.” Corinne set down her worn copy of the book and moved to the blackboard, scrawling the line upon it.

“‘Happy the man who has pure truth within him.’ But let’s talk through the next line.

We have two offerings here—‘and who will never deign to sacrifice it’ versus ‘he will regret no sacrifice made for it.’ Those are two very different meanings.

What are the implications of either? Consider it in context of the rest of this speech, mind you—Faust is speaking of how, when one has written one’s words down on paper, they take on a new power.

A deadly power—he goes so far as to call the written word a spirit of evil.

So is he commenting in 1724 and 1725 about not sacrificing truth or about not regretting any sacrifice made for truth? ”

“I’m more interested in how that truth is lost in the process of putting it to words—specifically written words.

” It tumbled from Christian’s lips before he could remind himself that he was just an observer, not a participant.

That he wasn’t here to be part of the conversation, only to follow an order and try to mitigate any damage.

But Corinne smiled up at him. “An insightful question from our guest. Class?”

Kraus sank down in his seat as heads craned around to look their way, as if attention in a classroom were his gravest fear. On Christian’s other side, Gustaf chuckled quietly. “Didn’t I tell you?” he murmured.

The students had forgotten them again in light of the discussion. “Can’t we all relate to that?” a young woman said. “We have an idea, a thought, and it’s bright and beautiful—until we try to put written words to it. What we write never captures the heart.”

“And that’s why words are so dangerous,” a young man added, leaning forward in his excitement.

“Because when we write them down, we lose the nuance of intention so easily. We lose the inflection in our voices. And the words themselves are but an imitation of the idea—imitations that can be twisted and used against us.”

“Not just dangerous,” a new voice said. “But powerful, as Dr. Bastien said. The written word can be gone back to over and again. It can be studied, like we’re doing now.

It can be debated. The written word can build empires or tear them down.

Just look at the influence of texts like the Bible, like Rousseau, even Mein Kampf .

” The student darted a glance toward Ackermann.

“No one can say those words haven’t changed the tides of history. ”

Hence why power and danger were so closely united. And why Goethe had, through Faust, so wisely observed that truth gets lost when pen meets paper. No matter how writers might strive to capture it in bits and pieces, they all knew that their words could cut both ways.

Ask Josef. Ask Abraham. Ask Wells or Keller or Einstein.

Sometimes the very act of bravery that writing represented was the noose one put around one’s own neck without realizing it.

The words they hoped would liberate, educate, and empower could be used as evidence against them when they failed to move enough people.

“A very good point. And one must say this of Hitler and Goebbels—they understand the power of words. That is why we have guests here today from the Ministries of Education and Propaganda.” Corinne nodded toward them.

“It’s also why we have a Library of Burned Books in my own neighborhood.

When Faust and Mephistopheles talk about signing one’s writing in blood, it’s more than hyperbole.

And the students of Germany recognized that.

” She turned to one of the few male students in the class.

“Monsieur Gregory, you have made no secret about your dislike for this text, though it is only because you don’t like poetry.

But let’s pretend that it is because you think Goethe’s ideas were dangerous.

That they opposed all you believed in. Would you be sitting in this class still?

Or would you have walked out and decried the text? ”

The young man shifted in his chair but didn’t answer.

She turned to another. “You are an atheist, Monsieur Laurent. I have heard you talking about how Christianity is not just wrong, but dangerous—that the greatest atrocities of the Western World were done in the name of religion. So then—perhaps you might decide to burn the Bible. I have heard each and every one of you trying to convince a friend to read or not read a book based on how you felt about it. Why?”

A beat of silence, but only one. It was a girl on the left who spoke up. “Because we want people to agree with us. We want them to say we’re right. We want to foster that, and make certain they’re exposed or not exposed to things to guarantee it.”

Corinne nodded. “And that is what the students in Germany decided they would do. That they would make a statement for the world to see about what ideas they thought were worthwhile and which they thought weren’t.

But don’t forget the line about signing in blood—they took it a step further.

They decided not only what ideas they would engage with, but what voices .

It is irrelevant, then, whether Wells said anything objectionable in The Time Machine —he spoke out against their ideals.

It doesn’t matter what theories Einstein puts forth—he is a Jew.

Now—is this wise or foolish, Oberstleutnant Ackermann? ”

Gustaf hissed out a breath. Kraus sank lower in his chair. Christian couldn’t have breathed if he’d wanted to.

Ackermann’s shoulders curled back. “Wise. You cannot let children read garbage or they will become nothing but trash.”

Corinne tilted her head, consideration in every line.

“Ah, a very good point. One any parent would agree with you on. When it comes to children, we can and must censor what they read, yes. But are you arguing, then, Oberstleutnant, that all German citizens are children, incapable of making their own decisions on their reading material?”

Christian didn’t know whether to wince or to cheer.

“Of course not!” Ackermann sneered—Christian couldn’t see it, but he could hear it in his voice.

“But adults must set the example. We must live what we hope they will emulate. And as no parent has the time to read every book in print to know what to keep out of their homes, it is a service to provide them with a list.”

“But when you tell someone what to read, you’re telling them what to think ,” the first girl said again, fire in her tone.

“And it’s one thing to try to influence your own friend.

It’s a whole different thing when it becomes law.

Frenchmen know that better than anyone, don’t we?

The revolution that gave us life was also a terror.

When you make it illegal to be something or think a certain way, then it’s only a matter of time before everyone is at risk of the guillotine. That’s not society, that’s tyranny.”

Christian held his breath as Ackermann’s head snapped to the left. He could only pray he didn’t have a clear view of the girl from his seat.

Corinne edged forward, into his line of sight. “An interesting point, mademoiselle , but for now, let’s focus on your earlier observation, that it’s the words we read that determine what we think. True or untrue, class?”

The argument went on, but Corinne didn’t stray back to the desk or to her chalkboard, and he wanted to applaud her for it. Much as he wanted to do when, as the end of class drew near, she raised a hand to halt the conversation and spoke again.

“What we can all agree on is that words are powerful, written words especially so. And so it is a natural instinct of humanity to guard them—both to preserve the words and protect people from what could be construed as dangerous or harmful. Keep all of that in mind as you translate the rest of this scene, paying special attention to line 1788. Die Zeit ist kurz, die Kunst ist lang. ”

Time is short, and art is long. One of his favorite lines.

Christian stood as the others did, extending his mental applause to the students who absorbed the girl into their midst and all but carried her from the class while Corinne said something with a smile for Ackermann that he wished he could hear.

He couldn’t, though, over the babble that sprang up. But what was she doing—tapping his arm? Lifting a brow...was she flirting ?

Gustaf laughed and smacked him on the arm. “What did I tell you—I bet you’d like to come back on Tuesday, wouldn’t you, to see how she leads them into the ‘time and art’ line? Aside from the fact that they’re talking about translation along with the ideas, it’s like one of my own classes.”

“Indeed.” He made himself grin at his friend.

Kraus edged forward. “Mind if I wait at the car, Professor?” He was surveying the room like it was trying to suffocate him.

“Go ahead.” He prayed that his own relief at the request wasn’t in his voice.

But for Gustaf, he had better offer another morsel of truth.

He nodded toward Corinne. “When she mentioned the Library of Burned Books—it’s no wonder she looked familiar, if she’s in that neighborhood.

I’ve met her before. Didn’t realize at the time that she was a professor, of course. ”

Gustaf laughed at the coincidence and motioned him down. “Well come, come. I’ll make proper introductions—and we’ll rescue her from the muscle, eh?”

He would have declined the introduction, but the rescue he wasn’t about to withhold. Especially since, as the students cleared the room, he could finally make out what she was saying to Ackermann.

“The same is true in intellectual pursuits, Oberstleutnant. Just as you must spar and engage your muscles with resistance to build them, so we must do with the mind. Without lively debate, the ideas that you most treasure never would have developed. People don’t just need to be handed something to believe in—they must wrestle with it, against it, and for it before they can truly claim it as their own. ”

Gustaf leaned close. “I think I’m in love—if only my family wouldn’t disown me if I brought home a French girl, eh?” His chuckle, along with the lightness in his eyes, proved him joking.

Still, Christian had to suck in a long breath.

Ackermann was grunting and turning toward them, and from the look on his face, Christian couldn’t tell if she’d won his respect...or consigned herself to unemployment.